Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…


by Leave a comment

Being Born.


“America is my country, and Paris is my home town.”
― Gertrude Stein

I started discovering myself long before I moved to France. My mother saw to that.It wasn’t so much that we went on vacation when I was young. But we did travel. With neither plan nor map, we drove. When we stopped for gas, my mother placed one foot out the door. By the time the second foot landed she would say yes or no. This was not a judgement so much as a choice. And not whether she would actually fit in this place, but whether she wanted to. Visiting nearly all of the states, I won’t give you the list of “no”s. There were hard yesses throughout the country, but the easiest of these came in New England. One small, elegant, cultured town after another. Streets lined with freshly painted houses. Groomed lawns. High fashion behind screen door porches. Lobster on paper plates. Accessible luxury that not only agreed with her, but was her. I don’t know why we love what we love. I’m not even sure it really matters. I guess the most important thing is knowing when your are in the middle of love’s embrace. When your feet stop and say, “we’re here!” When your heart beats louder than any reservation your brain can come up with. When you don’t just feel alive, but you feel the fresh warmth of being born, again and again. When the only word is yes.


I have a recipe for bread. I can make it in a cocotte (a cast iron French oven), or I can make baguettes. Same ingredients, but different taste. I can’t tell you why it’s true, but only that we love it. When the scent rises with the morning sun, I am my mother’s daughter, driving on paved streets of the familiar unknown. I am still my country, but I am home. I slice the steaming baguette, add the butter and honey, raise it to my mouth, and say, “yes!” 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Apron Strings.


I’m not saying it’s where “the brave dare not go,” but to take on a sewing project does require a certain amount of will on my part. I suppose it’s why I keep my grandma’s photo beside the sewing machine. For her it came naturally, or had to. It was at the Husqvarna shop next to Jerry’s Jack and Jill where she first showed off her skills to me, using words like serger, bias and basting. We ate toasted marshmallows from the recent grocery store purchase while the sales clerk tried to keep up. I knew I was in the presence of greatness. Nothing tastes sweeter than that. 

My mother could sew just as well. But she didn’t have anything fancy. Her machine was an oversized gray metal that sat inside her closet. She had to wind the bobbins by hand. There was barely room for two of us inside, but I needed to be near. If she used sewing terms, they were in her head. There was no space for flair, but I could feel it. Again, I stood in the presence of greatness. 

I am forever a proponent of using what you have to get what you need. So yesterday, I made an apron for painting in the studio. That’s not the whole truth. It was much more than that. I first rummaged through my old canvas tarp. Found a piece large enough to make a pattern. Cut it out. Took the plastic cover off my machine. (Took out the handbook — it had been a while.) Followed the instructions to wind the bobbin. To thread the machine. Hemmed each side of the apron. Ironed it. I had nothing for apron strings, perhaps the most important part. My husband found old belts from martial arts uniforms worn by the children. Perfection. My needle unthreaded twice while sewing them on, but who was I to quit? — quitting is not the string to which I will always be tied. 

Soon it will be covered in paint. And get more beautiful every day. 

When I say “use what you have,” of course I mean material on shelves and thread in drawers, but mostly, I suppose, it’s using the strength I have been shown, and the love that I’ve been given — nothing greater than that.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Someone who sang.

When I think about the countless times I have sung exuberantly into my own fist, (reaching those certainly standing in the back row), it’s not really a stretch that I would put a bird into a French outfit and give him a microphone. 

Who is to say what is your Grammy, what is your Louvre? The other day a young woman recognized my painting of her grandpa out of a sea of Tik Tok photos, and I was hung beside the greatest in Paris. These lives we’re creating are limitless.  

When I first met our neighbor she asked if I was a singer. Without hesitation I said yes. Don’t I sing all the time? It never occurred to me that she meant professionally. (Whatever that means.) After getting to know each other, it became clear to her that I wasn’t a “singer,” but someone who sang. I shrugged and held up my fisted microphone for her to join in. Now she is a singer too.

