Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: paper


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In the beautiful folds.

They say that paper has a memory. Meaning, if you fold it, the crease remains. Perhaps the same is true of the heart. 

The limb I found myself wobbling upon yesterday was a bit more unstable than usual, so I gathered in my heart and took it to the paper. It always welcomes me. And even with all of its security, it still challenges me. Dares me to create. To learn. To grow. To find the beauty even in this moment of uncertainty.  

I didn’t plan the portrait, I just started to paint. As she came to life, I knew what she needed to wear. My mother would have loved this ruffled blouse. How it gently gathered around the neck and framed the face. She was the queen of white ruffles, my mother. Such a delicate beauty. 

And there it was — found — the uncertain beauty of the moment. 

My heart is not broken. But it will be forever creased. Remembering and saving all the love. And it is here, in the beautiful folds, that I have the courage to move from limb to limb. To dare the lift of love, ruffle my feathers from heart to face, and let myself fly.

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Scraps of life and growth.

I began using the paper purchased this summer at the Fontaine de Vaucluse. It’s handmade. The mill sits right next to the river. It is the most beautiful, accepting paper I have ever used. I suppose because it’s natural. Nothing to fight against. The paint goes on so smoothly and becomes a part of the paper. And the most amazing thing is I’m low on paint. I need to reload. I’m down to my most average. But even this paint takes on a whole new life when combined with this paper. 

And the paper is far from perfect. No, in fact, that’s probably what makes it so special. You can see, feel, all the flecks that go into it. The scraps of life and growth. Beautiful!! No shame of imperfections. 

Maybe it’s too simple to say, but I’m not sure everything has to be so hard. I think we need each other. And I’m pretty sure we can bring out the best in us if we want. So I come to you daily, with my humble, most average of self, and ask you to join me. You, the imperfect paper. Together, we can make something beautiful. Together, we become!

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Golden.

I was so surprised that we could afford them — these golden books. I was only five, but I knew that gold was expensive. The display was just past the shopping carts at Olson’s Supermarket. I stood motionless in front of the golden choices. It was safe in those days to leave a five year old in the book section. My mom reminded me to breathe, and went off to gather the groceries. I knew the routine. When I saw her get in the cash line, I had to make my final decision and come. I held the book in my hand. I wasn’t about to place it on the counter with all that produce. When everything had been priced into the register, I reached the book to the cashier without letting go. She smiled and punched in the 99 cents. The man bagging the groceries said, “You’re gonna wanna carry that yourself.” Yes, I nodded. We all knew the value.

Yesterday we went to Fountaine de Vaucluse, a small village about an hour away. The village of Fontaine de Vaucluse is squeezed into the sharp end of a narrow valley and takes its name from the beautiful and mysterious spring feeding the river Sorgue. This spring comes from deep underground – nobody knows how deep. In the 50s, Jacques Yves Cousteau came with a submersible to explore the depths but did not find the bottom. A paper mill still operates from the rushing water. The paper is beautiful. Each sheet contains this history. The touch of hands. The flow of the water. The strength of the trees.

I stood at the counter to buy, not surprisingly, a small collection of this paper, covered in leather — the color of gold. There was only one of these books. The man searched for the price. Opened one ledger. Then another. There were no scanners. I smiled and traveled back in time. He searched for the price. Dominique checked his watch, keeping track of the parking meter. He eventually found the price. Punched it into the register. Then wrapped the golden book safely.

It’s funny, they say they don’t know how deep this water flows, but I do. Carrying my golden treasure to the car, I am assured, it travels to the very depths of my soul.

May we all know the value of that.

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Remembering Corsica

Paper is one of the few materials that has a memory. If you fold a piece of paper, crumple it, it remembers that fold, those lines, that wrinkle. You can unfold it, heal it, but the memory, the mark remains. Some might say it is damaged, but I think, maybe, that it is just more interesting. I think words can do that to a book. This collection of imprints on a page, lines, dots, all embedded in the sheets of paper. This book becomes alive. Touched by hands, dog-eared, embraced. It holds the memory.

I was walking along the beach in Corsica and I watched this woman reading in the sand. As time went on, the tide kept rising, but she remained fixed in the pages. The water grew up her thighs and her focus never wavered. She was becoming part of the page. The magic of the words.

I knew I would paint her, this stranger on the beach, because she was a stranger no more. I knew her heart, also made of paper. It had been folded and wrinkled and healed, but the memories remained. And she, we, had become, only more interesting.

There were no borders between the sea, her body, the words, her heart. No borders between her and I.

I clutched the folds of my own heart, smiled, and kept walking.