Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: museum


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It’s not the Louvre, but then again, it isn’t trying to be.


My grandma never made apologies for her wide feet. Standing on them for decades, as she did, rubbing her rounded aproned belly, holding a rootbeer float — “it was bound to happen”, she smiled, and sported her men’s Thom McAns proudly. And I loved her all the more.

My mother never made apologies for her long feet. “I’m going to rely on my heart for balance?” She laughed. They lengthened her already long legs, and stabled her heart that bounced and bruised and giggled again. And I loved her all the more.

We have been, I gratefully say, to the finest museums in the world. From Paris, to Rome, London, Amsterdam, New York, Chicago…seeing the finest artists of all time. So it may surprise you when I say we enjoyed our visit to the National Cowboy Museum in Oklahoma. Not because it could compete with a Cezanne or VanGogh, no, but it wasn’t trying to. It was cowboys. From films, to wars, to horses, and cattle, it told a story, their story. And it was beautiful.

Sometimes, when visiting a smaller city, they try to compete, and it never works. But when a place embraces their history, goes all in, wearing their shoes proudly, (or boots as it were), now this is something to see! I hope I do that. Give that. I was taught this, by two of the most different and lovely women that I know.

I hope we all can, step into each and every day, proudly, lovingly. We all have a story to tell.

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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.


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Passing Through.


I guess if you want to be inspired, you’ll be inspired. The responsibility lies within.


Most of the towns we have visited in the last couple of days, won’t find their way into travel brochures. Some, not even on the map. I have been guilty of passing by, sure, but I want to be someone who passes through.


We have been to the Louvre in Paris, the Met in New York, so you might think that we wouldn’t stop to see the museum of art in Tyler, Texas. But we did. There was no signage for a front entrance. We walked around the entire building (to be fair, it didn’t take that long), until we found a door. There was a single woman at the front desk. She seemed excited to have us. “Take as many postcards as you like,” she said, “Magazines even!” They had two exhibits. The first was Norman Rockwell. Familiar sure. Was I a fan? That might be a stretch, but in we went. The first drawings were of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. Elaborate, beautiful drawings, depicting wonderful phrases from the books. Now, if you follow me here, you will know that just the other day I wrote of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. This is not lost on me. It felt like a connection. From the banks of the Mississippi in Natchez, to this lovely little museum on dry land in Tyler, we were connected. Entwined. Within. Passing through. I felt inspired. Back at the hotel, I took out my tiny sketch pad and made an attempt at a Rockwell character. It felt grand. Grand in the biggest way — in this tiny town, on this tiny sketchpad, it felt larger than life.


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A case for dreams.

When I was six, my family went to the Wisconsin Dells. This is about the most exotic place a Chevy Malibu could take a family of five from Alexandria, Minnesota. I know there was water, probably rides, but my clearest memory is of the pencil case my mom bought for me in the gift shop. It was a white vinyl case, shaped like a giant pencil. There was a zipper just where the eraser would begin on a normal pencil. Inside, more pencils. Oh, the possibilities! Imagine that, pencils inside a pencil. This was indeed the most exotic place!

The first museum I visited as an aspiring adult was the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. Inside was the giant portrait of Chuck Close. It was magnificent. He says in painting this portrait, “I think I was trying to find out who I was as an artist.” I think at that time, I was just trying to find out who I was as a human. I wasn’t sure how I was connected here, in this place, with this art, but I felt it — once again, I felt it — the possibilities! My pockets were mostly empty, save for these brewing dreams, but I had enough money to buy two pencils. One represented what they created. One represented what I could create. I named them, “Did” and “Could.”

Through the years, I have purchased pencils from The Chicago Art Institute, The MET, MOMA, Van Gogh’s Museum, The Georgia O’Keefe museum… The Louvre! And everywhere in between. I have purchased pencils from book stores, universities, anywhere the dreams seem to hang in the air and call things out as possible.

That’s what pencils are to me – the possible! Each pencil tells me that Dreams have come true – Dreams will come true.

At my desk, next to my portrait of Chuck Close, and a small collection of pencils, I tell you that what you dream matters. Gather in that dream. Grasp it in your chubby little hands of youth, and hold it until your fingers gnarl around it with warmth and gratitude. Did and Could. Can and Do! Wisconsin Dells and the Louvre! Oh, the possibilities!