Tinfoil Hats

I guess the big question is this. When did I become old enough to be everybody's mother? I got an email today from a complete stranger who was responding to a "Call for Artists" for an event that I am helping publicize. She wanted to know if she should quit her job and become a professional embroidery artist. Of course, a sane person would have put that email into spam or failed to respond, but I trust the universe. If that email came to me, I am supposed to answer.

So I did. Of course I immediately wrote, "Do not quit your job", and then I went on to tell her why. Art is not just a business, but really food for the soul. Whether you create or appreciate it, it must move you. I used to think that it was the final product that mattered and for some it is. For me the creative process is my thrill. Once a piece of work is finished I enjoy it for a few weeks, or maybe longer, but the real joy is in the creation of the work. It can pay for food for the body, of course, but this is its ancillary benefit, not its purpose.

I've learned not to be proud of my work, as it is really my Muse - for lack of a better word - who deserves it. Frankly, I start each sculpture or watercolor as an anxious, hyper-critical, self-conscious loser. My brain flashes messages like, "The world is imploding... and you're painting?", or "The front planter is full of weeds and nothing's made for dinner,".  Sometimes it isn't the pressing responsibilities that disturb me, but more intimate anxieties. "You're not a real artist."  "Your abbreviated career demonstrated you were only an average musician," or the real soul-killer, "Candidly, why bother? You'll never be great."

That last voice actually belongs to my deceased mother. She seems to choose to haunt me whenever I stretch beyond something I've tried before. In fact, I recently added some decoration to my tinfoil hat in the hope it will ward off her evil transmissions once and for all.

In case you got extremely nervous with this last sentence, let me add that I am kidding. Not about the negative thoughts that bubble up... just the tinfoil hat. I am pretty comfortable now that I know my first instinct is to think I am unworthy of my obsession to sing, dance, write, sculpt and, most recently, paint. Fortunately I write for a living, which has been the most amazing blessing of my life for more reasons than I would want to elaborate on here. On the other hand, painting is a way to release my brain from bondage. It feels different. I still hate to draw, though I am getting better.

Once I get to the stage in the piece where I can add color, the adrenalin flows through me as if I were anticipating jumping off a 50 foot cliff into a pool of deep, still water. (Which I foolishly did once and will never do again... and the water was not very clear as it was an old granite pit in New England.) Sometimes I am so invigorated by painting that I have to wait an hour - even if it's two in the morning - before I dare fall asleep.

I wonder that I am both a mother and grandmother because inside me is this young, naive, hopeful person who thinks she can paint. Then I pass a mirror and think, My God! What the hell happened? But as I ponder how lucky I am to be able to feel such enthusiasm and hope for the future, my phone rings. How fortunate. It was a wrong number.

Peace, love and please go green. Oh, and if you are in the arts, you deserve to make a good living.

Why the planter isn't weeded yet

This handsome boy has decided that the Madrigal acreage suits him fine. In the last couple of weeks his antlers have doubled in length and he has made himself quite at home in our planter. Initially I was going to weed it this spring when I discovered there were very few columbines growing. Then I realized that I didn't have any lilies in there either... and then even the cannas were gone.

In this shot he is trying to determine how to reach the roses on top of this weeping cherry and out of his range. In fact, they are the only roses that have managed to survive his amorous attentions.

Last weekend my cousin visited and I never got to this front planter, which looks quite terrible and I now realize is not because of the wet spring we had or the moles that occasionally try to invade our property or some sad little vole and its family munching on my bulbs. No, this is the young fellow who has been stomping down the wood hyacinths, eating the tops off the flowers, gobbling up the ground cover and leaving only the wild buttercups which I wish he would eat. And that was what I was going to weed tonight after work... finally... until there he was again. Asleep. You can see him on the lower right hand side of the planter, enjoying the shade from the Japanese maple.

