The sweet smell of validation...

Tomorrow is the big event, Art for Life. I probably have mentioned it before, and I will again anyway. It is a fundraiser for Face to Face, our local AIDS hospice organization. Out little county was hit hard by the epidemic, and that is honored at this event, on a big round table clothed in red, with black stones set in a spiral from the center three, the first deaths, each year separated by a white bone. We have a moment of silence every year, and it never lessens in the poignancy. Artists from all over the county, and we have herds of them, donate a piece of their work, and art lovers come to bid on them. The artists get recognized, the patrons get cheap art and a tax write-off, and Face to Face gets a nice bit of money. Caterers come and try to outdo one another, and the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence come to serve hors d'oeuvres. Everyone has a dandy time. And there is this year's offering, on the $75 tickets, with an artist's credit on the back. My name and art, out in front of God and everyone. Happiness oozes from my every pore!

More...

Perhaps you can tell how much fun I am having with my new medium. Acrylics are strange. The pigments are so much more strident. They don't mix as well as oils, which is probably why the paintings I have done have been so vibrant. Unusual things happen when you scumble them (paint one color over another). And they clean up with water. Gee, that's ever so nice. I actually thought about going back into this painting with oils. You can do that, paint oils over acrylics ( but not the other way around). But in the end, I got most of what I wanted with just the one medium. I glazed parts of it, a new skill for me. So much to learn, you know.

Once more with the plastic paints...

I may have found something good here, after all. Acrylics make me work really fast, and not think too much. Thinking too much makes for ugly stuff. Art is heart stuff. You really get that looking at a Van Gogh. Not so much with Picasso. Very cerebral, that guy. I don't like it when my paintings get that contrived look. Maybe I quit too soon with this one, I never know. And the little bird is kind of coy, but so was the photo. It's just an adorable thing, the little bird. I got to push the paint around more this time, more like working in oils. And I primed the canvas ultramarine blue, so no white holidays peeking out at me. Just glad to be working at it again.

And then I did this...

After long time, no paint, I laid a palette of acrylics, my arch enemy. But I had a bunch left from those academic classes that fret so over toxicity in oils, and a friend gifted me with a basic set, and what can I say, I am part Scottish, you know, and kind of wanted to use them up. This is my attempt to get them to work like oils. Not happening as well as I would like, but the effect is loose and kind of eschisse, or sketchy, ala Monet. In fact, I couldn't get oils to do THIS at all. Perhaps this is a good thing! It was fun, and probably is not done yet, but then, what ever is? If I'm vertical, nothing.

Really, I am teachable. Really.

Recently I toodled over to the senior center for a watercolor class. Secretly, I hope they will be astonished to see me there. YOU can't possibly be a SENIOR! No one has said that yet. Anyhow, the class was sparse, and the real instructor was on vacation. Standing in her stead was one of our local and very wonderful artists. Nevertheless, I completely ignored her demo and proceeded to do this rather wimpy painting from a book I brought with me. Of course, I could have saved some gasoline if I just did that at home in my own studio. Don't know what came over me there. I was just full of rebellion and defiance that day. It happens. Hoping I will get back to that place where I don't know very much, and that is okay. Soon.

There will never be another Boo.

Here is my birthday boy. He is 12 today, which translates to around 70 in dog years, for a little 20 pounder like he. Actually, he is not 20 lbs any more, not since pesky Pickle came to pester him 24/7. He is slim and trim and perky as hell. Don't pay any attention to all that white on his muzzle, he's had that since he was 2. Okay, the white over his eyes came later, but still, what a guy! He came to live with me on an October day very like the one we are having today, warm but not sizzling hot, windy with papery leaves skittering before my car as I drove to town to get a gander at him. "Adorable Pekingnese/ShihTzu mix puppies" the ad read. And there was one little boy left. I might have been a little disappointed that he was black and white, but that lasted only a second. He was the runt. In fact, Pickle weighed a pound more than he did when she arrived at 7 weeks old. I knew that day that I was putting my heart out there where it could easily break, and that someday, it would, as Boo is temporary (as is everything, when I think about it). And I went for it, anyway, because I knew that he was 2lbs 2oz of pure love. And that is how it has been. Mellow, dear Boo.

You tell me...

I have an appointment to get my eyes checked on the 17th of September, and I am wondering whether to tell Doc that, when I get tired, my right eye still hurts where he punched the hole in it. Well, he did fry it extra crispy because of that little complication when my iris bled. But no one told me it was going to hurt at all, and I am not sure it does because no one told me it would. Now, that may seem strange to you, but makes excellent sense to me. I am used to other people telling me how I feel. I'm sad - no you're not, that kind of thing. And when I tell the Drs how I really think I feel, you know they are doing that twirly finger thing behind my back, sure that I am several candles shy of a chandelier. Sigh. I really do have a super-sensitive body. Look what happened after just a little squirming around on the floor at my somatics class. All kinds of icky stuff whacked me up the side of the head. Maybe that is why my glasses are not working all that well. I can see fine through them on the left, but my right eye seems kind of fuzzy. Or maybe it really is a cataract. That would be a good deal. That Doc can see, and take care of. And no on will think I am crazy. Wouldn't that be refreshing.

If this is Sunday, there must be garbage.

Sundays suck. The trash is collected on Mondays in my neighborhood, and that means that all the erstwhile garbage-makers are busily hauling their cans out to the curb, making lots of noise to disturb the cow woman's serenity. Add to that the frenzy of the furry beasts who share my little yellow house, as they race around, barking. Pickle starts it. Boo, who is a little deaf, picks it up, and keeps it up long after the disturbance has ceased, since he can't hear it, and wants to cover all his bases. And in my current depleted, somewhat fragile state, this very common occurence is totally messing with me. And on top of all that, we have an air show in town, making godawful loud noises that threaten to rip the fabric of my existence way beyond repair. And did I mention I found the source of my angst? I have been doing some somatics work with a friend, and that has released a lot of pain that was happily trapped up until now in my poor old body. Muscle memory. Great big ouch.

