Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: art history


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Now.

I don’t know how she knew. There were no influencers. No self help books. And even if there were, she wouldn’t have had time to read them. She would have laughed at the thought of someone telling her to stay “in the now.” “Where else would I be?” She would have said. 

It was a Saturday evening. Grandma Elsie’s “now” was filled with some pots brewing, others soaking. She shooed me away from the stove into the wafting of Grandpa’s pipe. I followed it into the living room. I didn’t ask, I simply followed the pinstripe of his overalls onto his lap. He perched the pipe away from the top of my blonde head. “You smell like today, “ I said. He raised his eyebrows. It was a combination of sun, and breeze, and hay and earth, topped with just a hint of tobacco. I squeezed the pouch in his pocket, still wanting to touch the end of his pipe, but remembering the heat from the first and last time I touched it. I pulled at the corners of his pierced lips to form a smile. He was still so new. I wanted to know everything. I didn’t have the words for it then, but he, being already formed, I wondered if I could be a part of it. I sculpted his face and flannel like clay, wanting to be somehow connected. I put a thumb on each of his eyebrows and pulled upward. “That means surprise,” I said. He smiled on his own this time, without my pulling, and I knew that we were connected. 

The pans clanked in the kitchen. The coo-coo of the clock stayed silent. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. And we were in it. I’m sure he had thoughts of tomorrow’s farm, but he didn’t stray. He tapped his pipe in the tray beside the lounger. And we gathered in the scented remains of the day.

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Learning.

Getting dropped off was always a production. To be separated from my mother seemed unthinkable to me. Even across Van Dyke Road in the gentle peach of Weiss’s house was just too far. The first visits to my grandparents were excruciating (and you know I loved them dearly). I wrapped myself in the telephone cord line, hoping to get the call of return. Even play dates began with tears. As if the little salty pockets of water would form a stream and carry me back to my mother’s arms. I mention it only to put the following in context — I never cried when being dropped off at school. Even in the uncertainty of my first kindergarten day at Washington Elementary, in my polyester dress, white knee high socks and patent leather shoes, I walked up the entry stairs without looking back. Even before it was proven to be true, school always saved me. 

Through the years, I have had the privilege of going across the country, school district to school district, with my books. From coast to coast, we have stood up against bullying with “I am Amazed.” Promoted self-esteem with “Believe.” Encouraged creativity with “Astonish.” Two days ago I got the message that a school in Canada ordered 100 books of “I’m not too busy.” And once again, I am saved.

The answer for me has been the same since I was five years old — keep learning. Through every trial, every heartache, every wave of uncertainty. Today, once again, I pull up my knee highs, straighten my skirt and climb the stairs. No day is ever the same, but everything is going to be ok. I pull open the heavy doors, without turning back. Step onto the terrazzo floors. And begin again.

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Taking comfort.

New Orleans was hovering between Christmas and Mardi Gras. Purple and gold decorations spilled from the trees onto the walls. We had just arrived in the city, for the fourth time, (though every time in New Orleans joyfully feels like the first), and Dominque wanted to pick up some maps from the city center. It seemed everyone had questions that day, so we stood in line at the counter. The only three people certain of the reason for their visit stood in front of the fireplace in the lobby. She, barely covered in a white sleeveless mini-dress and high heels. He, in flannel and work boots. The priest all in black.

They pledged “forever” in front of the impermanent purples, and seemed to have no idea of those of us touristing through their life changing moment.

It’s happening all the time. Life. Somewhere in that city, under the same purple and gold, they were saying goodbye to a loved one — completely stunned that the world could keep on turning. Someone was being born. Someone was celebrating. Someone was waiting for a bus (not wanting go), watching us unfold a map with expectation.

We’re all traveling through the randomness of each other’s lives. And isn’t it comforting, knowing that we aren’t alone? Couldn’t we have a little more empathy for each other? Be a little more kind? I smile, wandering within love’s purple and gold.

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Reflecting light.

Margaux is a thirteen year old sponge and the daughter of Dominique’s oldest. She joyfully absorbs everything. Notices everything. And I mean the important things. Like new shoes I’m wearing. Or a bracelet. If my French is improving. And I think the thing that is most spectacular, she not only notices it, she mentions it. (If compliments were supplied in the French grocery store, they would be in the “exotic” aisle, bottom shelf.) It’s just not their culture. But Margaux lives in pure Margaux fashion, so when we stepped into the elevator of the parking ramp in Aix, upon seeing her reflection, I said, “Hello, Gorgeous!”  And greeted myself the same way.

She helps me with my French, I help her with her English. But most importantly, we lift each other in the girliest, giggliest, and most joyful of ways. I repeated the phrase, and I told her this is something she must say to the mirror every morning. 