We have watched this young stag grow from a very gangling boy into a little stream-lined model, but he is still small for the deer we normally find in this area. Obviously he is happy here - makes the rounds of the front acreage where we have grapes, plums, apples, pears, cherries, lots of maples, and lots of this particular type of clover that this deer seems to love. He also appears to be eating ants! I am not sure if they are the little ones or the carpenter ants (I hope we don't have them close to the house), but he was definitely licking up something on the patio last week in this picture.

He is looking much heavier and healthier this week. Oh, he also decided it was very nice of me to put fresh water in the birdbath every day. I couldn't imagine it was evaporating by half everyday, and I was right. It was our handsome friend.

I do love living on this property and every time we see another wild animal from the window or out in the yard - watching us watch them - it makes me feel like we are good earth caretakers. Maybe I can somehow make up for my past ignorance about what it really takes to protect the environment.

Would love a dead vole for my birthday...

Today is my birthday. Uh-huh, and I awoke to the timer going off on the oven. My husband leaves at the crack of dawn for his job, so I spent ten minutes searching for what he could possibly have wanted to turn off. It couldn't have been garden hose, I thought. He would have noticed as he left. His camera battery wasn't re-charging. And then my imagination started to crank up, even before I had my caffeine fix.

Did he know something I didn't? Was the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol going to arrive at 9:00, and the dear man wanted to make sure I answered the door? Well, now I know that wasn't it, as it's now 9:09 and the only vehicle here has been the recycling pick-up.  Oh, I've been up for hours, thanks to that beep-ing timer, so how have I spent my birthday so far?

The dog and I have a highly technical routine. After my husband leaves, she returns to bed and attempts to lie on top of my legs. She's only a 24 pound dog - should be 20, but we've both gotten a bit matronly. Still, place that little compact body on top of you and it feels like a ton. So as usual I got up and we let the cats out, filled up a canister with bird seed and peanuts for the squirrels and headed out to the feeders. I was treated to the visual of three squirrels looping up into the air as they sprinted off the feeders - where they'd been making a mess - and sprinted up the birches while performing even more astonishing acrobatic feats.

The shrub Jays began screeching, but I sort of like it now, and I must admit that my appearance causes a great amount of twittering of the real kind, from wonderful little finches, chickadees, juncos and a few thrushes. The doves are ground feeders and will wait for me to round the corner, but the robins will follow behind me as I water. They not only appreciate a nicely mowed lawn (thanks, dear), but a half-drowned worm is easy prey.

It's been a bad year for gardening in the northwest - it broke all the records by raining over 6 inches in June - and the veggie plot looked more like a giant fish pond than anything else. The garden has usually been in for at least a month by now, but my husband didn't put in the tomato plants until this past weekend. Our garden will be a third its usual size, but maybe we'll be able to keep it weeded this year. Oh, so we probably won't, but we'll still get tomatoes.

Like two of my children, my husband only listens to my advice after he has found a more reliable secondary source. Usually, he credits them with whatever he decides to do. In this case, it was how to plant the tomatoes. For those of you who are new to urban farming, here's a hint. All those tiny little hairs on the tomato stem are potential roots. If you want a sturdy, healthy, plant and a bountiful tomato crop from each plant, get out your shovel. After you amend the soil, dig a really deep hole and plant as much of that fuzzy stem under ground as you can, even if it is half the plant. I just learned that this year myself, and we've been growing tomatoes for 18. Suddenly everybody else knows it too, which makes you wonder if they fiendishly concealed the technique. Okay, so I don't always have a Pollyanna mentality and can be cynical even on my birthday, too.

Anyway, my new duty since Sunday is to water the veggie garden. I have container pots everywhere this year - fingerling potatoes in a trash can container, sweet peas in a giant pot, herbs scattered in ugly little pots everywhere - and they have to be watered daily or they'll dry out even faster than the garden. We trimmed, edged, mowed, weeded and power-washed everything over the weekend - we have the back patio to do next - so it looks bright and lovely for my birthday. I know it sounds silly, but that pleases me enormously, even if it is only the Fedex guy who gets to enjoy it with us.

