Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: January 2023


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The V in my voilà!

I suppose there’s an art to everything, and a Google page to go along with it. I was watching a video on how to create a better product photograph. I was intrigued because he said you could create beautiful photos without spending a lot of money on professional cameras, lighting, backdrops, etc. The key was to create texture and depth. I know there are apps to make everything. Dump your product onto the screen and voilà! But true to form, I wanted to be the depth in my photo – the v in my voilà!

I had just finished making the side table/foot stool out of a stump in our yard. Never had I sanded so much. Sanded and sanded. Until I was not just touching the wood, it was touching me. Then I stained it. Got the hand truck and hauled it into our library. Now for the backdrop. “You’ll be surprised to know,” he said on the video, “you already have one of the best backdrops, and it’s in your kitchen.” A baking sheet. A used one of course. And this I had. With the life of every croissant, cookie and loaf of bread that I had baked. I used paper to reflect the natural sunlight coming through the French doors. And, well, voilà!

I write about daring to embrace the beauty of all the imperfect lives around you, what better way to display it? Today, if you’re taking a photo, or just glancing in the mirror, don’t forget to see the the beauty in the imperfections — don’t forget to be your own V!

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Sofly, gently, joyfully.

My mother loved to dance. And she had the gams to prove it. Every Saturday night at the Glenwood Ballroom, her size 10’s glided across the polished wooden floor. Her heart knew the word to every song and easily instructed her feet.

She taught me how to do the same in our kitchen. Rugs kicked aside. Music turned high. She would always lead. I’d watch her eyes. Feel for the ever so slight movement of her hand against mine. And soon we were in the living room. Down the hall. Spinning. Through the bedroom. Back in the kitchen. Never pushed. Always led. With movements so graceful. So subtle. There wasn’t a difference between my hand in hers, or when I let go. I see now that that was the true gift. The ever gift.

There is no difference between the two pictures I have posted. Different times. Different countries. Sure. But for me, in both, I am being led, softly, gently, joyfully, oh so joyfully in the dance.

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Lending a hand.

We all do it. Slow down to look. And I’m guilty of it. Staring at this “traffic accident” called my brain. Replaying it over and over in my head. And you can honk all you want. I even try to honk myself out of it… but there I sit.  Silly brain.  

I have the tools. Literally and figuratively. Yesterday, I had the sense to use them. For over three hours I lent my brain a hand. Gave it a break. I started stretching canvas. To measure the wood. Cut it. Square it. Glue it. Nail it. Size the canvas. Stretch it. Staple it. You have to focus. (Eyes forward. Hands at 10 and 2, as it were.)  And what a relief. What a sweet and glorious respite to let my hands take over. 

I thought of this just as I was typing – when you buy something from a “maker,” you get so much more than a product. You get a piece of their life, and all the lives that have touched them. The baker. The poet. The sculptor. The painter. The builder. All will give the tangled and twisted bits of their heart.

Maybe today I will let my mind wander down a new path, and start painting on one of those canvases. The window rolled down on this open road of creativity. Breeze in my hair, radio tuned to my favorite song, the journey continues. Let’s ride.

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The Promise.

There is a plot device known as Chekhov’s Gun. The famous playwright states that if you introduce a gun in the first act, it better go off by the third. In other words, don’t make promises that you don’t intend to keep.

Perhaps the hardest promises to hold sacred are the ones we make to ourselves. I am asked again and again – how… How do you keep writing? How do you keep painting? What inspires you? What motivates you? I’m flattered that people think I may hold some secret. I don’t. What I do hold, is something close to my heart, a promise I made long ago, not to waste my time. Not to waste my gifts. (And I used to be afraid to use that word — gift — as if it were bragging. Quite the contrary. Gifts deserve full recognition – gratitude. What better way to give thanks than to acknowledge them. Use them.)

I was given an empty frame in my first act, and I made a promise then and there, age five, to fill it. So I do, daily. With words and paint, and heart.

There are no rules to say that we have to enjoy our lives. No regulations that say we have to accomplish our goals. No patrols to say that we have to act like it matters, that it all matters. But then there’s the heart. The heart that says to your brain, “You promised…”

** Photo is opening from my book, “astonish.”

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Before the doing.

The scariest part of doing something, anything really, is always before the doing. Once you are doing it, you’re doing it! Time, energy, thought, are all put toward the action itself.

I love to paint dancers. For me, they symbolize the transition from complete vulnerability to pure beauty. Now, I suppose that can be said about every form of artistry — singing, painting, acting, playing — and perhaps the most artistic (and surely most vulnerable act of all) — to love. And it is easy to see the beauty of those in mid dance, of the completed painting, the lovers in love, but what I want to capture is the beauty of the pre-dance. The beauty in the vulnerability. The bravery, just before you let yourself go. Because I think if we allow ourselves to see that this too is beautiful, we won’t be so afraid of it. We won’t get stopped before we even begin.

And so I paint the dancers, pre-dance. A gift I want to give to all of the little boys and girls that dance around the world, and the one that still fumbles around in my heart.

Be brave, you dancers, and painters, you musicians and builders, you teachers and lovers. Let’s be beautiful! Let’s dare the daily dance!

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Being wren.

I always find it surprising when people are shocked by “celebrities” passing. (Not to mention being shocked by who people think ARE celebrities.)

The eagle and the wren are living in the same sky. I don’t imagine one envies the other. “Look at how big and strong they are. They could survive anything. They are so lucky!” “Look at how quick and small they are! They could flee or hide from any situation. They are so lucky!” It sounds funny to imagine. But we do the same thing every day, with people. Full of envy for their situation. |Boy, if I had their money, I’d be happy.” “If I had their job, I’d be happy.” “Their life must be so easy!” So in want of their eagleness, we forget the joy of being wren.

