Happy New Year!

I love New Year’s Eve. 

Not the noise makers, or the ball drop, or even the champagne. It’s the eve of a new year. That space between, one and the next, when anything is possible. 

This time makes me quite reflective and grateful.

2021 started with a major health scare for my husband. He is so resilient that you’d never know that anything occurred by looking at him. With my rock intact, I was able to open my mind to fantastic opportunities. 

Snapshot from my demo and talk at the Coastal Discovery Museum

Coastal Discovery Museum allowed me to talk about my work and demonstrate some techniques while the National Association of Women Artists had a show. I got to see my art bestie Laura McRae Hitchcock win an award at this show. 

My paintings “Lowcountry Legend” on display at the Venue

NAWA also gave me an opportunity to show at the Vendue. Now a collector in Kansas has one of my paintings.

Checking out my series “Prince of Tides” on display at City Gallery during Piccolo Spoleto

City Gallery showed part of my Pat Conroy inspired 6-piece series at Piccolo Spoleto.

Presenting during a retreat at the Atlantic Center for the Arts

Fran Gardner led an amazing retreat at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in Florida. My brain is still on fire. And my heart is still bursting with the joy and comradery that was a new and welcome experience for me. This was the time that most embodied my 2021 word of the year: Reinvigoration.  

This time makes me full of anticipation and hope.

I have a new planner and intend to be positive that I will be filling it with learning opportunities, art shows, time to create, and time with my people. 

The Story of More by Hope Jahren is providing inspiration on my quest to advocate for our planet. I am continuing to explore ways to incorporate the millions of scraps of paper that enter my house and the plastic containers that hold my contact lenses into my paintings. 

Dear readers 

Thank you for being part of my art endeavors. The engagement on social media and responses to my writing keeps me motivated and feeling validated. 

Dream

It is a simple word and may seem like a frivolous notion, but it will be my 2022 word of the year. Dream can mean visualize. If I can see it in my head or feel it in my heart, I believe I can make it with my hands. May you find the space to dream. 

Reflections from Atlantic Center for the Art Retreat 10/21

Sisterhood

It is not a word that slips easily into my vocabulary. Wedged between brothers, of course I yearned for a female ally that would raise her feminist fist alongside me. I have best friends and cousins that are like sisters, and I love them dearly and in a unique way from other relationships. I felt great comfort and joy when all of these women were present at my mother’s funeral.  

I Know Me

I have always been an independent, introverted, loner. Most of my life I have been self-employed, the boss, or the teacher. 

Scary Parts

Giving a speech is easy, working the room, not so much. I never felt in need of a tribe. I have always taken workshops and classes in other locations. But a retreat is different with the frightening expectation of bonding.

Cooking and Cleaning

I had been on retreat with other artists before.  We worked independently, and I was the only painter. The sense of community was fostered in the kitchen the way women have done since the beginning of time. The chemistry was magical, and the dinner conversations went on until late. I left with new friends and a suspicion that this was a rare occurrence. 

New Kid

Recently I was invited to a retreat for artists with the promise of sisterhood. Not a requirement for me. I went for the studio space, late painting hours, writing component, and Chef Tom cooking my meals for 11 days. 

We arrived late afternoon. There were cheery greetings as we unloaded our gear, set up our studios, and dorm rooms. It had a first day of college feel about it. Most of the women had been together before. I was the only person who didn’t know anyone. 

Dinner was accompanied by exchanges of where are you from and what will you work on and ravings about the Chef. Talented chef for sure and very nice ladies. As expected. 

I jumped right into my work the very next morning in the buzz of studio activities. As expected.  

I had my consultation with Fran. She was brilliant and I was inspired. As expected. 

Something Shifted

It was during our first roundtable discussion after lunch that I was transformed. And moved to tears. Not as expected. 

I am not a big crier, especially not in public. But there I was, choking back sobs. 

Fran said since we have all been part of a show publicized in a paper then we are archived for eternity, and we will live on through our art. And there was a collective gasp. I felt some existential dread start to dissipate. And I knew I was not alone. I was safe among the sisters.

Kismet

Oh Universe, how you always surprise me with gifts I did not know I needed. Fran, Beau, Kathy, Martha, Donna, Carson, Toni, Cheri, Barbara, Patricia, Pat, and Eli. 