When asked what they would like their super power to be, most people will say they would love to fly. The closest I’ve found is to let myself become —become a baker, a poet, a singer, a lover, a painter. While I sit in front of the canvas, fueled by homemade bread and the song that is playing, the bird appears and I am all of these, and I begin to fly. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Letting her know.

I watched her at the kitchen table in complete fascination as she snapped open the yellow containers, L & R. She wet her fingers with the solution and placed the tiny disc between her thumb and middle finger, rubbing them clean perhaps, but more likely, I thought, working up the courage to place it in her eye. I held my breath as she balanced it now, her hand slowly rising. With her left hand she held her eye open, bringing the other closer and closer. Of course they had made her do it at the eye clinic, but this was her first solo flight at home. Would she do it? Could she do it? She blinked furiously, leaving her right hand under her chin in case a catch would be needed. But it stayed. Her blinking slowed. She smiled and I smiled. Holding in our victory lap as she plucked the other from its case and placed it. I blinked along in solidarity and cheered with both arms raised. She was my hero. My astronaut. My ever “I’ll go first, but I’ll never leave you behind.” I always made sure that she knew how I saw her. 

I suppose I’m still doing that. Daily. 

In the blink of an eye, it was all gone. That table. That house. But not the love. That remains. And I will always let her know. 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Little things.

It being a Thursday, and not a holiday. Not a before or an after, it may not seem like a big deal. But as I wander through my grandparents’ “deals,” it would be hard to label any of them as big, but certainly they were all grand. 

I’m reminded as I pull out the smallest of brushes, to make the fine details. Each one turning the previous broad strokes into something special. How the slightest move turns the mood of a face — that piercing thought into a heart warming soon to be smile. 

I suppose the grand gesture would have been to take us to DisneyWorld. Valley Fair. But my grandma didn’t take me to those places. I do recall one evening, dusk really. My only meaning of dusk was just as the lonesome set in, and I longed to go home. And my meaning of home was of course, my mother. Such a powerful feeling. Undeniable. My grandma didn’t fight it. Didn’t make me feel ashamed. She led me to the car. Put her giant purse on my lap (our version of seatbelts), and we headed back to town. It was the smallest of moves, this shift from R to D, but I could feel the change in my heart. As the fields rolled by the window, she asked me to look for some candy in her purse. My soon to be smile arrived — she still loved me. And I was saved.

It’s always the little things that make the biggest of deals.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Current murk.

It was almost a relief after the first scratch. Oh, the pressure of white tennies from Iverson’s shoes. I tiptoed from bus to class to preserve. And then maybe one day, guard down, laughing over a passed note from the back seat, leaning over a nothing that could be funnier, blocking the aisle of the bus, someone less interested in the joke and more concerned about getting off, stepped through the glee onto my new shoe and marked it with a rub of black urgency. Once the shock wore off, so did the pressure, and the outside rain no longer seemed a challenge. 

When I hopped from the final step onto Van Dyke Road, I could see them — all the puddles that gravel will allow. Grownups complained, why wasn’t it paved already. But in this land of 10,000 lakes, our sweet dirt road added more than a few extra. And didn’t the name itself sound like an invitation — puddle…. And so I did, I puddled my way up the drive. 

Not to be outdone, my socks were as wet as my shoes as I stripped my feet in the garage entry. There was a small line strung from the ceiling to hang the well traveled. I walked from the outlines of my damp bubble toes on the cement, and went victorious into the house. 

I’m reading Gertrude Stein. She writes, “ You are so afraid of losing your moral sense that you are not willing to take it through anything more dangerous than a mud-puddle. ” I know I was brave on Van Dyke Road. I must be braver still. We all must be. This current murk that we find ourselves in, more than a puddle for sure,  we must brave our way through. Daily. The moral compass is strong. It calls to the heart well traveled, “Come.” 

