Pin a rose on my nose!

No, not talking about the new horse, though he is rather nice, n'est-ce pas? I woke up today and thought, oh, hell, DENTIST. Well, it was just a cleaning, and gee, I had other errands to do, anyway, so off I went, just a little frazzled around the edges. I have conquered my fear with this very sweet dental office, where they know not to make any sudden moves. This was for my cleaning, and my experiences have been something like that scene in Marathon Man, where an evil Laurence Olivier tortures Dustin Hoffman. And, wow, they used this handy dandy ultrasound thingy to clean under the gumline, then had just a minimal amount of scaling after, and not even a twinge of pain did I feel. A little polishing, and I was done. Even better, I got an atta-girl for my exemplary dental hygiene, definitely a first for this old gal. So, YAY. Done for six months, unless I sell a bunch of paintings and get enough for a couple more root canals and crowns. Slowly, but surely, getting all done here. And the painting, well, it has come a long way, and will probably stay this way till I see something that needs major adjustment. At the moment, nothing is popping out at me. I did this on orange paper, and it seems to have worked pretty well. Very excited about the subject. Actually, this was one thing I thought I couldn't do, not by the hair on my chinny chin chin, and then just did it anyway. Awesome! Thank you, Universe!

Feeling like I am free floating here...

So many big life-changing events, and way out of my familiar routines. Hopefully, that will now settle down. It seemed like a good time to make a deliberate change, and dump Comcast, again. In my seven years in the little yellow house, I have had three different cable/internet/phone providers, two of them more than once. Now back to my favorite, Direct TV, who has set me up with the DVR in my bedroom, where I watch most of what I watch. Just forgot that now I have a new pantheon of channels to negotiate, and many are on east coast feed, so my familiar shows now come on three hours earlier. Strange, but true. Now I am even more disoriented in my own tidy little abode. And then there was the trip to the Comcast command central to return my equipment, which I polished up for them. Comcast is like the DMV. You take a number based on your business there (pay bill, equipment issues, new service, etc.) then sink into one of their cushy couches and wait. I think Bozo the Clown decorated for them, in gray and chartreuse, with little bubbles in the carpet. Really enough to cause an acid flashback. I had my spiel all memorized, excuses why I didn't want their godawful service any more, like I lost all my DVRd shows beaucoup times, and had to stand on my head to get my email entering my password every single time to get an email overview before actually getting to my messages, what was that all about, anyway? And, of course, they raised me $40 a month, almost right away, and I didn't even have ALL the premium channels in the back room, and NONE in the bedroom, and setting up a recording to repeat every day so I could see my soap opera at my convenience was just nutso, pushing buttons and praying. So, of course, no one wanted to hear my sob story. In fact, most of the customers in the funny farm lobby had equipment in their laps, too. I paid my bill, gave them back most of their equipment with a promise to bring back this strange black box with the blinky lights at my earliest convenience, and voila, all set up with my favorite provider. I think. Phone is a little strange, and where are all those additional PBS channels, anyway? I took a little vacation from fiddling with the new guide and started my third horse painting. This is what a beginning looks like. In this medium, it never gets all that fine tuned, and I like to keep a record of the process, just in case I go too far, and have to backtrack to a fresher point. Painting is the only thing that feels grounded these days. So happy to be back in the saddle, so to speak.

Horse, again.

Oh, it is soooooo wonderful to be back to creating instead of packing them away into frames. Okay, still some to be done there, but I have some time, like a month, to get it up to snuff. Meanwhile, a new opus has begun here in the little yellow house. Not unhappy with either one, actually. It really is a matter of discerning light and dark, and being judicious about measuring, so things do not wind up too long or too short or too fat, etc. And this was done on black paper, my favorite way to work in pastels, so I will be ordering a big bunch of it soon, as none of our local art supply stores carry Fabriano Tiziano in black. Didn't know I was so discerning, did you. Learned this at one of the many demos I have attended, learning what the manufacturers of art materials have up their sleeves. I put the first horse pic up on my Facebook page, because friends have complained lately that there is not any new art. Like, I can just push out a piece a day or something. Oh, wait. I did TWO today. Well, that should make everyone happy. I know it worked for me.

Doing a little regressing here...

Once upon a time, when the cowwoman was a teeny bopper, her favorite books were My Friend Flicka and Thunderhead, and they had all these amazing illustrations of the horses, and she would copy them in pencil, tongue tucked between teeth. And some of those drawings were kind of awesome, but she never showed them to anyone, so no one said, gee, you're an artist! Well, gee, now I am an artist, and I can get all excited when I get a pretty good drawing on the page, even in it embryonic stage. Wow. That's all I can say at the moment. Don't know why this has emerged so dynamic. Attention? Like, look at the negative spaces? See into the colors? Practice? It's a mystery. At this weekend's demo, of Gamblin products, really interesting stuff, actually, I sat next to an older woman (older than I, and that's hella-old), who complained her drawing skills were less than stellar. And I thought, me, too. Now I see that, with some attention, patience, and more than a little luck, I can do THIS. Lucky. Grateful.

Help! Send in the painting fairy!

Haven't picked up a pastel in many days here and now, don't seem to have much going on in the inspiration department. Little bird with great hairdo. All messy and kind of diffused and kind of a mess, if you ask me. Well, it will come back. I will just keep slapping away. After all, the paper has two sides. Do you suppose they set it up that way just for folks like me? Just happy to be back at it, after long hiatus. Maybe I'll lay an oil palette, after all.

Well, it was a good idea, I thought...

Did I mention that I sold two paintings, right off my kitchen wall? Well, one was from the series of four, and I liked the grouping, so I figured I would just diddle up another one to fit into that slot. Except. The four were all done on colored paper, and that is currently backordered from Blick, and has not come yet. Therefore, this little ditty was done on yellow paper, much lighter than the black and the red, so it is very pastel in comparison. Also, the mat has a larger opening. So, it won't do. Not at all. Well, not as one of THAT four. Now I will have to make three more of these to match this one. Gosh darn it. I will have to PAINT. Nuts. How sweet it is, really.

Well, EXCUSE me...

I was busy this morning doing 9 things at once, like, if one is worth doing, well, nine must be ever so much more productive, so, of course, Pickle flew the coup. It is always MY fault, you know. I had left the gate ajar in my haste. So I threw on some shoes and off we went, on our merry chase through the neighborhood. At one time, I got ahead of her and had her herded toward home, then she veered back and went around behind a neighbor's house, where I trapped her. Meanwhile, the neighbor woman was yelling at me to get out of her yard. Gee, if that were me, I would have said "can I help you?" in my best passive-aggressive snotty voice, so that when I found out the interloper was actually retrieving a beloved pet, I could backtrack, and even come out to help. This poor woman just snorted that she had not seen the dog, and, despite my groveling apologies, continued to glare at me. Now, I feel sorry for folks like that, who are so uptight they cannot back down once up there on their high horse. And part of me got all ashamed that I cannot control my animal, or watch after her well enough to keep her out of danger, and gee, what a screwup I am, etc. etc. etc. Then I decided that I would just be human today, and admit that I am not anywhere near perfect most of the time. And especially not when it comes to devious little Pekinese Pickles.