It circled through our rotation as we shopped. Sometimes even directed to Dominique. With her French tongue, it took a little practice, but by the time we returned to the parking ramp, it rolled from her head and heart and into the elevator mirror. And so did the laughter. When we hugged and said our gorgeous goodbyes, we all knew we had stumbled upon something pretty special. 

The next morning, I was awakened by a text. A rare text from her. You can probably guess, but it’s too spectacular not to type — she said — “Hello, Gorgeous!” I clutched my imaginary pearls, as my heart reflected back to me — no mirror necessary. 

Love comes in so many shapes and sizes. Even languages. We must see it. Hear it. Acknowledge it when it comes. And when love’s light reflects and bounces from heart to heart, showing up in smiles and giggles, how could we do anything but look it straight in the face, and say, “Hello, Gorgeous!”

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Ready to swing.

It probably wasn’t obvious, given the size and gender — and the Hvezda boys, these strapping sons of Rueben, these born of the earth, farm raised young men, quite probably held their own in the country school just up the road — but I would have to say that it was my mother on more than one occasion who proved to be strongest. 

And she was tired. She, being the second of nine, and the oldest girl, worked side by side her mother. Washing the continuous dishes. Changing the diapers. Retrieving the dolls thrown up apple trees by brothers endlessly tormenting sisters. Her arms weary from rocking and cradling babies she didn’t choose, but took in, one by one. 

But those arms, that dangled long and heavy by her side, weighted by work, and books, and a metal lunchbox, found the strength to defend her brother Tom, from the endless teasing of Arne Zavadil. He never saw her coming, as he pushed and taunted this young boy struggling with words. He never expected this quiet, arm-weary sister to rise up from the ditch in front of the white school house and swing that metal lunch box with all of might, and flatten him to the ground. She wiped the blood from the lunch box on the grass and walked home to help her mother. 

I don’t imagine Tom thanked her. He still found a way to tease his sisters. But strength untouted is still strength. Without the need for boast or gratification, those who do the work, the endless work, and still show up, these are the strongest of us. The most brave. 

Sometimes, in a moment of weakness, I can wonder if it all matters. Heart and arm weary I wonder if the words on page make a difference. If the paint on canvas is wasted. But then I feel her, walking to school, step by step, and I am stronger. Ready to swing with all of my might. To defend what’s right. To rise up from the ditch and protect the ones I love, even the ones who just hours before “left my favorite doll out in the rain.” I am ready to defend. To rock and cradle. To swing if necessary. To love with a strength undenied.

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A new pageant. 

When giving directions to the nearest Home Depot in Minneapolis, I would have used exits and freeways, but points of reference change, and here, living in France, our favorite lumber yard is just across from where Mary Magdalene is buried. It’s funny how easily that became my new “just off of 494.” 

Our points of reference change constantly. And life can become pretty difficult when we cling to the old normals. And that’s not to say we don’t hold things dear. Everything with my mother I hold dear. Everything. But there is always room for more. I have had to trust a new woman to be my first view as I create a painting. Another to Wordle with. To share a book. A tear. Sweet, sweet laughter. And while 494 is still there, I travel new paths. Create new normals, new what-ifs, new wanders. I get lost for sure, but then something takes hold, and I am in a new pageant, led by Mary to the wood I need to frame my creations. 

The first time my mother and I went to a Home Depot, it was to look for shelving for an upcoming art show. We had just been to the Anthropologie nearby. Still getting high on our own fashion supply, we stood in front of the seemingly endless racks of choice. Fork lift fumes and backward beeps sent us spinning in circles. She looked at me and said, “We’re leaving, aren’t we.” (It wasn’t a question.) Overwhelmed, we sat in the parking lot, and she told me the same thing as when I came home from the children’s Bethesda Christmas pageant practice, once again to play the part of not Mary, but Mary Magdalene — “aaaaah, you’re still in the pageant!” It became our slogan whenever we were feeling lost. We laughed. Hard.  I smile now when I think about how overwhelming it seemed and how easy it became. She is still navigating me through all of my new normals, with a pageantry of love and laughter. 

The Trail.
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In all of this wild. 

I have to admit, (physically and metaphorically) I’m shooting most of my photos in the wind. As I walk along the gravel path, the wildflowers seem to pop up, blooming as proof that it can be done, even in the strongest of winds that race directions through the hills. Some barely petaled, they still have the audacity of hopeful beauty, and I think, if I could just catch them mid sway, it would be like capturing the wind…and if I did, in fact, capture that wind, it would find its way into my heart, spreading limb to limb, and even against all forces of the natural and unnatural, I too, would dance. 

