Surprise Drops

I walked out onto my studio porch yesterday morning. I had the mister going and I saw that little droplets had formed on a spider web on a small patio rose. I shut off the mister and got the camera. After downloading, I saw the itsy bitsy surprise in the slightly lower right center.
If you click on the photo and then knock it up to about 200% on the bottom right of your internet window, this little girl is a little easier to see. The droplets were teeny little things, so you can imagine her size.

Searching for resolution

For awhile now, I have been working to complete things I've started. Wow, I had so many things started. There were two paintings however hanging incomplete on my studio wall which were not the work of current students or my own. One is quite near completion and is the work of a young lady who is developing her own artistic style and legacy. I have decided to simply give it to her to finish on her own. The other is the work of a student who took a break two years ago to start his own business. Often he says, "I'm coming back one of these days." Yet the picture hangs there day after day, week after week, month after month, wanting resolution hating its suspension in progress. I decided to finish it.
It was an acrylic not an oil, so the process is fairly easy even after two years. Icleaned it and then opened the surface with medium and began to paint. A wash of color here, a thick layer there. Evaluation, construction, a highlight and a shadow. The picture is complete and ready for its owner and whatever comes next. I will not sign it or frame it. I will write on the back what it is and the co painters and date of completion. That is sufficient. My husband said he felt it was satisfied. I do too.
I told the former student what I had done. A look of relief spread over his face. Then he got excited. I'm going to get one of your paintings! (I never give students my work.) I told him it was as much his as mine. This is a new thing for me. I'm proud of the work, but I hope I never do it again.

Love

This picture was taken about 2 years after we married.

Twenty three years past he held my hand
And promised his fidelity would stand
As long as both of us live on in life
He was then, husband and I was his wife.

He took an awesome load to carry there
Away into the life that we still share
A wise man asked him if he thought it through
Would he be shepherd, father, husband too?
We stood and looked each other in the eye,
We both had fears and dreams, both bold and shy.
And yet mid witnesses, “I do,” we said.
That promise through the years has faithful led.


The years have not been easy, always kind
But somehow we have come this day to find
Twenty three years passed and we love still
And by God’s mercy know we always will.
DW 2007

This was taken this summer.

Catch a falling star

I grew up fascinated by the night sky. I knew many constellations early and the planetarium in Denver was a favorite outing. My parents were responsible for broadening my field of interest. But in Junior High School, one of my professors introduced us to the stars close up. He lived in a highrise with a roof deck and had a quality personal telescope.
After moving to Oklahoma right after marriage I found myself under dark skies hampered only by humidity – and mosquitoes. Eventually, life and child raising crowded out the sky at night.
In August of 1983, I found myself under a clear, bright, active sky. A divorced mom, I belonged to a Christian singles group who sponsored a canoe trip. A dear friend waited to transport me, knowing I got off work late and my old car might not make it. That night after setting up tents, eating supper and taking turns in the shower house, everyone, about 60 of us, settled in to bed. My friend was still up and I hadn’t yet wound down from the day, so we struck up a conversation. We weren’t a ‘couple’, but we were interested in going that direction whether we admitted it or not.
I’d seen a lot of shooting stars as a child. I knew about wishing on them and had been duly taught to call them meteors. I knew a meteorite was a piece that made it all the way to the ground. Somehow I missed the information about meteor showers.
That night in August, I watched, with my friend, my first meteor shower. I’d never seen so many in all my life. I didn’t know about the Perseid or any other for that matter. It was magical. It was the first of many we would watch over the next decades. A little over a year later, we married. Since that night, I’ve become acquainted with all the major, many of the moderate and some of the minor showers. I’ve investigated their origins and histories and I have a link to a very efficient meteor observing site on my favorites. We’ve often gone to some high, clear vantage to watch, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes in a group.
Two and a half years ago, we moved into a house with a large back yard. The first 50 feet are flat, treeless, and blocked from city lights. Right after we moved in, we bundled up and sat out to watch the Geminid. After years with no sky access at home, I was ecstatic. We’ve since put in a pool, but still have plenty of space for observing.
For the past week, I’ve observed at least one hour per night – generally 4AM to 5 or 5:30AM. After about an hour, the mosquitoes discover me and it turns into a self pummeling. There’s also the humidity, which worsens the light pollution. I had hoped to get into a darker sky this year, for it promised to be a good one with the moon at new phase and the sky clear. My husband had to work today, so we stayed put.
In preparation for the big night, I checked out a couple of our tents, but the screen openings were far too small for a good view. I was considering constructing something when my husband pulled out a cot sized mosquito net enclosure we had purchased when a local outfitter retired and closed his shop. We put it up last evening using telescoping poles from our camping equipment and rebar. It only encloses one cot. I’ll have to construct a larger one for future shows.
The show was a fine one, sans mosquitoes, though I began dozing off a little before three and lost it about four. I was somewhat sad to be watching alone, (except for a curious cat and a very persistent dog) but I didn’t really feel lonely, not with all the memories and stars surrounding me. And, because I believe God created all that beauty, I know he was watching with me.

