Jodi Hills

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


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Partager.



Of course we had done it with our toys. Our halloween candy. It was transactional and it made sense, this emptying of pockets and putting on the front stairs to distribute with neighborhood girls. A thing for a thing. But everything changed the first day of kindergarten at Washington Elementary. When Mrs. Strand said we were going to “share with the class,” a rustling through pockets and Trapper Keepers could be heard. Were we supposed to bring something? Worried and empty stooped, I sat in panic. 

It didn’t turn out to be a thing at all. It was a verbal exchange of our summers. (No one referred to it as summer vacation, because we had yet to do something to vacation from.) When we knew the drill, oh, weren’t our pockets once again full! We spoke of lakes and bicycles. Softball games and skinned knees. Bugs and porch lamps and moms calling for dinner. We had so much to share. 

I suppose I haven’t stopped since. The thrill of the exchange has never left. 

Moving to France, there was so much uncertainty. Not knowing the culture, the language. Even the color palette was different. There was, I must admit, a lot of “pocket checking.” Did I have anything to offer? 

I first heard the word at the dining table. I offered Charles a large piece of a cake that I had made. It was the last piece. He looked at me and asked, “Partager” (did I want to share?) I did. Everything. 

I began painting those around me. The world around me. Immersed myself in the palette of Provence. My heart is full. There is so much to share. 

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Kind of special.

Ever since Erma Bombeck told my mother (along with her million other readers) to burn the candles, I, too, have tried not to “save for something special,” but instead see it in the very moment.

As a practice, it has become so much easier through the years. Trying to remove the judgement of “deserving,” — because this is an impossible standard. Taking out the worthiness, and exchanging it for gratitude, works a little better for me. Maybe I deserve the two new brushes I bought the other day, but thinking that way makes me hesitate. Should I wait for the special painting? Is my panel worth? Am I worthy? That’s dangerous territory, especially if the answer is yes. Instead, yesterday, I pulled off the plastic cover, felt the new smooth of ready, and smiled, feeling lucky that I did indeed have a new brush and a free afternoon — this in itself was “something special!”  

I began Erma-ing my way across the panel. Is it newsworthy? Again, not for me to decide. I only mention it because it felt, you know, kind of special. 

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Loosely.

As an exercise in keeping things loose, I will often take a panel or canvas, and just begin. No plan. No sketch. No references. No schedule, nor constraint. And holding my brush at the very end, which nearly disappears any grip whatsoever, I begin painting. 

I must admit, my hands have been much more willing than my brain or heart. (Oh, they like to hold on — as if they had control.) But in most of life’s creations, be it art or love, it’s the setting free that seems to gather the most in. The loss of judgement. The forgetting of shoulds and supposed-tos. This willingness to wander in what could be, while it can be somewhat uncomfortable, it can also be surprising, delightful even!  Still, it’s not a guarantee, but without the tight grip, it doesn’t need to be. When it works, oh, how it works, and when it doesn’t, I am not trapped, nor tied. 

And my hands don’t seem to tire of offering the lesson. They almost apear excited to give my heart a resting from the lead. “Looka here” they say as they dance across the page. And I am suddenly back in the kitchen with my mother, as she pulls me in by the waist and elbows her leading arm to mine, giving me the gentle push to know when to back up, to forget control, to simply love being part of the dance. And that love, that has never been in my grasp, has always stayed beside me.

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Being Lifted.

I suppose you could track everything back. Starting with sketches in my bedside Big Chief notebook. To Mr. Opsahl’s art class in Washington Elementary. But to be honest. I didn’t have grandiose plans for it all. I was just trying to stave off a Sunday night homework worry. Or brighten a school day afternoon. But that’s the thing about steps, the smallest of ones, even when you’re not aware, they’re still lifting you.

This little pink bird was the first in my sketchbook. I had no idea how many it would lead to. How they would transform into something larger. But the intent was there — Noting here I can’t rise above. And somewhere, within this attempt to rise, I was gracefully being lifted.

And that little pink bird crescendoed into this 5’ portrait of a woman ready, willing, to take flight. And I’d like to think, if this tiny little bird could do that, that maybe I, we, could do the same. I guess it all comes down to taking that first step.

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A heart so warm.

It has happened twice in the last week. Women seemingly from my imagination arrive on canvas, only to be recognized and loved by complete strangers. 

I posted her on TikTok yesterday when I finished painting her. The reply came from another country. She said she loved my art and thought my portraits were very elegant. But she loved this woman more than any other because she saw her best friend’s mother. She said it looked exactly like her. She missed her and “it made her heart feel so warm.” 

