Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: art


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Maybe even to become.

I had read my way through the Golden Books on the bottom shelf, and was advancing to the next level of Olson’s Super Market book section. No longer crouched on my knees, I immediately felt more grown up as I reached at heart’s height and arm’s length. This selection went beyond the stories of Snow White and leaned into the more complex tales of Rose Red (her less famous sister.) I had to sound out the larger titles. Pan – do – ra’s Box. My mother was filling the cart from the generic sections of the aisles when I tugged at her blouse, trying to get her to explain. She put the book in the safety of the child area of the cart. As I whined for brands like Chef Boyardee, she pointed to the book, and I was more than willing to make the sacrifice. 

The man in the store apron carried the bags to the car and placed them in the back seat of our Chevy Impala. My chubby thighs stuck to the seat on the drive home. No seat belt required, I easily grabbed the book from the rear before we reached Van Dyke Road. 

“I don’t get it,” I said as my mother came back for the second paper sack in the driveway. “Read it again,” she said. I did, and one more time on the front steps. Still puzzled, I took it in the kitchen. “I thought curiosity was a good thing…” I said. “It is,” she said. What else could she say? Hadn’t we dreamed a life beyond this gravel on countless Sunday afternoons? Hadn’t we continued to dare things like love and hope? I could see her going through the list in her head as she reached opened each cupboard. She could see me outlining my own heart in worry. That box had long been opened. “You go ahead and Pandora all you want,” she said. 

Maybe I never did get the meaning. Maybe I jumped too quickly to the second shelf. I still do that. Nothing comes without risk. But the greatest experiences I have ever had have come from taking the chance. Of course problems come along with it, but the rewards… well beyond heart level. 

Maya Angelou wrote, “Curiosity wants to behold, to comprehend, maybe even to become.”  And isn’t that what I, we, want — to keep becoming. I fling open the morning window and lean into the possibility of maybe even me. 

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A better view.

I finished the book Pachinko yesterday. When I went for my walk in the afternoon, I started listening to a podcast about the World Creative Director of Disney. He began the interview by saying that if you have read the book Pachinko, you would understand his history. (Sometimes the universe is quite obvious in letting you know you’re on the right path.) There was no one else around, so I smiled to the birds in the sky, thinking surely they, too, must feel a part of it all.

I don’t know that I really believe in coincidence. I think the more we put ourselves out there, the more vulnerable we are, the more we connect. All of this knowledge, this exposure to others, to books, and art, and music and science and creation — perhaps these are the feathers that lift us. The wings that give us a better view. 

It was a joyful walk. It seemed to pass more quickly than usual. I remember smiling, but I don’t recall the ground beneath my feet. 

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Sandwiches.

It is said that John Steinbeck had a writing ritual with Blackwing pencils. In order to not waste time while he was in the middle of writing, he would sharpen 24 pencils and place them tip side up in a pencil box. Next to it would be the same box, but empty. He would take the first pencil and write until it became dull, place it in the empty box tip down, and take the next sharpened pencil. His advice, “Repeat this, until you have the Grapes of Wrath.” 

I laughed when I heard it. I laugh when I tell it. But the truth is, that’s really what it comes down to, simply doing the process again and again. I suppose it’s true for everything. How do you get to Carnegie Hall?  Practice, practice, practice.  I can’t say that I will write the next epic novel, or hang in the Louvre, but I want to be the best that I can be. To get better each day — this I suppose is my gathering of Grapes. My ritual of art. My daily practice. Some may say that is simple, and I’m fine with that.

She wrote a comment on a post featuring my Grandpa. She said she always admired him. That he was kind. That my Grandma brought them sandwiches. That times were simple – but she could see, feel the love in that. (And that was the greatest compliment, I suppose.) 

So I use my pencils. I clean my brushes. I write and paint and post my “sandwiches.” 

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Just ride.

I have raved through the years about my banana seat bike — the flowers on the seat and basket that could have been delivered from the “Laugh In” set by Goldie Hawn herself. The brightest of pinks, yellows and blues that brightened the gray transition of the end of March, when I received it for my birthday. But I didn’t get there directly from my red tricycle. There was another bike. In between. It looked almost homemade. Perhaps it had been Frankensteined from neighborhood parts gathered in the back shed. It was gray and white. The pedals almost worn down to the stub. It only blurred into the gravel that I was learning upon. Dropped and abandoned in ditches, it still was the one that took me to the brightened glory of the banana seat.

And just as forgettable, I suppose, was the three speed black bike from Sears that in-betweened my banana seat and my electric blue 10-speed. And didn’t I park that bike in the furthest rack away from the playground at Washington Elementary? Not quite ashamed, but close enough that it pangs my heart still.

Maybe it takes awhile to see the value of the things that get us through. It’s easy to celebrate the milestones and forget the random Sundays. Our city is mostly shut down today because of an Iron Man competition. I can lose these hours pedaling feverishly toward Monday, or I can choose to enjoy them as the gift given. I hope I do. I’m going to try. These are the words I’m learning upon.

Just ride.
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Wing deep.

I can’t tell you how or why I started painting French birds. No more, I suppose, than I can remember the first time my mother said, “Let’s go shopping.” Some things just take on a life of their own. And now I joyfully find myself wing deep in berets and stripes. 