All I want is a wall somewhere...

...any wall that is not my own, that is. Now have 17 little paintings framed. This is a huge accomplishment, considering that the wheels fell off my life recently and I have been totally without any poop in my engine. As usual, this was an adventure for me. I used the Beverly's craft frames first, they were really simple, followed by the Village Arts frames, ditto. Then I opened the boxes from Blick, and scratched my head. These were deeper than the others, deep enough to hold a canvas, but they had a lip front and back. How does one get anything inside? And it appeared there was no glass! Hell! I had 10 of these and it looked like I couldn't use any of them! So I did what I usually do. I went to a meeting. On my way, I remembered that Blick told me that they shipped with plexiglass. Okay, so maybe that surface really wasn't shiny posterboard. And there were these flange thingies in the corners that screwed in. Maybe I was supposed to take the frame apart? You think? I came home and did just that, and lo and behold, they worked just fine. Diddled up some dandy little cards for the prices, and a couple of friends came by and I have now sold two of them! $300.00! Maybe they are underpriced? Whatever. Hope they fly off that wall, when I find it.

Tiny victories are so sweet...

Have I mentioned that there was a mouse living in my stove? Many mornings of tracing miniscule droppings revealed this to me. I tried blocking the sides of the stove so he could not get onto the counters, then realized he was coming up through the burners. Every day, I bleached the counters to within an inch of their lives. I decrumbed the toaster, even. Lately I had been wrapping plastic wrap around the heavy burner covers, hoping that the little devil would get frustrated and just move away. I had especially bad mouse karma in the house on the edge of the world. I put out Decon, and they died in the most inconvenient places, like the linen closet and my gym bag. I was doing laundry with baking soda for weeks. And I really did not want to kill the mouse, just make it go away. Well, last night Pickle got all excited about something in the corner of the bathroom under the pedestal sink. I showed her a couple of times there was nothing there. I keep a plastic basket there full of my bath accessories. Nothing in it. Well, I didn't look in the big plastic pitcher I use to rinse my hair in my bath. This morning I did. I didn't have my glasses on the first time I looked, and I thought it was dead. Further examination revealed otherwise. And it was the most adorable tiny creature! I am so glad I didn't kill it. And, now, I know how to catch mice! Just put the pitcher out with some food in the bottom, next to a place they can climb up to get in it, and voila! A pitcher full of mice! Cheap, too. So, thank you HP. Hoping for better mouse karma this time.

And another thing...

Being creative is also a leading contributing factor in being addicted, to a substance or an activity. Thinking of that writer (William Burroughs?) who shot his wife to death at a party, doing his William Tell imitation. Van Gogh, and his partner in crime, Gaugin, both died alcohol related early deaths, probably both were suicides. Depression, gee, there's another favorite of creative folks. Schuman leaps to mind. He spent his last year's in a mental institution. Schubert and Delius died of syphilis, after lives of debauchery. Tchaikovsky drank a glass of water infected with cholera. Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, rampant alcoholics. Hell, it goes on today. Look at the mugshots of celebrities, people who have lived the American dream of wealth and fame. Nick Nolte, Mel Gibson, even little Lindsay Lohan. You can see the disappointment in their eyes. Is this all there is? Well, not by a long shot. But what is wanted, what is missing, is not a new hotel in Dubai where rooms begin at $35,000 a night. It is the substance of life, the inner journey, one that has no price tag and does not involve credit cards. Meditate, goddamnit! Help someone else! Create something! Oh, and this little ditty came out of my last figure drawing class, near the end of the semester, when I was just glad to have completed all my assignments, and didn't care all that much what happened on the page. Ink does that for me. Can't erase it, just have to let it flow. Rather surprising things happen when I go to that place, where I am totally nutso and know that I am directed by Something larger than my self. Wish I could live there more often.

Disinhibition and I...

Okay, I have been schlepping around in my friend's Facebook postings again, and came upon this article, posted by a fellow artist, about the correlation of creativity and eccentricity. Gee, you think? We are all just nutso, we artistic types. As for I, I am trying to go further out on the disinhibition limb than ever, because being inhibited makes for mundane art. I was looking at this little painting today, which lives in its cow gallery on the wall of the studio, and I could see that there is expression in his little face. Makes me want to become a vegetarian, again. I don't know how that got there. Surely, the reference photo was not so expressive. Cows just seem to look without any emotion on the world around them. But here is this animal, destined for the slaughter house before long, looking back at me with such dignity. Oh, hell, I am just a crazed person these days. Not painting, because I have sentenced myself to framing all that I can with available supplies before allowing myself the luxury of opening the new 80 piece set of pastels. Believe me, this is torture. And grief over the loss of my father has me more or less hamstrung, anyway. Doing ANYTHING is a grace beyond words these days. Giving myself strokes for making the bed, or cooking up a pot of potato leek soup. Back to my eccentricities. I believe that, if we can imagine it, it can exist. Therefore, somewhere out there is the Starship Enterprise, or Hogwarts School of Magic, or Middle Earth which is full of Hobbits and Orks. I believe that extraterrestials come to us from alternative realities, parallel universes. I believe that the fundamental element of our Universe is consciousness. Oh, wait. Some of the physicists believe that, too. And none of this matters, anyway, because, according to another of my more sanguine Facebook friends, the world will end on Dec. 21st this year as predicted by the Mayan calendar. It was nice while it lasted.

It's not easy being me.

I took this one apart three times to adjust the image under the mat, to wipe a fingerprint off that got there because I took it apart, and to wipe away a little dust mote that snuck in while I wiped. There is still a tiny spot on the mat, right in the middle under the image. Don't know whether that is worth taking it apart a fourth time. All this shows my head is in the nether regions and I should just lay low for a while till the dust settles. We are marching forward here, very slowly. The memorial service for my dad is set, I am in a dither about providing food, though that may be taken care of by friends and neighbors anyway. I seem to remember that is what everyone does when death occurs, cook and share and eat, sort of an affirmation of life going on. Not a bad thing. I seem to remember a lot of sex happens around these events, too, another life affirming act. Well, food is enough for this old gal. Meanwhile, the lily looks fine, doesn't it. I can only do one at a time, really, so why worry that there are 20 or so more frames to fuss with? It'll all be done someday, and then I must manifest a wall somewhere to hang them all. This thing about being an artist is so very interesting. As soon as I think of hanging a show, I get a lump the size of Brazil in my throat. What if I am no good? Or, worse, what if I am pedestrian, pedantic, mediocre? Nah, swallowed the lump. It is what it is. Love me or go away.

Fish in a frame...