I was welcomed and inducted into the sisterhood by the generous spirit of these women artists.

Why This Matters

There were professional collaborations, associations, mentors, teachers, Girl Scouts, friends. There are relationships with individual artists with whom I share a unique bond and speak a language that others don’t. 

At this retreat, there was a trinity: artists, strong women, and a shared learning experience. We took turns being the teacher and the student. 

How This Happened

With the hallmark of a skilled and confident facilitator, Fran allowed this to happen. She provided exemplars and structure for a safe environment that made critiques beneficial, insightful, and articulate. 

 Plans

I intended to reflect and share the artsy parts of the retreat. I am sure they will weave into future writing. For today, this was the story that came to me.

Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold.

Nostalgia Gold

40 years!

My brother gave me a box he discovered while emptying my mother’s house. I lived there from age 3-18. This box was full of stuff I collected mostly in high school. Such fun since this year marks the 40th high school reunion year.

I unearthed stacks of notes all folded into little origami, the 70/80’s version of text messaging. For shy girls, we were very boy crazy on paper.

While I was in my hometown recently, I sat with these lovely ladies, and we giggled like schoolgirls over these missives and our recollections. We have all come a long way in 40 years. We are less boy crazy and more confident and accomplished in our own right.

Glad I saved old report cards. Disappointed that Art was pass /fail. But I did earn a P+. Technical drawing was a letter grade. I was the first girl to take that class back then. I would be admitted only if I could get another girl to try out with me. We both earned B’s so the boys wouldn’t feel bad.

 There was a career planning document dated 1978. I scored in the 90th percentile in Spatial Relations. I knew early on that I wanted to be an interior designer, and this was great validation. There were high scores in Abstract Reasoning (patterns, diagrams, designs) and Verbal Reasoning, (ability to reason with words) too. I shall not speak of algebra or other numbery stuff. I am proud to report that my spelling has improved with time, interest, and the computer. 

The sweetest document was an official letter of recommendation from my art teacher. A corner of the mimeographed page is faded but I can still read “Susan is worthy”.

Biking on the Greenway

I was never athletic as a child. Sports were encouraged for my brothers. I spent many summer days in grandstands with the other sisters. Once, my mother signed me up for a baton class, but we arrived late and all the batons were taken and I had to march around the gym, last, without a baton. I never went back.

Oh, but I loved to ride my bike! My most poignant and sensory memory is of that blissful moment when I rode down our dirt road without training wheels. My bike was aqua blue with white wall tires just like the 57 chevy my father drove. But my ride had the sparkly streamers dancing from the handlebars.

I knew I was mastering the balance on the big banana seat. My father’s hand gripping the chrome backrest kept me steady. The rhythm of his work boots kept time with the slap of his utility scissor hanging from his belt. Summer breeze, dirt, and Old Spice. When I peeked over my shoulder to exclaim that “I was really doing it” I saw his figure way off in the distance behind me just a blur of fatigues and t-shirt.

 I had my ticket to freedom. My BFF and I would ride across state lines from our rural New England town. Once we rode in a Bike-a-thon for a charity. This would require a different kind of riding and to keep up I would need a better bike. So, I got to ride her fancy 10 speed and she rode her mother’s even fancier Peugeot bicycle.

 I took my rickety Schwinn to college with me and rode up and down the Esplanade and through Beacon Hill at night so I could peek inside illuminated windows of fancy houses. The summer between the first and second year of college when I lived in the dorm, I delivered the mail around to all the school buildings in Back Bay. It was stolen right off the porch of the dormitory on the nice residential section of Commonwealth Ave. The theory was someone hopped aboard just to get to their destination and my bike would turn up in a nearby alley. But I was never that lucky to ever be reunited.

 Eventually, I had a new bike with a baby seat on the back. Then when the children rode on their own, I traded the seat for a car rack, and we took our bikes everywhere. Our own neighborhood, state parks and the Cape Cod Rail Trail right along the canal.

 It is these visceral and nostalgic memories that accompany me now as I ride along the Greenway in Charleston once again on an aqua bike with white wall tires. I chant, as I once did, that I can do this even though my legs burn at the beginning of the trail and the breeze off the marsh can be so strong that the bike buffets. Each mile brings rewards and challenges. The field of sunflowers at the beginning of the Clemson Extension transports me to Arles. The stretch after rivals the hottest desert. Toward the end are amazing vistas of marsh and rookeries. Egrets, ibis, herons, wood storks, and roseate spoonbills back lit to a fluorescent glow by the setting sun. I am buoyed by the site.