Maybe it’s the unlikeliness of it all. We had no money, and not much of a mall. No history passed down from my grandmother. No gps in our car. No google – no computer even. Just the pure desire to dress our way into lives we knew our hearts were already living. So we gassed up the used Malibu and wore a path on I-94. Passing fields and billboards as if winged ourselves. And we found ourselves at the Dales. Ridgedale, Southdale, Brookdale even, when something just needed to be found. 

I see it now more clearly. How we fit striped tops over our wings and found our way. Found ourselves. 

Here in France, because my mother dared the freeway, I find myself in front of my sketchbook, and I am not lost, but ever wing deep in joy. 

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No restraint.

It’s one of those things, hard to define, but you know it when you see it, when you see them, people at ease, comfortable in their being. The lack of tension in the body. I saw it in my grandfather, the leaning in. My grandmother, the letting out. I continuously try to paint this feeling. Mostly to remind myself — a reminder not to carry, to strain or keep. What I need will flutter in. What I don’t will fly away. And there is beauty in both. 

Visiting our relatives in Kansas City, I experienced something special with the music. Maybe it’s the way with jazz. This letting in, and letting go. A lovely freedom. Not confined by paper or recording, but simply played — for the first time, and perhaps the only. And to hear that, a sound that simply rests on shoulders for but a moment, you feel a magic that was never meant to be contained. 

I suppose it’s the same with love. With life. This letting in and letting go, with the grace of no restraint. No protection. When I remember this, I release, I relax, and let the music play. 

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Face.

It’s not like I forget that I’m in France, but sometimes, I’m more reminded than others. Yesterday, sitting in on Dominique’s appointment, for a good five to ten minutes, I listened to him and his doctor talk about their extraordinary love of cheese. It was quite obvious I was no longer in Minnesota. 

I suppose it was at that moment that the bird in my brain took flight. 

If we’re lucky, we’re told quite often in our younger years that “you could be anything.” But maybe not so much with the “anywhere.” Perhaps that stems from the human fear of “others.” But I’ve never been sure why that’s so frightening. Because it’s only in the labeling of them being other that we in fact become one. 

And as my bird fluttered above all things cheese, I thought, I really like butter. I wondered if they could hear the laughter in my head above the flapping. 

Looking for a free page in my sketchbook, I came across the bird in flight that I had sketched in pencil. It could have been anyone’s dream, but it was hers. I don’t have to know her story, to celebrate the fact that she has a story. Be it butter or cheese, I just had to see her. See the hope disguised as the glint of light that reflects from the used-to-be tear. See the dream of flight not long perched on her beautiful head, soon to be mid-flap. And know that we belong. We. All. 

“And if you did, see not just my face, but all that I have faced, and if I did that for you…”

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Trilling!

I suppose we set ourselves up for it, the scrutiny, wearing berets and earth shoes in the high school band in Minnesota. I mean, I’m sure we would have heard the snickers just for being in the band alone, but somehow, we found ourselves immune to the mockery. Maybe we were off balance in those backwards leaning shoes, but we embraced it. Even the complicated unmemorized sheet music was no match for our confidence. When all else failed, clarinet in hand, I would simply trill (the rapid alteration between two notes).  The music sang from my feet through my beret. And I guess it came from our leader, Christy, (no mister needed). After all, he said, it was music, it was supposed to be fun!

I never dreamed then, in the stale smell of gymnasium sweat, feet sticking to bleacher floor, that I would one day find myself living in France. And, just like then, I suppose, I set myself up daily for the scrutiny, simply by opening my mouth. Some days are harder than others, but I lean back into my shoes and feel the music. You can make fun of my accent, or my height, or my country of origin, but I won’t hear you over the trill!  

Let’s have some fun!

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The loudest voice.

We took out our tri-fold mats and were told to lie down. Most of us were tired from the morning at Washington Elementary, but there was always someone who wouldn’t go down without a fight. He began testing Mrs. Strand by beating his hands against the mat. I turned my head away. Then he began with his feet. I sighed heavily. Mrs. Strand turned from the chalkboard to give him the raised eyebrows look. Still he kept on. I suppose I was too tired, but my eyes were always the first to betray me. I wasn’t sad, yet the tears began to flow. She walked atop our sea of mats like a holy person, first picking up the boy by his t-shirt and then placing him in the corner, smirked face first. She tapped me on my dampened shoulder asking why the tears. “It’s just all too loud,” I said between breaths. She tapped me on my heart and said, this must always be the loudest voice in the room. 

Chaos can still throw me, and I have to remind myself. I have the skills now. The self care. To quiet all the noises around us, I know I can paint. I can write. I can go for a walk. Read a book. Bake a batch of cookies. Play fashion show. Listen to my heart. Of all the things I learned in kindergarten, this has proven to be the most useful.

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Flipping the canvas.

Sometimes, when painting a portrait, you can get stuck. The image isn’t exactly right, but you can’t see why. A trick that many artists use is to simply flip the canvas. It breaks the autopilot of the brain and you can actually see the shapes more clearly. You can get the chin just right, or the angle of that brow. It slows you down and you can see everything in a new light. 

How I try to remember that lesson for real life — when the universe kicks my feet from underneath and I tumble topsy turvy. It’s hard to see the benefits immediately, but once I gather myself, I have to think, oh, perhaps it was time for a new perspective. I, we, can get so accustomed to “how things are.” To shake us out of the “well, that’s how we do things…” and the “well, that’s how I feel,” and into a new vision, a better way of seeing, living, sometimes it takes our world turning upside down. 

I guess it’s all part of this delightful journey. This jungle gym.  So if you see me, feet in the air, don’t worry, I’m just getting a better view. 

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