Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: experience


by 1 Comment

Fantastique!

Fantastic sounds even better in French.

After finishing their portrait, I wasn’t sure that I would ever see them again. They didn’t even know I had done it. I carried the knowledge in my pocket, and a picture on my phone, and walked each day hoping to see them on the path. One day passed. Then three. Then a week. Knowing good news doesn’t really spoil, (and I was going to walk anyway) I made my loop each morning and afternoon.

Then I saw it. A flash of his white hat just around the bend. I scrolled quickly through my phone. Had my photo at the ready. They smiled, already surprised that I had stopped them – “excusez-moi-ed” into their journey. I went quickly through the list I had run over in my head — artist, painting, portrait — and I showed them the photo. “Fantastique!” And let me sound it out for you — Fan-tas-TEEK! I play it over in my head daily. I told them I would give it to them. The younger of the two told me that they walk on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The next Monday, I packed it up and went for my walk. I didn’t see them. I brought it back home. On Tuesday, I went empty handed in the afternoon and climbing the hill, an elderly woman pulled up slowly in her car. My first thought was, oh know, she’s going to want directions, and want them in French. Still, I took out my earpod as she rolled down her window. She asked if I was the artist. Relief turned into joy. Yes, I beamed. It was a fast jumble of her husband spoke about it all weekend and where was I Monday and they will be walking on Wednesday…and I couldn’t stop smiling. It never rains here, but of course Wednesday morning I woke up to clouds. Not to be deterred, I packed it in plastic, grabbed my umbrella, and hit the gravel. Protected by preparation, it never rained. I was nearing my turn around when I finally saw them. Coo-coo-ed them from behind and ran up to give them the portrait.

Do I miss the painting? Sure. A little. But the place it had in my heart has been completely filled by this random connection. And isn’t that the way with love, giving it away never leaves us empty, but fills us even more.

It’s like they think they’ll be safe or something, these people who never dare a connection, but what they are, is simply alone. It is a risk, for sure, to expose your heart, your gifts, but the greater risk, I think, is to not. A heart that doesn’t love, is simply an unplayed piano. Nothing fantastique about that.

“I can’t take the chance that you don’t know how much it means to me, you carrying my hopes like precious cargo, and traveling with me to dreams come true…so I will tell you again and again, as if it were the first time, “It is an honor, it is a privilege, it is a joy, to share with you the path.”

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

One more twirl.

Just before leaving the Mall of America, I tried on one last dress. I twirled a little in front of the three way. I put my hands in the pockets. Looked to the side. Over my shoulder. Floated out to the main area of the store. Dominique said it was pretty. I smiled. Saw myself in summer’s south of France, and gave one last spin. Put it back on the hanger. And we went back to our final night by the airport. 

We used to do it all the time. Just try things on. My mom and I. We had everything when we were together, but for extra money to spend. But that didn’t stop us. Standing waist high, the tag of her dress dangling in my face, I looked up at her at her three reflections, and knew she was a princess. A queen. She tucked the tag in and gave a twirl. Dancing with all four of her, I was sure she was going to buy it. She took it off and gave a smile of “maybe next time,” to the clerk. 

We went on to another store. She was swinging her hand in mine, like she was really happy. I was confused. “But you didn’t even buy it…” She bent down. “It’s better to look pretty in it, than to own it. Anyone with a few extra dollars can do that.” I nodded. “I want to try,” I said. And we never stopped. 

Of course she bought things. Of course I do. But the real treasure was, and still is, the experience. With anything. Everything. How we feel, will never be surpassed by what we have. I, we, cannot own this day, but we would do well to swing it by the hand, and enjoy it for all it is! 

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

“Isn’t it romantic?”

We had just finished watching the Days of our LIves episode, or “the Hortons,” as my grandma called it. It wasn’t educational television in the traditional sense, but I certainly did learn a lot. During this particular episode, they used the word “romantic,” several times. My five or six year old brain wasn’t familiar. “What is romantic?” I asked my grandma. “Lots of things are romantic,” she said. “No, but what does it mean?” I continued. “You know when your heart feels all a flutter?” she asked. “Oh, jimbly…yes…” I said. “Sure,” she said, “jimbly…”  “So Uncle Ron is romantic?” I asked. “Why do you say Uncle Ron?”  “Well, yesterday, when I crawled inside the closet of the upstairs room with the loom inside, there were uniforms, and they were so crisp and beautiful, and something made me want to hug them, and you said they were Uncle Ron’s service uniforms and my heart felt funny inside the closet so…” “It’s not just people. You were feeling a different time and place. And that can be romantic. In the past, or the future even. I feel it when I turn your old clothes into quilts. It’s magic. It’s experience. It’s life. And that can be very romantic.” 

I annoyingly spent the rest of the day picking up items like perfume bottles and canned pears. Overalls hanging on the wall. Photographs and rugs made by hand. “Is this romantic? What about this?” 

When I think about the real magic of the day, it wasn’t in each of the items discovered, but in the time spent with my grandma. The time she answered yes to all of my questions, again and again, with patience and love. Pure romance. 

