Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: painting


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Picture this.

By the end of the day, I am tired — which is a good thing. It’s a lot to keep one’s house in order. I don’t mean making sure there are no dishes in the sink (Well, of course I mean that too. I hate dirty dishes in the sink) but I mean the bigger picture. The bigger picture for me is working at my craft, painting, writing; learning (oh boy, I have so much to learn, not the least of which, French, and the toughest one, learning each day to be a better human); attending to the needs of those closest to me, which often includes just listening, caring, loving. My big picture might seem small, but it seems to fill my day. I can’t understand how people have the time to police the actions, thoughts, beliefs of others. It seems to me we all have enough to do to keep ourselves in order. How little exists in the life of a person who tries to control someone else?

Now I’m not saying we turn a blind eye to the events around the world. No. Absolutely not. (This for me falls under the being a better human category.) We stand up for what we believe in. But, in my humble, and maybe naive mind, I don’t think standing means knocking down the so-called others. But for one, aren’t we all others?

Being a human. This is something. Overwhelming at times for sure. But when my big picture gets way too big, I try to simply look around. Is there love? Yes. Is there hope? Sure! Is there joy? And how! Is the sink clear? You bet! (or that’s betcha for my Minnesota friends) I grab the nearest sketchbook and paint a pear. I call my mother. I kiss my husband. I take a walk in the sun. More than enough to fill my heart, to fill my day.

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Sometimes she would whisper to her heart. It was usually just this, “yes.”

He began the song in a whisper, Nat King Cole. From the radio he graced our breakfast table. His opening of “Perfidia” was as gentle as the steam that rose from our coffee. “Mujer…” he sang, so softly, but never more clear to our hearts. We left our croissants on the table, and just listened.

In third grade, Mrs. Erickson carried a long stick. She didn’t slam it. She didn’t swing it. She held it. Third graders are not known for sitting still. There is so much to make the eye wander. The birds outside the window. The fidgeting boy in the desk next to you. The note being passed around. The answers on the smart girl’s paper. Mrs. Erickson told us once at the beginning of the school year, “Keep your eyes on your own paper.” She never said the words aloud again. But we knew. If the end of the stick tapped lightly on the front of your desk, or simply pointed in your direction…you looked at your own work.

I can see it now so clearly. She was brilliant. She didn’t need to wave her stick around, because it wasn’t about punishing, it was about teaching. I think she knew that “cheaters” weren’t bad, but simply not confident, not confident in their own work. And her tap, was a reminder, “Look, look right here, you can do this.”

I don’t know if everyone got that. It’s a lesson I’m still learning. Every day. It’s not that I have the want or the opportunity to “steal the answers” from someone else. But I do need a gentle tap, a whisper, to tell me that I can do this. I can do this in my way. In my time. The answers are right in front of me.

This morning Nat King Cole gave us a gentle tap.

I summon the daily courage needed, and I begin. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”

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The unobstructed view.

We pass by the Sainte Victoire mountain almost every day. I can see why artists like Cezanne painted it again and again. Every day it changes colors. The shapes are magnificent from every angle. I want to capture all the variations, but the problem I face is finding the unobstructed view.

There is an angle that is absolutely stunning on the road to Meyreuil. We have pulled over so many times, trying to capture it with different lenses, but something is always in the way. The freeway. The road. The poles – oh, the poles. The poles with their wires. If I want to create the image, I will have to paint it. See beyond the obstructions and paint what I love so dearly.

I’m willing to do that for my art. I hope I’m willing to do that for my life, for the lives of those around me — see beyond the obstructions. And there are many. It’s easy to get lost in the politics, the religion, the language, the color, the age, but I want to see beyond, into the hearts and minds of others, and even myself. Because look, just look at the view, beyond all those poles and wires, it’s pretty amazing! YOU are amazing! Can you see it?!

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Feel like blooming.

There is something to the spring cleaning. The refresh. And it’s probably no surprise that the new Home Edit series was just released on Netflix. I will admit that I am excited by their organization. Inspired to do my own. This, mixed with trees in bloom, the flowers singing along with the birds, I begin.