 To feel so light yet so grounded and connected at the same time. Those exhilarating feelings of freedom return but I also feel fiercely protective and vigilant. My chant becomes an apology for infiltrating their sanctuary for my own sanctuary.

A Wrinkle in Time

“I am still every age that I have ever been.” — Madeline L’Engle

My perpetual lament is that time is fleeting. And at this time of year when summer is slipping away and the new planner is laid out before me and the days are getting scheduled up quickly, the feelings are acute.

The invite for my 40th high school reunion arrived. Yikes. Yesterday, I was 12. Next week my baby will be 31. How can this be?

I don’t really mind being close to sixty. Posted on the reunion site was a query about what you wish you knew then. Someone replied that life is very different at 18 than it is now. But how real all those feelings were at that time and how the trials and tribulations may still be with us and most importantly how they formed us and inform us now. I wouldn’t change a thing. 

My school experience is so formative and profound to me that it is actually part of my artist bio:

As a child I struggled to read, and math was even more of a challenge for me. The teacher expected us to believe that there were places between the numbers on the ruler. But I only saw the concrete one and two… However, when the art teacher said that red and yellow made orange and in between there were lots and lots of variations, I saw them! Color was vivid and real, and I could relate. I found a place where I fit. In the art room I gained confidence with this brave woman who let very young children experiment with hot wax and sharp tools. She formed a theater group and encouraged us to speak out loud and try improvisation way before it was trendy.

Eventually, I would learn to read and of course go on to be an art teacher. My Master’s Degree is in Integrating the Arts into the Curriculum, which is an academic title for teaching kids to learn in the way they learn best: art, poetry, storytelling, dance, and music. It is about the experiences, muscle memory and brain function, and the relationships and connectivity.

I found I could say things

with color and shapes

that I couldn't say any other way –

things I had no words for.

Georgia O’Keeffe

I taught in a high poverty school with no supplies, no money, and lots of apathy. There were rules that benefited no one, unrealistic expectations, a school to prison pipeline you read about in the bad news.

So, I painted TRY from floor to ceiling. I said it was my only rule. Try again, try harder, try something else, were favorite directives of my high school art teacher. I hear him in my head as I paint to this day. 40 plus years. 

One day a student got mad with me and asked why I always say what else can you do.  Pitching my answer to where he was at, I asked this budding young track star what his coach says when he crosses the finish line. He wrinkled up his face and said, “He asks me to go faster the next time”.  He got quiet, then it dawned on him, “You are like a coach!” he exclaimed.

I don’t know if this was beneficial to this young man after school or where he is now. But his classmate was Raven Saunders who just won Silver Medal in the shot put for the USA. And I know she got it because she told me so after class that day. I am in no way implying I had anything to do with her success. She is a unique and spirited person on her own path with a tremendous personal drive despite many roadblocks.

 Her story airing as I read recounts from classmates and reflect on my own school experiences generated nostalgia for my art teachers.  I am grateful for the coaching and attention I received from them. When I say that they made me and saved me and inspired me, I wear no lens of romance or nostalgia. 

 I am also very fortunate to have a stack of letters I received from students and parents.  When I reread them, as I often do, I see the evidence of my teachers exponentially reflected in my students. I see me then and now. Every age I have ever been.

Playing tourist

I am taking a touristy vacation. I have an uncle who is only 8 years older than me. We grew up like cousins except that he is a genius. A true savant. He loves history and will be coming to the Holy City to visit with me and play tourist. But more than likely, even though he has never been here before, Kenny will be telling the tour guides a thing or too. Once in elementary school math class, he was staring out the window daydreaming or bored or both. The teacher tried to entice him back into the group. Without looking back, Kenny gestured to the chalk board and said, “you made an error in the second equation, the answer is 18”.

Imagine if he had been born in a different time. Had a different school experience. I am reading A Dancer in Wartime. About a girl living through the Blitz to become a dancer and the force behind the Broadway productions of Cats and Phantom of the Opera. There is a story circulating on the internet about her. She was in trouble in school because she couldn’t sit still. An advocating person knew that Gillian was a dancer and needed more time to move about instead of being chastised for doing so.