How does on frame 90 pieces? One at a time. And I just realized that I should wait for the mats to arrive, because I only have 4 more in this custom size, and there are 35 winging their way to me, even as I speak, and a bunch more frames, too. Does this mean I can lay an oil palette and happily slap away at some of my old works, getting them all edgied up? No, probably not. I still have my lyre easel that I gifted myself with in its box. Okay, maybe I can spend this awful holiday putting that thing together, and then, I will be ready for another year of creating weinie paintings. Let us pray they will all get a lot less weinie in 2012. I think I am on the right track here. Never too sure, you know. And painting has been my release. It soothed me through the loss of my beloved Boo. Now have another loss, Lefty has left the planet. I always ask the dear departed to visit me, let me know they are safe and happy. Boo has done that. Dad, are you listening?

The year ended with another drama, for sure..

The assisted living environment called me just before midnight to tell me my father had passed away. I was the first, and then my mother. I felt really awful that I had taken my sleep medication and could not go to her, but it was what it was. I refuse to feel guilty that he passed before the old year ended, like that would make any difference, but so many challenges were thrown at me in 2011, I would hate to begin 2012 with his death. My parents are more or less strangers to me. I am not alone, my brothers agree. They were not people who could risk showing love. Mother is better, I will admit. At least now I can hug her and give her a kiss without her stiffening up like a telephone pole. Perhaps this will hit me later. For now, I laid awake for long hours in the night, groggy but alert, and am now really tired, as is my mother, who I visited this morning to see how she is. All the necessary arrangements have already been made - the mortuary is ready, the will and trust are all in place, Dad even put together the information for his obituary. He was a prominent man in his small element. Yet, there will be just a private service. Strange people, my folks. Personally, the world can come to the celebration of my life. I want my kids to dance and sing and be joyous that I was part of their lives. I would love to feel this way about my folks. Sad that I don't.

And now for something completely precious...

I have spent my life the object of ridicule for my over the moon emotions. I cry over TV commercials, you know, "We bring good things to life", wah. Strangely enough, as I have become more and more sober, 22 years now, that has simmered down a lot. I didn't cry, for instance, at my darling daughter's wedding, though I carried insurance with me in the form of a tiny silver bag filled with Kleenex. But a tear or two escaped at Christmas when the adorable couple gifted me with this album. Their photographers, Paco and Betty, are sooooo creative. This is the most dear album of wedding pictures ever put together, I am sure. Of course, it helps that the happy couple are beautiful young people, and happy as bears at a picnic, after waiting 11 years, finishing educations, embarking on careers, and standing up for dozens of their friends who walked this path before them. It gave darling daughter much to contemplate as she designed their day. The 13 months spent planning paid off handsomely, as it was just a delightful, thoughtful, precious event. I am lugging this album everywhere to show off the gorgeous couple, and my new kid. Just blessed here.

Birds in boxes...

Please, no applause, but I framed four paintings today! Okay, they are little ones, and the frames are mega simple and not very expensive. Yet, they do look all dressed up, my little bird doodles, in their pristine mats under glass. I have mats and frames galore coming in the mail any minute now, and should have a nice selection of framed paintings to hang on a wall soon. Somewhere. I am trusting that the proper venue will appear. Of course, I am putting it out to the universe. And so far, the universe has not dropped me on my head. At this particular moment, I am looking at my new lyre easel, still folded up inside its box, waiting for me to begin assembling it. I think I will wait for the new year. No hurry. Much framing to do before painting can begin again, and that will keep things moving, because I WANT TO PAINT! New pastels coming too. A box of 80 of those suckers. It is going to be a framing frenzy, for sure.

Is it art time yet?

What with all this holiday frivolity, and the amazingly clean and orderly house I have been luxuriating in lately, with all the pretty flowers here and there, I have been loathe to get out my messy art stuff and begin doing stuff again. This morning, I was looking at this lovely new how-to book, Expressive Figure Drawing, that my daughter and son-in-law gifted me with, and thinking, gee, it would be great to do some of that. Then I got out a portfolio of drawings and found that, once upon a time, I did! Okay, I probably would not write a book about my figure drawings. And it took most of the semester to get this one, done fairly quickly, in ink with a wash, which strangely gave me license to do just about anything I wanted because, heck, you can't erase the stuff anyway, so who cares what happens, anyway. Nevertheless, I had something going when I did this. Have given up believing it can never happen again. This, or something even more delightful, will happen, once in every twenty or so tries. Andre Gide said that to find new lands, one must lose sight of the shore for a long, long time. Setting out on that kind of voyage here in the little yellow house. One never knows what one will discover.

Now that all is said and done...

...all the pretty wrappings now reside in a garbage bag, sigh. Strange how that happens. The day itself, Christmas Day, I spent ignoring the holiday, as usual. I spoke at the meditation meeting this morning, then had a latte and a (usually forbidden and totally self-indulgent) cinnamon walnut croissant at the Cafe on my way to meet friends for the matinee of The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo. All of us were just up to our earballs with the fluffy, frothy Santaish fare being spoon fed over the last couple of weeks. We were itching for some blood and guts and vicarious violence, and this movie came through admirably. Plus one of the most riveting films I saw this year, and one of the best performances from the newcomer who portrayed Lisbeth, admittedly one of the most provocative literary characters in decades. Daniel Craig was not all that hard to look at, either. We felt satisfied leaving the theater, then headed for our sweet diner that is conveniently open on the holiday, for super wonderful hamburgers. Yes, it was one for the books, this year's forgotten holiday. Now waiting for the electronic sewer that is television to catch up and give me something worth sinking my jaded teeth into, too. Happy, happy.

Christmas in the little yellow house...

Our celebration is over, thank you, HP. The house is all jollied up with red and white flowers, candles, crisp white tablecloth, little touches of red everywhere. The wreath was a gift from my son, and it is artificial, which is wonderful because I can use it over and over, and it is such a good one I will love having it on my door year after year. Our dinner was fine. One moment of OMG happened when I was trying to crisp up the ciabata bread and my daughter unlocked the mystery of the broiler, which has not seen the light of day lo these seven years, and was festooned with dog hair on the lid. And I thought I got the last of that when I dusted the ceiling fan. Best laid plans, busted again. My favorite gift was the wedding album the kids gave me. They had one made for all the parents, sweet kids. Beautiful. Wondrous. Precious. And then there are the Uggs, the real thing, all cozy and fuzzy and warm. Money from my parents means some shopping is coming up next week. Feeling really abundant. Then I went to the annual candle lighting service at the Center for Spiritual Living, where Rev. Edward told the Christmas story the way I believe it is meant to be understood, as a parable for the return of the light in the depth of darkness. It is, after all, winter solstice, when the days grow longer and the shadows shorter. We all filed up, very orderly, in the dim light, to light our candles and place them in the trays filled with salt, dedicating each to each person's innermost thoughts and yearnings. Mine was for my darling Boo, and for my father, though still physically present, really losing ground in being present in this world. Just a couple more days, like today and tomorrow, which is my 22nd sobriety birthday, and life can return to its normal, humdrum self in the little yellow house. Special gift to have it all cleaned to within an inch of its life and smelling so sweet, too. Many blessings in this weird little life I am leading here.