Woe is I...

Using recycled image because Photoshop burped and would not save today's rendering. Kind of follows, it is that kind of time for the cow woman. Every so often, without any real reason, depression descends, and there I am, at the bottom of that hole, again. So I sit here, noodling around with the computer, mindless games, mostly, and listening to this schizophrenic radio station that plays both classical and soundtracks. I heard some Danny Elfman music, he's Tim Burton's guy, then an achingly lovely Chopin scherzo, followed by John Williams magical Harry Potter, and then some Satie, which at best is weird, and can be downright disturbing. Okay, this too shall pass. Perhaps, though, this time, I will get a ride on the A train, and do some THERAPY. Oh, lord. That means paying someone to sit on their couch, rip all the scabs off the old wounds, and bleed all over the place. Somehow, my wounds just don't seem to go away. And this has been a year fraught with change, always a catalyst for sturm und drang. Well, whatever. It is what it is.

Just visiting this time...

Today is our little art show from our halcyon days trudging around the Pepperwood hills. The new Dwight Center, an architectural gem, is hosting a reception for docents and patrons, and we artists will be up there at 3 to hang our work, have a dandy reunion potluck, then attend the reception, and the star-gazing that will follow, if we wish. Don't think that will happen for this artist. Must get home to be good Boo mommy as he recovers from very rude surgery in his instrument of torture Elizabethan collar. But anxious to view my painting that has been languishing up there since the class ended a month ago, see if I like it as much as I once did. And I will be showing my very favorite Pepperwood work alongside it, since notice was sent there was room for a second oeuvre. Taking along my trust staplegun and picture wire, a portable easel, and a fruit tray to contribute. Not up to cooking anything today, not after morning workout, wimpy as it may have been.

Looking back...

I suppose regret is a silly emotion. What's done is done, get over it. But I spent a moment thinking about my last divorce, and its consequences now that our daughter is marrying. Certainly, I wish her more happiness than I found in marriage. And I have no doubt she will have it. She is healthier than I will ever be, and part of that is because I worked to get healthier, and sober. And I will live always knowing that this was not a mistake. There are no mistakes, just lessons to be learned. Wait, I think there is a song about that! And my lesson was learning what is really important. Houses and cars and swimming pools are nice, and I really like them, too. However, people are more important. People are more valuable. I left because I didn't feel valued. Not surprising, because then, I didn't value myself very much. That has changed. Now I take excellent care of my little self. Today, after my super-healthy Trader Joe's soy and flaxseed cereal with skimmed milk and after taking dear Boo in for his operation, I worked out, then came home and put together a big pot of homemade split pea soup, because it is really cold here. I had it for dinner with zucchini pancakes, really yummy. So, lessons continue. Sad that it didn't work out, for my dear girl. Happy I am in recovery and able to be useful in ways I never imagined. And joyous that I now have someone who values me in my life. Me.

Oh, crap.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought I saw something awful on Boo's eye, but when I caught up with him, it was fine. I put it down to a trick of the light, and forgot about it until Saturday, when it looked like he had a big piece of raw meat stuck in the corner of his eye. Really gross and painful looking, though he was not complaining at all. Today at the vet's we found that it grew on the inside of his eyelid this time, so sometimes it is tucked in, irritating his eye really something awful. Which meant I had to dig out that blasted collar, which I had thrown out into the garage hoping to never lay eyes on again, and we are off Wednesday morning for a repeat of this undignified process. Boo actually acclimated to his collar so well last time, he would have worn it for the rest of his sweet life if I had asked him to. He is the sweetest most loving creature on the face of the earth. Also one of the smelliest, so he will also endure the indignity of a bath before his surgery. Let us pray this will be the last one.

Days of our lives...

Yesterday was one of those precious moments, when dreams come true. Darling daughter is getting married (yay!), in a year. And yes, we went shopping for THE DRESS. Well, it takes about 6 months to get it all up to snuff, fitted exactly to the bride, so it is good we began looking now. I found out there are all these bridal salons tucked into ateliers above the windy San Francisco downtown streets, sort of like jewels in a crown. And each contains miles of white dresses. One may wonder (and one certainly did) how many variations one can make of a white dress, and the answer is thousands and thousands. Styles are infinite all by themselves, varying in length, bodice treatments, skirt treatments, bustles, lace, beading, rhinestones, ruffles, feathers, appliques, sleeves, sleeveless, straps, strapless, ad infinitem. Then there are the fabrics themselves, the sheen or lack thereof, the drape, the weight, the formality or informality, the American vs European lace. And finally, the various shades of white, from cream to bluewhite. So it was an educational day as well as a highly emotional one as I watched my dear daughter slip in and out of about 25 different dresses, in as many styles. She is so trim, anything will look wonderful on her. I had my favorite, a Priscilla of Boston dress with a structured bodice, halter top, and full, flouncy skirt that had POCKETS. It was simple, elegant and so very bridal. But I expect anything she chooses will be lovely, since she already is. Mother of the bride, over and out.

Age old battle...

Every so often, I listen to Leonard Bernstein's Candide, an opera he wrote back in the 50's. It is cunning in its wordiness and pseudo-classical music. Mostly, it is about the difference between form and substance. Candide is the ultimate optimist, looking for good everywhere, happy to lead a simple life. Cunegonde, his love, wants the trappings, jewels and yachts and champagne. They sing, oh, happy we, how we agree. Both wind up disillusioned (that's stripping away of the illusion, when you think about it), and land squarely in the reality of it all. The world is what you make of it. They plant their own garden. Not a bad idea. If I sat around here waiting for someone to show up with flowers, I'd be bitter and disappointed. Hell, I was bitter and disappointed for a lot of years, even in the midst of all the right things: four bedroom house, swimming pool and hot tub, German cars in the garage, five kids, middle management job, three piece suit husband, etc., etc., etc. The problem was looking everywhere for my happiness except where it lives, in me. Just because things look good doesn't mean they are good. Simple works for me. Not that I would reject the mega-millions if they landed in my lap. Just wouldn't expect that to change much for me. I can be just as miserable rich as I can poor. It's a choice. And today, happy, happy, joy, joy. Lawn mowing, watering, sweeping, cleaning up. Loving every minute of it.