Stories like this, my relationship with Kenny, and my own school experiences inspired me to become a teacher. It is this time of year, Kenny’s impending visit, and an invite to my 40th high school reunion that have conjured up much reflection.

A fresh slate

It is that time of year again when the student and teacher in me wrestles with time. Could it be that summer is really almost over? Am I ready for the next season, did I make the best use of my time, did I do the required reading?

When I started Fabulon, that first summer was consumed by zoning permits and redecorating the space, setting up events and planning for the future while the actual here and now days were fleeting. I created a show called Souvenirs of Summer; you know those talismans we collect to hang on to something that is transient. We always had a great turn out and provocative art evident that my melancholy was universal.

On the flip side, the start of the school year also brings a fresh slate. Teacher calendars and planners don’t run January to December like the rest of the world. Even though I am not in school or teaching now, I still use this method of planning and try to cultivate that sense of newness and possibility. It sure does help to pull me out of the end of summer blues.

So even though August is just starting, I am planning, regrouping, future casting. I have been invited to attend an artist’s retreat at the Atlantic Center for the Arts. Cloistered away by the sea in late September. How perfect. Then after, I will be staying on for a bonus session, Writing About Art. Like our planners, the artists’ idea of a vacation is very different from the rest of the world, too.

The Quest for Flow

When I was a single parent, self employed, alternative college student, I was always rushing. I used to fantasize about being an octopus so I could do more things at once. And I worked late into the night. It was a coping skill. It wasn’t good.

Then I read Thomas Merton. We all know his famous art quote: Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.

But he also said:

“There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence to which the idealist most easily succumbs: activism and overwork. The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of its innate violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of our activism neutralizes our work for peace. It destroys our own inner capacity for peace. It destroys the fruitfulness of our own work, because it kills the root of inner wisdom which makes work fruitful.”

This was a game changer for me. And I learned to prioritize better. To take time off. I thought I really got it. My life was better. 

Still, I realized that I had some lingering habits when I literally fell up the stairs carrying a bunch of stuff to the studio. Sounds like slapstick humor in a sitcom. But seriously, what if I broke my arm. 

I like to be efficient. I like to have my house in order. I like the buzz of getting stuff done. I take clothes to the laundry room on my way to the studio, do the dishes while eating my lunch, and scroll social media while watching TV. I justify this because time is fleeting and multi tasking saves time!

Or so I thought. 

“Multitasking is like drunk driving.” –Susan David, psychologist and TED speaker.

Ah ha! 

Multi-tasking isn’t healthy, or safe, or fun. That buzz of getting stuff done isn't what I am chasing. I want that creative flow. You’ve heard of runners’ high. Creative flow is like that for artists. But it is more important in the process of the art making than the rewarding feeling of finishing the race. It is that lovely place when the making is strong and the critic’s voice is quiet. The intuition directs and the ideas are surging. It is a sign of a successful day’s work for an artist.

So my next big lesson is how to get stuff out of the way efficiently so that I have more time to do the important work.

The Artist's Residency

What

You go away, you make art, you reflect. Sometimes the art is tied to the place.

Why

As an artist we can never get enough input or stimuli.

Where

Once I went to Pawley’s Island. The house had a front view of the ocean from the 3rd floor but oh that breeze. It could be felt all day. The place backed up to the marsh. Each hour was so different. I tried to capture the shifting light and airy feeling. And ooh those seabirds.

Who

I was the painter, welcomed by mosaic artists. I didn’t know these women on day 1 but could never forget them if I lived to be 100.

How

It was peaceful yet invigorating. 

When

I retreat to this place again and again in my imagination. It became an anchor when I felt anxious during the pandemic. 

Now

The most important part of any retreat is the reflection. We get caught up in production, the process, the learning. We move on to the next project. But we didn't do the deep work of evaluation and acknowledging how it affected us.

So what to do with all that I learned during my Big Q artists residency. I know I am different. And I can see it in my paintings. How do I express it in words? Let me reflect a bit more.

Up, Down, and All Around

Because I am an artist, I think in images. A thought arrives in my brian in the form of a picture. I wish I could make them come out of my mouth the way they appear. Nothing would get lost in translation. 

