Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: sketch


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Seeing blackbirds.

I was shocked when she said it. I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked at my mother, who couldn’t hide her surprise either. What did she say? We were riding in the car together with my sister-in-law’s mother. Headed to some sort of family event that had spread to include a good portion of this small town. We were discussing the family tree. She asked about one of my mom’s brothers. Surely she couldn’t be thinking of Uncle Tom, I thought. “Oh, yes!” she continued, “he’s so handsome!”

No disrespect to my Uncle Tom. But this is not how he had been branded to me. He was the rough one. Tough one. Bold. Straight talking. Intimidating? Sure. Colorful? Indeed. And I guess, once we’re presented with something, we often stop looking, as if this were the only answer. 

After the event I went home and looked at the family portrait. I guess he was handsome. Huh! I wonder if he knew. I hope so.

I love to paint birds. You might think the colorful ones offer the biggest in painting lessons, but for me, that’s not really true. The black bird is a beauty that really forces you to see. Because to create the deep richness of the black, you have to see all the other subtle colors. The blues. The grays. The taupes. And browns. There is no depth without these other colors. And with no depth, there really is no beauty. 

But where does the responsibility lie? Within whom? Is it up to the person to show you their true colors? Or the viewer to see it? I suppose it’s both. And this is not a hardship – no, this is something! Because when you look, and you see it, it makes you feel special — you are allowed into all the beauty. You get to see beyond the shadowed wings of the blackbird and watch the glorious flight. You get to see beyond the expletives of your uncle’s mouth. Beyond the overalls and slight smell of cow, and think, wow, he really was handsome.  

I have been flawed. I haven’t always seen what is right in front of me. But I’m learning. I’m trying to do better. Be better. And like the Blackbird song says, “Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

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Sketchbook.

You might think it would be the opposite. When painting, there is a looseness, a letting go, that must be learned. (Maybe it’s relearned – children seem to have it, but as they get older, it tightens up — I guess because they (we) become too aware, too concerned and it sucks the life right out of the art — I guess the same could be said about life itself.) 

Through daily practice, I gain the confidence of letting go. Letting go of the worry of perfection, and just allowing the image to come to life. Letting the canvas breathe freely, along with myself.  And the beauty comes, in my humble opinion, not in the exact line, but the movement, the strokes. 

Maybe it’s easier on the canvas, but I want the same for my daily life. To let go of the nagging need to please, to be exact. And it comes, slowly, with daily practice. Each day I can see it a little bit more clearly, the beauty of my imperfect strokes — and I have to let go of those who can’t. I suppose that’s the art of living. And oh, how beautiful it can be.

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A soft touch.

The dentist told me that I’m brushing my teeth too hard. That was humbling. You’d think after brushing my teeth this long, I would know how to do it. “Doucement,” she said. (Meaning gently.)

When they say it never rains here, it’s not like the song…we live in one of the sunniest parts of the world. It’s in my nature not to waste it. While the sun is shining I think, “I can do this, and this, and don’t forget… keep going…” And I like it. I enjoy it. I need it. But once in a while, it’s in my best interest to just slow down a little. The universe, being much more wise, saw that maybe it was time for me to be calm. But it took a darkening of the skies, and a few loud rumbles to make it happen.

I turned on my desk lamp. Opened my sketchbook. Took out the colored pencils. Rolled them through my fingers. I like the sound of the wood clinking with possibility. I sketched out a bird. Slowly. Colored in it’s wings. Feathers. Found a pastel stick to create the white areas. Pastels require the softest of touch. Doucement. And there was my bird. My gentle, little, rainy day bird.

Sometimes we are hardest on ourselves. Impatient. Unforgiving. And we need a little reminder to be gentle. Take this bird to be just that. And be kind today — to yourself. Hold the pastel of your heart softly, without judgement, and know that it’s not wasteful to be still. It’s healthy, necessary. Doucement, my friends…Doucement.

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Nothing.

