Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: Georgia O’Keeffe


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Never ending Dixie.

Driving through Bryce Canyon and the Dixie National Forest is a process not unlike one step forward and two steps back — only it’s more one drive left, one drive right and a tiny bit ahead. Traversing the landscape, all be it gorgeous, was truly a test on my already fragile equilibrium. 

As someone who travels a good deal, you probably wouldn’t imagine that I often struggle with motion sickness. To put it in perspective, even parking ramps can take a minimal toll. It is a battle of wills. My stomach eagerly works its way up past my heart on its journey to my throat. “You still have the wheel,” my brain tells my heart. And the words of Georgia O’Keeffe, are on continuous replay, “ I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life – and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.”  And we inch forward, passing yet another sign for Dixie.That may sound a bit dramatic. I’m not actually terrified of the mountains, the road, the curves, but more of my reaction to them. Oh, I have to read that again — “but more of my reaction to them.” It wasn’t exactly where I thought this was going, but there it is.  I suppose that’s always the way, isn’t it? Our reactions. A battle of wills. We are thrown curve after curve in this life. They come and go, but it’s how we react that can be ever so lasting. So lasting that when we finally get to the glorious straight and easy path, we are still going over it. Oh, for the love of Dixie! — please let me have the sense to let things go. To not clog one day’s journey with the last. 
With Georgia still on my mind, I think that today, no matter the view, I will create something beautiful! 


And on this journey, this fabulous drive, maybe your “last chance Texaco” is really just another chance. You fill up, pull out, and go. And you can go. You can always go. You go on. You live. Always another chance. Where did you learn that? Maybe those loving arms that you call home. The same ones that let you go. And hold you now.
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Big and certain.

It rests quietly on my desk, undisturbed by papers it was designed to hold secure. I guess I didn’t buy the Georgia O’Keeffe paperweight to keep actual papers from scattering. I don’t really have any paperwork. But it does hold the memory of our visit to this museum. The memory of how we arrived late, and they let us in for free. How the welcome continued as we wandered through her life on canvas. Such glorious simplicity. This beauty that hung the ordinary into spectacular — that made big and certain and quite unforgettable the significance of a leaf. A flower. A skull. 

And so it sits as a reminder on my desk and in my heart. All the memories that flutter. The fragile scraps that could easily fly out the windows of time passing. Each story I write, each painting that I paint, gives weight to the meaning of all that I have seen. All that I live. And isn’t it important! Isn’t it worth the saving! Yes! 

I showed young Margaux the painting of my Grandma Elsie. She said, “Oh, I love her.” Another page secured.

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Not waiting for Georgia.


They have the museums for cowboys. Statues of horses and gunslingers bronzed in front of banks — even in the smallest of towns. Bison guarding the road. Oil pumps, methodically telling a piece of the story. But no one told us how beautiful the landscape would be. The rolling fields of my favorite palette. Muted greens and golds, with subtle tans. Simply gorgeous! We pointed out our respective car windows. Look! Look! The red dirt contrasting, bearing witness to all that had been survived, and still came out beautiful. And I wondered where was Oklahoma’s Georgia O’Keeffe? Who was singing the praises? What would Cezanne have done with this landscape?

There was nowhere for me to pull the car over. No shoulders. “I guess no one but us wants to pull over and take pictures,” my husband said. I smiled, because it made me feel special — us feel special. We could see it. The extraordinary beauty. I memorized the colors in my heart.

It’s funny how our first thoughts are always “Why isn’t someone doing something…” But I can be that someone. I will paint that palette. I will do it! Let it be me!

It is not a hardship to bear, to see it. It is a privilege. With everything. With everyone. When someone lets you in, it is the gift they give to you. Don’t be careless with it. Embrace it! They are not waiting for Georgia or Paul, they chose you. You. Give thanks for that. Every day.



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…and then the beauty comes.

My grandfather was perhaps the first to teach me about color. Each year he planted in the black dirt. He worked under blue skies. Prayed under gray. And with the daily stroke of his hands turned the field from green to gold. It was the most beautiful canvas I had ever seen. Were it not for him, would I have seen it? I can’t be sure.

I often speak of the Sainte Victoire mountain. It rests in our daily view. Cezanne was perhaps the first to point it out to the world. Painting it again and again. Showing its beauty in every light. Dominique was the first to point it out to me as he drove me from the airport. Would I have seen it? Would I have felt it? Would I have painted it without either of them? Probably not.

Georgia O’Keeffe had her own mountain. Her own “Sainte Victoire.” She painted the big mountain (as she called it) again and again. Braving the heat and the cold. The solitude. The doubters of women. All to show us the beauty of what was around her. The beauty of what she saw.

I suppose all of it was unlikely. Seemingly almost impossible at times. But this is what gives me hope. This is what enables me to put my grandfather, Rueben Hvezda, alongside Paul Cezanne. Alongside Georgia O’keeffe. To write about him. To write about my grandmother making kolaches and quilts. My mother dressing in the crispiest of whites, even on her most crumbling days. OH, my beautiful mother! Were they artists? (…a rose by any other name…) They took what was in front of them, inside of them and made it beautiful. Not only showing me, but showing me how.

So I make the pictures with paint and words. Each daily stroke, with brushes of Rueben and Elsie and Ivy — my open fields, my sturdy mountains. What are we here for, if not to show each other the beauty? The beauty of living.