I am and have always been a visual learner. I heard Charlie Brown’s teacher during instruction time but when the teacher rolled in the film strip cart I was engaged. If I saw it, I could relate, remember, and retain.  It has been scientifically proven that people learn auditorily or  kinesthetically or visually. Knowing this made me more efficient when I would study, write, or communicate. Knowing this made  me feel less like a freak.

Show me a map and I know how to get there but describe left, right, etc: I am lost. Better still, if you provide the same information in story format... over the bridge, past the store where we bought the good melon, near the antique shop...then I can develop my very own personalized map based on those visual cues. 

The title of this blog occurred because merry go rounds and roller coasters are ever present in my mind. They appear like a half remembered dream, a pop up ad, or the interruption while meditating. So what am I thinking about? What does this mean?

Deep my thoughts: going back to the place I was born, the first post quarantine travel, for my niece’s wedding.  Several of the grandparents and great grandparents who had been present for much of her life are no longer here to celebrate. She is the first of the kids to marry. The others all have significant ones now. And so it goes around and around, that circle of life.

I am thinking about life before the pandemic, the long time sequestered, and the approaching of post-pandemic adjustments. I didn’t learn a new language or get “in shape”. I did learn to cook and started sewing again. I did a lot of thinking. Mostly, I stayed in my studio choosing to mark this time as an artist residency. I painted because that’s what I do. Some were great,  some were a hot mess, some were just works in progress. Hopefully a few will become images that might stay in someone else’s mind. And so it goes, up and down, those roller coaster chapters of life.

Transitions

Transitions

Transition. Is it a trendy, overused, woo woo, word? I know journey was a buzz word that now sparks laughter or memes but I rather like transition. 

Change 

Change is inevitable and often scary, sometimes too swift. Currently, change may be too slow and generating frustration more than any other emotion. Transition is gradual. Transition is hopeful.

Spring

Happy spring, the ultimate transition. The birds are migrating, and the flower buds are emerging. As an artist, I revel in the symbolism of Spring. Since I get much of my inspiration from the natural world, my senses are ignited. I’m ready.

Growth

One of the most important parts of the artist’s life is reflection. Auto correct wants to type rejection. HA! Epiphany: they are teammates, reflection and rejection, each playing a vital role in personal growth. My ultimate goal as an artist is to be my personal best. That comes with reaching for more, putting myself out there. Rather than feeling swept under in a sea of rejection notices, I am striving to understand this as a valuable part of the transition. 

New Friend

About this time last year, I began my obsession with Pat Conroy. People said “Oh, you live in Charleston, you must read Pat Conroy!” I knew the more famous movies based on his books. And filed him away under fun facts of local lore. Then the SC Chapter of the National Association of Women Artists planned some events based on the work of Pat Conroy. I created a series around his work, and one painting even made it to the cover of Carolina Arts magazine – a humbling surprise!

The Water is Wide spoke to me most. Several more paintings were inspired by his stories as I devoured all I could find.

Comparison

Seeing the Pat Conroy pieces along side the late fall and the current work, I really see the transition. One thing leads to another.

Patience

My daily mantra is a fervent call for patience. Patience with myself, with others. With ideas. With change and time with its own pace no matter how much I foist my will on it. Things and people will come and go. May I not only be patient with transitions but immerse in them. May I take the time to reflect and celebrate. Happy Spring!!

Fan Letter

Thematic apperception.

I like a theme and the organization of a calendar, and I even like a few of the Hallmark holidays – but I don’t think only a month for Black History or Women’s History is sufficient or fair. So instead, I will title this a love note and peaceful passage to one of my most favorite artists who just happens to be a Black woman.

Early imprinting

In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, my elementary school was part of an experiment. Black children from the city were bussed to my small suburb. As 6 new 3rd graders wearily stepped off the bus, I buried my shyness and rushed to greet them.  I desperately wanted new friends. My classmate had been teasing me since the mock election when I was the lone voice who voted for Shirley Chisholm. Back then women weren’t in the White House. A little girl from my class grabbed my arm. “Didn’t my mother warn me, as hers did, that we must not? “, one may wonder. I don’t recall any conversation at home or in the classroom.  All the more reason to be welcoming, I thought.