I've been thinking, again.

This thing about being female, and having all the important parts hidden, where you can't examine them yourselves for defects, and having to go every year for an investigation of the nether world down there, so that your PI notices if you aren't up to snuff, and kind of gets on your case. And since you know you have to go back again next year, maybe you do cut down on the doughnuts or the cigarettes, so she doesn't yell at you again. Or, if you don't, at least you know you should. Males just don't get that. Everything important is hanging out for daily examination, and, if it is working even 80% of the time, well, hell, that's pretty wonderful. They don't get a PI, not unless something goes really wrong, and by that time, it's usually too late to do anything about it, anyway. Why are we surprised that women live longer? Really, guys. The answer is in those freaking stirrups, a lot of messy goo, and a whole lot of sense. Supplements help, too.

Art imitates life. Duh.

Once upon a time, when I thought my artform was writing, I began a novel about a woman who was intimidated by her kitchen appliances. And, being the spiritually awakened person that I am, I caught myself yelling at my microwave yesterday. Now, this is my third microwave in my five years here. I use that sucker several times a day, for hot beverages, little low-calorie frozen dinners, to defrost two little chicken tenders for my evening taco. Okay, that's really TMI about my tiny life here in the little yellow house. Whatever, I had heated up a cup of yesterday's coffee, and in the 1 minute 10 seconds that took, got busy with other things. This new microwave continues to beep at me intermittently until it gets my attention. So I screamed from the bedroom "I'm coming! Just shut up!". I want my original microwave back, the one that told me to have a nice day every time I used it. The problem with living in the light is that it falls on EVERYTHING, even into those dusty cracks you hope to never see again. Next step is to learn to love my eccentricities. And figure out what to do with that deep fat fryer my brother gave me last Christmas.

A different day, yes...

Yesterday, I was the bug. I don't know why this happens. Sometimes, it means I am getting sick, but I woke up today just fine. A perusal of Wednesday's diet and activities gave me no clue. I canceled my appointments on the pretext that I didn't want to spread my misery, should it prove contagious, but, in actuality, I just needed some me time. When I am running on empty, I have nothing to give. I would love to me Ms. Abundant, full of sweetness and light 24/7/365. Alas, that has not happened yet. And the poor kid from behind me chose the very worst moment to knock on my front door, just as I was settling into a hot tub, to ask if he could mow my lawn for me. Not today, I yelled. He is currently busily wrestling his lawn mower over the hillocks in the back yard. Grateful, yes I am. And not fully back to windshield status yet. But determined to do all those things that make me feel useful, like the dusting, the picking-up, the grocery shopping, and yes, a trip to the library. Working my way back from the darkness, yet another time. Accepting it will never end till it ends. Life on life's terms. What a concept.

Is that REALLY necessary?

You know, I have never wanted to be a man. Not that being a woman has been a barrel of monkeys all the time. But men have to do awful things, like go to war. Oh, wait a minute. It's men who start wars. Well, whatever, the neighborhood was just dripping with testosterone yesterday as my neighbor labored to cut down the enormous sycamore in his front yard. It was not one of these. No, his was really tall, and probably older than all the guys who were in on the destruction put together. This event brought out all the macho guys up and down the street, to advise and confer on the process. They had this uber-noisy chain saw that sounded like the Indianapolis 500 was being held next door. Lots of yelling, some of it urgent as part of the poor tree threatened to fall on the house. Then big cracking sounds followed by big crashing sounds followed by much whooping. Women and children were smart enough not to venture out during the whole thing, which took several hours. I kept expecting emergency vehicles to descend at any moment. Miraculously, the tree is gone today, and everyone seems to be in full possession of all their limbs. If we ever get summer here, they will be sorry, and miss the blessed shade from that noble tree. Perhaps it was really necessary, but did they have to enjoy it so much?

Things change, Vol. XXXVI...

You may remember that a couple of years ago, I marched into Face to Face, our local AIDS hospice organization, to have someone jury a painting I wanted to donate to their terribly chic silent auction, Art for Life. And they liked it, and someone bought it, so now, they ask me back every year, which makes me feel like an artist, and that is good. This is my offering this year. It is the first cow painting I have donated, and one of my favorites. I named it We Three, and emailed the image to the coordinator, who is new and didn't know she should praise me till the cows come home. However, she did email me asking my permission to use my image in their promotional brochure this year. Like, this will be their signature piece. Like, it will have a place of honor at the show. Like, maybe, just maybe, I have arrived? Can barely wait for the event now. My moment in the sun. Validation, it beats it all.

Passages...

The rose in this picture has been gone for a long, long time. Yet, here it is, at the moment of its most beauteous life, immortalized. Well, remembered, at least. This has been a time of passings for the cowwoman. So far this year, six folks in my immediate sphere have left the planet. And I suppose that, as the years pile up in my OUT box, this will be more and more probable. It is good to remember that I have only this day, this glorious Sunday in the little yellow house, with the poopies at my feet, sweet breeze blowing, swallowtail butterfly flitting by. Lots of gratitude welling up inside, for this precious life, and in particular for the sobriety I enjoy. One of my friends died from the disease I work so hard to keep at bay. There was a time I worked with her, on the Steps and the Program. Don't know why I get to have it and she couldn't get it. I just know we all fight invisible battles every day. When I share them with my web of wise women, they evaporate like clouds on a summer day. And they are about as substantial in the sharing, just evanescent ghosts haunting the dark corners of my very inventive little mind. I will hold my lost friends in my heart till the day I die, and, HP willing, even beyond.

