Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: March 2022


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We have to make it.

I was trying to print something out from the computer. I hadn’t been in France that long. Everything was new. Even things I didn’t know would be new. I printed the picture again and again. Off center. Checked my computer. It was centered. Printed again. Nope. Not good. What was happening? I examined the printer. The computer. Then the paper. What was wrong with it? I stared at the paper. Wait. Something was different. I took out a ruler. This was not 8 1/2 x 11. No. Just a tiny bit different. A little longer. A little less wide. The paper was different. I had no idea. I would have to make a new file. A new life. See things differently.

I’m currently working on some new prints for my line. I brought back a few samples from my publisher in the US. I wanted to frame them. I forgot. Just as with the paper – the standard sizes for all the frames are just a little different too. Frustrated, I told my husband, “Look, nothing fits…” So simply, so easily, he said, “We have to make it.” No matter how you say that, interpret that – he’s right. We do have to make it. My heart smiled. My hands began to work. Joyfully.

One of the prints is entitled Oxford. In it, I’m trying to find the meaning for words that we need, now more than ever — And someday, maybe we will all understand words like love, and trust, and forgiveness…acceptance, equality, freedom, joy, and hope. Today’s world is so very frightening. It is changing every day. But we have to make it. If we don’t have the meaning now, for words like love, words like peace, we have to make it. We have to make it. And we can, with hearts and hands at work – joyfully – even when nothing seems to fit – we can, we will, we must – make it!

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Stay connected.

My mother has had the same phone number as long as I can remember. Oh, there have been slight variations. The full number remains the same, but in the beginning we used to only dial the last five digits. Years later, kicking and screaming, we had to dial 7 digits. Then, if out of town, the full 7, along with the 3 numbers of the area code. 

I laugh when I think of how tragic we thought each move was. How would we ever survive???? We did.

It’s amazing how many things, through these many years, I have thought would be unsurvivable, unbearable, unforgivable. And yet…

Even though most circumstances move from the unforgettable to the forgettable – I try to pull them up once in a while, when I’m in the middle of a difficult time. Not to dwell, but to learn, to comfort even. Look, I say, you made it through this, and I pull up the memory like a five digit number. And when things get really hard, I can reach as far as 10. And I survived. We survived. We will make it through this day as well. 

It’s good to remember that you are never alone. Someone, somewhere, has gone through and survived what you are dealing with today. And sometimes, that someone, is you. Don’t ever forget how strong you are.


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Little lamb.

Margaux got her first ipad. She’s only 11. Still a little lamb. She adores art. She fell in love with my ipad (middle aged when I got my first one). She loves to draw using the Procreate app. It’s a wonderful application to be sure. I use it. Millions do. And maybe this is where my hesitation comes from. The millions. The sheep. 

I want for her to embrace all technology. All that the future holds. Progress is good. Yes. But there is so much more. 

The pencil sharpeners we had in school hung at the front of the class at Washington Elementary. Right beside the door. Silver. Heavy duty. Bolted into the wall. The handle made for anxious little lamb arms to circle round and round with all their sweaty might – to achieve that fine point, fit for cursive writing, for cursive drawing. And it was something to go to the front of the class. To step away from the flock and make your own point. We didn’t have words for it then, but it was probably our first risk, our first chance, to bravely stand alone with our Number Two pencil, and prepare to create.

I’m thrilled that Margaux has an ipad. How lucky! But I’m still going to be the one to show her the open fields of paper, and pencils and paint. Of freshly cut wood. Sanded. Of gessoed canvas and stick drawings in the sand. Gently push her to the open door, with tools sharpened, mind and heart wide open. Cheering all the while, as this little lamb is on her way.

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Shiny black and blue.

When it comes to reading, I suppose I am a bit of a magpie – chasing after the words – grabbing, feeding off of them like shiny objects. They are all so beautiful. I want to gather them in my little nest of daily stories. 

There was a woman in our home town. She picked through the garbage cans of main street. This was long – long before it was cool. Long before people made Youtube videos of treasures found. She was alone in her picking, and we made fun of her. Not to her face, but I can see now that doesn’t really matter. I can blame youth. Inexperience. But now that I see… I have no more excuses. 