An Ally

In 1974, Ms. Milbier taught sixth grade social studies. She was progressive with the use of MS and her advocacy for Civil Rights. I was 11 and thought she was wonderful. Finally, there were conversations and some empathy. She, figuratively speaking, introduced me to Cicely Tyson via the movie “The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman”. The story was so compelling. But, this gorgeous actress, who played the title character from teenager to centenarian, captivated me. She was amazing and I loved her.

Going Home

She passed away on January 28th. Sad news, but I smiled thinking of my fist formative encounter with her. And I was glad she could witness Kamala Harris being inaugurated. I read a story about how Cicely Tyson would wait for the right role that would lift up women and especially Black women. She said she had the “audacity to be selective”.

Collective Gasp

Flash back to 2011. I am in the audience at the movie “The Help”. The theater was packed with a bunch of women my age. Lots of book groups. I knew little of the movie because I rarely see one after the book. I didn’t even know Cicely Tyson was in it. But when she made her screen appearance, I gasped out loud. I even thought a bit too loudly until I realized that the sound was that of an audible collective expression of awe.

Audacious women

Maybe other people at the theater had a similar reverence for this beautiful person. Maybe Cicely Tyson was their teacher, too. May these women be out in the world making it more welcoming. 

I hope to be audacious! May the coming months be filled love, unity and good health for all.

Choosing a word of the year

It is a sign of the times that New Year Resolutions are edited to one-word aspirations. Poetically, I prefer pairs. I was toying with the pandemic-inspired incongruence of intimacy and solitude. Inspiration and intuition were also contenders. Patience and practice always make the cut. However, false start and finish strong kept resonating in the back of my mind. Those are runners’ terms. I am not a runner. But that’s what came calling.

2020 taught me nothing!

Over the holidays, I started contemplating 2021. I was daring enough to have expectations! I don’t know why the flip of a calendar would make everything better. Still, I was thinking and planning. Writing events in pen. But the holidays were a false start to a new and different year. My husband had a major health scare. The kind that makes you reevaluate. He has made a miraculous recovery and is doing really well. He is definitely a finish strong kind of guy.

All Better

Many of you may know that my husband is the Steve in Steve Ellis Automotive Services. Did you know that I worked for him for a short time? I was a really bad secretary. I made up for abysmal typing skills with enthusiasm for our mission to change peoples’ experiences with car repair. 26 years ago, we met when I was his customer. I had been treated badly by someone else, but he made it all better.

Purging

It is at Steve’s workplace where the remains of Fabulon, my art gallery, have been stored. Soon we are moving to a new garage without the storage space. *Insert freak out emoji here or that quote about not really an empty nest until the kids get their stuff out of the attic.* I had packed Fabulon away, but hadn’t really let go. Purging was arduous. And emotional.

 Hitting the wall

These new year transitions were consuming my time and keeping me from the studio. I needed a break. While pacing the parking lot, I caught sight of the most precious cherub. While waiting for service she and her mother were also pacing the parking lot. Only 3, she was captivated with the scraps of metal scattered about. She examined and collected with curiosity and abandonment. She was singing and happy. No editor, no worrying, no negativity that is often an adult default. Bravo to Mom, too, for just letting her be. The art teacher in me had to comment on the creativity displayed in the child’s play. We know collecting is a sign of genius.

The following day, I returned to Steve to find this sweet card waiting on me from the little girl.

Back on task

I felt renewed in spirit. The boxes before me were no longer a hot mess but testimonies of graduate school, a teaching career, and all that Fabulon was. Direction and discernment resurfaced. The answers and the energy were summoned. I got the job done.

Reinvigorated

Despite the false starts I did more than finish strong on the moving project. I remembered that time is a construct. And it is amorphous. That new year feeling of rejuvenation can happen anytime. 

And there will be time for the studio again. Art guru Julia Cameron says “Bright ideas are often preceded by a gestation period that is interior, murky, and completely necessary.” 

I often use the earthly analogy of lying fallow until the next cycle of planting and growth. This inspired a better word of the year!

Reinvigoration: the act of imparting renewed strength, vitality, and vigor back into something, cause to be alert and energetic, heighten and intensify.

Cascade

Some kids pitch a fit or hold their breath. As a nerdy child my coping skill was rearranging the furniture. Then I became a professional decorator, and I loved it. But I didn’t realize that my release would be less effective and I would need a new escape plan when experiencing a very grief filled chapter of life.