My heart is well traveled.
Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Ivy League.

It wasn’t until university that I studied the Renaissance. And to be more accurate, we studied the Renaissance Man. I cringe at that now. Not only because we only studied men, but because we didn’t question it. I didn’t question it. And this being my first year at a liberal arts college, in the midst of fulfilling the requirements, taking science and math and English and art history, wasn’t I actually living it? And not having come from a generation of “you can be anything you want,” it might be surprising to think that somehow I still saw the possibilities. I still believed in them.

I didn’t have the words for it then, but I hear them now. Neil deGrasse Tyson tells us, “Most humans who could ever exist, never will. And so the fact you exist at all, is against stupefying odds of who gets born and who does not. Realizing this, you are you. I am me. We are alive. We get to die. And to get to die means you get to live. Any moment you spend squandering those moments you are alive, does disrespect to all those who will never even be born.”

I suppose it’s within this respect that I eat the bread that I made for breakfast. I play fashion show in the garden. I put together the weed wacker in the garage. I paint a bird in my studio while listening to music. I write a story. I read a book. This won’t get me studied in Ivy League universities. (But if you know me, you know the “Ivy League I admire most anyway.) I’m not even sure that it makes me interesting, but it does keep me interested, and that’s the most important thing. I am interested in still learning. In becoming. In not disrespecting all of those that got me here. In not “squandering” my moments. I am here. We are here! We get to be alive. I still see all the possibilities.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Between bloom and song.

It’s ridiculous I suppose. It’s just a shoelace peeking out of a closet door. But in my head, I hear, “I’m ready whenever you are. We’re going to have a great walk today.”

It’s true, we hear what we want to hear. And by giving things voice, I give myself a voice. So I wake up and answer yes to my shoelaces, along with the day. I talk to the trees and the birds. And somewhere between bloom and song, I wonder if they too are doing the same thing. When they see me opening the morning door, I wonder if they hear, I hope they hear, “I’m ready whenever you are.” 

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Leaving Belarus.



He could see me eyeing the small frame. I already had one on hold behind his desk at the Emmaus location. Emmaus is the equivalent of a Salvation Army or Goodwill. Most of the employees are those that need the aid of these donations the most. Between our two accents, it was hard to figure out what the actual price was. As we wandered through our attempts, a conversation began. He was from Belarus. He seemed delighted that I was from America. The more we learned about each other, the less I hesitated with the purchase. Soon I settled on “pourquoi pas” — why not!? And I went home, not only with an extra frame, but a story to tell.

And isn’t that what art is, an exchange of stories? For that matter, I suppose that’s what life is.

Yesterday, I cut the small piece of panel to fit the frame. I gessoed. Underpainted. Sketched. Then began to paint the tiny bird. As it appeared, I had to smile, because it wasn’t just coming to France, it was leaving Belarus. He was leaving Belarus. 

We are not the same. But we are all connected. And that’s nothing to be feared, but celebrated. I tell this to the tiny bird, who replies, “Yes, chef!” 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Number Twelve.

When I paint someone, I have to find the entry point. The empathy. I have never played hockey. And since my fifth grade Valentine’s skating party at Noonan’s Park (when the whip was cracked and I broke my arm) I haven’t spent a lot of time on the ice. But this is her love, and that’s how she wanted her portrait. 

They are a hockey family for sure. Donned in red and black from rink to bench, their passion would seemingly melt such a block. They gather in “sometimes victory” and “always attempt.” In pure love, for the sport, sure, but mostly I think, for each other. And this is where I find my way in. This is where my hands understand my heart, and I paint. 

As she skates to team with all of her friends, swirling on ice to build a connection to glide for years, I paint. Wanting to be a part of that. Wanting to stay connected. Cheering from another country, no skates in sight, I am part of a hockey family too. 

Even behind this gated face, and this wrinkled jersey, I know this number twelve. I celebrate this Charly! And we all glide together.

#12

Shop Now!