NOT stupid.

I’ve never stopped wondering what it is that I do to inspire people’s evaluations of me. Perhaps it’s my incessant gab or maybe my hyper activity or maybe the way I change subjects or don’t. In high school (yeah, decades and decades) I took a IQ test because I was coming out of a private school and they wanted to ‘place’ me.
Later, my adviser suggested that I not share my IQ score with other people. I thought maybe I’d scored low. I had no idea what the numbers meant. It was in my file. The teachers knew if they wanted to. And at least some of them wanted to know.
Once I had my schedule changed while my adviser was out. The stand-in obviously didn’t see my file. I walked into my new improved science class with the transfer paper. The teacher took one look and said “No, you won’t” and left the room with my ‘schedule’. He was gone most of the class.
The kids in that class were from another planet. Sheltered, spoiled as I was, I had no idea people like that had landed on this earth – and in Denver. As the teacher came in, he motioned to me. I went. He handed me another newer and more improved schedule. That was the second indication that I was different.
I was an A student. Some things were easy, some were not, but I was an A student. My parents had never allowed me to believe otherwise. My grades really didn’t change much from private to public school. My social life did.
I remember one friend who asked if I made my own clothing. Yes, I did. “I thought so,” she added. “They’re just so . . . . . different. I mean, they’re creative. I mean, they fit you’re personality. I mean,. . . ” “They’re obviously not off the rack at Sears?” I offered. “Or any place else.” she finished. Surprisingly, different as we were, we remained friends. I just never got into the main stream.
Once I fudged and told a guy what my IQ score was. He laughed at me. “You silly girl, that was probably your advisor’s weight.” I laughed along and never brought it up again.
When 17 years of marriage to the afore mentioned person ended, I went back to college. I was given a battery of tests –to place me. After one semester, I was on scholarship. Not only was I poor, but I was a woman and I was smart. I qualified for tuition, money and a job.
One day my advisor called me into his office. He had questions he needed to ask. What did I want to do with the rest of my life? Seems every department on campus wanted a piece of me.
He looked me in the eye and said “You can be anything you want to be. You’re intelligent.” He laughed and looked away. “When you came here, I thought, ‘One more dumb blonde to train for a skill and toss out on an unsuspecting world.’ Well you had me fooled.”
People always seem to believe that what eggs I have in the basket were scrambled long ago. They make the most incredulous comments. Then one day, they open their eyes wide and say softly, “Oh, you’re not stupid.” Then they try to explain. I occasionally ask them to stop embarrassing us both.
I think I’ve mentioned in another blog that I spent a lot of time in the hall during elementary. It didn’t affect my grades or my spirit; it just made me wonder what I did this time. After being a public school teacher –not my first choice- for many years, I think I know. I was a very active child, mentally, physically, emotionally. That kind is hard to endure with a class of 25 to 30 children no matter how stimulating she would be one on one.
A while back I took one of those online IQ tests. My daughter and hubby were working in the wee hours on her vehicle and, since I am automotively challenged, I ended up the bored, can’t sleep tonight, water and cookie dispenser; so the test, bronchitis meds and all, after a long day, at about 2AM. I was disappointed, I scored a good 25 points lower than my high school test. They rated me at genius and wanted to sell me an education. I’m thinking genius at this level? What was I in high school?
Well so, my college adviser sat looking at me, wondering, expecting an answer. “I want to be a journalist.” “Why?” He emphasized again, “You can be anything you want. Anything.” “Well, I want to write and do photography for scientific research.” He was dumbfounded. “I’m promising you the world and you want to be a journalist? Why not the scientist?”
I got that first degree and ended up in advertising which I already knew I hated. So a few years later I went back and got my teaching degree. I remember one co-student who was ticked because I destroyed the curve for the rest of the class. She said "When you get done being miss know it all with your 4 point, you'll find no one wants a perfectionist. They can't relate to the common student." Excuse me, I work hard at this and it's a 3.93 thank you. I did get hired - my first year out.
It was, in the early years, the most incredible thing I could have imagined. I felt I should be paying them, or at least still be on scholarship. And now after years and changes and converting to private, I still love teaching. It still challenges me, knocks me down and picks me up.
So, sometimes, my conversations are kind of random. I have a strange sense of humor. I may be obsessive compulsive, stubborn and opinionated, but I’m not stupid. Even when I do stupid things.
Yeah, that's me: the one with the back injury, dragging a loaded back pack over large boulders.

