And now for something completely different...

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

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

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

Thinking too much is my dilemma.

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

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

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

The orphan...

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

And then I turned around...

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

Playing God...

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

Just another day, up on the mountain...

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

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

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

Where the hell are my hiking boots, anyway?

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

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

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

Everything in its season...

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

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

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

Little did I know...

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

I and my body...

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

Amazed and confused, as usual.

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

Long time, no blog...

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

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

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

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

Blues and I...

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

The light of other days...

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

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

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