Today's episode of How My World Turns...

I got up this morning after an especially chaotic night of dreams, probably the aftermath of the overdose of magnesium I took recently (magnesium - milk of magnesia - duh), and the fur people were waiting patiently by the side of my bed. After the obligatory stop in the ittybitty bathroom, I strolled around the corner to the lovely spacious kitchen, where I started the Sumatra and prepared my pancakes du jour, with sliced fresh peaches, tiny sprinkle of sugar and cinnamon and Cool Whip. Thus armed with my coffee cup and plate of heaven, I sat for a few and ate over the coffee table, watching a little of Clueless on one of my premium channels, just a precious little movie. Now, poochies are curled at my feet as I peck away here. Now, I live just a bit over the poverty level here in the little yellow house, and yet, I am so RICH. I love my fur babies, yes, even the moments I spend combing burs from the Pickle's coat every day. I love my Boo, old fart that he is. And I love my computer. Did you know you can stream live radio on ITunes? Okay, I am not riding the crest of the learning curve here, but I am lucky to have found this out at all. Of course, I found the classical button, and am now listening to a station called Cinemix, all soundtracks, all the time. You know how I believe the art music of the day is being written for the movies. And, gee, there is so much more of it than I own in my little collection! Since I like to leave music playing for the fur babies when I leave the house, this is a treasure. Full of treasures, that's my tiny life. At least, that is the tone of THIS DAY, which is all there is, anyway.

Musings for a summer's day...

The weather is perfection today. The temperature is in the low 80s and there is this tender little breeze whiffling the sycamore trees on my front lawn. A woodpecker works industriously somewhere near. The air is sweet and clean. Northern California in the summer is truly golden. And did you know, that is the reason it is the Golden State, the sun-bleached hills that stretch the entire length of it? And those are not the native grasses, either. Without the Spanish invasion, our hills would be green year round instead of only six months a year. So, I sit here in the little yellow house, thinking there is a painting I need to work on in the studio, and detritus the dogs have dragged in from the yard to be vacuumed up, and a load of laundry from the gym bag. Think I will just saunter into the living room and watch my soap opera instead. Yeah, that's a plan.

The road to Bechtel House...

This is the gate we drove through every morning on the mountain to get to the Bechtel House, where we convened before setting off into the wilderness to endeavor to capture the sheer beauty on our canvases. Sometimes it was open. Sometimes, not. It was always a mystery whether to close it again after driving through. After all, others would be coming in behind me, I was always early. But I didn't want any of the cattle that graze there to wander away, either. I am missing that drive today. It seems that the last few years of my life have been spent negotiating narrow, twisty, steeply inclined roads, often just an eyebrow on the crest of a hill, with dizzying drop on one side and rock cliff on the other. Dusty, too. My car is dismally in need of a wash, and the weather is not cooperating. Cold and drizzly, in the middle of July! Whatever, I am tempted to take the conservator classes in Pepperwood ecology and volunteer up there. It is a precious place, for sure.

Down on the farm...

I dragged my still sick self down to Brown Bag Ranch yesterday for a long awaited workshop given by a local artiest I greatly admire. Funnily enough, I had thought I had found my "style" in the thin, breezy landscapes I did at Pepperwood, my paper towel epiphany, so to speak. Mayhaps that is still so. But now, I find myself ladling paint onto canvas like frosting on a cake, pushing wet into wet, being extra brave, throwing all caution and common sense to the wind. Okay, it's a little jejeune. Perhaps the right word is primitive. Or maybe it is just a mess. Lots of fun to paint, though. Don't know if I learned anything. Well, not true. I like this palette, only seven hues: mixed white, organic vermillion, French ultramarine, hansa yellow, yellow ochre, permanent rose, and burnt umber. And I was introduced to Daniel Smith pigments, really sweet. And big brushes. And an elan that was absolutely envigorating. Till I pooped out and dragged my poor sick self home. Today, my job is just to be sick. Nothing demanding. Well, I may paint, a little.

It is what it is...

Again, this morning, this first of today's opus. It was all orangy, so I palette knifed white all over the place. Then it was all pale, and splotchy. So I wiped it down and did that dabbing thing with the paper towel, and I liked it better, until I put it up against the other one at our little critique at the end of our painting time. Eeeeeeyyyouuuu. So, at home I got out my oh-so-awful REAL cadmium yellows (toxic, big nonos at school) and my Naples yellow, a pigment I forgot I even had, and did it up all bright and sweet. Now, it isn't what the hill looked like today, but it is what I wanted it to look like, and that always works better. In the end.

Foggy day on the mountain...

It was actually drizzling when I embarked for Pepperwood this AM, but, gee, I thought, it will be all sunshiny on top of the mountain. Alas, not so. Hella cold, too. We had a demo on scumbling and glazing, and on soft and hard edges. Verrrrry interesting. Then we headed out into the murk to try to capture the mist on canvas. Well, I tried a lot of washed out colors on my first canvas, then looked over and saw what my classmate had done, and started this one. Finished it in record time, hands were stiffening in the cold. Happily, we convened inside Bechtel house, where I managed to drop a canvas buttered side down on the carpet. Exercised the five second rule and scooped it right back up, so no damage to rug or painting, except that it was a sucky one that I worked over a whole bunch when I got home. That is the joy of oils. You can fiddle with them till the cows come home. No one will ever know. This one, however, I am not touching. It was kind of magical. Like God painted it. And, of course, She did. I just held the brush.

God damned Nature is so freaking COMPLICATED!