The thing is, we just don’t know. We don’t know who is going through what. We can’t know what everyone needs. But I think if we keep putting things out there — smiles, waves, kind words, thoughts, flowers from the garden, portraits from our imaginations, love from our hearts — it will be good for someone at some point, and in turn, better for all of us.

With my also warmed heart, I will return to the canvas today, and it will arrive, right on time.

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The H is silent.

After learning they had actual names other than grandma and grandpa, nothing really surprised me. And Hvezda, no less. Other than our family, no one could spell it or even say it properly. The H was silent. The most confusing part, I suppose, was that my last name also began with an H — Hills. My grandma had the best answer. When I asked her why her H didn’t have a sound and mine did she simply said, “I was saving it for you.”

It’s all those silent sacrifices of those that come before us. Those who lay the path so that we can travel a little easier. Are we still doing it? Holding the light so that others can shine? I hope so.

I mention it because I’m living in a country where they say neither H nor S, and half my name disappears. But when I paint the portraits of Charles and Margaux, I think, I guess I was saving it for you.

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Go outside.

By my best estimation, I would say there was a hundred degree span (0 – 100°F) in which we were told to go outside. A span which could in fact lengthen depending on our attitudes.  

Before the last bit of Captain Crunch was slurped from the bowl. Long before the school bus was to arrive. Or the sun of summer’s vacation. My mother would say “Goodbye. I love you. Have a nice day,” and it was clear that I was the one meant to leave. And for the next twelve hours or so, I spent the day outside. We all did. 

Perhaps we had been sold on the fact that all good things were outside. They used it as a reward in school, so of course it worked at home. We lived it. We loved it. It was the great reveal of the sun. There were no boundaries. Imagination, even love, couldn’t reach a limit. And believe me, we dared it — with the pedaling of bikes on gravel, the abandonment of those same bikes in ditches, barefooted and unsure of what lay beneath, we raced, willing sunburned legs to spin one more time around bases or vacant lots. 

It’s self imposed now. But I can still hear the call, the direction. You could label it as discipline, give it the fancy words of adulthood. But what brings me to the door each morning, what carries me to test the day’s limits are still the same words, “Goodbye. I love you. Have a nice day.”

And so it begins. 

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Par Cœur.

She doesn’t know it yet. There will be no documentation of her younger years. No photos, but for this blurry black and white on her grandma’s stairs. But she’s watching. She’s tucking the words up sleeves before dreaming. She’s filling her heart with what was, what wasn’t, what could actually be… And she will write her own story. Daily. She will paint her own portrait, without reference — by heart. 

Always. Everything by heart.

Note: It’s not an accident that this morning, merely hours after finishing my self portrait of youth, I received confirmation in my French lesson. The new phrase of the day was par cœur — meaning “by heart.” I smile, wondering how long she had that tucked up her sleeve.

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Met with chatter.

I have an understanding with the Magpies. A crust of baguette from the kitchen window. Not the shiny object they are accused of coveting, but well lit for certain, under the summer sun of Provence. The exchange is met with chatter, and somehow we both know what feeds our soul.

This constant craving that keeps me returning to the studio — to paint again, for the first time — is me, magpie-ing that feeling. To find the face in the new portrait is to find a bit of myself. To dare going past that first stroke. To dare as well the letting go.  All in search of the crust that feeds me. 

The light in Provence is like no other. Perhaps I was unprepared at first, for this great reveal. (Are we ever prepared to really see things?) On the ledge outside the studio, I can view the colors I don’t even remember painting. Like a lost memory in the heart that says, “Oh, I’m ready to shine.” That is willing and able to admit that I’m not just black and white, but blue. To show it all is to risk it all. But I, like the Magpie, have come to brave the creak of the handle. The clank of the window opening. All for the taste of a slip of lavender honey on no ordinary crust of bread. 

The light is calling. My heart chatters — I will not refuse. 


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Unexpected Lilies


Before there were air conditioned cabs on tractors, there was my grandfather and a lone tree left in the field. It provided much needed shade. A respite from the heat, and even navigation beneath the blinding rays. 

They still surprise me, these unexpected trees. From Minnesota, to the south of France. And maybe even more so now, because they may no longer serve the practical, but still, they serve a need. Because even in all the comfort available, a little reminder is always welcomed. 

He came home with a bouquet of lilies on a Wednesday. Unexpected lilies. Love can still surprise me. And find a way to grow. 

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