Apparently, I was still in denial so immersing myself in academia seemed like a great idea. I signed up for Integrating the Arts Into the Curriculum at Lesley University. The syllabus was intense and scholarly pursuits felt like a remedy. I was shocked to discover that the entire program was based on self reflection, storytelling, poetry. Thought I was getting away from my own head! I sure did find myself. Skipped a few stages of grief to acceptance and a Master’s Degree! Needless to say, it was one of the best things I have ever done in my life.

I was thinking about my cohorts from that time while painting this one called Cascade. These friends and that process remind me that sometimes we need to open the flood gates, let the waves crash over us, learn to swim with the current, and all those watery analogies.

14x11 inches. Oil & cold wax on wood framed silver. $400. Click here to shop.

Vinyl. Don't judge me.

I get the sound aesthetic of vintage vinyl. The white noise and the clicks and pops. Like most 60’s households of my youth, center stage was the large stereo Hi-Fi system in its tambor doored cabinet. Wire racks held my parents’ extensive collection. They were early adopters of an album of the month type club. Their tastes ran the gamut from Marty Robbins to Frannte and Teicher. I think the drama that each artist offered through gunfighter ballads or piano renditions of classics got them hooked.. Or maybe they just forgot to send the postcard back on time.

We were allowed to use the equipment, too. But I always had to wait until no one was home to fully enjoy my listening experience. It was 1970 and my music love coincided with my all time favorite TV show. I own the entire family collection and most of the main star’s solo career up until about 1975. 

I added to the wire rock as a teenager with my own subscription which brought Queen into the house and I had to have the soundtrack to A Chorusline. I took to James, Joni, and Jackson early but traded vinyl for a walkman and cassettes. These folks are my daily go to once again upgraded to CD's. 

Despite ridicule, I stand by my vinyl collection. I have them still and will cherish them always.

These pieces are called “Get on the Bus” - inspired by the Partridge Family. They’re 8x10 inches each, sold together for $625 or individually for $325 each. Click here to shop.

Gathering In

This painting is a big deal to me. 

Sometimes I am an artist genius and magic just flies out of my brush.  But other days the process is more challenging.  This piece had moments of both.

This year I set a goal to paint on larger surfaces and try to expand my scale. Sometimes ideas don't read as well on a big canvas. And it is a new skill set to get them to translate well. I was up for it.

Then pandemic. I compartmentalized the death and destruction aspects and decided to embrace the solitude like an artists’ retreat. I am acutely aware of my privilege that allows me to do this. 

My paintings start by activating the canvas which is artists’ speak for scribbling. Marks of charcoal and pen and my fancy crayons, splashes of colors, shapes and lines. My scribbles are similar to asemic writing: it is familiar like a word but not quite legible. Sometimes I write real words. Mostly I write intentions, a wish for the world as if it is the foundation of the painting and could come true once out in public. 

This one started with the word PATIENCE in giant letters scrawled across the 8 panels. The goal isn’t to save the word. It is almost like a warm up exercise. For me it is a way to create a composition since my work is abstract. It is a way to break up the space. The words or hints of them can show through.

In this case I got the 8 panels activated and colorful paint applied. Then I started to admire the graffitie-sque quality of the giant word. I got a few ideas for other pieces and moved on to them. I was combining a lot of ways of working and being guided by many muses. This is a good day in the studio. In other aspects of life it isn’t so prudent to start another project before one is finished with the first but as an artist is what we thrive on. The ideas are flowing and the skills will help achieve an outcome. Eventually.

This stalled for a while. Despite many attempts to see where to go next, the way was not clear. Then I had an opportunity to have a show at a Unitarian Universalist space. It was the spark that brought this to reality. I wanted glowing sections of light contrasted by jewel tones. If imagery appeared, I let them happen. I started to see owls and challices and flames, hats from the Women's March and people gathering and singing. I don’t exactly plan these; it's when the intuition takes over and the story emerges. I knew it would be a collection of my styles and skills and feelings. 

The title is Gathering In which is a UU term about reuniting and homecoming. For me it feels like embracing, acknowledging, and connecting. I hope it sparks joy. Click here to learn more and purchase.