My original rendering of this scene was much more complicated than what eventually wound up on the canvas. All the values (lights and darks) were the same. There was a big muddy-looking bush behind the trees. I had experimented with hues in the grasses. None of it was working. So, in the studio, I took out the bushes, darkened the tree, lightened the grasses and the sky, and VOILA! A better painting emerged. Mystical experience messing around with pigments. Fun way to spend one's life, indeed. And, it really is not necessary to paint in every little detail, every leaf or blade of grass. The eye will fill in those details from memory. It is much more illuminating as an artist to just try to get that illusion on the canvas. Funnily enough, I think it is beginning to look like I know what I am doing. Believe me, it's really just an illusion, too. The trick seems to be not to give up, to just perservere, be willing to keep trying new and different methods. Sorry about that glare in the middle. Impossible to photograph a work while it is still wet without it. Maybe it adds something? One never knows, you know.

Silver threads among the gold...

Gee, I would like to be aging like Raquel Welch. Just don't have her money or medical connections. I never did have any sharp edges, and what was soft before is buttery now. In that age old battle, gravity is winning. Oh, it could be a whole lot worse. Grateful for what is still hanging in there. And must get butt to gym! Have not been there in two weeks. Not that I have been lacking for exercise. Just need it to be more specific. Drawing is one of my major pursuits. Taking the sketchbook out front today to draw the hydrangea in bloom under my bedroom window, in preparation for a personal painting I want to do with my new palette of pigments I will be using in upcoming workshop. Just a wonderful life, this art stuff.

Surprising benefits...

I recently subscribed to a twice weekly newsletter (and isn't that so much less demanding than those daily ones, that pile up in your inbox like newpapers on your doorstep when you are away?) from this artist guy who regularly features famous artist's palettes. My favorite was Renoir, who had neat little piles of pigment, each with its own neat little pile of white for mixing. I actually started using that method, hoping to keep from making mud on my palette, which most resembles Gaugin's in its esprit de corps, all over the place kind of way. And how wonderful is this nifty box that keeps it moist so I can use up all my pigments later at home! Painting outdoors means being so much more aware of not only your surroundings, but your little outdoor studio setup. A rock is helpful to keep my paper palette from escaping. I hook a plastic bag around the clasp of my easel paintbox to hold assorted refuse. Even though I am usually in full sun most of the morning, my sweet little folding chair can sit in the shade for a nice rest later. I have learned to be judicious about taking small breaks now and then for water and a terrific tropical trail mix I found at Walmart. And I get to see my immune system at work as it labors to rid me of the mosaic of booboos I have accumulated, like the honorable wound on my shin acquired while bounding into the van on our inaugural tour, the assorted bug bites, the little sunburn on my lower arms from the day I forgot my sunscreen, and the numerous bruises that seemed to have popped up all by themselves. And, best of all, my internal clock has been reset, so that I awaken around 6 every day, not just the days I have to be on top of the mountain by 7:30, making so much more time to pet the pooches and fiddle around with artful things. Good decision, this landscape painting class. On so many levels.

The other end of the spectrum...

What wonders one can work with a paper towel! I put the colors down, then wiped them off. I kind of crumpled my paper towel and dabbed. When I pulled my hand away, this is what I had. Now, most of the rest of my class trundled off for a nice hike to Turtle Pond. I had a really lousy night of not very much sleep, and decided that I would make do with what I could find there at Bechtel house. Not hard to find outrageous beauty at Pepperwood; it is everywhere around us. This is my style for landscape painting, painterly, almost looks like pastel. Why pick with a brush when you can just dippydab with your Bounty?

And now for something completely different...

We all got inspired looking at art books today. Okay, I started it, with one of my own that I brought and wanted to consult. Lots of palette knife, impressionistic paintings. Then we headed up Three Tree Hill, where there is a vista featuring our emblematic geological feature, Mt. St. Helena (pronounced Hell-eee-nah). You cannot miss its distinctive profile in our county's landscape. I started with brushes, then did a little palette knife, with a little bitty palette knife, and then I was off and running. Three hours just evaporated. Forgot to drink any water, smear any sunscreen (luckily it was cooler and I kept on my long sleeves from the morning's cool), or sit down (since I forgot my chair, that was good). Not unhappy, loving the yellow sky (we talked about that before setting out, but I was ahead of the curve with my earlier watercolor of Rollercoaster Hill a couple of semester's ago). The yellow against the blue is stunning, I think. In the beginning, the mountain was too dark, and too bright. Last thing I did was lighten and cool it down, to force it back. It really is like being God, manipulating the scene on the canvas. Then, in case I was not humble enough, the wind blew the whole thing over paint side down in the dirt. Sigh. I think I will leave a few little gobs there, just for authenticity.

Home is the artist, home from the hills...

Today's vision. We hiked all over the place, down little paths into shady spots with huge rocks and venerable old trees. Bunch of cows today, but none would stand still long enough to paint. And I forgot the camera, again. I learned a lot today, about make making, colors, simplifying. Again, nobody did anything close to what I did, but some did some things I did last week, so maybe I am all right here. Oh, hell, I am just fine. I like this, lots of color, some surprises, much delight in the doing. Evolution, it's a wonder.

Thinking too much is my dilemma.

One fine day, I made this painting, with big brushes on little canvas, very impasto, very joyous in the doing of it. Then I decided it was too loose and tightened it up. The plate became white, the pears brighter, the background smooth and flat. Oh, I sold it, at the Art for Life auction last year. It was there because I didn't like it any more. I like this one. Well, it would have had a better chance if I had done it with my new pigments, which are artist quality and very prismatic. That is why I am so excited about my current process. I am on the verge of finding that way that is all mine. Some hues had to be ordered online. When they arrive, watch out!

Rules? I don't need no stinkin' rules!