Usually I have two modes with the my dog - on the leash or in the house - but today I was feeling all glowy towards her. She's an old bitch too, and such a darling, funny dog. I hate it that the hair around her muzzle and eyes has turned white. It used to look like she had Cleopatra style eyeliner and her gaze was so intense. She's a sweet smooth-haired fox terrier, which is similar to a Jack Russell, but without the insanity or the "It's all mine! Mine! Mine!  GRRRRRRRR!" mentality. Truthfully, my muzzle seems to be turning a little 'blond', although my granddaughter has warned me about letting my hair ever get white.

It was last year and she and her mom watched one sitcom together. The themes were often a bit adult, if comedic, but my daughter loves the actress America and when my daughter is laughing it is a beautiful thing. The little one was in kindergarten at the time, and I must have given her advice (my biggest, irritating and obnoxious reflex behavior), so she felt compelled to reciprocate. We have a lovely and enduring friendship.

"Oh, Grandma," she said with drama. "Don't ever let your hair get white!"

"Why not?" I asked, mildly amused by the concept.

"Because if you do, you  can fall over dead just like that!" To emphasize the point, she loudly clapped her hands together like a thundercap.

"Well, don't worry, darling. Your Grandma will never have white hair," I reassured her, "but how did you know that?"

"Oh, I saw it on Ugly Betty," she said. "The grandpa had a heart attack and just fell over dead. Boom."

You never know what she's going to say next. Now she's seven and confided that she 'really wants one of her paintings to be in a museum when she grows up. She is also telling me the difference between 'realistic' art and 'surreal'. Okay, so she didn't use that word, and said, "unrealstic", but it was impressive just the same. I wish I could see her today, but I always wish I could see her and I do often. I felt the same way about her cousin and now I feel that way about her baby brother who turns seven months old tomorrow.

He is about as delightful a baby as I have ever seen if you like nothing but grins, animated cooing and babbling, and a baby that burrows into your neck like a little puppy or immediately calms if you sing, "Swing low, sweet chariot" even with all the same first verse lyrics. Big sister thinks 'rock-a-bye baby' is too grisly for a baby, so that tune has vacated my repertoire.

My other granddaughter is grown up. She was a true gift from my stepdaughter, whom I also adore. My vanity makes me say that, as our third daughter is only 12.5 years younger than me and so having a 19 year old bio-granddaughter would make me feel as ancient as I am. Then again, how many people are lucky enough to know their non-bio-grandchildren from birth and their non-bio-children from adolescence? I was given a little experience without really having enough of a toolbox, but I don't think I did too much damage. (That's for parents to do, after all, isn't it?) I couldn't love either of them anymore, which makes me so lucky, doesn't it? I think I love the girls as much as I do because they are all so much like my husband in all his good traits. Brains, a sense of family, animal-lovers, politically engaged... and did I say smart? Actually, I meant brilliant. Oh, and the girls all have his amazingly thick, wavy hair - true movie star locks. Honestly, they don't have a bad hair day... ever. Oh, I think my grandson will have grandpa's hair too, as it is already looking pretty wavy and he has the telltale widow's peak.

So back to my birthday and me - you can tell I am crazy about the descendants - I let the dog roam all around the yard while I did my mini-chores. How I enjoyed the gentle breezes lifting the tree branches with that delicious soft rustling I equate to angel wings. I felt surrounded by mother nature in all her perfect glory and feel a sort of spirituality as I am so serene and at peace here.

I watched the beautiful cedar waxwings pluck cherries off the tree above me.There were ten or twelve robins patiently waiting for me to finish watering the crumbly garden soil while they anticipated dessert. I felt gratitude for the warm sun, the sounds of the forest below that traveled on the wind and wondered how it was possible to feel so good and be so old.:)

I plucked a few cherries off the volunteer tree that had planted itself three years ago. I still can't figure out which of the five varieties it will be or if it is a hybrid, but they are delicious. Then I grabbed a few raspberries that were a day too old and ate a couple blueberries that were two days too young, but I didn't care. How I have loved this personal Garden of Eden over the last 18 years. I wondered if the beautiful stag in my painting above would appear to bless my special day. He's been absent for a week and although it's not hunting season, those little antlers sprouting make me dread fall. No one on our dead-end street hunts, but deer can't read signs.

