Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: Vincent Van Gogh


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On St. Germain

“There are so many people who imagine that words are nothing. On the contrary, don’t you think, it’s as interesting and as difficult to say a thing well as to paint a thing. There’s the art of line and colours, but there’s the art of words that will last just the same.” Vincent Van Gogh

We were sitting in the car together on St. Germain, deciding on a place to eat. I pointed through the window to Sawatdee — the only Thai restaurant in St. Cloud, Minnesota. It was unusually warm for an autumn day. Did we want spicy? The slight breeze rustled through the fresh Daytons bags in the back seat of my mother’s car. I got a slight and welcome waft of her Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door perfume as she tapped her hand on my shoulder — the way you touch someone when you want to make sure they are listening. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “What?” “I was talking with mother (my Grandma Elsie) about your show. I told her how many paintings you sold. She told me to tell you that she’s so proud of you.” Her voice cracked as she said.

Now to put it in context, it was not the nature of an old Swedish woman to tell you how she felt. Oh, she would show you, with a belly squeeze, a rootbeer float, but words of actual praise didn’t come naturally or frequently. My mother, who let go of that silence long ago, gave me those words with such joy and such ease — these words that were almost visible as they ran the path from her heart, through her hand, into my very being. So filling, there was nothing for either one of us to do but cry. We swam in a magnificent tableau of tears of tenderness.

If I were to name this “painting,” it would be Saturday on St. Germain. It’s not lost on me, as I now sit here in France, home of the actual Saint Germain — a cradle of intellectual and artistic life. Renowned writers like Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and artists like Pablo Picasso and Ernest Hemingway frequented its alleys, making Saint-Germain-des-Prés a significant hub of French culture. How delicious, I thought, that my first equivalent encounter would be in St. Cloud, Minnesota.

Did you come from a line of artists? People ask me this often. Not in the conventional way, I suppose. But pictures were painted with heart and words. And I see them. Live in them. I am indeed cradled to this very day.

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And candy too.

“So then my brush goes between my fingers as if it were a bow on the violin and absolutely for my pleasure.”

I ran into my grandma’s kitchen. If the screen door slamming wasn’t enough to convey my fury, I clenched my fists firmly by my hips and screamed over the motor mixing the dough. “But I gave her all of my candy!”  My grandma put down her spatula and turned off the mixer. A blending of cousins ran around the summer grass. I wanted to make friends with the girl arriving from Illinois, so I filled my pocket from the Lazy Susan, I explained — Slowpokes, Sugar Daddies and Babies. I gave them all to her, in exchange, I thought, for immediate friendship, but she ran off to play with my cousin from a Minneapolis suburb. “They are sitting under the apple tree right now, eating my candy!” My grandma looked down at me and smiled, “You mean eating MY candy.” I shook my head reluctantly — she had a point. She wiped her hand on her apron before tossling my enhanced summer blonde. “Always be a cheerful giver,” she said. I turned to make my way to the front door. “Hey,” she said, and pointed with her head to the corner cabinet. “There’s plenty more.” I filled my pockets again. She had given me everything I needed, and candy too.

Be it gift or heart, I’m not proud to say that I have to learn the lesson quite often, to be a cheerful giver. Sharing with no sense of obligation. With no demand of return. Just loving. Even with and to myself. To do things, out of pure pleasure, without condition. 

I painted the violin chair with no expectation. Well, maybe one — joy. When I sold it, I heard my grandma say, ever so cheerfully, “Hey!” 

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To sit beside little.

He is probably best known for his golden colors. Brilliant yellows. Vibrant flowers and fields. This is Van Gogh. But yesterday, it was his simple drawing at the Chicago Art Institute that got into my heart more than most. Entitled the Christmas Prayer, it is an elderly man, with folded hands, giving thanks for what most would call “very little.” He writes to his brother, “I have a feeling of belief in something on high even if I don’t know exactly who or what will be there. I like what Victor Hugo said: religions pass, but God remains.”

There are lights all around us here. The city is decorated for Christmas. And I love it so much. Trees twinkling. Lions wreathed. Reds and greens. Goldens shining. But it’s not the real reason I love Chicago. I love it for the black and whiteness of it all. The strong shoulders of buildings that welcomed me long ago, when I needed it most. When I needed the strength and certainty of it, to become.

And so it is with people. There are some in bright and shiny colors who will take you to the party. And then there are some who will simply take you home. And sit beside you. In gratitude.

Perhaps we would all do well to remember it at this time, and throughout the coming year. To sit beside so little, and know we have everything — it is here where all the colors will remain.


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The gallery given.

I can’t say it was the most comfortable lap, my grandfather’s. If you wanted something soft, you went to my grandma. Her lap was pillowed with sugary treats, and as soft as the toasted marshmallows she loved to eat from Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store. You could easily get lost in her folds of love. So what was it that my grandfather had? First of all, I rarely saw him seated. He was skinny. The farm saw to that. He smelled of earth and pipe tobacco. And just where my head would reach, between his chest and shoulders, were the hooks and buttons of his overall straps. The real comfort came, I suppose, straight from the heart. To be let in, this was the magic. To be offered these rare moments of respite. Between the field and the plate wiped clean with a sheet of bread. To be given the time, when time was currency. This was pure love. Perhaps it’s not visible to the naked eye, but I know the button imprint remains on my cheek, and somewhere deep in my heart. 

People often ask me, “Do you come from a long line of artists?” My first thought is the quote from Vincent Van Gogh — “There is nothing more artistic than to love people.” My grandmother’s quilts still keep me warm across the sea. The portraits I painted of my grandfather keep me safe. Protected. My mother’s blouses wrap me in a love that will never die. I was loved. I am loved. Still. I walk daily within this gallery given. So, YES! The answer is always yes! I come from a long line of artists. Today, in my most humble of ways, on canvas and paper, I attempt to pass on the line. To pass on the love.

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