No, this is not my painting. It is Wolf Kahn, a hero of mine. You see, there really are rules in painting. Warm colors in foreground, cool behind comes to mind. Now, Wolf does sometimes use a realistic palette, blue skies, brown earth, green grass. Most of the time, he just goes with his heart. Lots of heart in his work. I want my work to be like that. And looking at the paintings I deemed worthy that now march around the walls of the little yellow house, mostly tiered on the studio walls, I can see that there is charm there, yes. But something was off. Not exciting, for one thing. Well, not anymore. I am always excited when I finish one of my paintings, wow, I did that? Later, I wonder what it was that got me so fired up. And I think I have found the missing link. After Pepperwood, I am signed up to do a workshop with Dana Hooper, a local artist whose work I very much admire. Her work is so dynamic, it fairly leaps off the wall at you. She was the one that did the 6"x8" cupcakes that sold for $1,050 at the Art for Life auction two years ago. The material list arrived yesterday, and I was not surprised to find 1) a limited palette of brilliant pigments, some I had not heard of, some I already had; 2) small canvases, at least 5 per day; 3) BIG brushes, the smallest 1/2 inch, all flats. That is a dynamic combination, and one that kind of bends all the rules. Well, that's what made Monet and Van Gogh and Cezanne and Matisse and Picasso and Modigliani what they are. All trained academically and were capable of rendering a perfectly photographic realism. And all veered off into their STYLE, the one that stamps their vision firmly into their work, so you can point at one you have never seen and know it is a Monet. It took some time, didn't happen overnight. Well, me too. But it is coming. Yes.

The orphan...

This is actually the third painting I tried, a pastel palette. Hey, Wolf Kahn did it! I am not unhappy about it, though it wasn't quite what I wanted. But it was the second painting on the second day, and I had futzed around with the first (the hose reel ditty) for most of our morning, so I had to do this really, really fast. Looking at it now, I would not be ashamed to hang it on my wall at all. And that is high praise for me. Oh, I forgot. I am not supposed to slamdunk my work. That's artist abuse. Mea culpa.

And then I turned around...

Looking back on the hill behind me, I did this quick sketch. This was a vigorous process, lots of jabbing at the canvas, making it rattle against my easel paintbox. After all, one doesn't need to see every leaf to know one is looking at a tree. And the colors, well, most of them were really there. Okay, I threw in some ringers, but I like the effect, and feel like I am on to something here. This is the most satisfied I have felt about my efforts so far. And in case you wondered, landscapes are hard to paint without being too picky or too amorphous or winding up with green balloons floating above a tan sea. Sometimes things just get kind of magical. Wild, isn't it?

Playing God...

Today at Pepperwood, the sky was amazing. So I just moved it down to the soft rolling hills, eliminating those annoying pine-forested mountains behind them. Everything was very far away, and very small. It felt like a Grandma Moses viewpoint, all those tiny little details so lovingly crafted. Except that I was, as always, in a hurry, so nothing is particularly spelled out. I like that, the diffuse, amorphous blurred aspect. There were cows grazing here, but, from my vantage point, they were just flyspecks. I left them out. And, once again, my painting was totally different from anyone else's. Most folks were using tan and green and blue and black, which is what the landscape can look like, if you don't get in there and observe it. I see a lot of colors there, and I exaggerate them, skip some, add some, just make it my picture and not necessarily the one everyone else is seeing. And yes, those puffy little mushroom clouds really were there. They are the most realistic part of the whole painting.

Just another day, up on the mountain...

I got fascinated by this hose all neatly coiled on the barn fence, and kind of lazy about toting all the stuff out into the chaparral and long grasses where the rattlesnakes live, so I sat by the side of the barn and painted this little ditty. Different kind of palette, different kind of composition, oh, hell, it is what it is. Again, one of a kind. Not one even near it. That could be good. And it could be awful. It was fun. Some shade would have been nice, though.

What I saw, what I painted - two different things.

Ah, the great outdoors. There we were, 26 of us, on top of the mountain at Pepperwood Preserve. We had a dandy lecture, then set up our equipment (note the nifty hand cart, it's new) and began to do the en plein air thing. Now, we had seen a video of Wolf Kahn yesterday. He is a special hero of mine, and I have to admit, I decided color was totally arbitrary, and I could do any old thing I wanted with it. Just a matter of how wild and crazy I wanted to get. And here is the end result, kind of conservative, actually, and too fussy, I futzed around way too much in the end. And it was totally different from what anyone else did. Not that there weren't a couple of others who played with color. I just did it in my own little way. Now, I am not unhappy with the result, as I learned a lot from this one little painting. Some things worked, others flopped. Ready to start again tomorrow. I did get the atmospheric layering thing out of the way right out of the box. This is a good thing in itself. And I got my war wound, slipped on my way up into the van and tore a hole in my shin. Ruined a pair of socks. Ah, well, small price to pay for the privilege of clomping around up there where the air is rare.

Where the hell are my hiking boots, anyway?

It seems the less I have to do, the less I get done. No blogging lately, for sure. Backyard retains jungle status, thinking of hiring someone to do it. Soon. And tomorrow, the summer class starts, a landscape painting class at Pepperwood, local nature preserve on top of a mountain halfway to nowhere. Since it will begin at 8 AM four days a week for three weeks, I will be rousting my ass out of bed at crack of dawn, throwing trailmix and water bottle in the bag and heading out. Now, this sounded really fun. Then the syllabus arrived. Groan. Tomorrow is four hour lecture session, with slides. We will go over every syllable of the syllabus, even though most of us can probably read it ourselves. And some of us already have. I thought college was ever so much more esoteric than this. And even though we will not dip a single brush into pigment, we are expected to bring all our stuff to class, most likely for inspection. It boggles the mind, folks. Okay, never mind. It will all be loads of fun, once I get my easel paintbox opened, laid out my palette, and begin to work. That's what it's all about, brush to canvas, sweet breezes, hawks wheeling overhead. Not to mention rattlesnakes, ticks and poison oak. Oh, my!

