Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: a movable feast


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A good hang.

They hovered on the wall at the museum just a few kilometers from our home. Somewhere between art and fashion. And in the three pieces I could see myself, my mom and my friend. Bloused from within, I walked out in the comfort, the beauty, the style, the glorious art of friendship. 

And I suppose, that’s what it is, love, friendship, this ability to see yourself with someone. I wrote once, “I really like who I am with you.” 

“I really like who I am with you…

I hope that doesn’t sound bad to say…

I mean it more as a compliment to you, more of a “thank you” really.

You free me to be this person who laughs and

cries and feels and enjoys and loves.

What a relief to be myself,

without performing, or worrying…

just being and becoming who I am…

That’s some gift…

I hope I’m returning it…

because you know what,

I really like who you are with me.”

It’s the opening of my “friend” book. And it wasn’t lost on me, as I stood in front of the three art pieces, there in black and white, that my book was as well. And maybe it can be that simple, a good hang, a good friendship, to simply like each other, to tell each other, often, it’s great to be your friend.

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Apron up!

Unlike her delicious pastries, most of my grandma’s ideas outside the kitchen were, as one might say, half-baked.

Even the successes that she served were a little hard to understand. They were given names that I didn’t realize were made up until in later years trying to Google a recipe. And if there were in fact recipes, they were never followed. When asked, she would laugh and puff the flour from hand to aproned belly and say, “Oh, I started in the middle.”

Not really understanding, I still found it unconventionally delightful. As were the chinchillas in the basement. The Publisher’s Clearing house magazines spread across the table. The various plots of land underwater or undeveloped purchased from a roadside gas station. The grab bags from Ben Franklin. The constant thrill of simply playing, neither winning nor losing, just in the game.

In front of my newest sketchbook, I understand. I never start at the first page. I always begin somewhere in the middle — where the pressure is off, only the joy of being in it. I’m trying to allow myself more of that freedom in my day to day. Not worrying about what was or what will be, just allowing, just being… aproning up and dancing in the kitchen.

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Choosing my market.

We went to market yesterday. We bought a few plants and flowers. Bouquet in hand, wearing my mother’s top, they both felt, not like trophies, but certainly signs of my good fortune, as I stepped lightly through the streets of Aix en Provence.

It’s because of her that I held the belief for so long. It wasn’t until last year that I learned (I don’t want to say truth) the alternative meaning to “this little piggy went to market.” From the time she pinched each of my toes with the verse, throughout our days of wandering all of the Dales, it had been about shopping. Never the horrors of the butcher.

Not to say we didn’t live in the truth. Oh, the truth was very apparent and ever near.  But it was more of a decision, I suppose, of choosing how to see the day. How to see this life. Choosing my market.

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The squirming memory.

There was a time when “hold still” meant something unpleasant was going to happen. A shot from the doctor. A peering dentist. The brushing of tangled hair. Even the application of unwanted socks. 

I can’t say the moment it changed. It could have been gradual. But as with most things that turn with time, it felt sudden. And without my knowledge or permission, I often begin sentences with “Wasn’t I just…” 

And as I struggle to hold still the squirming memories of loves passed, I have to laugh and acknowledge, that I was never one to do it. And in the recognition, I think, maybe we are never meant to stop any of it, but simply keep dancing through. All of it. Partnering with the comfort and the uncomfortable — the warmth of sitting in mother’s lap as she wrestles through the nest of your hair.

Time continues to change meaning and tempo, but love remains, not still, but strong. So I keep dancing…

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Checking yes.

I’ve always loved paper. Even before the freedoms of learning to ride a bicycle and then a car, there was something so liberating about the writing of words. The clarity of question, thought, and answer, right there at the end of a #2. We all knew it. I suppose that’s why we passed the notes in class. All feelings could be declared or denied, with the simple checking of a box. Do you like him?  Check yes or no. Where are you going after school? Check practice or Hardees. 

Maybe it’s why I continue to write — a simple checking of yes to the day. It’s still so powerful and clear. A way to remember. A way to forget. A letting in and a letting go. Simply with words. 

My #2 is often replaced electronically. But it will never replace the feeling of holding it in my hands. The questions. The hopes. Dreams. The story. 

When I tell you mine, and then you share yours, it is the pedaling of banana seat bikes and wind in our hair. It is the release of laughter ridden into. It is an open car window on a summer’s road, releasing music from an AM radio – KDWB 63. It is the exclamation point of a giant X that goes beyond the edges of the yes box. 