Big Purple Heart

There is a heavy landscape element to this painting. If it had a theme song, it would be  “This Land is Your Land”. That idyllic Woody Guthrie song meant something to me as a kid. I thought it could be true. The painting had a different back story.⁣
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It started at the Arty Block Party in Park Circle. I was a featured artist doing a painting demonstration. Though introverted, I want to put on a little show. So I brought my giant beach ball with painting prompts written in each section. It was tossed about the audience. The person who caught it shouts out a color or type of long or demand to use the giant brush meant for scrubbing the charcoal grill. As the painter, I must comply. Fun! For the first hour. I was hot. I was covered in paint and the party was winding down. The ball was supposed to get tossed back to me but it was intercepted by a gentleman who requested I paint a big purple heart. I put on a happy face and brushed on a giant purple heart across the whole painting. Big purple hearts really aren’t my thing. I went home and scrubbed up and put the painting aside. ⁣
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Later, at another North Charleston art event, I ran to the same man. We get to chatting and realize we’ve met each other once before. It was Willis Sanders. He is retired but still an arts advocate and artist who works a little purple heart into all his images. He had visited a school where I was teaching GT art classes when we met years before.  He told me that he had been sitting for a student to paint his portrait. Soon that portrait would be going to the White House for Youth Art Month. How cool is that?
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The next day there is a whole article in the paper. There is a copy of the stellar portrait, Willis, the model, and the artist who turns out to be one of my former students. Imagine a painting of black man, made by a brown child, going to be on display living in our current White House. I got inspired. I pulled out the hot mess of a painting with a giant purple heart scrawled across it. Now, I saw a purpose. I understood Willis Sanders’ request for a Purple Heart. I felt connectivity back to “This Land is Your Land”. 

I transformed the heart into the infinity symbol so the love goes on and on. May there be love for the land and all its inhabitants. May it truly be “made for you and me”.⁣
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“Big Purple Heart”. Acrylic on canvas. 36x48 inches. $1,000. Available to purchase here.

Handiwork

Came upon this old polaroid. I know not where or when it was taken. Who was the photographer? That’s my grandmother, Helen, on the left and my mother, Nancy, on the right. Both were avid knitters and it is unusual to see HElen’s hands idle. Helen made the afghan. It would be laid at the foot of my bed many years in the future. I love how Nancy kicked off her shoes. And Helen is smiling.  To see them both happy was also very unusual.  

They loved each other, no doubt;  but their relationship was fraught with conflicting emotions exacerbated by clashing personality types. To me, they were so much alike. Helen would be the first to say: ”it’s Nancy who has all the talent”. They both sure could knit and I was often the recipient of their gifts. 

I like these two images together. I only recently discovered this photo, right after I finished the painting which I saw as a woman doing some type of handiwork. When I think of the women in my life, it is hard for me to imagine them without some type of textile in their hands.

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Many Faces

Thought about my brother while making this piece. These multifaceted people kept emerging. My brother was my first friend though by contrast – his machismo vs my feminism, his bravado vs my introversion – though it did cause lots of tension. I followed Gandhi and he idolized Charles Bronson. He spent much of high school in the principal's office. Fighting. “F****t, the n word, r****d”. If it was said, he issued a verbal warning. He could be very persuasive but if his words went unheeded he followed with a fist. Somewhere deep inside I believe he would have liked to respond with wisdom, calmness, and passive resistance. Maybe, because, of course, I know my own rage.

He is older now. A bit more mellow. We both listen to NPR.

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See Me

When I was a middle school art teacher, the most popular class was Color Theory, mixing paint for the artist’s palette.  I always integrated it with the math unit on percentages. 50% blue + 50% yellow = green. The ratio of 75% blue to 25% yellow yields a different member of the green color family. 

Once, I had a student who was color blind, certifiably, Tritanopia. Couldn't distinguish between blue and green, violet and red, yellow and pink. His IEP said he could be dismissed from that lesson because he didn’t see color. I advocated that he could do the math. And he stayed.

He was determined, he wasn’t going to let anything stop him, and he liked art class (or maybe just the little girl that sat next to him).   He asked for help, he paid close attention when she said “this is blue” and he put the blue container near his right hand. He was attentive, he was careful, he was respectful.  When the math got harder, the kids cheered each other on. They would say “Come on Matt can do it, so can you!”

Come on people, now! Learn to see, be attentive, be careful, be respectful.

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