Needing to make my latte, I called the dog.  As is our custom, I began to wipe off her feet before we went into the house. My lovely little Cosette had celebrated my birthday too. In fact, I'm sure she thought her lovely new fragrance, eau de dead carcass, would be a giant hit. So I picked up the smelly creature and as soon as I took off her collar she began to quiver with terror. My husband will be delighted that I bathed her, as usually he takes care of the pets.

My son gave his dad a print a few years ago called, "Dog rolling in dead squirrel", so I recognize this is a universal experience. Dogs feel more powerful the smellier they are, and let' face it. What is more rancid than rotting mouse intestines? In spite of the 'single-lady-with-cats' prejudices, this canine instinct may be the secret reason most women don't have a dog.


After being scrubbed down and dried off, the dog suddenly remembered the bathing ritual always ends with a treat. She began dancing on her hind feet.  Yes, it was incredibly cute, so I opened the bathroom door. She shot out like a leaping antelope and flew throughout the house, making sharp turns as effortlessly as a race car driver. When she had exhausted herself and began panting, she sat on the kitchen rug. As the stare down began, I toyed with the idea of making her 'behave'. Instead I tossed the milkbone, which she caught in mid-air.

What are we doing tonight? Nothing, really.  I'll probably cook something light, like fish, because I don't think it's appropriate to make a big birthday dinner for yourself. (Too many dishes and pans!) My husband hates to eat out, so that won't happen.  On a weekend, he might barbecue for me, but he really hates being forced to eat out during the week. If any of you share a birthday around a major holiday, you can probably empathize with me. My birthday is June 29th and the 4th of July is usually celebrated sometime between the 2nd and the 6th. Many people are out of town so there's no reason to have a party. Who'd come? Oh, yes, I know I have children. One of them drives to see her in-laws, which is a good six hours. Sometimes she stops on the way back, by going out of her way, which is sweet.

My son won't visit if his sister's not here, as she would never forgive him, so that is out too. Our oldest daughter has a family, and family things on the fourth with younger kids entail fireworks and all kinds of barbecues. Who could expect them to fly up when the weather in California is so sublime? When the fourth comes around, wouldn't there be something wrong with them if they thought, "Fourth of July! Wow. Let's celebrate with Mom/Grandma and have a birthday party for her!" Honestly, I just can't imagine it.:) They have their own lives now and that's good. If I finish my work early enough - I might quit early just to celebrate - I am going to paint. That's my passion these days. I guess I'm older and becoming more interested in private time and more introverted than I thought.

I haven't decided if I'll paint an adorable mallard and her ducklings, or two baby rhinos I imagined touching noses. I really would like to paint my oldest granddaughter with a tutu cast aside, as she puts on soccer shoes sitting on her bed. I can imagine it, but I'm not very good without a photograph to work from, so the latter idea has been rolling around in my head for months. I want to create sort of an heirloom painting for each of the grandkids, although I am just starting to work with watercolors. Except for sentimental reasons, who knows whether they'll even want my paintings. My middle daughter thinks I should stick with birds and berries. (Her favorite painting of mine obviously is one I did of a cedar waxwing on a branch with berries all around. It is pretty and looks sort of Asian in theme.)

Oh, no one used to forget my birthday because I always obsessed about how old I was getting. That was when I was in my twenties, thirties and ... well, let's just say I lost interest in my own birthdays a few years ago. At a certain point it is about cultivating humility, moving off center stage and being cognizant of the fact that the ingenue parts are no longer for you. My realization that I was simply a little temporary stardust was also post-cancer, which nobody I know ever wants me to talk about. It freaks them out, and I suppose that's normal. Who wants to think about somebody going through a dreadful treatment that took a year or two from which to recover?

But for me, it is a little difficult to forget, as I still have some side effects and a wheelbarrel full of gratitude. In fact, the day I was diagnosed was also our 24th wedding anniversary, so how can I celebrate one without being grateful that I am now counting years of survival on 2 hands?