Every so often, an idea just kind of bubbles up...

This weekend was Art at the Source, a mini Art Trails, situated mostly in the wilds of West County. But there were a few studios, about a dozen of them, all in the same barn of a building just a stone's throw from the little yellow house, so off we went, three little ladies, out for a day of appreciating art and artists. And there was much to savor. One gal was doing the mbuti cloth thingies we did in Ms. Cohen's color theory class. I did one of those. Never thought to make it my main art thrust, but guess I could. Another had my idea of ink drawn nudes with water color, except she had the idea to do the painting first, then put in the lines. Gee, that makes a lot of sense, and I will be working on some of those soon. My favorite artist was an abstrationist, making wonky and incredibly colorful paintings of landscapes and COWS. I signed her guest book, and added that if she does a workshop, I'm there. Ready to try something in the Chagall mode, flying animals and bubble-boobed women with sad, sweet faces. I can do that!

Everything in its season...

Here, on the eve of my birthday, I am waxing thoughtful. There were years when piling another year on my sturdy frame was not a big deal. There is not a lot of difference between 35 and 36. Or 45 and 46. But between 65 and 66, there seems to be a huge chasm. All of a sudden, 70 looms much nearer. So some reflection is necessary. For instance, what to wear. Now this has always been a topic of great concern for me. I wore all the fashions when I was younger; circle skirts, knee socks with plaid skirts held together with huge brass safety pins, sack dresses, bell bottoms, the Tom Jones shirts. Anything the retailers dreamed up, I wore. In my netheryears, I have tended to be preppy. Lots of blazers, pleated slacks, white shirts, vests, little heels. I now want more than anything to be comfortable. I am not attracted to matchy-matchy Coldwater Creek kind of clothes, that are admittedly cut generously for meatier gals like me, and have a certain elan. Yet they also scream OLD. Every item has some little unnecessary geegaw attached or built in. Or the color is too prissy. If I had the $$$, I would buy all Eileen Fisher fashions. Her clothes are simple, cut to perfection to drape on the figure, in wonderful hues. I actually found one of her sweaters at the consignment store recently. It is hanging in my closet even as we speak. A treasure. Then I had this thought. I have a sewing machine! The clothes I want are only a bobbin away! And I have all this TIME! And the studio is all cleaned up, and there is a table and room for the ironing board! Ah, this sounds like a project about to explode all over the place.

Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy life...

Spring has become more schizophrenic than I could possibly believe. Definitely an "el nino" year. Rain, then sunny but COLD, then thundershowers and hail, then sunny and WARM. Today, the marine layer is back, which makes it look more like summer here in lalaland. My moods have been riding this rollercoaster, too. I got really doI lman again. That turned out being a quick toss of the closet. Hell, I even vacuumed in there! Sweaters and jackets went back to the spare closet. A couple of things came out to be mended. I organized. I found my Adventure Pass, the one that still had 6 lapswims on it at the local aquatic center and was missing from my tote bag when I looked for it. I put away the boots and clogs and dragged out the hiking boots for my upcoming en plein air class on top of a local mountain. It is all good. I am mending. It is just who I am, this person who can easily fall into the ooey gooey pit of self pity. Oh, and I saw two movies. The new SATC was fun to watch, the clothes and the men were gorgeous though the gals are looking a little careworn around the edges (kind of like ME), and City Island was a hoot, the best film I have seen so far this year, bar none. Sorry to see Andy Garcia is no longer the matinee idol he once was (see When a Man Loves a Woman, wow), kind of a fireplug guy, but he has matured into a great actor. And I hit the library for some books. Just love the library, you know. Also bought the first of my new wardrobe, which I have decided will be loose and flowy. I'm aiming for comfort in my netheryears. JJill is right up my alley. Pray for sales.

Little did I know...

I am a highly sensitive person. Really. There is a website dedicated to HSPs. I took the quiz. How sweet it is to be validated, and to know that there are millions out there just like me, you know, the ones that cry at the movies. Hell, I cry over commercials on TV. There is such comfort in knowing that I AM NOT ALONE! All my life, people have looked down their very insensitive noses at me and told me I was OVER-REACTING, or, as one ex-husband who shall remain nameless called me, CRAZY. And I would kind of slither back into my hole, ashamed that once more, I was feeling things too deeply. The truly interesting part of this is that, at this juncture in my life, I am less sensitive than I have ever been. I realize that what people do and say around me is NOT ABOUT ME! It is just what they do and say, and they would do it even if I were not in the equation. And their behavior is on them, not me. Gee, if I could somehow influence how people behaved, don't you think I would have them singing and dancing instead of red in the face and pissed off? Duh. So I am happy to own my sentitivity. The ability to feel deeply may give me awful pain once in a while, but it also gives me delight and joy beyond reason. Small price to pay.

I and my body...

Most of my life up until now, my body has been my enemy. It was too tall. It was uncoordinated. Anything that felt good was a SIN. It got fat. After seven decades of life, my body and I have made peace with one another. I took a RealAge quiz to determine the age of my joints, and they are only 33 years old! Same with my bones. The hormones have dialed down to simmer. They no longer dictate my actions. Big relief there. The gym has firmed up everything that could be firmed up. I can live with the rest. And food, that former mood-altering substance, has now become a means of nurturing my body, instead. I still opt for things I like (never eating another rice cake as long as I live - I'd rather eat the box), but fortunately, I like broccoli and carrots and avacados, and eat a lot of them. I had paper-thin pancakes, fresh raspberries, banana and sliced almonds for breakfast. With Cool Whip on top. Okay, I opt for some processed food. I can only be so good, you know, before I disgust myself. I only know that I am not ashamed of my shape at the gym, where I always rub myself down with lavender scented oil after my final shower. I am not one who can stand nude in front of the mirror while doing it, like the Asian women with their tidy little forms. But I also don't have to hide under a big towel. It is all very freeing.

