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….”
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 thought I must be surrounded by the smartest people in the world. Imagine my grandfather, farming, alone. How could he possibly? (And I also had every “W.”) Who tells you what to do? What is that for? Why do you get up so early? When is it finished? To everything he simply answered that he knew. And once I got my arms around the fact that he gathered in all the information, I was still surprised at his discipline. No one told him the hours to keep or to finish that job on that day. I asked him if he let it go until tomorrow, who would know? I would know, he said. I walked in the certainty of his overalls that shadowed a path to an open field.
I asked the same of my grandmother, as she placed the empty bag of toasted marshmallows on the counter to pay at Jerry’s Jack and Jill. Certainly there were no camera’s at Jerry’s. No one even paying attention. Who would know? I asked. I would know, she said. I started to see a pattern.
Without event or occasion, my mother dressed. Put on her make-up. Faced each day with the scrutiny of the unproperly lit bathroom mirror in our basement apartment on Jefferson Street. Even for a driveway toss of the frisbee on a quiet Sunday afternoon. You already know her answer to the question. But no one is going to see us, I said. She smiled behind her lipstick.
It’s an old table. Most would probably say unworthy of the effort. And I just saw the latest influencer praising the inexpensive IKEA table. And it crossed my mind. But it’s the only table I’ve ever had in my studio. So I began filling in the holes. Strengthening the right bottom foot. Sanding. Filling. Resanding. Painting. Sanding. Painting. I love it. Not many will see it. It will be overshadowed by displayed books and paintings. When I move them to do the work, it will be ready. It will feel the weight of wood and canvas. The pinch of clamps and the splattering of unintentional paint. And I will feel special, because I get to know. Not this arrogance of “Oh, I know!” — but it’s what I had been shown, had been living in — the privilege of getting to know, being involved in the truth of the experience. I got to know them… I had the joy, the work, the breathless chasing, the tender tears, the heart in lap resting love of knowing them.
I won’t photograph the table. But I will stand in its certainty.
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?!!!!!!”
This little French bird has raced to the top of my Pinterest stats. He wasn’t blessed with the time and attention of a large canvas. He began as just a small sketch in my book. Probably on an afternoon when that’s all I had to invest.
But here he is — atop the leader board of interest. I love this for two reasons. It tells me even the smallest of gestures can make a difference. During those times when we think we don’t have a lot to give, we can still have purpose and reason and meaning in the smallest of attempts. And most of all, I love that his chubby little imperfections are celebrated with joy. And if we can do this for him, we can do it for each other!
Whatever the day may bring, I urge you to squeeze into the horizontal stripe of it all, with confidence, with joy and with love. I’ll see you there – somewhere near the top!
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.
There was never an event without my mother. Not a book signing. Nor exhibition. A keynote speech. She was there. And not because she showed up that particular day. No. Because she was there at the beginning. She was outside my bedroom door at five to gather in my latest drawing. She framed the earliest poems and hung them by the bathroom mirror for morning inspiration. She walked me through graduation. Helped me clean the first dirty apartment I could afford. Always with a smile, and the hint of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door.
She wore it well. Never overpowering. A slightly floral hint of kindness. Of excitement. Of “I will always be there.”
I keep a bottle on hand. When I walk into my bathroom, there is the scent of possibility. Breathing it in, I can hear the clink of her make-up against the counter. Because in the sound of her getting ready, I could hear the promise of good things to come, and not only did she urge me to believe it, but to Get Ready!
Just a waft will lift me. Ever. Into all the goodness that is right in front of me. That is yet to come. With the smell of hope I feel it. I know it! And I’m ready!
At the moment my two most popular pins on Pinterest are of young women reading. It warms my heart that neither are distracted by the thousands of views and likes. Nor by the news that we are becoming a post-literate world. They can’t be certain of what lies ahead, but they continue. Fighting back, not with fist nor fury, but by simply reading.
There is so much noise currently. But there are things that still give me hope. An open window. An open spine. The quiet exchange of knowledge. Of truth. That you will take the time to read my simple words. And we connect, not over a ranting rage, but a common calm.
I quietly open the morning window. Taking comfort in knowing that hope always whispers.
Lying in front of the television set on a Sunday afternoon at my grandma’s house, I had no idea the amount of times that I would relive the words that she spoke to Dorothy, that she always had the power, the very things she needed…
But I did know that it was magical, as it turned from black and white to color. And each year, as I inched my way closer and closer to the set, pulled relentlessly amid the warnings that I could go blind, somehow, even knowing the script by heart, it all came as a joyful surprise.
I only had to make the slightest of cuts to get the birds to fit into the frame — a frame that was here long before I arrived in France. A frame that I passed over countless times. And then I saw it. Just the other day. I think I could make that fit, I thought. And sure enough, just a little off the sides, a little sanding, and voila! My birds were framed. And Glenda didn’t even have to say it, but I saw her out of the corner of my eye, coiffed and wanded, smiling as she always had. “Oh, Auntie Em, Uncle Henry!” I am home.
We went to the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition yesterday in Aix. Sometimes you need to see things again and again, to see them for the first time.
Of course the actual pieces of art were beautiful. But why were they beautiful? These prostitutes. This windmill. Seeing the actual photos of the women next to what he painted, took my breath away. Not because of what he saw, but wondering if I would have. Would we have seen it, all this beauty, had he not pointed it out repeatedly? And I suppose the same could be said about the Sainte-Victoire, the Cezanne-celebrated mountain also in view. If he hadn’t painted it throughout his life, would it be just another giant rock?
I guess that’s our job. As artists, sure. But as humans. We have to find the beauty. In the most remote places. In the unexpected. And point it out. Again and again. Celebrate it! Until no one can walk by without thinking, that’s really beautiful.
And didn’t my mother do that for me…long before I grew into arms and legs, or heart even. Long before I even checked the mirror, she gave me a reflection of love. Of real beauty. And I felt it. Feel it, to this day.
Because of my grandfather, I can see a field of gold as art. Because of my grandmother, an apron is to be revered.
I started another painting. Maybe this is the one where you see yourself. How lovely you are. I will keep painting until you do.
We can show each other the magnificent ordinary, daily. No ticket required. All admission free. Welcome to the beauty.