The loveliest thing about this year has been our children. One has done more for us than I could ever post here and I will be eternally grateful for knowing and loving her. She is like deep water, lush, beautiful and powerful and to continue the metaphor, as loyal as the tide.

I am so fortunate even though life has not been easy, it has been amazing. I never expected anyone to help me in my life, based on my early childhood. How wonderful that my expectations were exceeded. Certainly I am not very different from anyone else. We all have our trials, our tragedies, our emergencies, our joys and our triumphs. Not everyone is lucky enough to have children or grandchildren either. I have both.

Frankly, I am grateful just to be around. I have a job, insurance, a good man, children who care about the world and grandchildren who are amazing humans already. I even have a few great friends, long-term and new, and I still feel passionate when writing or painting. I care about the world, I volunteer my time for worthy causes and I stay politically engaged and active. And today my three, beautiful cats will hopefully get that adorable little vole that has just made its second nest attempt in our barbecue.

Good God, it's a beautiful life! I hope I remember how good I feel today, tomorrow. Peace and love, friends. Not much else matters.

Vuvuzelas: Noisemakers from Hell

The World Cup is a sacred event in our home, at least on the part of my husband. Luckily he is a man with excellent hearing, and although he wants to hear the announcers, the volume is low. Still, I find that my tolerance for the infernal 'buzzing' of the vuvuzelas this year is about 8 minutes. As a musician with high auditory-sensitivity, I must find an escape. Either I promptly fall into a deep slumber sitting on the couch, or am driven to the art room, sighing with relief for the first ten minutes.

The vuvuzela, aka bubuzela, is an excellent symbol of the differences in cultural attitudes around the world. In South Africa, where it originated, it is considered the epitome of the soccer spectator experience and represents and reflects the enthusiasm and excitement of its fans. In the U.S., birthday and New Year's Eve parties often contain a miniature version of these noisemakers, although I never saw the value of these myself. Certainly the alternatives of kissing and singing are preferable.

Other than hearing damage, the vuvuzelas, incidentally, can also spread disease. Like a trumpet or any other wind 'instrument', tiny droplets of saliva are expelled and can remain airborne for sometime, spreading colds and flus. For those with tinnitus (chronic ringing in the ears), soccer-watching at this level must approach the gates of hell. For the rest of us it is pretty obnoxious too, which begs the question, what do people get out of this? And who are these people? I would hazard a guess that the majority may be men.

Why? Because I had a father and lots of uncles and male cousins. I also have a husband, a son and lots and lots of nephews. Men, in my experience, love loud noises, although my husband swears he also hates the b-flat (below middle C) emitted in varying intensities by the vuvuzela spectators.

On the other hand, I can remember how my 6'4" father loved to jump out at us when we were little kids and yell, "Boo!"  As a sullen teenager with a persecution complex I often dreamed of reciprocating, but he had a weak heart and I had a conscience. Yet I am happily married and have been ever since I realized that all men retain the ability to channel a twelve-year-old's sense of humor. For those of you who can't remember what that is, here are a few examples of what's funny.  A fragile old woman crossing the street carrying a pizza and slipping on a banana peel. The slaughtering of chickens on a farm as they run around spurting blood after their heads are cut off. (Sorry PETA people.) You get the drift.

There is no judgment here, however, as this is a genetic ability. My girlfriend's grandson and my granddaughter were here one day picking cherries, playing on the swings and then went on to play a game of hide-n-seek. Everything was going swimmingly until the 3-year-old - recognizing he would quickly be discovered - took control by jumping up and yelling, "BOO!!!" 

After we plucked my granddaughter off the ceiling and comforted the hysterical child, I realized there was only one defense: offense. I carefully explained to her that this was 'fun'. All she had to do was reciprocate when he found her by jumping up and scaring him back. I should mention that she's an adorable, affectionate, nurturing child, very sensitive and with a sweet personality. Her "boo" never quite packed the same wallop his did and her enthusiasm for the sport was cautious at best. After the little boy went home, she wanted to know why scaring her was fun for him. I have two X chromosones and a failed understanding of the maly psyche, but I told her the truth anyway. "Because he's a boy."