Dressing up for the holiday...

Little yellow house is getting a good cleaning and some little dashes of color, nothing over the top, we are not Martha Stewart here. I love this red crystal heart I found while I strolled through the Village, on my way to get a two pound box of See's for my mother to give to my father. Also picked up red towels, so festive. Red has been my accent here from the very beginning. Such an alive color, so sweet to have a room tinted all rosy from the red embellishments. Hurrying to get this stuff done, so I can do some ART. Delaying gratification has never been my strong suit, though Scott Peck assures me it will expand me spiritually. Counting on that as I keep slogging along.

Drawing on Monday, a new ritual...

My Artist's Way pals and I met this morning to fiddle around with our sketchbooks. Gee, this is just wonderful for the cowwoman. It is difficult for me to focus very long these days when on my own. One thing leads me to another and, at the end of the day, nothing is finished. But send me a couple of sweet gals, and we all settle around the table, tongues between teeth, and peck away, aiming for yet more experience and knowledge on our artistic journeys. Kind of precious, you know. We are all retired, over-the-proverbial-hill, coasting down the other side. Keeping our brains young and flexible is the ticket. Learn new things! Keep learning! It makes my heart sing, these moments with friends, pencil in hand, eraser in the other hand, trying to remember what I learned in school. Never a bad idea, to remember what I learned. Anyway, I feel happy that we did this, happy to be alive on this sweet day. And I have not felt like that for a while. Dreaded infection is gone, now doing lots of stuff to get into shape and not get another one. Yes, it is good to feel good. Good to keep drawing. Good, good, good.

Expectations and I...

My mother never calls me. Well, sometimes she does, and that usually is bad news. Someone died. But, wait, even then, she doesn't always call me. Until, recently, when it became apparent that I have a car, a driver's license, and live in the bigger town that has all the fun stores, like See's Candies and Trader Joe's. Gee, lucky me. For many years, I thought that my mother had to change for me to be happy. Then I got sober, and that job fell on ME. Yes, I was the one who had to change, to let go of needing this very difficult woman to love me the way I think I SHOULD be loved. Placing an expectation on my mother is like throwing a grain of rice at a starving person. Just isn't going to do any good at all. If, by chance, she does give me a compliment, I could get all gooey and begin to think, wow, she's changed! Now we can get all touchy feely blissful together! And, yes, I still have those thoughts. Then I remember, oh, it's my MOTHER I am talking about here. That is so not going to happen. So, this morning, she called. I was dozing and didn't pick up. My chirpy little telephone told me it was HER. After I ate my French toast and sipped my Sumatra, I steeled myself and called her back, expecting calamity, like Dad died or little brother had another stroke. Instead, she wants me to pick up a 2 lb. box of See's soft centers for Dad. Okay, I can do that. I let go of needing her to thank me for this. That wasn't happening, either. All this angst left lines in the cowwoman's face, and a steely strength in her heart. It forced me to learn to love the one that is most important in this equation, ME. And now, I don't need HER to love me in that way. I can accept that she probably does love me. In her way. Never going to change. Doesn't have to any more.

Lots of stuff on my mind today...

Well, not this little painting. He is finito. Didn't come out badly at all. Always a dilemma how finished to get with these images. And the answer is just enough to get the drift. Here's hoping that eventually, I will know exactly when that is. So, my trip through cyberspace today yielded a few little gems. After feeding my virtual hamster, Balthazar, I learned that, wonder of wonders, the New York Times chose a Stephen King novel as one of the top ten of the year. Yes, I know his genre is a little low from most of the highbrows out there. Personally, I love his stuff. Never a dull read, that's for sure. And, as writer's go, he is a damned good one. His stories, bizarre as they are, always are driven by his thoughtfully render characters, often, as in Salem's Lot, a whole townful of them. And, unlike more literary authors, his writing is dynamic, never over-written like Jane Hamilton, or to emphatic, as in italics-lover John Irving, not too many sentence fragments, as Joyce Carol Oates is so enamored with, more colorful than my Trumanesque mentor, Ann Tyler. And he wrote a splendid book on writing, called, strangely enough, On Writing. Dear man. Let me end with a comment on the passing of Christopher Hitchens, wondering if he got undone once he left this earthly plane. I am sure God believed in him, after all. How arrogant to believe that the world begins and ends in one's tiny mind. Think about it. Every seven years, every cell in our bodies is replaced. What are we remembering with? It seems SOMETHING has organized this pretty amazing universe so that we can rise out of the primordial ooze to become folks who think they did that all by themselves. Whatever.

Reputation? I don't need no stinking reputation!

After I flush and brush and brew and sip, I turn on my nifty Dell and peruse my emails (little brother is wondering whether to buy a suit, as our father is failing rapidly, sigh), then head for Facebook where all my friends, many of whom I know (and if I don't, they seem to know ME) for my dose of Jesus stuff from one, pictures of others on exotic trips, baby pictures, invites to open studios, and a plethora of interesting YouTube wisdom. Today, I saw an article about George Tenet via a Sean Penn late night visit, took a trip through the Universe, which led me to a diatribe on how to use the brain to better effect (actually, by getting out of the way once one is clear, to let the superconscious do the work), all kinds of valuable stuff there. And my little gray cells began perking. I remember why I love Jane Austin. And how did I get to that from the aforementioned stew of stuff, you ask? Well, the other day I saw this saying "Don't worry about your reputation, it is just what others think of you. Worry about your character. It is what you are." That seems to be Jane's message, that your life is about your character. Elizabeth Bennet had sterling character. George Wickham did not. Nor did Lydia Bennet, who wound up married to George. Life is better when we worry about our character. I came from a family that was concerned with its reputation big-time. Underneath it all seethed the pain and wounds of prior relations, that could never be healed because that would mean admitting weakness. Now, I am happy to say that I have examined all that crap in my life, and can have compassion for my family, at least. Gee, if we were all willing to look into our own darkness, how healthy we could all become. Of course, though I shine a light in the world, it only shines outward. I need another person to help me by shining her light into my darkness. And it takes character to allow that to happen. I always thought a character was a comic, sort of a Red Skelton creation, like Clem Kadiddlehopper. Now I know, I am one, too. And continually working to be the best one I can be. Kindness. Tolerance. Service. Yeah.

It is what it is, damn it...

Have just returned from the memorial service of an exemplary human being, who was stabbed to death in his own kitchen by his own, mentally ill son. Tragic loss for the family, and for the world. This was the most gentle, most loving man. So I have been hovering over my latest not diddy done done piece. And hovering is a good word. I heard it this morning in the share of a delightful man, who sees himself doing that in his own life a lot. Another devotee of my friend Eckhart, the NOW guy, and I understand exactly what he is talking about. It is that "isn't this interesting" thing, watching me do me in the world. And when I do THIS, when I let go and watch the art come up off the paper, it is ever so much more fun and the result is also so surprising. So, little puffed up guy, I hope I am doing you justice. Wondrous creatures in our amazing little world. I know God is taking care of my friend, and my sweet angel Boo, too. How can I deny that when I look into the eyes of my own creation? I could swear he winked at me just a moment ago.