When you first look at a Magpie, you think you know, well, of course – it’s black and white. But when you really look – I mean really – you see the blacks are not just black, but so many shades of blue – maybe brown eyes – maybe a hint of green in the changing light. I paint them now and discover all that I haven’t seen. 

Her name was Bernice — this woman who had the courage to search for treasures in our home town. I see her now, so black she is blue – such a beautiful blue. And I thank her for giving me a chance to really see. A chance to wonder about what else I am missing. A chance to search for the shiny objects, hidden in plain sight. And so I read, and I write, and I paint, and I fly! Singing thanks to the Magpies, thanks to Bernice.

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Scribble.

I bought a postcard at MOMA in New York. It had been marked down twice. Two red stickers. Priced at one quarter. Twenty five cents for a postcard from Cezanne’s sketchbook. Nobody cared. I did. I stood in line and brought it back with me to his homeland. 

I draw and paint in my sketchbook every day. Does it matter? I suppose it’s all in how you define the word matter. Will people stand in line to buy it? No. But does it give me great joy? Yes! Does it improve my skills? I think so. So for me, it matters a great deal! 

The sketches on Cezanne’s postcard are of his young son. I can’t say why exactly, but the images reminded me of my cousin Brent. Not the likeness really, but the halt in the becoming. I will never know what became of that young boy on the postcard. Nor for my cousin. Brent’s life was cut short in a construction accident, when he was barely in his 20’s — just a baby really. When I think of myself at 20, I didn’t even know who I was – who I would become. What a thing it is to be cut short. What a blessing it is to live another day. And then another! 

To honor these days, I will stand in line for a twenty-five cent postcard. I will remember a cousin I barely got to know. I will paint images that most will not see. I will write words and act like it all matters – because it does! My life, your life, a scribbling on today’s page, forever a work of art.


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Worth a second look.

The first time we went to Lafayette, a few years ago, we didn’t really like the city. To be fair, we didn’t really see it. We lost a tire (we found it, as it rolled past our moving rental car) and spent the afternoon at the gas station. By the time it was finished, we asked the station attendant, where was the city center. He seemed baffled and said, “I think we’re in it.”  Banking this as truth, we drove on. 

Just before arriving in Lafayette this year, I asked Dominique, “Have we been here before?” We relived the runaway tire story and laughed. We both decided, “Not really.” In the daylight this time, we could see all the signage urging us to try the boudin balls. We love trying local food. Winding our way through the barriers set up for the Mardis Gras parade, we stumbled upon a small restaurant that said, “still open.” We ordered the pride of Lafayette – the boudin – not really in a ball, but more of a sausage – and it was delicious. We started to really see Lafayette. We went to an antique shop. They had real antiques, not Chinese remakes. We browsed slowly, thoughtfully, wishing we had more room in our suitcases. We visited with the owner. He was delighted we were visiting from France. We praised his store. Offered our apologies for not being able to buy anything because of the travel. He went into the back room. Came back with little packets. “I want you to have these.” They were flower seeds. Almost weightless, but for the meaning. “Plant them when you get back, then you will have a part of us there.”

Lafayette in the light of day. In the light of the people. Beautiful. We really saw it. 

It is springtime now in the south of France. Soon we will plant these flower seeds, and get a second look (or third) at Lafayette. And I suppose that is what spring is all about – giving us a second look, another chance. Another chance to see the beauty that this world holds. The weight of this! The importance! I don’t want to miss a thing!

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O’Keeffe and Ukraine.

I’m currently reading the book, “The Other Side of the Painting,” by Wendy Rodrigue. An accomplished art historian, she is also the wife of George Rodrigue, the Louisiana artist widely known for his Blue Dog series.  I have never really been a fan of his work, so you might be curious why I would read this book. I am a fan of Louisiana, the culture, the history, and all things art. She explores in this book, not just her husband’s work, but explores his education, influences, from famous artists to the Cajun culture. All good information. There is one thing though, that I don’t agree with, that stops me long enough to write this, and that is his disregard for Georgia O’Keeffe. And it’s a pretty strong disregard — probably more accurately, a dislike. I happen to like her – probably more accurately, really like her. Now, certainly, Georgia O’Keeffe does not need me to come to her defense. She has stood the test of time, her art, her lifestyle. She, in my opinion, and that of most of the artworld, is far more accomplished than George Rodrique, so what does it matter? Why would I bother to voice my opinion, my respect? Why would I stand up for her? Sometimes, I think, what we stand for, says as much about us, as the other person, or the situation. Who we are, as humans, shows through. 