I am not one who believes I have to buy more things to get my old things in order. No judgements, just me. I’ve always liked shopping my own dwelling. And I do. Frequently. I started with a good clean of the bathroom. Changed out the painting. Changed the postcard. Took the candle that I was gifted for Christmas out of its red container (red wouldn’t do) – put that candle into an appropriate container (a previously used up candle), and lit it, of course. And I picked a small flowering stem from our garden. As we say here, quite loosely I might add, Voila!

There is something quite satisfying about a spring refresh, and I slept well. The next morning, not quite awake, I turned on the bathroom light, and my heart smiled to the tips of my mouth. That, my friends, is refreshing.

I’ve started tackling my office. And it occurred to me, maybe I could do this within, within myself. An edit. Let go of the old feelings I’m not using anymore, the ones just cluttering up space, gathering dust…wouldn’t that be something! And even if it lasted for a day, a season, and I did it again, wouldn’t that, just like the spring birds, give my heart something to sing about! I think so! My inner voices must deserve as much attention as the shelf in my office. And so I begin. The load a little lighter, a little cleaner, in my house, in my heart. I smile, and feel like blooming.

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Heart song.

My mother had just begun piano lessons. Only a little girl. I don’t know how many lessons she had, but not many, and it was in these few moments that this piano teacher (and I loosely use the word teacher, because clearly she was not, as you will see in a second), it was this awful woman that said, not to my grandparents (which would have been bad enough) no, she said it to my mother, this sweet little hopeful fingered girl, she told her, “You’re wasting your parents’ money.” I’m still aghast! What a soul crushing thing to say. Now, my mother may have never become a concert pianist, but we’ll never know. And it was only for her to decide. But she didn’t get that chance. Then.

Most of our children of the world will not become professional athletes, professional singers, or dancers, or painters. But we aren’t raising “professionals,” we are raising humans. Humans with thoughts and hopes and dreams and souls. And it takes a long time to build a soul, filling it with music and movement and kindness and possibilities. And we should never be defined by money (I guess that’s what we are basing the word professional on). We can still be dancers, even if we make our living at the bank. We can be singers if we sing. Painters if we paint. And we get to decide.

It took a long time, but she got there, my mother…After all the tears and questions she realized that only she could decide if her heart was disposable or not…and it wasn’t. It was bruised and possibly even broken at times, but the amazing organ that it was, is, it kept beating, keeping time to her own true rhythm, the beat that would soothe her, save her, and play once again, the lovely heart song that only she could create.

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365 better days.

Practice makes perfect. I guess we heard that in school – though we rarely saw evidence of it. I practiced my clarinet. I missed notes. Often. So did Brenda, beside me. Even Jan, who sat first chair. But oh, how we played! And when our parents stood for us at the end of the spring concert, it was, as they say, perfection.

I went to volleyball practice, daily during the season. We never won a championship. But win or lose, legs stuck to the fake green leather seats of the bus, we sang, “We are the champions!”

I paint in my sketch book every day. I practice. Try new techniques. It doesn’t make me a perfect painter. (I’m not even sure what that would mean.) But it does make me perfectly happy. I feel like I make progress. I feel like I get better. And maybe that’s what the saying should have been all along. Practice makes better.

I have not missed a day writing this blog, not for 365 days. One solid year. That’s a practice. In the play “Rent,” there is a song, “Seasons of love.” In it they sing, “Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes.
How do you measure, measure a year?” I have measured mine in paint strokes, and softball fields, summer vacations and childhood friends. Measured in tears and coffee cups, and hammers and nails, and libraries. In planes and croissants, and hugs, and laughter. Measured in each word I send out to you. Measured in each word you send back to me – and I am better because of it.

The sun is up. I’ve had my croissant with the one I love. Good morning, my beautifully imperfect world! Let’s get to practicing!

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Bus Driver.

It was a big responsibility to get us safely to and from school. They seemed so old, these young men that were usually our bus drivers — law enforcement students at the Tech School in town. Maybe it was the uniform they kept on after class. So authoritative in their beige and brown. They felt like “sirs” when really they were probably 19? Maybe 20? 

