Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: anticipation


by Leave a comment

Painting gravel.

There’s no easy way around it. (And I’ve looked. Googled.) The current painting I’m working on has a stretch of gravel road. Without the luxury of pavement, nor good intentions, it is but a lesson in patience. Pebble by pebble. 

I must admit that I was a bit embarrassed of our gravel as a child. Van Dyke Road remained wild and loose for most of my youth. And I have the scars to prove it. But I was able to recognize the thrill of the change. Half way on my bike ride to town, just off of Van Dyke Road, right in front of Lord’s big gray house, it was tarred, and down hill. No more popping pebbles beneath my tires. I began to fly. My long blonde hair making a trail behind me. Weaving in and out of the geese beside the lake before the railroad tracks. Pushed and propelled all the way to the feet of Big Ole at the beginning of Main. 

Would I have appreciated the sleek, black surface as much, if I hadn’t begun on the gravel? Possibly. But I’m not sure. I think about it as I stumble along this new painting. Anticipating the speed to come. The thrill to come. And it will, all too quickly. Will I remember each pedal, each stroke? I hope so. It’s the journey after all. 

And not showing you yet, this unfinished painting, you get to ride the gravel beside me. Waiting. Watching. Imagining. That’s the gift I offer today. Sweet anticipation. Hang on. Soon we will fly.  

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Just before the necklace.

It’s hard to imagine your grandparents as people in the world. 

I don’t know for certain that he bought it for her, the necklace she’s wearing in her wedding photo, but I imagine that he did. His hands must have already been rough, as he held it. She would have smiled at him. Not a grandmotherly smile. There was no promise of that yet. No promise of land or house. No promise of nine children. Countless grandchildren. Only love. And a necklace. 

A necklace to be clutched. A lifeline to grab on to when falling so quickly. Falling so deeply into the unknown of love. A necklace to be covered in flowered aprons. Then in flour. Then removed to the bedroom dresser. As children grabbed for hair and neck — her love, his love, rested safely in a cottoned box. 

I only saw it in a photograph. A photograph of their wedding day. There was no stylist. Certainly not a wedding planner. No one to even tell my grandfather that the corner of his maybe only dress shirt was curled up a little. But there was hope. A hope of everything to come. Forever stilled in this photo. In the strand of this necklace.

I wore it on my wedding day. Too filled with all that stillness, all that hope.

I could have painted one on her, my newest portrait. But as her look came to life, I knew it wasn’t a look of everything come true, but everything to come. That feeling before the necklace. That feeling as he’s struggling with the clasp. Holding it up before her. Blowing the stray hair from her neck. Placing it around her held breath. All things possible. Mostly love. 

…and the clasp clicks.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

The anticipation of youth.

I always trust a town with a coffee shop. We stopped yesterday in Jennings, a tiny, really tiny town, just outside of Lafayette. A sign hung at the entrance, “Making people tolerable since 2013.” We smiled and knew we were home.

Maybe it has come with age, or from living in France, but I have gained appreciation and the patience to wait for my order. Because it won’t be fast here – in the south – in a small cafe. No, you will wait, even if you’re the only ones there. But it was worth it. The lattes – perfection. The ingredients the same, but they added a little anticipation to make it just a lot more delicious.

It hung on the wall in the restroom – this coffee cup made from “string art.” String art was probably the first real art that I made as a child. I say real, because it wasn’t with a kit, or something you filled in from the store, it was all hand made. A piece of wood. Nails. Lots of nails, and string. Oh, how I loved to make it. I made it again and again. Gave it to my mom’s friends. And when I saw it hanging on Diane Larson’s wall, I think that was the beginning for me. I was an artist. I was home.

This coffee cup that hung in the restroom in Jennings, Louisiana, was not new. It was falling apart at the bottom. Some may not even call it art. But it was for me. More than that really. Because in it, I could feel it – all the anticipation of youth! What a feeling! I carry it with me as I greet the new day, again and again, and I give thanks for each beginning! How delicious!