Amazed and confused, as usual.

Another semester is history. This was my last figure drawing, a ten minute pose. We had spent the previous two hours fifty minutes meticulously working on head/hands/feet studies, so I was tired and irritable and just wanted to get home for some homemade chili, so I just made big gashes of charcoal on the paper, not really thinking. And wouldn't you know it, that is exactly what is necessary to get a dynamic image like this one. Yesterday I met with the teacher for final portfolio review. Now, these last four and a half months, he stopped by my horse to pick at something that was wrong. The most complimentary he became was the couple of times he told me to stop, it was just fine as it was. But yesterday, he said I had done extraordinary work, eloquent work, artful work. You know, I knew that. I felt the shift that happens midterm, when it got easier and fell into place, when my decisions all seemed right on. But I couldn't exalt until HE thought so, too. I don't think this is different from most artists. You're nobody till somebody loves your work, too. Pity.

Long time, no blog...

Sometimes, my terribly busy and fascinating life just rolls over me, and I can't seem to do simple ordinary things like blog without what seems to be extraordinary effort. Don't know why that happens, it just does. I can get all frenzied about mowing the lawn or doing the laundry, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Anyway, in the hiatus, I have actually done some fun stuff. I did my mother-visit on the day before Mother's Day, so that I could be free to see my sweet kiddos on the actual holiday, a true treat. Now, my mother is hella-old, and she has everything a human being could ever ask for or want. In the past, I would ponder and puzz, and wind up spending beaucoup bucks for something she would glance at once, toss aside, and wind up giving back to me at a later date. I have learned my lesson here. I went to Trader Joe's and bought her an unusual orchid plant and a card, all for under $10, then packed up the dogs and headed over. She loves the Pickle, because Pickle jumps up and kisses her and sits on her lap. I don't tell her Pickle loves everyone, so she can think Pickle just loves her. That seems to be best for everyone, including Pickle. Then, on the actual day, I drove to mahvelous Marin to meet Big and Little Kiddo for the Marin Open Studios tour. We saw the galleries downtown, and found a dozen or so studios right there. After an exotic lunch at ElSol, we prowled around and inspected art of all kinds. My daughter gave me a gift certificate to the local art supply store! That's just the best, because I am low on watercolor paper and small canvases for my summer landscape class. Yay!

My Wednesday night women's circle has found its moniker. It came from a reading in a meditation book speaking of the divine light we all have to share with the world. But, if we are a perfect pot, there is no way to let it shine. It is only when we are cracked that we can share ourselves fully. So we are now the Sisterhood of the Cracked Pots. That certainly resonates for me.

Friday night, I got to go to our local performing arts center to see the Smothers Brothers. Tommy Smothers lives here and has his own winery out in the Valley of the Moon. Dickie flew in from Florida. This was their next to last performance, ever. And even though we had SRO tickets (my friend gets voucers for ushering there), I enjoyed every moment of the performance. Tommy did his yoyo routine. There was a film of their earlier performances on television. It all made me remember when I was young, way back when dirt was new. The audience was decidedly gray. My people!

School ends tomorrow for me. I have almost finished the final project for figure drawing: two non-Western figures, one from Japanese zen painting tradition, the other a portrait of Shiva wrapped in snakes. Shiva should count as two, actually, because he has four arms. Just happy to have finished another semester. Finishing stuff has never been my strong suit. Oh, and my diploma arrived in the mail. Took a long time, but the hard part is over. Someday, maybe I will be able to get that BA, too. Hey, could happen! It's all good, here, folks.

Blues and I...

Well, I bribed myself to get out of bed with banana pancakes topped with Cool Whip, toasted sliced almonds and cinnamon. Now casting about for a really good reason to get dressed. Our bipolar spring is back to normal, after a frigid rainstorm yesterday. It is really strange when the trees blown over have blossoms on them. That means I could work in the yard. Yeah, that'll happen. I could wash the car, except every time I have done this, well, the last three times, it rained the next day. Hey, I swear, it's true. And of course, the pseudo lawn has grown shaggy again, so mowing should be on the list. And the gym, must get to the gym. Today is the day I need to shape up my final portfolio for figure drawing class, too. So I guess I will throw on my cargo pants and a tee shirt, just for the hell of it. Otherwise I could sink into the mire of my own ooey gooey ennui.

The light of other days...

My friend and I went to see the college's production of Grease. Unfortunately, she was 10 years younger than I. That meant she didn't know how to swing, so we didn't get to dance in the aisles to the pre-show medley of '50's hits performed by one of the actors. Gee, I miss the '50's. Songs were so much more musical, bouncy, fun to dance to and sing along with. Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Barry, Frankie Avalon, the Everly Brothers. I did notice that the worst problem one could have was to get pregnant. No AIDS epidemic. No drugs. Cigarettes and booze and fast cars could kill you, I guess. Not to mention your parents, if you really stepped over the line. And we were pretty codependent. Songs had the theme of eternal love. Yeah, that'll happen. Happiness lived in another person. And in the end of the play, Sandy adopts the fast girl personna, certainly a step down from her sweet preppie self, to get the greasy boyfriend. Nope, not the best message. Wonderful music, though.

Okay, not a swan, but a beauty, anyway.

Pelicans are the 747 of birds. Have you ever watched one taking flight? They have to taxi a long, long, long, long way before liftoff. At the house on the edge of the world, they nested at the end of the little island in the river, hundreds of them. Big suckers, pelicans. In flight, they are positively majestic. They fly in lines, and at the end of the day, it is a veritable parade when they come home for the night. The brown ones can stand four feet tall. That's pretty darned big. Thrilling birds, pelicans. Still working on this one, but having such a good time doing it. I'm excited. Hope you are, too.