Life sucks, and other deep thoughts...

You kow, both my parents are still alive, and married to each other. They are 90 and 91 years old. Dad has exceeded his expiration date, and, after a hospitalization for an inflamed pancreas, courtesy of his many, many medications, Mom threw him into a nursing home. They threw him out, ferried him back to the hospital, after chasing him up and down the halls and wrestling with him. Seems they could not medicate him there. The hospital could only keep him for observation and were pressuring Mom to get him the hell out of there, too. So. Mom called me. This in itself is a monumental moment in the cowwoman's tiny life. Mom did not feel it necessary to call when Dad was hospitalized. However, cowwoman is a good daughter, after all. She called the Elderlink folks, got lots of great ideas. Off to my hometown to consult with the doctor, who said best that he come home. Mom was not having any of that. No way. Well, I suppose she felt after 69 years, she had paid all the dues. Now it was time for some relief. Next, I called the first number on the resource list given to my mother by the hospital's social worker, a facility counselor, and we got an interview with a residence here in my town. Just a stone's throw away, actually. Very nicely appointed, social model dealing with dementia. Perfect. Expensive, but, hey, they have it. Next morning, we met at the hospital with their nurse to get Dad evaluated, and, joy of joys, he qualified. Still needed the physician's statement. And, what a guy, he called us to tell us he had filled out the discharge papers. And I said we can't move him till YOU get your act together. I found out how assertiveness training really benefits, let me tell you. After a lot of logistical maneuverings, a mountain of paperwork, he was delivered to the new facility that evening. Yay. Except, now, he is back in the hospital with a kidney infection, from the catheter they put in him during his last stay. Honestly, what a nightmare. And what a learning experience. I found I really liked telling my mother what to do. And she was happy to have someone to do that, I think. Really, there is something to be said for dying young. Oh, did I mention that between the first nursing home and the hospital, his meds got lost? And his clothes were not sent with him, either? And, owing to the fact that we thought we were transporting him, he had no clothes at the hospital and had to come to his new home in his hospital gown? Nightmare, folks.

Live and learn, and learn, and learn...

What a day. It began with cowwoman escorting visiting dog outside, broom in hand, to shoo him back in should he get all barky. Then a big piece of coconut cream pie for breakfast. The bed got made, this is always a good thing. Then Mother called, and things had gone from awful to disaster with Dad. I drove over there with a prayer on my lips, and hope in my heart. The nursing home he entered after his hopitalization kicked him out as he was too agitated. Gee, I thought they would know how to handle dementia, what's wrong with this pickture? He is back in the hospital, and they want him gone, like yesterday. We met with his doctor, who recommended he go home. Mother is not having any of that. So, we started from scratch, and, just like eating an elephant, we are doing it one bite at a time. I called a facilitator recommended by the hospital, we met with her at a local facility that specializes in his problems, toured it, and set up an evaluation tomorrow at 11 AM. It is looking like this is doable, and this facility offers respite stays, so we can see if he can regain some of his self-care and come home again. Hey, anything is possible here. He may be 91, but he has managed up till now. I think he is just confused being in strange surroundings. However, Mom mentioned he shot a gun off in the house recently. Gee, think she should have told the doctor that? Maybe his recommendation would have been different. I want to go back to my old routine of watching my soap opera and diddling up prosaic little pastels like this from my Trader Joe's arrangement. I didn't get to check my Facebook page till 6 PM tonight. I need to know which is cuter, Ryan Gosling or a puppy. I need my update from RMF Classic, in Polish. Learning different things at the moment.

Wonders, this world is full of them...

Yes, the fish is really colored thus. Oh, I may have gotten a little carried away. But. then, in my process, that is not a bad thing. Taking my mind off stuff by working at the pastels. Good things happening here, too. My daughter's dear mother-in-law loves the pastel I did of her dinner table, so we will be meeting up soon for a little lunch to present it to her. I had mats cut to the proportions of the painting. She wants to frame it herself. All is good. The refrigerator got cleaned, yay. Ideas abound for the Christmas list, which is decidedly more frugal than usual, which makes me go to my gray cells (and online catalogs) for inspiration, never a bad thing. Visiting dog, Beany, is becoming more willing to come in from the backyard, which he guards zealously. Little sucker has no off button. Barkety bark bark. And he is getting the idea that, just because he saw him leave, his master is not on the other side of the front door. It helps that he has spent a few lonely moments on the porch. If the rice and chicken diet cures the Pickle, and the Cipro cures the cowwoman, we may be back up to snuff in the little yellow house soon!

Sick puppy here...

Little Pickle has the runs. And since little Pickle has a very fluffy butt, this means many trips to the sink for sudsy moments with much rinsing. Very humbling, washing the Pickle's butt. Here she languishes on the bed while the tower heater wafts over her. I have been online and looked at all the possible ailments of which this could be a symptom, but none apply. She doesn't have distended abdomen or lack of appetite or any of a dozen horrible things going on. In light of the recent loss of Boo, I am a little frazzled and frightened whenever things don't just perk along normally with my Pickle. She is only three years old. I expect her to be around at least ten more years, longer if she dodges the mitral valve defect that took Boo so suddenly. And she is precious, my Pickle. Glamorous, too.

Things that are not a good idea...

Well, the Artist's Way says that to become an artist is to be willing to make bad art. If I want to do big scenes, more better to do them on big paper, too. Crammed this onto my small pastel pad, and now ready to say UNCLE. Lumpy cows, on cotton candy field. Save me! Oh, and pretty little fluffy-butt Pickle has diarrhea, occasioning many sessions with her hind legs in the sink, shampooing her little pooper shooter. She is on a rice and chicken diet for the duration. Also not a good idea to close the access to the back yard for very long. Well, I suppose that is why God made Resolve.

Stress and I...

You would think from looking at the surface of things that life in the little yellow house would be serene, if just a little cluttered. The clutter, actually, is books and music and art and dog toys and the usual pile of shoes by the bed. All good things, yes? And yet, last night, my head exploded seven time. Yes, I am one of those rare humans who had exploding head syndrome (a very real thing, Google it if you don't believe me). I had thought it was through with me. The Sleep Association says it is entirely stress related, they think. What could be causing all this subterranean stress, the cowwoman wonders. Perhaps it is because it is freaking December and she has not bought a single Christmas gift? Could it be the massive avalanche of leaves in the front yard, as well as in the gutters? Could it be the sinful refrigerator, happily growing wonder drugs on long forgotten produce? Could it be the fourth round of mega-antibiotics that have her limp as an overcooked noodle and as ambitious as a rock? Could it be her father languishing in the hospital, weak as a newborn? I am just so glad that I don't have to stress that this is temporal lobe seizures, since I had an EEG last year that showed, wonder of wonders, my brain is NORMAL! You could have fooled me about that. I am just going to keep swimming, here. Maybe tackle the fridge today. One thing at a time. Get out the easy Christmas carols and noodle at the piano for a while. Start a new pastel. Take a bath. Help someone else this afternoon. Warm milk tonight before sleep. Calm down the earthquake within. Yes. Oh, and pray.