You have something. Right here. Right now. Live it. Something beautiful will come. The world is waiting to see.

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Ida painted too.

It’s no secret that I have always loved Georgia O’Keeffe. Yesterday, to my surprise, I learned that she had a sister, Ida, who also painted. Experts say that if she had had the support of an Alfred Stieglitz, she could have been equally celebrated. But she had a different story. And the world, someone decided, didn’t need another O’Keeffe.

Since I was a young girl, my mother was friends with Diane Larson. A lovely woman. She was kind. True. And when she smiled at you softly, you felt cared for, hugged. There wasn’t a lot of truth that I could see at that age, and it was comforting. She was a teacher. I would see her in the halls of Central School. She didn’t embarrass me by actually speaking, but she smiled, and I knew she was watching out for me. She was the extended care of my mother.

She hung my childish art in her beautiful home. Saved a folder of my poems and scribbles, as if they were treasures. I didn’t need a second mother. I already had my “Georgia.” But this Diane Larson, this Ida, she painted too, and I felt extra loved.

She died yesterday. For most, she will go unnoticed. But that does not mean she is not celebrated. She fits easily into the halls of my heart, still watching over, smiling. A continuous joy. An unending love. The world needs every Ida, every Diane.


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Being Georgia.

I’d like to say that I have a healthy respect for our garden tools – the weedwacker, the chipper – when in fact it would be more accurate to say that I am actually afraid of them. It doesn’t stop me from using them though. 

When Dominique uses the weedwacker, he finishes with little red welts all over his body. Me, I dress like I’m part of the New York City Bomb Squad. A cap. Safety glasses (and a visor, or two masks). Jeans. Gloves. And knee high steel toed boots. Yes, it’s hot. But it makes me feel safe.

We all have our own comfort zones. With everything. We have our own way of coping. Surviving. Living. I don’t think people would make fun of me for wearing what I wear in the garden — and to be honest, I really wouldn’t care if they did. I have to remember this for all of life’s challenges. I will cope as I see fit. And if it works for me – then it works for me. I have to give myself that freedom. And offer the same to you. 

Life is messy and at times frightening. As I stripped down in the afternoon sun — taking off all of my protective gear — I eagerly made my way to the pool. The glorious reward. Nothing feels better. Another challenge survived. 

It was Georgia O’keeffe who said, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life—and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.” Today, as I step into life’s garden, I will don my protective gear, smile as I channel the brave and elegant Georgia, and I will dare to make it beautiful!


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O’Keeffe and Ukraine.

I’m currently reading the book, “The Other Side of the Painting,” by Wendy Rodrigue. An accomplished art historian, she is also the wife of George Rodrigue, the Louisiana artist widely known for his Blue Dog series.  I have never really been a fan of his work, so you might be curious why I would read this book. I am a fan of Louisiana, the culture, the history, and all things art. She explores in this book, not just her husband’s work, but explores his education, influences, from famous artists to the Cajun culture. All good information. There is one thing though, that I don’t agree with, that stops me long enough to write this, and that is his disregard for Georgia O’Keeffe. And it’s a pretty strong disregard — probably more accurately, a dislike. I happen to like her – probably more accurately, really like her. Now, certainly, Georgia O’Keeffe does not need me to come to her defense. She has stood the test of time, her art, her lifestyle. She, in my opinion, and that of most of the artworld, is far more accomplished than George Rodrique, so what does it matter? Why would I bother to voice my opinion, my respect? Why would I stand up for her? Sometimes, I think, what we stand for, says as much about us, as the other person, or the situation. Who we are, as humans, shows through. 

Once again, or still, or on top of, we find ourselves in a global crisis. So in my humble, humble voice, I say that I stand with and for the Ukrainian people. I believe in peace. Humanity. I even believe that the most humble of voices matter. So I stand. I listen. I read. I pray. 

Georgia O’Keeffe writes, “I have been absolutely terrified every moment of my life and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to.” I want to be brave. I want us all to be brave. To believe! To let our humanity shine through. It has to matter. Please, let us stand!


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A nice thought.

We arrived at the Georgia O’Keeffe museum in Santa Fe a little later than expected. It was only going to be open for about an hour longer. We went to the cashier to buy our tickets. She greeted us nicely, but we could tell she was a bit distracted. Her computer was giving her problems. We’ve all been there and know how distracting that can be. “Two?” she asked, and kept willing the machine to work. “Yes,” we smiled. I could see the beautiful works out of the corner of my eye. I was so excited to go inside. I had read books on Georgia. Read her letters. Studied her paintings. Visited her home. Even painted her. My smile must have been huge – as I’m smiling while I write this. “Go ahead and go in,” she said. Not out of frustration any longer, just kindness. “Oh, wow – that’s great! Thank you!” It made the whole experience even better than I could have imagined. Kindness will always do that I suppose. In the best of situations. In the worst.

Georgia wrote in a correspondence to a close friend, “You are one of my nicest thoughts.” I think about the museum — the woman who let us in for free, even though she was clearly having a hard time. She created an image as lovely as the paintings inside. We are all creating images, all the time. With our actions, our interactions. Our faces. Our hearts. I think the best we can do is to try and make them beautiful.

We may not always succeed, but there is beauty in the attempt, and anyway, it’s a nice thought.

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