So maybe you won’t find it surprising when I tell you that I think one of my most romantic paintings is the one of the Volkswagon sitting in this European street. Maybe it’s the color palette. The small route that will only allow a one-way passage — a love that knows there is no turning back, this is it. A calm that doesn’t judge how you got here, simply welcomes you in. The name of the piece is “Something in my heart told me to wait for you.” 

I’d like to think that journey began at noon, in front of the television, with my grandma, on a farm just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota — and somehow, led by a trail of “yes” after “yes,” continued to the south of France. Even as I type the words, I can’t help but think, “Isn’t it romantic?!”

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Filling pockets.

I have come to the conclusion that most of the world must be completely terrified.

Yesterday, while walking on the gravel path, I came to a violent stop, seeing what I can only imagine was some sort of hybrid weasel. My heart raced, but my legs could only tremble. He gave me a solid look, then walked back into the brush. I had to get by this area to continue my walk, so I did the only logical thing — the only form of defense I learned from the age of five — to walk briskly past the imminent danger while speaking very loudly. (Because surely nothing would harm you, not robber, intruder, ghost, nor weasel, if they assumed you to be in the midst of a conversation.) 

Obviously I made it home, or I would not be typing this today. After hearing my short tale of woe, Dominique replied, “Well, he was much more frightened of you than you were of him.” Again, I didn’t believe this at 5 years of age, nor now. He sauntered easily down the hill, while I ran on tippy toes yelling out my best franglish, never hearing any random weasel chatter. Clearly, I was more afraid.

And that’s exactly what the hybrid weasel mother told my pathmate.

As with most fear, I suppose, I’m laughing about it today. A lesson I keep learning. Filling my pockets with evidence of things survived. Maybe one day these pockets will be filled, and I can walk through this world with complete confidence. Until then, I will keep pulling out what’s needed, the proof of “look, you made it through this day.” The evidence of “you survived that, certainly you can survive this.”

I will stroll today’s path. Perhaps more curious than confident, but I’ll take it. I don’t want to miss out. I’ve got things to do. Things to see. And pockets to fill!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Life’s couture.

Yesterday I saw a photographer on Youtube manipulating a photo to make it seem old — like it was a memory lived, I suppose. The technique took some skill, certainly. And while the end result was interesting, I thought it lacked what the photographer wanted — the depth of an actual experience.  That feeling is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to manufacture.  And I began to think, would our time be better spent trying to capture real experiences, by, well, living?

Once the thought was in my head, spinning around like a kid on a ferris wheel — my brain urging “go ’round again, go ’round again — I began to see it everywhere, this attempt at manufacturing a life. I saw it in the catalogs. Buy our ripped jeans! What if we did the work in the jeans we owned? Wore them in the yard, the garden? Hung tools from belts? Bent? Stretched? Bounced children on bent knees? Wore them thread bare by living? 

I saw the paint splattered jeans on the next page. Couldn’t we just actually paint? Splatter our own clothes with life experience? These are the colors that I want to live in — the colors flung from my own hand and heart. 

It was everywhere. This manufacturing. Even with so-called friends. This trying to fill the life-size holes within us, with “likes” and “followers.” Certainly it has its place. I use it here, every day. To connect. Keep the strings attached through time and distance. But nothing will ever replace human contact. Sitting outside on a sunny day, laughing so hard with friends that waists become rendered useless, bent over by the weight of joy and memory. Nothing can replace the feeling of hugging someone, just a little longer. A kiss of a hand. An empathetic, no words needed, smile. A wave that can’t be contained in the hand, but must be lifted in the air with feet jumping! 

I sit here typing, with paint on my shirt. It is valuable, not because it will sell in a catalog, but because I lived in it. Life’s couture. And I will again today! My heart, threadbare as my jeans, telling my brain, “let’s go ’round again, ’round again!!!”

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Bound.

I wanted to do some sketching yesterday. Whenever I need an idea of what to sketch, I fall back on the human figure. It is timeless. The purpose of figure painting, or any depiction of the figure in art, relates back to one of the main functionalities of art, and that is the communication of human experiences. It has been practiced since the beginning of time. It rests on the sides of caves, the walls of the Louvre. And just at the fingertips of our hearts.


I have many art books. I pulled a small one off the shelf, entitled Figures. I recognized the scent of the book, or should I say the bookstore. A mixture of wisdom and mildew, that only comes from words lived. The linen cover felt like home. I turned the book over to see if there was a sticker to confirm my memory. Yes. A tag from Magers and Quinn — one of my favorite bookstores in Minneapolis. I love all bookstores, but this was a favorite because of the figure that managed the store — Gary. Yes, the human experience. As we read books. Sold them. Held them. I learned of his life. Personal stories of his loves, his losses, his interests, his health, his heart.


Gary was my friend. We shared love – love of words on the page. It occurs to me now, that we, all of us, are just the words, looking to be bound together. Only making sense when we combine to make a story. An experience. The human experience.


So I paint the figures. Tell the stories. Hoping to connect. Because in this connection there is no time, no distance. When you tell me, “I needed this today,” or “I so related to this,” or “this was our story,” — my heart is full. We are in this together. Humans. Bound.

Shop Now!