In the U.S. the vuvuzela chorus is now a late-night comedian's joke, often equated to the sound of a buzzing bee hive. I would personally rather be stung all over my naked body than listen to that sound in the flesh. It appears I am not alone. The pharmacies in South Africa ran out of earplugs early on, but opportunistic ingenuity never fails where homo sapiens reside. The manufacturers of the vuvuzelas now sell earplugs to the World Cup spectators. Now that's American-style capitalism. It appears we have a lot in common afer all.

Flawed: The Human Condition

So many people see 'love' in the refrigerator, the joint, pills or the bottle that it is sad. Narcissism abounds, of course, but people under its influence are the least happy people I have ever met. People with good friends seem to be the happiest.

True self-love is the most difficult thing to attain. We have to learn to accept who we are and tolerate our flaws and failings because that is the human condition. Not only is nobody perfect, nobody needs to be. Just like most people have chubby periods, most of us also have times when we are weak of character. It may be in our youth before the frontal lobe matures. Or maybe we don't do anything really stupid, selfish or self-indulgent until our own particular mid-life crisis, but everybody blows it sometime. The lucky ones are moved and able to make amends and can move on quickest. Others may suffer with the consequences for a lifetime, but taking responsibility for our own side of the street is at least a partial remedy.

Being flawed is what allows us to be loved and lovable. I learned that a few years ago during a grueling medical treatment, which was the only time I ever needed anybody. Or at least, so I arrogantly thought. Otherwise, I just wanted people around for the good times, you see. When I had a bad hair day, or even a personal crisis, I would lock myself in hiding until I recovered. Looking back, I wonder if my parents would have wanted me to starve over one Christmas shortly after I ran away from home. They were hurt, shocked and furious wtih me. I had contacted them and even seen them, but I only had $1.75 to my name for a week. It wasn't enough to take the $1.70 train ride both ways. I had too much false pride to even think of asking them for the money or a lift home as we were on such shaky terms. Now that appears ridiculous.

My parents were human beings and had been incredibly demanding of me specifically, because I was mature for my age in their eyes. From five years on I had been utterly responsible until the day I ran away from home feeling justified. Taking my previous maturity for granted as an indication that I would always make great choices was their mistake, of course. I was just a kid like their other four. Less immature, perhaps, but still a kid with that limited frontal lobe at 18.

With experience I learned that if I don't let people in when I'm upset or needy about something, I can't expect them to be mind readers. Thinking, nobody ever helped me, as a judgment on other people is silly. Nobody is going to spend their time watching us for 'clues' unless we happen to live with Sherlock Holmes. (You do know he was not a real person, right?)  Keeping people from seeing my vulnerable side is a method I used to use to prevent any kind of intimacy. Being open is a positive form of honesty and allows people to feel close to us, which deepens friendship. Not that we want to be complainers or whiners - which is a waste of everybody's time including our own - by sometimes a kind ear will help us sort out our own issues and find solutions.

In fact, I wish everyone realized that human beings just can't love 'perfect' people. That is what worship is for, folks. My evidence? The reality shows (that glorify complete idiots doing stupid crap) and the celebrity fever out there. We love to cheer on the reality types because they are so uncommonly human but we never really love those celebrities, even if we try to emulate them in our dizzier moments. Of course, it's probably not the best idea to jump into a shark tank or eat worms either, as life is risky enough without adding weights to our wet or dry suit.

In any case, nobody needs or likes a poser as ego runs that particular posture. Learn how to risk being your authentic self and try to cultivate kindness, tolerance, acceptance, humility (almost left that one out!) and yes, even "love".  You'll attract a crowd of flawed admirers and friends just like you. And they'll be lovable too. Oh, and don't forget to think about the other people out there. They've got all the same issues we do plus their own personal ones. Be kind and maybe even polite, folks. It makes the world a much nicer place.

Experiment in painting with a simple enough motif...

