The Light

"Go toward the Light", "The Light at the end of the tunnel", "I saw the Light"... we've heard the phrases. For a moment I thought "I think gratitude is the light". But then I really started thinking about it. The Light can represent hope, faith, peace, rest, inspiration... but gratitude? On further reflection I concluded that gratitude is actually when we act whether the Light will be there or not.

Heavenly Chair

Heavenly Chair was a request from my dear husband. It is his anniversary gift. He loves his banjo and on this particular trip to see his mother he took it and played for her, and for the deer who gather on her lawn. He set the banjo down and realized how lovely it looked it in the morning light. I love that he has an eye for beauty, composition, and design. Happy Anniversary Love!

Sit a Spell...

... Take your shoes off... Y'all come back now, here?

I love the porch on a house. I wish we could all slow down enough to take our evenings off, go out on the porch, sit a spell, take our shoes off, talk to our neighbors and children, and all come back again tomorrow night. While we are making so many advances in our society, I am sorry to see so many advantages being lost. 

Green Green Grass of Home

It never ceases to amaze me how following the rules actually works. There were certain elements here that just felt so wrong. I just kept following the rules anyway, and sure enough, the grass became grass behind the railing, the dirt became dirt, the leaves came forward but stayed behind the railing, and the railing bent in all the right places. It's not until after we follow the rules that we can know of a surety that the rules are right.

Ghostly Dream

For the past couple of weeks I've been itching to do a charcoal drawing.  I've done several in the past and always enjoyed it, although it's not my primary medium. I'm definitely not as good at drawing as I am at painting, but charcoal drawing is definitely my favorite in that medium.

Last night I had a dream that I had done a charcoal drawing. It was so real that when I woke up I wasn't sure if I'd actually done it or not. I decided my subconscious we telling me it was definitely time to do one.

This is not the finished product, but I liked the ghostly surrealism at this stage so I decided to share it. It kind of goes along with the feeling of fall that is in the air.

Chaps

Growing up I always wanted my own pair of chaps. My dad never went riding without his and in my mind they were what made you a real cowboy. Until my son was in Fourth Grade I'd only ever heard that word pronounced /sh/aps - like shag. But then his teacher pronounced it /ch/aps - like it is spelled - like when your lips are dry. He tried correcting her and she told him he was wrong. Well, no one told my son that his knowledge of cowboying was wrong, so he had me go talk to her. I set her straight in a very gentle and diplomatic way - by telling her that's how my dad always said it. Since then I've heard other actual cowboys pronounce it the same way she did. So now I'm curious... is it a tomayto/tomahto kind of thing? Or is someone out there saying it wrong?

Rusted

The Rusted Truck

There’s a time in our life when we pass
what’s in front — those blocking our way
in the hurry of youth.
Motor flat out, foot heavy on pedal,
tires flaunt tread, freedom thrums in the night,
and sleek curves of chrome… shimmer.

Then comes the time when we hesitate —
maybe passing or maybe not,
when journey triumphs destination.
Grit rests on floorboards ‘round
hard knocks from difficult roads.
Features of youth still present, but fading
like romance in maturity … a savoring.

Next is the time when we stay in the slow lane,
just travel down roads that feel more like home.
The color of paint takes on a whimsy
as holes in the floorboard start small.
Rust scabs on wounds of scratches and dents
that heal into scars … of miles gone by.

Finally, the time comes to rest in a field,
respected for aging, and still in one piece.
Patina like velvet infused with the natural,
mirrors gone, oil clogged, seat worn,
fractures in glass dim like cataracts and,
dreams die in weeds by the barnyard.

Stories forgotten of travel and living —
regrets and decisions that landed us here.
Then off in the distance an artist approaches
who pauses and captures, in paint, what she sees.

This poem was written by Debra Simmons in response to my painting "Rusted III". We were paired randomly as author and artist for the Word and Image Project for the Hoffman Center for the Arts in Manzanita, Oregon. I feel that she was able to put in to words the thoughts I had when I first saw the truck. I knew that there were so many stories in all that rust, if only it could speak and tell them to me. I really appreciate the opportunity to work with her and look forward to more shared experiences. 

Sunday Dinner

Good Intentions

There was so much horseradish
in the cocktail sauce that
we couldn’t eat the crab…
my favorite.

Stray ashes from cigarettes
mingle with parsley and paprika
on crusty potatoes topped with cheese
and corn on the cob slathered in butter.

A spent matchstick hangs
on the old china platter
holding a brown crispy pork roast
bound up in white string.

The cake slips sideways
like Tommy’s toupee,
husband number seven,
as they pour themselves another drink.

My parents exchange looks
of disgust, then depart.
Such was Sunday dinner
at Grandma’s house.

This poem was written by Debra Simmons. She and I were paired randomly together for the Word and Image Project at the Hoffman Center for the Arts in Manzanita, Oregon. My painting is in response to her poem. She also wrote a poem in response to "Rusted III" that I will share tomorrow. This was a great experience and challenged both of us in many ways. The greatest reward was the newfound friendship we created in being paired together. As we met and discussed each other's work we found that we shared many past experiences, outlooks on life, and artistic styles. I don't believe in coincidence and am grateful that we were brought together. I look forward to future inspirations that will come my way.

Tacky, Tacky, Tacky

This painting is bringing back all kinds of memories. I used to love to hang out in the tack shed. I loved the smell of leather and dry horse sweat that clung to the saddle blankets. I can still smell it. If I thought I wouldn't get caught I'd sit on the saddles that were resting on the saddle horses. Running my hands along the long leather reins I would imagine myself the cowgirl heroine in a herd of stampeding cattle. Oh the places I would go in that tack shed...