Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: portraits


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In the rear view.

I liked to sit by him at the table, breathing in the smell of the earth from his overalls, but there were often things on his plate that had me racing to the cereal cupboard for a replacement meal. I was not one for squirrel, or gizzard. Gravy poured over anything never appealed to me. It didn’t present the horror of a church potluck, but it was close. So I grabbed a stool to reach the bowls from up high, and something Kellog’s from the variety packs my Grandma so generously kept stocked in the very attainable bottom corner cupboard. And I was saved. 

We carry emergency food in the car. Mostly crackers. Mostly for me. Dominique will often brave the local cuisine as we drive from state to state. Gas stations are sometimes the only source. Somewhere in the indistinguishable fields between Colorado and Nebraska, we pulled over. After gratefully using their bathroom, I knew I would be finishing my Wheat Thins. Dominique looked behind the glass and settled on the deep fried gizzards. (Of course they had gizzards!  If my grandma could so easily show up with her root-beer floats, my grandpa was certainly not going to be outdone. And there they were – gas stations gizzards.) 

I kept driving with the box of crackers neatly tucked between my legs. Dominique ate his gas station gizzards — and really enjoyed them! The smell of earth seeped through the windows. Rueben and Elsie smiled in the rear view.

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Heart-first.

There is a painting that walks ahead of me on the trail. Normally I would be eager to pass these aging men, but my anxious feet are overruled and I slow to take it all in. Maybe it’s the hats. Or the synchronized position of hands clasped behind their backs, heading them “heart-first.” 

When I’m close enough for them to hear my graveled steps, I pick up the pace. We exchange smiling bonjours, and the day will continue down different roads. I won’t learn their names, these hatted men. Having been in their path is enough. 

Maybe it was a different time, but my grandfather wore a hat. There was something trustworthy about it. Elegant, even in overalls. I trusted it — him. I suppose that’s why I trust it still. Because what’s taught is what’s known. And maybe that’s what empathy is, what humanity is, walking in the path of others, heart-first. 


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An American in France, speaking Double Dutch.

Almost everything that I learn today, I learned first on the grounds of Washington Elementary.

We started slow at first. Only one rope. We didn’t all advance at the same speed. Some caught on right away to this jumping in, jumping on, singing along to the song. The single jump rope for me was fairly easy. And I thought we were best friends, but one day Shari and Jan, without my knowledge or permission, added another rope. Double Dutch. I had no Google source at the time. Probably not even the sense to want to find a meaning. But here they were, twirling two ropes at a time and telling me to jump in. My hands couldn’t find the rhythm, nor my heart, nor my feet. Soon I was whipped. Tangled. Double Dutched right out of the security of everything I loved.

I don’t remember the length of time. I’m sure it seemed longer then, than now. I tried jumping in, again and again. It wasn’t until I asked if I could turn the ropes that I got it. I started to feel the rhythm. I had wanted so badly for the ropes to love me first. (I pause to laugh here, because I suppose I, we, still do that.) But then I got to know them. Feel them. Love them. And when I took my turn again to jump, they let me in. And it was beautiful.

It’s not easy to join a family. I married my way into a French playground. Rules of play already set. But there I was. So eager to jump in. Fumbling now in two languages. Now looking up the origin of “Double Dutch,” it’s not lost on me that it means a type of gibberish, something so indecipherable it would seem like ropes swinging through the air. That was me, an American in France, speaking Double Dutch.

When I first started painting their portraits, I will admit that unconsciously it was an attempt for them to love me. I wanted so badly for this to happen. To be loved. Let in. Time travel takes, well, some time, but through the years, I have made it back to Washington Elementary, and I learn again, and again, for the first time.

When I painted their portrait this time, the grandchildren, it was different. Certainly there are the ropes, the jumping, the missteps — it’s still a playground after all. But this time, the message is clear, simple. Not a plea for anything, only a statement, that I love them. I love them. That’s all I have to understand. And it’s beautiful.

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The connecting strand. 


It always comes down to millimeters. The curve of an imperfect lip. A slight squint of one eye. Raising an eyebrow by seemingly a hair. When painting a portrait, it’s these infinitesimal adjustments that can change the image on the canvas from just a person into someone you know and love.


But I suppose it’s always been the way. these little things that I looked to for comfort. The nyloned leg of my mother. The pinstripes of my grandfather’s overalls. The cursive Thom McAn of my grandmother’s shoes.


It was at one of her neighbor’s garage sales. At best I was waist high of all the scavengers. And it wasn’t long before I was lost in a sea of card tables covered in dishes, rags, tools and knick knacks. My grandma had let go of my hand to pick up a sausage grinder, and the waves pushed me out of her sight. I could hear her laughing – perhaps at the price, or the details from the last card game played on one of those tables – but I couldn’t see her. My gerbil heart began to panic and race. Tears welled as I weaved my way from shoe to sensible shoe. I searched for the lines of the capital T that would form a string and gather me in. Off brand. Off brand. Where was she? I touched polyester pants and dangling laces. One tear fell, leading into two, three. Dropping quickly now. I got on hands and knees. And there they were — Grandma Elsie’s Thom McAn’s! I grabbed each ankle and she squealed like she had a “winning hand” — and I was safe. 


It’s what keeps me working. Sitting for hours in front of the canvas. Painting. Trying to get it right. Attempting to form the perfect strand that will unite us. Knowing these connections, they are the only way we are saved.

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To rise above.

I began mixing up the bread dough this morning. The first thing I have to do is to proof the yeast (to make sure that it actually does what it claims it can). If it’s good, with a little sugar and warm water, it will show you exactly what it is capable of. And when it works, rises up to meet you, you’re good to continue. 

Maya Angelou said, “When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.” People will often say, after doing something wrong, “Oh that’s not who I am…” Or after being mistreated by someone, say, “It’s ok, that’s not who they are…” I’m sure I have been guilty of both. I’m sure we all have. But Maya was right. People will show you who they are, again and again. Some good. Some very bad. And the key is to believe them. To stop asking for proof when someone is kind to you. To stop aking for proof when they are not. 

Last week, when making bread, for the first time in a long while, the yeast didn’t work. I threw it away and started with some new yeast. It never would have occured to me to try and proof it again — it told me right from the start — “I’m not going work.”  Maybe it’s a bit harder to see in humans, but it’s still there, usually right in front of us. We just have to be willing to see it. Embrace the good. Walk away from the bad. 

I want to be better at this — be who I claim to be — who I want to be. And see others for the truth that they offer. What if we all did that? Offered the world proof that we truly can rise up!

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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!