Of course I’ve been guilty of it all. And it’s not out of great humility that I say I want to enjoy the small things. No, just the opposite. I don’t want anything to seem small. Because it isn’t really. The little things of every day turn out to be what matters most of all. We are all under the same sky, trying to have a good day. What could be more important than that? Who could be more special than the people we love?

As I flit and flutter through the coming day, I only ask for the wisdom to see it — the beauty within wing’s reach.

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Music’s permission.

If you don’t believe in souls, you probably just haven’t listened to the right music yet.

There were four of us. We only had enough money for two tickets. And barely that. We knew the bartender who worked the bar across the street from the State Theatre in Minneapolis. He let us drink water for free in the corner booth. Two of us went to the first half of the Lyle Lovett concert. While the other two waited anxiously to switch at intermission. 

Oh how we loved his music. They hadn’t even labeled him yet as “alternative” — we weren’t looking for labels then, only experiences. We loved his music. It was different. Accepting. Stories that made you laugh. Feel. Glorious stories that were played loud and clear at the Loring cafe. Combined with too much coffee, we drank in each song and hopped from used velvet sofas to bursting overstuffed chairs, and we began creating our own stories. It was youth. It was permission.

Driving home from Marseille yesterday we were stuck in traffic. Our travel time tripled. I turned up Lyle’s Road to Ensenada. Even Dominique knows all the words. (I’ve played it before.) We sang loudly. No longer trapped, but transported. To Louisiana. Alabama. Texas. Open free flowing roads of love and heartbreak and laughter and youth. Words tangled and twisted in different directions — telling the familiar stories in the most unique ways. And there was no time. Only permission — permission for our souls to travel, to feel!  To be free!

John Prine puts me on the back of a motorcycle. Lucinda Williams in Lake Pontchartrain. Madeleine Peyroux strolls me through Paris. Paul Simon vacations me everywhere with Dominique. Frank Sinatra rests me on Sunday afternoons with my mother. I believe in souls. I’ve heard mine sing – “sings, how it rings in my ears…” 

Turn it up, my friends! Take your soul for a ride.

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From rack to mirror.

I often tell the story of the first time Dominique went with my mom and I to Herberger’s. Upon entering the back door, it started — the meet and greet. There’s Jessica from shoes. Hi Jessica! Sue in bras. “The last one fits great!” Oh there’s Carol. “Thanks for the boxes!” “This is the manager,” my mom pointed out. “Oh, hi Claudia — we’ll need to pre-order the Clinique.” Dominique seemed dazed and confused. He whispered in my ear, “I don’t understand?” What? I said – it all seeming so normal. “Is your mom the mayor?” He asked. “Of Herberger’s,” I said, “Yes!”

Some of my best memories are in dressing rooms. Whether it was me, or a complete stranger (of course only upon their urging), my mother was there to help. She would stand just behind your shoulder. Look with you in the three way mirror. And with your very best interests at heart, she would say, “I think we can do better.” And then she was with you – to the very end – from rack to mirror and back again. Until it was just right. No abandonings. Only truth. Only support. Until it was completely beautiful.

I have been told that these sweet memories will someday turn from pain to comfort, and then to complete joy. And I believe it. I have to believe it because I’ve seen it from every angle. This three-way reflection of truth, support and beauty.

I look in this morning’s mirror and smile because I can hear it…I can hear her… “We can do better. We will do better.” She is with me. And it is beautiful!


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To be honest.

Sometimes the morning gives you a wink. As we usually do, we were saving the planet over toast and coffee this morning. The entire world seems to be mixed up in one lie or another. We talked about the value of truth. We used to value it, didn’t we? The truth? When did we decide that “Oh, everybody does it?” and that makes it ok?

Yesterday, on the phone with a bank in the US, I was driven to tears. Relentless questions, even about the status of my mother’s life. When she started to laugh at my obvious tears, she continued – “Well, there’s so much fraud, we have to ask about everything…”

It seems like the shine is wearing off of the golden rule. We can say anything at any time. Without regard to the truth. Without regard to humanity.

We pondered it all and finished our honeyed toast. I went upstairs to start my daily French lesson on my computer. Each day there is a new subject. I clicked the screen. It read, “être honnête” (to be honest). I laughed out loud. It still matters. It all still matters. The truth. Our connections. Our humanity. Let’s begin again.

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The patience chair.


I had never restored or recovered chairs before moving to France. I had never done a lot of things. But maybe that was the first thing I had to learn — learn to no longer say “I never do that,” and replace it with, “I haven’t done that yet.”

Patience is another thing…I’m still working on that one daily. When painting on fabric, after the paint dries (this is key) you need to set the paint. I do this by ironing the piece, then washing the fabric in really hot water. Then another soak in fabric softener, and another pass with the iron. When making the cover for this chair, it sounds silly now, but I was impatient. There were other places to sit in the house, sure, but I wanted it done. I skipped the ironing, didn’t wait a full 24 hours for it to dry, put it in the wash basin, and voila – I ended up with a bucket of brown water and a faceless canvas.

I hung it outside on the clothes line. And took some deep breaths. What I ended up with, after painting it again, was something I liked a great deal better. I love this face. This chair. My patience chair.

It’s funny what we get in a rush to do. And I want to be patient. With feelings. With others. Even with myself. Would that it were all so easy to “hang out on the line.” But I’m trying. Maybe we all could try a little harder (or softer) to let things just be… give it a minute and see…and start again…

This day is brand new. I haven’t done any of it — yet! I brush past the cool crisp sheets of it all, waving in the morning breeze. Let’s begin. Softly.

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