I think of them today because of the changing weather. This promise of summer vacation in the air. This need to open windows and doors. To be a part of this air, so fresh, so new! Almost wild (in the best kind of way.) I, we, started feeling it at six years old. Let loose from the doors of Washington Elementary, onto the big buses. We opened windows and let our hair blow against the streak of yellow that lumbered down the street. Contained only by the glance in the giant mirror of the one driving the bus. Holding the back of the seat in front of you for leverage. One leg in the aisle – braced to race out the door when reaching your stop. Then the “almost sir” would move the big silver handle. Door open. Freedom!

What an amazing gift to be given. And we’ve always had it. Today, and every day, I give thanks for each window, each door, and those who flung them open!

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“Sure I’ve fallen, but oh, how I can rise!”

I’m working hard to prepare a new launch of prints. Lots of things to be done. Photographs to be taken. Sayings to write. Computer layout. A considerable amount for my mind to keep track of – my mind, one that has always been distracted by a “shiny object.”

I walked from my computer to the studio to take a photo of this pear. I had written the verse for this pear. Scanned the verse for this pear. Put the verse for this pear on my computer. All I needed now was the image — this pear. Inside the studio, amid all these shiny objects, I immediately thought, “Well, as long as I’m here, I could take photos of these paintings…” And I did. So proud of myself — I found just the right lighting. It was nature’s golden hour, and with my new spotlight, and easel, I was really getting good images. I put these images in ProCreate to check for color. Cropped. Adjusted. Scanned for my computer. Placed them in my layout program. Started arranging the images for the prints. Getting so much done. Then I got to the page with the verse for the pear. The pear. I had forgotten to take a photo of this pear. The light was gone. Settling in the sky. It would have to wait for the next day.

Still shaking my head, I took the photo in the light of the next day, and it was beautiful. I forgot about my forgetting, and really looked at the image. What I find most lovely, are the imperfections. I painted this pear on a wood panel. You can see the life of the wood, giving character to the life of the pear. The bruising. The near wilting leaf. It’s all the “flaws” that bring it to life – that give the words meaning. I can see it in this painting. In this morning’s sun. Maybe even in myself. Oh, how we can rise!

Good morning, my friends, it’s time to shine!

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Still life.

Still-life paintings are really just, well, life. They probably say more about the viewer than the artist. I think a still-life painting works if you stop, breathe, and let the beauty in with each inhale, each exhale. Slowly. 

And I suppose, that’s what life is. Taking in. Letting go. Every day there are still beginnings. Still endings. Still life. We just have to find the beauty of it all.

When I look at this painting, some days, it is my rest. I just breathe. I am the pear in the bowl. And other days, I am a kitchen in Provence, with all the scents of what’s to become, to be made. It gives me what I need.

Life will do that, if you let it. If you dare ask for what you need, and then see it, allow it, become it. In the stillness, it will come. Believe it. Look for it. All the beauty that you need, is right there in front of you. Still.

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Scribble.

I bought a postcard at MOMA in New York. It had been marked down twice. Two red stickers. Priced at one quarter. Twenty five cents for a postcard from Cezanne’s sketchbook. Nobody cared. I did. I stood in line and brought it back with me to his homeland. 

I draw and paint in my sketchbook every day. Does it matter? I suppose it’s all in how you define the word matter. Will people stand in line to buy it? No. But does it give me great joy? Yes! Does it improve my skills? I think so. So for me, it matters a great deal! 

The sketches on Cezanne’s postcard are of his young son. I can’t say why exactly, but the images reminded me of my cousin Brent. Not the likeness really, but the halt in the becoming. I will never know what became of that young boy on the postcard. Nor for my cousin. Brent’s life was cut short in a construction accident, when he was barely in his 20’s — just a baby really. When I think of myself at 20, I didn’t even know who I was – who I would become. What a thing it is to be cut short. What a blessing it is to live another day. And then another! 

To honor these days, I will stand in line for a twenty-five cent postcard. I will remember a cousin I barely got to know. I will paint images that most will not see. I will write words and act like it all matters – because it does! My life, your life, a scribbling on today’s page, forever a work of art.