A shoe kind of day...

It is time to do a little something every day. And spend some time recouping as I am still under the friggin' weather here, fighting an infection, feeling like something the cat dragged in. Not into doing anything very complicated, though, so I did this. Catalogs make wonderful references, you know. I would love to be able to afford all these adorable ballet flats, yes I would. Since that is not happening, I can immortalize them and gaze lovingly at them every so often. And thus begins the rudiments of a new opus, of shoes. Oh, wait. I did a shoe retrospective back when, and it is framed an on the wall over my shoulder. However, those were MY shoes. These are my shoe WISHLIST. There, this is the shoe wishlist opus.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming...

It's been a hellish four months here in the little yellow house, and I am hoping that the turn of the year will bring some goodness into my life. Been sick, over and over and over again. Four visits to the doctor, four to the lab, one to the hospital for an uncomfortable, invasive ultrasound find me still with an infection on my fourth antibiotic. And did I mention MAJOR dental work, occasioning MAJOR debt, and my dog died. Gee, HP. Tired of being broke, sick, and heartbroken here. I want to feel good, soon. Thanks. The only thing that has kept me sane, and hopeful, has been painting. I am ready to frame a bunch of the feather and fin and flower opus, maybe have a show? Sell some? Sure would be swell if that could happen. Send prayers.

Sunday in the little yellow house...

I thought I was meeting a friend at the 11:30 service this morning at the Center for Spiritual Living, and she did not show up. So I ran into another old friend I had not seen in six years, and she came over for coffee and a catch-up session, how sweet it is. She made me ashamed of the piles of work that now languish in the studio, and I really am resolved to get butt out to shop for frames, mats, and venues to show the work. Part of that ennui has been ill health, but a whole big bunch is ego stuff that keeps telling me to get over myself, the work stinks, blah, blah, blah. Whatever, this is my gift. I have sold a lot of paintings, all by accident it seems. Why not sell a lot on purpose? Now, there's an idea! And I worked on this piece, a tribute to darling daughter's mother-in-law who hosted Thanksgiving this year at her gracious Sausalito home. This was part of the centerpiece, from a photo I took. I hope to frame it and gift her with it, in appreciation of the rare and wondrous holiday I got to spend with my two babies and my new baby-in-law. Precious, just precious. And I like that this is coming up so beautifully loose and fun. This could be the influence of the art I saw, again, yesterday at Jack Leissering's studio here in town. Amazing collection of amazing art. You can google him and get a virtual tour online. I don't think he is an artist himself, rather a local doctor who amassed an eclectic collection of local art, and some pretty famous stuff, too, like some of Goya's prints. I am aware that I don't have to smooth everything out. Let people guess what these orange objects are. Hint: persimmons, some of the most lovely of HP's creations. Grace, that's what our morning's service seemed to be saying. Even in the midst of all my turmoil, there are moments of absolute grace. Coffee with an old friend. Magical stuff coming up off the paper. Oh, it's not done. But it's close, very close.

The season of loss is upon us.

I think it is always there, that inevitability, change. At this particular time, it is up close and personal. A friend's son was badly burned doing bad things, and his life is changed forever because of it. Another friend lost his life, stabbed to death by his emotionally ill son. He did not want to call the police. He was afraid they would shoot his son. Huge loss to our community. This man was a blessing to the world. And, my father is in his end days, in the hospital and headed for a rest home, totally incoherent, bless his soul. This is actually an improvement. Before, he was just angry: at the loss of his driver's license, the loss of his balance, the loss of his vitality. There is something to be said about dying young. So, cowwoman is in a kind of purple mood, as you can see. It would be nice if things would settle down for a while, just kind of bounce along. Probably that will not happen. Probably I am the one that will have to bounce. Luckily, I have had a lot of practice doing that in my 67 years on the planet. I can do that.

Here's what I diddled up today on my kitchen counter...

Have risen from my bed of pain. Actually, with my tower heater, 3 inch memory foam topper, Egyptian cotton mattress topper, 400 thread count sheets, thermal blanket, 5 quilts, and 4 pillows, one all downy, it was a sweet little warm nest for the last four days as I tried to shake off this lousy cold. Just couldn't do it any more, and must be a little better, because I took a bath, got dressed, and went out for a little while, too. Still not operating on all cylinders, but delighted to be vertical nonetheless. And while I was upright, I took a few moments to do this portrait of some koi. Fish are ideal subjects for pastels since I tend to leave things rough around the edges, and not smooth much out, and the paper emulates the scales! I did some smoothing with the water, then went back in and roughed it up, too. Very satisfied with this rendering. Great value contrasts, dynamic hues, painterly, not too coy or sweet. Just right. Thank you, HP.

I am happy to report that I still feel like crap...

So, this rotten cold that reared its ugly head on Wednesday freakin' night is still whipping my butt, on freakin' Sunday, which means that instead of sitting ever so elegantly in my seat at the local performing arts center, preparing to be immersed in Mahler and Brahms, I am sitting in bed with Pickle on my lap hogging the thin stream of heat emanating from the tower heater and poking her flat nose into my book. I pride myself on an immune system of steel, fortified as it is with vitamins and selected supplements. Certainly the recent infusion of pumpkin pie hasn't compromised it? You think? Well, if I felt decent, I would fix myself something healthful, like broccoli. Anyway, if I had cancelled my date with a very sweet man yesterday only to wake up all healthy today, I would have been mega-angry. So, happy to still be hacking up phlegm and popping cold pills like M&Ms, in my sweats, with a Pickle on my lap.

Could it be that we are all turkeys after all?

Here are this year's flock. Actually, there seem to be two pods of gobblers, and one has only two toms in it. This is the larger of the two, with seven members. They should be getting smarter, as natural selection kills off the dunces who wander out of the neighborhood onto College Avenue, where traffic is seldom anywhere near the speed limit or inclined to slow down for a big stupid bird. And on that subject of stupidity, the cowwoman watched one of those mind-bending PBS programs last night on the nature of the Universe. Not a new thing for the cowwoman, who has read The Dancing Wu-Li Masters and The Tao of Physics, after all. And tittered up her sleeve at the scientists who think they can figure it all out. I was reminded of the true meaning of "quantum leap", which is the movement of the electrons when excited to another orbit around the nucleus of the atom, not really a journey but a blinking out of and back into existence. Gee, that's pretty amazing! Anyhoo, some smart hearts have come up with the Unifying Theory (theories are not facts, just the best possible explanation for observed phenomena, I remember that from geology class). Apparently the itsy bitsy world does not behave with the same rules as the hella-big one. The G force (gravity), the S force (strong force that holds things together), the W force, (weak force that allows atomic decay) and the EM force (electromagnetism) need some way to all be in the same equation, and that's what string theory says it has done. Holy Moley, Batman! However, string theory cannot be observed, and thus, cannot be proven other that mathematically, and that is not enough, guys! As if that were not frustrating enough, IF string theory is indeed the nature of our Universe, it allows the existence of more dimensions and alternative universes. The scientists are currently divided into pro and con string theory, and scratching their heads. In the end, both camps admit this is all very MYSTERIOUS. Gee, could it be that this is Universal Mind at work? Could it be that the Universe is smarter than these little carbon units crawling around on a tiny dirtball on the fringe of an insignificant galaxy somewhere out in Universal podunkville? Yep. Turkeys.