So even as the sun blinds the screen of my phone, I point and shoot, not knowing until much later what will appear. Looking at yesterday’s photos from the comfort of home, I have to swivel in my chair. I smile at the blurred backgrounds — the forgotten hardships — and see the dancing petals. So fragile. So strong. So beautiful. And I smile, knowing today, it just might be me, who flowers in all of this wild. Me, barely petaled, who dances in the wind.

…and so she would dance.
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Tongue to heel. 

There’s something beautiful about a boot at rest. The relaxing of the leather. Even as the lace falls to the side, I can hear the sigh of relief. Was it a job well done? Or simply a break, a breath, before beginning again. From the wearing of the tongue and heel, probably both. 

And I don’t know if it sees me, watching. Does it mistake my admiration for judgement? Is it worried about the dirt that has worked its way into every crevasse? Embarrassed by the toe that clearly has been stubbed repeatedly? All the missteps so on display… If that sounds funny to you, even a little crazy, then good! Because if you think it’s possible for me to see the beauty in the worn and weary boot, and not you, then I’m not conveying the proper message. 

You have to know it makes you interesting, the work and wear of living. I’m not going to paint the boots straight from the box. I want the story. I’m looking for the heart. I hope you can feel it. Indulge me for just a moment. Allow yourself to breathe with the ease of this dangling lace. This lace that has let go. Completely. And if you can do that — just breathe — if you can permit all of your imperfections, and mine, to be part of the beauty, then maybe, maybe joyfully, we will have the strength to continue this beautiful work. From tongue to heel, from tongue to heal, I say that we can.

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On giving.

Maybe it was because my college roommate Kimmie managed to take home, piece by piece, a 12 place setting of dishes from the cafeteria in her purposely bookless backpack. Or maybe it was just because they were so pretty, these little blue hand-made Japanese bowls that were placed in front of us at the restaurant yesterday. But I must admit, there was a split second speck of my brain that wondered if one, or maybe two, would fit inside my purse. I said it out loud, more of a compliment really, and perhaps a way to police my actions. Once they had been filled with soy sauce, the urge subsided, and I enjoyed the meal for the brief and impermanent gift that it was. And the more I think about it, it’s probably why we have the urge for these things. From restaurants or hotels. To keep the precious moments alive. Like the objects could delay or prevent the loss of time.

Stomach and heart full, I left the restaurant with only the items that I brought in. Perhaps as a nod, or a little gift from the universe, when I went for my afternoon walk, the woman on the podcast I was listening to started to talk about how much she loved the mug that her drink came in at the restaurant she visited the night before. I was already laughing, and continued to listen. She told of how on the bottom of the mug it said “If you steal this mug, you will be charged $150.00” I am not alone on this planet. Still wanting it desperately, she asked the waiter if she could simply buy it for the $150.00. He gave her the information to contact the person who actually makes the mugs. Her sense of urgency urged her to ask another waiter, only to get the same response. Even she knew that it sounded crazy, and I knew that it sounded crazy, but oh how delighted I was to listen.

In the end, she ordered from the website as instructed. I mention it only because I think it shows what lengths we will go to in order to connect, to be a part of something, to keep experiences alive. And I smile, because in telling my story, and hers, maybe you think of your own stories, and we do all actually connect. And none of it is by hoarding, but by sharing. Nothing has to be stolen, neither hearts nor moments, because life just keeps on giving.

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No actual monsters.

It shouldn’t come as a shock. I’ve known it from the time I could peek under my own bed. The imagined monsters were never there. Still I had to repeat it in my head — “all of the danger is pretend.” I’m not too proud to say that these words are often rattling through my head, even today. Head under pillow I repeat them until they offer the great reveal. No actual monsters.

I live by imagination. And that’s a good thing. It moves through my heart and my hands. It helps me create paintings and stories. And used as a proper tool, it has given me all the advantages of an extraordinary life. And I wouldn’t change a thing. I feel more deeply. Love more deeply. But within all that, there is the danger of the runaway thought. That one that sneaks away without my knowledge or permission and not only warns, but creates a danger of its own. And all that power of creativity can work its persuasion, luring me head first and upside down from a youthful twin size bed, scanning for ghosts proven wrong, time and time again.

And I have to laugh, even walking on the path, right side up, all that blood can rush to my head, as I repeat the words louder, “all of the danger is pretend.” Over and over until it drowns out the worry, and only the path remains.

Walking in town yesterday, going to the restaurant, she told me of a struggle. “I’m just trying to find my way,” she said. “We all are,” I replied, both of surprised by the other. I suppose everyone thinks the “others” have it all figured out. As it so often happens, when she said it out loud – her worry – we both heard the words, took them in, and started to laugh. Most of the time, those monsters are pretty silly when you take a good look a them in the light of day.

I know many problems are real. The world is filled with them. But the path becomes so much clearer when we can leave the imagined ones behind. I’m working on that. Daily. Head up. Step by step. Word by word. Smile by smile.

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