I woke up alone each day in my summer bed. My mother at work. I brushed my teeth. Sometimes my hair. Put on shorts and a t-shirt. Made a piece of toast with Smucker’s grape jelly and Jif creamy smooth peanut butter. Walked through the unlocked door. And continued walking. No map. No plan. I filled my pockets. A smooth rock. An abandoned neighbor’s toy. Kicked the gravel beneath my feet. Dust circled my ankles. I kicked faster. Began running. Found my bicycle in the ditch where I had left it – distracted by yesterday’s game of kickball in the open field. Rode slowly at first. Up the hill. Turned around. Fast down the hill. Again up. Again down. Faster each time. Down again. At Dynda’s. Arms extended, I ran through the cool, wet white sheets hanging on the line. Waved to Grandma Dynda, who wasn’t related to me. Ran back through the grass. Through the open door, letting it slam behind me. Gathered all the dolls and stuffed animals that would fit into my homemade orange corduroy book bag and ran back to my bicycle. Filled the basket on the handlebars and told them not to be afraid. I would take care of them. And raced on the gravel road. Raced them to where the tar began, to where I could really pick up speed. I made the sound of “weeeeeeeee,” that I imagined each one to scream. I showed them the geese near the lake. Not too close. I protected them. Took them back home for lunch. On a blanket table in the grass, we ate Campbell’s chicken noodle soup from the can. The grass tickled our backs through the blanket as a circus of clouds entertained us. I carried them back into the house in the blanket. Placed them on the bed. They didn’t argue about taking a nap. I forehead kissed each one of them. Raced through the door. Raced back in. Grabbed fifty cents, an actual 50 cent piece that I got from my grandma for my birthday. Got back on my bike that waited patiently in the driveway on its side. Rode past the gravel. On to the speed of the tar. Over the railroad tracks. Past the viking statue. Onto broadway. Stopped at Rexall Drug. Left my unlocked bike on the sidewalk. Emptied my pockets on the counter. Sifted through to find the 50 cent piece. Handed it to the smocked lady. Took a frozen Milky Way candy bar out of the freezer. Ate it in the sun. Got on my bike. Chocolate fingers stained the handlebars. Tar. Railroad tracks. Gravel. Home. Hose. Washed hands. Washed bike. Ran through open door. Grabbed the Laura Ingalls Wilder book from the bedroom side table. Forehead kissed each doll and animal again. Book in basket, I rode to Norton’s. “The girls aren’t home,” Mrs. Norton said. “That’s ok,” I said. And sat on their front steps to read. Finished two chapters. Forgot my bike. Walked home. Heard my mother’s car wheels on the gravel road and smiled. Raced to her car door. She gave me a kiss on the forehead. “What did you do today?” she asked. “Nothing,” I smiled.

Yesterday I drew on a piece of paper. I painted in my sketchbook. No one will buy it. What was it for? Sometimes I wonder… is it nothing? And then I remember. I race through the door of my open heart. Yes, I smile, nothing.

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Table by table.



We’re always told – “look at the big picture,” “the grand scheme of things.” I understand what that means and most of the time I agree, but I must admit, I can often be overwhelmed by the “grand scheme” of anything.

Every day I swim laps in the pool. Often times 100. But I never start out counting backwards from 100. I tell myself, just do twenty. And when I finish twenty, I think, well, 30 is easy, and I can do twenty easily later. So I do thirty. And slowly work my way to 50. 50 is fine for the day, and if I want to more later, I do it. And most days, I do. Et voila! 100.

This is the way I do most things. It works for me. Bit by bit. I need the tiny wins. So I let myself have them.

It wouldn’t be possible to paint a giant canvas every day. Not for me. It would take too much of my heart and soul and brain. So I make sketches. Small paintings. And it fills me. Gives me practice. Gives me joy. Confidence. Sets me up for the larger works. So I paint a small vase with a small apple on a small table. And it is complete. It is enough. I am enough. And I guess that’s where I’m trying to get to every day — where we all need to get to every day — that place where we know we are OK, we are good, we are enough.

Take the journey today. Lap by lap. Table by table. And know that you are enough. What could be more “grand” than that?

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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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Have to say it.

The other day, driving on the road to visit Dominique’s mother, we passed the same building as we do once a week. This day was different. They started construction on this building, well, destruction I suppose. There was a giant space in the middle, and suddenly the view was completely different. A lovely old church with a steeple stood center stage. Was that always there? Of course it must have been. It was beautiful. We only hope when they construct the next building, they remember what’s behind.


Maybe it’s too spot on – tearing down walls to get to the heart of it…changing your view so you can see something spectacular…what you need has always been there… Some might say, well that’s just too obvious. It goes without saying. But does it? In so many instances, I think we think that. “Well, she must know how I feel…” or “He knows he’s talented…” I don’t have to say it. But I think we do have to say it. Bring to light the things that are there. Tell people how we feel. Share our compliments. Our encouragements. Our love. We won’t lose anything. But oh, how much there is to gain!!!


Today, let’s say the things we never said. Let’s not take the chance of missing what is there. Let’s share the thank yous. The good mornings. The I love yous. Nothing to lose. So much to gain!
Good morning!!!!

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Becoming.

My plan today was to show you a time-lapse video of me painting an apple.  There is no video.  I’d like to say that the battery died, which it did, right from the start, and I changed it. But I guess in my excitement to start painting again, I forgot to hit the button, and now I have a delightful little apple, but no video.  So today’s offering is not a video, but a painting of an apple.  I like the apple.  I liked painting it.  You didn’t get to see it happen, but it did. And I hope somehow, in knowing the story, you can see the love in that. 


I am not the same person I was when my canvas was blank.  I have worked and blended and stroked and changed, and I have become.  You haven’t seen each step along the way, but I show you now, who I am, who I have become, and I hope you can see the love in that.  Maybe we could all do that for each other — accept  who is here today, right in front of us — and know that it took a million strokes to get here — a million blends to reach these colorful lives.  And if we could see the beauty in these vulnerable presentations of these little apples, these little and beautiful lives, then I guess it would be hard to miss the love in that.