There are so many beautiful things in the world that people like me seem to always feel in awe of something.  I am easily pleased when I can write, paint, sculpt, cook, garden or talk.This weekend was a painting weekend. It was too hot yesterday - it went from about 50 to 80 overnight - and too wet today to do anything else. So, here is the painting I finally finished, even though I started it last Sunday. Let's just call it, "Cedar Waxwing".

Step One

I happen to love trees and birds and fruit trees, so I incorporated these in a painting.This was the beginning of my effort, after I had sketched it out and begun painting in the bird and the branches on the tree.  As you will see, these changed quite a bit as I went on, mainly because I didn't like the colors that are naturally on the bird with the color I wanted on the berries.

Step Two

It was very easy to put that first sketch together and imagine that the painting was going to be an easy one.  I always think I have an easy concept and that it won't take me long to put it on paper. After I started this, I thought I probably should have put the bird more in the center, but it was really too late to change it once I was at this stage. The background is just white paper, although in this picture it looks tan as I didn't use a flash.

My art teacher has offered the concept that we can paint the same picture again and again - each time correcting our mistakes and making it exactly the way we want to have it - but I am not that prolific a painter yet. Just the idea of painting something once intimidates me.:) At some point I hope that I will be good enough to "whip paintings out"... but I may not live long enough for that. I am a slow painter and a slow sculptress too. Maybe it is because I want it to be 'perfect' or maybe it is because I am just slow at this and too timid sometimes.

Step Three

This is when I started having problems.  I didn't like my leaves. Now, I know that doesn't seem like a crisis moment, but as leaves take up a great deal of this picture, I started to get anxious over them. They looked too amateurish to me. The light wasn't right and they didn't have good shadows. Then I decided that all the branches were way too thin, and so I started to remedy that.

I was actually very frustrated at this stage and sorry I was working on something without a good photograph to copy. Clearly I could not paint what was in my mind's eye.
Step Four

I have learned that sometimes we are just out of gas creatively.  If you don't put down the paint brush and do something else, you'll wreck your painting.  Believe me, I have done it and after putting several hours into this already, I had no intention of messing it up if I could help it.  

I played with the background for a while. Then I worked on the bird feathers, then I worked on the berries, trying to get them to look shiny and bright and delicious. I started working on the leaves again and realized that they were not coming out well.  I would have to start again, lift the color off of them and try to find a way to make them look light-filled.  Then it occurred to me what was wrong.  In this picture you are looking up to see the bird and the berries.  The light is coming from behind the leaves. That was why they didn't look right to me.  So I set to work on trying to make the light shine through them.

Step Five

Now I had the bird under control and the branches and the berries, but those darn leaves were making me crazy. I played around, lifted off, darkened them, lifted that off, and then finally got one leaf the way I wanted it.


In between I made dinner, of course, but it was all I could do not to go back to the art room. My husband was sweet.  He kept saying, "I don't know what you think is wrong with it. I think it's nice. It has an Asian feel to it and it looks good."

Of course, the pictures I had taken made the background look much more yellow than the actual painting, so I was concerned he wouldn't like it as much when he saw it. Why do I care, right?

I am embarrassed to admit it, but I always need approval for my paintings. Even if I like them, I want other people to tell me they like them too. It's childish, I admit it, but I am just learning to paint and so I feel like my feet are off balance and that I am not in control.  Probably that is wonderful for me, as I rarely feel inadequate or unworthy. (Of course, that was a joke. I was making an allusion to Wayne's World, the first movie.)

Step Six - The finished painting

As you can see, the final painting has a lot of yellow in the background, as I decided that I wanted something warmer and also a little dramatic. I left the center of the painting with a little whitish area so that it would sort of glow, and I darkened the bird, lightened the berries, put some gold over the leaves so that they seemed to have light coming through the way it does at dusk. The actual painting is a little lighter than this shot, but the background is a developing sunset.