A good hard look at things...

So, I was sitting at the women's meeting this noon, listening to this quirky, funny woman share her experience, strength and hope, and she was talking about getting noticed, how she was always in this LOOK AT ME mode, because, like so many of us, she felt herself to be without any redeeming worth, and I looked down at my new faux fur vest, very soft and also very showy, gee, maybe that goes on for me? You think? I have always been a clothes horse. In high school, I was named best dressed, and I set some of the trends, like pleated skirts and knee socks, not a new look, but one that had not made it to northern California yet, for sure. I asked my sponsor once if she thought I was vain, and her reply was that there is nothing wrong with putting your best face and foot out in the world. And, gee, I got my new vest at TJMaxx, very reasonable. And I feel great in it. That is the wonderful part of it all, feeling great. And if I feel great, I think I look great, and then, whether I do or not, I am free to put my attention on others, like YOU. So I took all my elan and wonder and put it into this quick little study of koi. Kind of showy, themselves, you know.

My work is cut out for me here...

The computer desk is out of control, again. You see, I get all this interesting stuff in the mail, stuff I never have time to peruse before it gets buried alive under new, even more interesting stuff. Luckily, the Kleenex box manages to float above all this flotsam and jetsam, because nose leaks like a faucet in this cold weather. But I digress. Time to divest myself of all this stuff, make room for new stuff sure to arrive today. So, goodbye Trader Joe's Food Pilgrimager, Land's End catalog, Anthem Insurance offer for upgraded Medicare supplemental, JJill holiday dressing event (15% 0ff!) catalog, Publisher's Clearing House announcement of impending millions (yes, I entered, what could it hurt), and assorted rags and mags. Somewhere in this mess is my seller's permit and coupons from the local craft store that promise 40% off those frames I have been coveting lo these many months. Almost ready to do that. So far today, I have done nothing. Well, I got up, brushed, flushed, made coffee, made pancakes, ate pancakes, drank coffee, took a bath, toweled and blew dry, exfoliated, did a cryptogram with the Pickle at my side, read my Thought for the Day (brighten the corner where you are message today), checked my Facebook page and email, had a second cup of coffee, and looked at the box I threw on the floor a week or so ago with the thought of cleaning out the bills in the filing cabinet to make room for the pile of them on the computer desk, keeping only the last year's for possible write offs on this year's tax returns. Okay, maybe that will happen today. Oh, and here's the reference photo I printed for a possible pastel painting. That could happen, too. Oh, it is all a mystery, you know, what will or will not happen today. Cannot wait to see.

Life lessons

Well, it's been a rollercoaster ride of feelings all week long. It began with Monday angst, lots of noise (garbage trucks, rolling garbage cans, lots of barking, repeat 5 times), and usually, it rolls off me. Except this time. And I was pissed. Later, I was just sad, missing the Boo. Funny how that happens. I kind of roll along here, doing what I do, and suddenly, I get the pit of the stomach feeling that something is wrong. and then I realize, no Boo. Well, it is still fresh, and will probably be this way for a while to come. After all, we shared 13 years together, day in and day out. I am up and out of most of the funk, especially because I have begun to work again at the pastels, which make me so very joyous in the way they express my process on the paper. I did this on black paper, about 45 minutes of stroking away. Didn't need too much more, the idea just kind of did itself, and I love that when it happens. Now off to watch dumb movies and read a trashy novel, and eat my nut bar. And maybe begin another painting. Lord, I love being retired.

Okay, don't just sit there, DO something...

Have been somewhat slothful. Definitely, sloth is the sin of the week in the little yellow house. So I started this pastel, on black paper, which makes it ever so much easier. And am now wondering if it is done diddy done done, or am I just kind of whipped by the gray day and weeks of grief and inertia. Hell, I don't know. Just glad to have a pastel stick in hand again. Haven't even dipped into the NEW set yet. Somehow, it looks so sweet, all cuddled up in its foam pockets, I just don't want to disturb it yet. This is a little thing, not really needing big work done on it. Spraying it with fixative. Maybe a little clarifying around the edges? More coffee. That's the ticket.

Travel agent for mind trips, checking in here...

On my recent roadtrip to the Oz that is Berkeley, through the marvelous country that is the north and east bay, I had one of those surreal moments when, sitting on my cushy seat, suspended in the metal cage on wheels that is my automobile, riding on the air in my tires on the macadam and over the bridge suspended over the water, I thought what an interesting existence this is. All those other beings around me, all enveloped in their cars as I was, do they thing about stuff like I do? Or are they just taking it all for granted, like this is all there is, their Escalade or Mercedes, their Civic or VW? Recently, PBS has been doing a program on the nature of our Universe, and, again, looking at it as a holographic projection. I read The Holographic Universe many moons ago, and the idea is not new by any means. One wonders - a projection of what? I like to think it is Universal Mind, the Great Spirit, or just plain old God, who has the Plan. Whatever, as I sat in my Focus, hurling myself forward, ever forward, I felt ever so at home here. This is a new thought process for the cowwoman, who often has felt alien in her own world. And, watching all the other beings swirling about on the freeways, I got ever so grateful to get home with my self and my vehicle all in one piece. Lately, I have run into all kinds of misery out there, in the big bad world. A hairy accident occasioned a feeding frenzy of emergency vehicles as I wended my way to the wilds of west county on Wednesday. PG&E had my route blocked off because of felled trees bisecting their power lines. An ambulance blasted by me later. Yesterday, police cars were all aglow beside the road to Costco. Lots of awful stuff happening out there. So, not complaining about how cold it is in the little yellow house today. And wondering, still.

What am I doing here, anyway?

I have been seriously remiss in doing my Artist's Way exercises. I think I am just rebellious, angry that HP took my dog away, it is cold here, I need more money, and on top of that, THE HOLIDAZE ARE COMING - AGAIN! Oh, good to get that all out. So, a week late, I did the visioning collage that my two fellow travelers had already accomplished, except I did it as a sort of trip through my years of painting. The tiny image of the flowers in the blue and white vase in the center is the oldest work, and ironically, the largest in real life. It is hanging in the studio, unfinished. I have major issues about it, since my mentor, the wild man artist, had me change it a couple of times to suit his vision. Have changed it back to suit mine in one fit of pique, and now don't know where the hell to go with it. Definitely, it deserves to be finished! Six of these images are now gone. I sold four of them, and that is why I included them on this board. I want to realize that someone recognized them as artful and wanted to hang them on their wall. And only one was sold to a friend! Three went to complete strangers! Included here are oils, acrylics, watercolors and a pastel. Hey, I never knew how versatile I could be until I did this. I am not unhappy about any of these pieces, even the older ones. I see that I am doing just fine on this path I have chosen. And I remember all the fun I had creating just this little bit of my work. More fun on its way, soon. Yes!

