Experiencing the divine...

I went to one of our little AA seminars last night, this one on why AA is a spiritual program and not a religion. Three of our sober gurus headed the panel, and only one hit the mark. Okay, I heard how one found her Higher Power, the one of her understanding, and I heard all about another guy's understanding, but the young kid, the one with only 8 years experience, knew what he was supposed to be talking about. Our founders, Bill and Bob, knew that our Program needed to have singleness of purpose, that being to get and stay sober. Politics and religion were guaranteed to get us all drunk again. So they made this an exercise of the spirit, so all who needed our help could belly up to the table and be welcome. We don't talk about religion very much. It is, after all, an outside issue. Those who do find themselves sitting alone. Frankly, I think we are not a religion because religions main thrust is to tell you what to believe, how to act and what to do or not do, depending on horrific consequences if you don't follow the rules. And alcoholics hate rules. Alcoholics hate authority of any kind. We are not alone in that, I know. But alcoholics are people who function at the extremities of life. There is little middle of the road for us. Not until a lot of work has been done. So, every one of us has a conception of God, or Spirit, or Great Beloved, that we carry around in our hearts and minds to keep us on the path of happy destiny. Frankly, anything that could make this lily, well that's a pretty special Something. N'est-ce pas?

Cow woman goes on an adventure...

It is bleeping hot here today. So I took advantage of a friend's invitation to paint on her ranch at the coast. Surprise! It was bleeping hot there, too. Also, her ranch is north of our old house on the edge of the world, up a 5 mile mostly vertical, gravel, dusty driveway. Hard to find, too. Sheer drops on my side of the car, and thank HP I didn't do the driving. I would be a trainwreck now if I had. We painted for 3 hours, ate lunch, then said sayonara. I had a great big headache, and was curious whether we would survive the trip down with the aplomb we did on the way up. And up. And up. From sea level to 1800 feet. Lovely view. And I learned that I am happiest navigating the distance from the kitchen to the couch. One little step down. That's perfect.

The mission statement...

I have a friend who also has a blog. He keeps asking me how many followers I have. And I reply, followers? What are those? Whatever they are, he has nine of them, and to him, that's gold. You see, he is a professional artist, and in the business of selling his artwork, and his blog is all about his process of creativity and the current work he has on his easel. Now, my blog has some of that, too. But it is not the real purpose of this endeavor. Originally, I started the blog because I enjoyed my daughter's blog so much, and decided I could be just as self-centered in my own right. Then it evolved into something else entirely. I began to use it as a spiritual tool. It's like getting a camera. Suddenly, I saw all these wondrous photographs in the world around me. I saw much more deeply into the world with my Canon around my neck. And I watch the world more intensely when I am thinking of what to write about here, too. But more than that, I watch the inner landscape, too. How am I feeling today, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually? Am I griping or expressing gratitude? Am I in the solution or part of the problem? And, yes, I put my little artistic expressions up here, too, because I am a visual person and love the color. But also because I love creating something new in the world most days that I am in it. The day is never wasted if I have diddled up a little digital image or started (and usually finished) a painting or a drawing. Or written something here about my tiny life. Which leads me to this huge surprise I got the other night when I saw this little icon on my dashboard and realized I have 23 followers! I don't know any of you. And suddenly, this has become me and others. It feels kind of funny. Cannot imagine how you stand the diatribes about Speedo-related fat bubbles and the trials and tribulations of the Pickle. But bless your souls. I kind of know that I am not riding around on this little dirt ball of a world alone. Nice to have you on board. Trivialities of life in the little yellow house will continue, complete with mountains of dog hair and experiments in pigments. Welcome to my world, inside and out!

Okay, hit me with your best shot...