My last little touch was the Chinese symbol for 'bird'. I added it because it felt like an Asian painting when I finished and I wanted to carry that through.  I can say that I really do like this painting and I think I will probably frame it and hang it in the house somewhere unless one of the kids wants it. It has a nice feel to it and it is warm and... Ridgefield-y. (My town.) This scene could be from my backyard.

My thought of the week: Paint what you love and you'll love what you paint.

Jean Nicolet... one of my great grandfathers who turns out to be a famous explorer

There was a family myth about the French Canadian brothers who first came to Quebec in the 1600's.  It claimed that they landed in Quebec, grabbed some Native American women, and started our family line. Of course, the family name was Guay by the time it was my mother's maiden name and the story wasn't true. But there was one ancestor who fathered that line who did come from France and take a Nipissing maiden as his own. She bore a child for him, who became one of my great grandmothers.

The crazy thing is that his name was Jean Nicolet, and although he was not as well known as Samuel Champlain or Marquette, after about 200 years Wisconsin 'discovered' him.  Yes, he became quite famous as the first European to visit what is now Wisconsin, so famous, in fact, that there are paintings of him in the Governor's office and a statue recently moved to a park near Green Bay.

He lived with the Nipissing nation, which was a small tribe at the time, near Lake Nipissing for eight years.  Champlain had sent him there to enhance the fur trading business and to learn their language so that he could be an interpreter. It is said that he learned all the survival skills from the tribe, but there was one element of his education that was neglected.  Although he traveled by canoe thousands of miles, he could not swim. He drowned in 1942 because of it.

My great grandfather Jean was quite a noble man from all accounts, so much so that school children helped raise some of the money for that bronze statue that glorifies his contribution to history. The Jesuits also wrote about him, they had some of his memoir material although most of it was lost overboard (while in a canoe). He is quite famous in Quebec as well, I should add, and he was known as one of the good guys.

This painting depicts him in a Chinese embroidered damask gown that he donned as a way to impress a tribe (Winnegago) he had been told was ferocious. Thinking they might be from another race - from the descriptions of other Native Americans - he thought they might be from Asia. He was looking for the northwest passage for Champlain, remember. Hence, the robe and the two pistols - which he discharged to show his 'power' - seemed to be sufficient to create the show he intended. It seems this scene is often re-enacted in Wisconsin Public Schools, much the same way the Pilgrim story is re-enacted in Massachusetts, where I lived part of my childhood.

I am not sure if my great grandmother, known as Nipissing maiden or Giizis with a very long last name - BAHMAHMAAADJIMOWIN, which probably translated to 'daughter of so and so' - also called Jeanne, died or her relationship with Jean Nicolet faded when he returned to Quebec. Their daughter Euphonsie-Madeleine Nicolet, aka Euphrodie-Madeleine, was born around 1628, but she later joined her father in the City. She married Jean LeBlanc, a Frenchman, when she was 15 (legal marriage age for girls in those days was 12 but for boys it was 14) in 1643. There was a terrible shortage of French women for the Frenchmen who were there, so I am sure she had other offers as well. Her step-mother, Marguerite Couillard, was a Frenchwoman who married her father in 1637.

Of course, I have tried many times to find this Native American ancestor, as many family myths are based on truth.  I was sure this one was. Of course, as it has been 13 generations, I am about 2/10ths of a percent Native American on that line. Not a lot I suppose, but still exciting to know that I now have three ancestors who were Native American. One from the Mayflower Days, which is just about the same number of generations ago, so maybe I am closer to a half a percent Native American, and another from the New Amsterdam era.  The other rumor was we were from the Mi'kmaq tribe also on the French Canadian side, but that one I cannot verify yet.

The odd thing is that initially when North America was settled by Europeans, the French preferred a chubby type and a Native American woman was  valuable woman as she could withstand the elements and knew how to survive.Of course, once the Native Americans introduced the settlers to popcorn in the late 1630's, they should have realized the Europeans would eventually take everything else they had of value. I mean, what would the world be like without popcorn?

Well, I'll write more about this later. It is just interesting to realize that I am different than I thought I was this morning. I have a lot of research to do on this great grandfather.  I have found almost 300 historical references to him and several biographies.