Once again, or still, or on top of, we find ourselves in a global crisis. So in my humble, humble voice, I say that I stand with and for the Ukrainian people. I believe in peace. Humanity. I even believe that the most humble of voices matter. So I stand. I listen. I read. I pray. 

Georgia O’Keeffe writes, “I have been absolutely terrified every moment of my life and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to.” I want to be brave. I want us all to be brave. To believe! To let our humanity shine through. It has to matter. Please, let us stand!


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Before Fleet Farm was cool.


For this to work, one must agree that Fleet Farm is cool now, and I do. But that wasn’t always the case. In its early days, and mine, Fleet Farm was not the megastore that it is today. It was small. Crowded. Dark. Clothes, the few they had, were not displayed, but crammed closet style. They weren’t bought ironically. No hipsters sported Carhart – did we even have hipsters? Fleet Farm looked more like an enclosed garage sale, and people went as far as changing tags on items, as if it were.

Visiting from France, my husband loves Fleet Farm. We have spent hours walking through the aisles. Fishing rods and overalls. Candy. Space to browse. And people ARE browsing. It is a real store.

Perhaps everything looks different from a distance. Oh, things change for sure, but so do our perspectives. I hope they change.

When I was in high school, my mom bought a pair of painter’s pants for me from that very uncool Fleet Farm. Today, most of my pants are “painter’s pants” – in one way or another. I wish I could say I knew Fleet Farm was cool then, but I don’t think I did. I had to learn a lot of things. Still do – by trying to see them. With new eyes. I paint my grandfather, wearing overalls he no doubt bought at that very uncool Fleet Farm. I paint with respect, and an apology for not seeing it, him, sooner. I paint the cows that he raised, the cows that the unpopular kids in FFA (Future Farmers of America) too raised in their fields that no one visited.

I browse this world with new eyes. A new heart. Not to be cool, but to recognize that they are, and really, always were.

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Goose chase.

You really only have to be chased by a goose once to understand, but I was given the lesson repeatedly.

We lived about a mile from town. The road was quiet. People were quiet. The town was even quiet, so I was allowed to walk there alone at a very young age. The only real obstacle was the extended family of Canadian geese that lived on the shores of Lake Agnes. To get to town I had to pass directly by, more often through. And they were never happy about the intrusion. They watched me get closer. Their necks got higher. As I neared I could hear the hissing. Pink tongues rattling, warning, get away! But I had a shiny quarter in my pocket, which could buy a frozen candy bar from Rexall drug – my favorite summer treat – and I wasn’t about to give up. They barricaded the road before the railroad tracks that crossed just before the edge of the town. I could turn around or barrel through. I rubbed the quarter for luck and ran. The hissing rang in my ears. I could feel their breathy beaks so close to my chubby thighs. I ran. And I ran. All the way to Rexall’s. If I had turned around I would have seen they gave up long before I had stopped running. (Perhaps our greatest fears always do.)

Summer was meant for long walks in the sun. I walked to town almost every day, usually without money, often without fear, always happy to make the journey. Life will teach you everything. Sometimes again and again. And I am going to live it with all the chubby thighed enthusiasm of youth!

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A pocket full.

“Tell me what you are thinking,” she would say to me. Nothing I said was crazy or stupid, or even childish, even though I was merely a child. This is one of the best gifts my mother gave me. She listened. 

I was a dreamer. She knew this. Right from the start. She didn’t have money to feed these dreams. Didn’t know the “right people.” But she had something better. She believed in them, me, and allowed them to come to life. “What is it you’re dreaming of?” she asked. I would tell her. And she grabbed the words, as if they lingered in the air, and handed them to me. “Not put it in your pocket,” she’d say. “We always need a dream in our pocket.”

When I got older, we loved to take trips to Chicago. A long weekend would be filled with shopping and walking and museums and coffee and wine and more shopping. On the drive home, we always filled our pockets with what would be the next visit. 

Before leaving for the US last month, I purchased a new sketch book. Just five euros, but something to look forward to. Priceless. In it yesterday I painted a woman’s portrait. I hope you can see it in her eyes – she has a dream in her pocket. And so do I. Always will.