Humans were made to connect. I ask myself daily — Can we do this? Can we do this together? Can we feel the freedoms of connection? I know my answer. Are you checking yes or no? 

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I see.

I washed the windows in the studio recently, reminding myself that in order to paint the light, you really need to be in it. 

People will always be quick to tell you what to do. Even knee deep in the mud, they will advise you on your path. While all the scattering of their “should-haves” and “supposed-tos” merely block the way. And doubt, not one to miss a dim light, will often seize the opportunity and join in the chatter. And so I turn…

I can’t say I love to wash windows. It is work. And the efforts are never rewarded with longevity. You know it going in, this won’t be the last time. But when it hits you, wraps itself around you, nearly lifting with clarity and grace, as sure as a mother’s embrace, my heart says (with no apology for the pun),  “aaaaah, I see….” 

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To Chickadee


I could tell she was so excited to be surrounded by all the birds. Standing in my studio she said, (in French) “You know what my last name means…” To be honest, I didn’t even know what her last name was. “C’est Mésange.” (As if that helped.) She pointed to one of the birds on canvas, and looked up on her phone. “Chickadee?” I said. She looked at her phone, Yes, yes, yes. She beamed. Her name meant Chickadee.


I never have any idea what will connect us. But I do know this. People will find themselves, and in turn, you will find them. 

It was always the blouse for my mother. Yesterday, the purse in the painting for my friend Sheila. And with each reveal, I learn a little bit more about those around me, just by seeing what they see. 

I suppose we’ve been saying it forever. A mile in someone else’s shoes. But I wonder if we’re still doing it…making the journey from Mésange to Chickadee.

I flutter to hope so.

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Something!

A painting will dictate what it wants for a frame. Or some will not need one at all. But once in a while, the sequence reverses, and I will paint an image for a frame. That’s what happened with this little one. It was alone in the thrift store. Empty. But not for long.

To see a need and fill it, before the asking, it’s nice within my artistic world, but my sincere hope is that I can do it in real life. With real people.

I was told once that when someone near you is going through a difficult time, you should never ask them “What can I do?” Of course it is well intended, but now you’ve only added to the situation – given them another problem to solve – how you can help. It’s never easy, or a sure thing, but I suppose the best thing is to just do something. It may not be the thing to solve the problem, but doing something nice can never be wrong. And you can always do another thing. 

In that spirit, I’ve painted several small pieces for this frame. They can always be switched out. Mostly it serves as a reminder for me to just keep doing. Keep trying. And I’m not going to lie, it simply feels good. It fills me at the same time as the frame. So I smile and point the question, not outwardly, but inwardly, “What can I do?” And I do something. And that should be celebrated.

It’s Grandma Elsie’s voice I hear. When I sold my first original painting, I told her about the gallery, the people, the price. She clapped her hands in front of her heart and said, “Isn’t that something?!!!!!!”

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Momentary wings.

She stood in front of the original painting. Tracing the movement from the woman’s feet to her hand. “She’s so light,” she said, “it’s like she’s being lifted.” I smiled and replied “That’s actually the name of the piece — Being Lifted.” Her pleasure doubled. It was not only the view, but that she could see it. 

And isn’t it always the way. It’s what we bring to the situation. How we want to see things.

Knowing her, I’m aware of the weight she is wanting to release. And the fact that she can see it, right there in front of her, I know that she will. 

It’s why I painted her in the first place. This release. This letting go. I suppose I’ve always wanted it. Ever since I swam out to the diving board on Lake Latoka, I have yearned to fly. Since I felt the weightlessness of springing from the board. The wind in my feathers. My momentary wings. They carry me still. 

It’s why I stand before her each night, the woman in the painting. Because I see her. And I know, when morning comes, one way or another, I am going to fly. 

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The stoop.

As a child, sometimes more than once a day, I would have to gather and push all of my swirling thoughts out the front door of our house on Van Dyke Road. It was there on that cement stoop that they could breathe. All of my hopes and plans. My dreams and curiosities. They felt free, like summer toes in green, dew-damp grass. They tumbled without spotters. They grew without restriction. Voices were given to dolls and animals. I planted my future in Hugo’s field. Dared my existence in the North End. Outraced my worry over popping gravel behind my banana seat bike. And in all that release, I felt complete. Full. 

I still try to allow the space for the swirling. Letting it loose on canvas and paper. Roaming up the hills of the Montaiguet. Splashing in the pool. I don’t think any of it was meant to be contained. Not imagination. Certainly not love. So I give it space. Room to tumble. And on the stoop of all that feeling, all of that letting go, I am saved. 

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