I suppose that fussy is nice. It's just that I like messy better. After all, I love Matisse, and Van Gogh, and they were not particularly precise or interested in portraying a faithful representation of the object of their image. Oh, and Cezanne, another guy who messed with everything, including perspective. The bird is there, isn't it. Perhaps it is sort of fuzzy around the edges. But it is a happy mess, yes indeed. It made me happy while I was doing it, even though I knew from the beginning that it was going to be something different. For some reason, the paint just would not do what I kept pushing it to do. It just wanted to clump up, all stubborn with this life of its own. And now I see that was just fine. So, this may be my new style. Really easier than anything I have done before, and hell, easy is GOOD!

This one's for the birds...

The new acrylic painting, trying some different subject matter while staying in the aviary mood. My grandparents had an egg ranch when I was little, five hen houses. It was an everyday of the week job, gathering the eggs, candling them, washing them, buffing them, packing them. I hated the chickens, though. They were mean to me, pecking me when I tried to help with the gathering. Then I came on my first soft-shelled one. Ick. And spent the rest of my time playing in the feed bin or sussing out litters of feral kittens that were hidden all over the ranch. So here is an homage to the Mill Station Road ranch, and a big raspberry to the guy in the egg truck that ran over my doll in her buggy, even if I did happen to leave it in the driveway.

Why am I surprised?

I am selling this painting. It is just about my favorite of all time. It happened in a moment of tender grace, morning at Pepperwood, looking over my shoulder, not at the vista that goes on forever, but at the little hill behind me. Morning was still spreading sweet shadows, the grasses were still and luminous. And God painted them, together with me, my pigments, my brushes, and a roll of paper towels. The hues that make up this image slipped onto and off my brush magically, without a lot of thought, almost like automatic writing. It is hard to let it go. And it stands to reason that those works that are precious to me will also be precious to others. They are my children, these works, the mating of my heart and the medium. The best ones are, that is. Some are too cerebral. They wind up in the cupboard in the garage, where they wait, for a moment of inspection, and probably to return to the oblivion they came out of, and support another image on top. Love that aspect, that nothing is wasted, really. Meanwhile, waving goodbye to this one. And hello to a nice little bit of money, to help pay for Boo's surgery. It's a good trade, in the end.

Monday, ugh...

It's kind of a bug day here, as in some days you're the windshield, some days you're the, well, you get the idea. I did get my butt and all other assorted bits to the gym, where, sorry to say, the pool is not yet open. They are remodeling, and it really is a good thing, since it will be bigger, brighter, and probably even have some new equipment, yay. But we have been without the wet areas for a while, not even an indoor facility, just portapotties along the back. Thank HP, that's open again. Funnily enough, this has been a great lesson for me. Since changing areas have been iffy, I put on my gym clothes first thing in the morning, and every time, I get to the gym! Not like when I would throw the gym bag in the car, and figure I'd get there, some time that day. Lately, I have been going every day, taking one or two off on the weekend, doing full weights (and I have added weight on every machine, even those blasted upper body ones that had me trembling and puffing in the beginning) three days, and in between, more cardio, new machines, and lower weights on others. Just need to remember where I am in the rotation, and that in itself is a trick. Met a new buddie there, lady I met when I got my eyes checked Friday, and she paints and takes photos, like me! What a world. After my workout, I started another painting, and, at the moment, I hate it. It is fermenting at the moment, and when dry (acrylics, again, dry before you can blink), I will work to get it into acceptable shape, if not scintillating loveliness. Well, you never know. Love my life, even on bug days.

Sayonara, you three...

Happy to say We Three was sold at the auction today. Sad to see it go. It was kind of a seminal piece for me, where I pushed a little and got something new and exciting. In the beginning, it was kind of flat and very black and white, so I went back into it with color here and there, and it just popped. I loved how they gazed out at me with that frankness cows have, yet each had its own expression. Well, it went home with some lovely person who, I am sure, will love it as I have, look into it often and feel the sweetness. My artwork come from a birthing process, and each piece feels like a new infant still. I hope that, when I have been through the process more often, it will become less painful to let it go. Not there yet, though.

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.