Ooooooh! New stuff!

The cowwoman braved the wilds of the east bay yesterday, traveling down the 101 corridor and across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. First stop was in Pt. Richmond, for lunch at Little Louie's Deli with my big kiddo, my son, who works there managing a section 8 housing development of 158 units. We had a sweet time together, and he took me on a tour of both sides of the freeway, which in this town is equivalent to both sides of the tracks. There was a huge lot full of new cars, newly offloaded from their trip across the Pacific from Japan. Great big oil storage tanks crown the hills, even above the up-scale subdivision. The refining is done on the north side, where the drug dealers loiter around trying to look busy. Beautiful parks and sweet beaches, too. Interesting, schizophrenic place. Then on to Berkeley and the Blick Art Supply, for these sweet half pastels, the ones I have been lusting for lo these last two months. Now, I got a great price. They are normally $80. I got them for $30, after I used the last $20 of my gift card. However, when you add is 3 gallons of gas, lunch for two, bridge toll, well, you get the idea. Still, an hour with my big guy, precious beyond words. Now to get trucking, make some art!

And then I did THIS...

So, to illustrate what practice does, I did this quick sketch in Conte crayon, which is ever so much more dramatic than graphite because it gives such more satisfying value contrasts. This I did freehand, without any little cross to hang the pear on, and I did it in about five minutes, instead of the hour we spent on the first picky pear. And I like this image ever so much more, because it is rough, my process is hanging out all over the place, it is ME, this little fruit. Must find my Pink Pearl erasers, though. I know I have four or five, somewhere. Those little suckers will erase anything. Almost.

Drawing lessons...

I have so much fun giving drawing lessons to friends. Little do they know they are my guinea pigs for proposed PAID lessons to folks I really don't know at all. Someday, it would be nice to pick up some extra cash doing this really fun stuff. This was the drawing I did along with my sweet friend Peggy. It started by sketching in the square of paper I put under the pear, then deciding where in space the pear was sitting. We drew a line noting the highest part, and a horizontal line through it showing the widest, noting that the pear is not equidistant, not by a long shot. Then we drew the contour of the pear around our little cross, in straight lines, between all the little angles. We drew over and over until we had a satisfying outline, then erased back. That eraser was always in the other hand. With some little hatching and cross hatching, we explored the interior of the pear, noting that there are light patches even in the shadowy side, and on the bottom, where the pear reflects the paper. We drew the shadow in contour, then did the hatching and cross-hatching there, seeing that the shadow is deepest under the object. We erased back to lighten the weight of the line where the pear was in the light, and darkened the shadow side. We used a stomp to blend the hatching, and put in all the sweet blemishes. My friend had a wonderful time, got a pretty fair rendering for her first effort, and left feeling like she had learned something. I did, too. I remembered the process and had a wonderful time doing my own drawing, something I have not done for a while. Actually, this whole lesson encompassed about two months of drawing class. I remember doing contour after contour, yearning for the good stuff like shading and modeling to come. That is why my lessons go where they do. Practice then becomes more fun and more rewarding. Back to practice.

Art of another artist, or two...

Our community harbors a plethora of artists, all plodding away, doing their own thing. I visited an open studio yesterday at the Barracks, an old building left behind by a long extinct Air Force base we once had here. It is ideal for artist studios, and there were about a dozen or so displaying their art so bravely. My Thought for the Day was about doing what I would have others do, so I got to talk with many of the artists, ask about their path, ask their advice about my path. I left every one with a smile, and I hope my presence graced their day. Theirs certainly did. I noted that every one of them has developed and changed over the years. One in particular, she is a nurse by profession and only works at her art on Sundays, was all over the place in her process, from representational art to abstract, from tight to loose, all kinds of subject matter (though she seemed to like food a lot, judging from the watermelon and the cupcake and the wasabi bowl and the sushi). She admitted she just let the spirit move her, and that is what comes out on the canvas. I signed up for a workshop with an acrylic abstract artist, because that felt like a fun thing to do. She, too, is working on paper! I came home with my head swimming with ideas. Since the big mucking out of the studio, all my media is sitting obediently in it's own little cubby, patiently waiting for my next opus to commence. Today, I am giving a drawing lesson to my most timid friend. It will be my job to keep her from panicking. I am giving her a pear to draw. Big challenge. Ah, but I know some tricks! Learn and grow. And never stop.

Next logical step...

...an inventory of pieces by size, to determine how many frames and mats I will need to display the work produced in my grief-stricken frenetic opus. Answer: more than 80, of varying sizes! Well, I sometimes did 2 or 3 a day. Sort of like Vincent, right? And gee, he was maligned in his lifetime, poor guy. Ready to be maligned here. Just put me up on a wall somewhere.

Meanwhile, it is raining, real driving rain. Good time to have an extra hour of snoozing. And how happy is the cowwoman to have her blasted hour back? Not happy enough to let go of the original resentment, but pretty glad. Tiny smile in there somewhere. Let's face it. This has been a mega-difficult few months here in the little yellow house. As if things weren't bad enough, the cowwoman was subjected to an invasive and really uncomfortable ultrasound test yesterday. Now walking funny, and saddle sore. I guess it beats the old diagnostic of a biopsy. And I will give odds that there is NOTHING WRONG. Just thyroid hormones and stress working together to produce odd symptoms. Let us pray this is the end of all the life on life's terms white water on my river of life. Could use some smooth sailing. Oh, wait. Holidays loom. AAAAAARRRRGGGGH!

Exemplary me...

The studio has been seriously tossed and organized. I decided no more new art supplies until I inventoried what I actually own. Here you see shelves categorized - used sketchbooks and reference photos, pastels, reference books, acrylics on the bottom. On top, a whole stack of brand new sketchbooks, drawing pads, watercolor pads, colored paper, you name it. The cowwoman is lousy with paper of all sorts. School work is put away in portfolios. Complete pastels are neatly stored between sheets of waxed paper. The big table is open and ready to supply working space for framing, the next project, and there is $$$ in the bank to do that. Oh, and did I mention, I got my resale license, now called a seller's permit, yesterday. I am officially professional here. Scared out of my tiny mind, again. How will I ever know if I can succeed if I don't put myself out there? After all, I have taken lots of flyers that took me WAY out of my comfort zone in the last few years, like getting on an airplane and flying to Rome, Italy, on January 1, 2000, or going back to college at 61 years of age. That all worked out just fine in the end, didn't it? Yes, I hung my diploma on the wall of my studio, too. I hear that the IRS is sure to audit me the minute I begin writing off all this expense, but I am ready to give them a tour of my home studio any time they want to drop by the little yellow house. Bring 'em on!