Happy accidents

It's been a couple of busy days, so I've not been around much. That's another blog.
I saw my blast and thought I'd comment on it. I've been making easels and tables for my studio.
I have tables but they are big and awkward to walk around when I have several students. So, I thought to make a personal folding table that was easy to put up or down for need. I began with a wooden tv tray as inspiration and then began to think about the things the students comment on. I'm doing little tweaks yet, but that's about resolved.
I have easels but they are small wooden tripods that slide around on the table, are awkward to take down and put up, are hard to store and don't hold a larger size canvas well. To be sure, I have a couple of nice stand alone easels, but my students work from tables. I wanted something to securely hold a 36 to 40 inch canvas at a choice of angles and I wanted it to set up, break down quickly, and store easily. After one sort-of success, I made a small change and liked what I came up with.
One of my private students, who takes painting and drawing, commented that it was too bad we couldn't make the table elevate at the back. I looked long at the design but that was impractical. I also teach some students with arthritis who cannot paint in an upright position long without pain. They end up having to hold the canvas while they paint on it.
Well, last Friday I was making a couple of easels. On one, I made a couple of mistakes that I had to compensate for. While drilling, the wing nuts on the uprights vibrated loose and the whole top of the structure fell forward. I decided to step back and take a deep breath. I was getting really frustrated with myself. Suddenly I saw my easel anew. I had already created an elevated stand for my drawing boards and an arthritic easel as well. I was stoked! I giggled and played with it on and off all night.
If I hadn't made a mistake, I probably still wouldn't know what I created.

A road I know

It's amazing the difference a day can make. As I worked in my studio tonight, I was filled with painful memories: memories that bring self doubt and misgivings. I was "wounded in the house of a friend" withheld from the love and companionship I'd anticipated. And for what? . . . . .
The events that caused it are not important. The outcome is inconsequential. What I do now is all that will matter.
The poem is my own.


It’s not a road I planned once more to travel
A path I know but do not wish to follow
Yet, I stumble on toward my Babel
The promises I made resounding hollow.

“But tell me there’s not cause” the stubborn heart cries
As if that makes this journey now required.
With each word and step my joy and peace dies
While a flame with bitter fuel is fired.

Painful memories join to make me sour;
Gratitude and tenderness would stay me.
Angry sirens call me from their power;
One more injured thought comes in to slay me.

“Wait! Recall now where this road will take you.”
Comes a voice I know inside my spirit.
This soft voice, continuing to break through
Will help me turn away if I will hear it.

So, what will I do with this rejection
Shall I forge ahead where reason calls me
Where bitterness grows like a vast infection
Or shall I turn about and let it fall free?

Memories like other fine things must be handled gently and put away quickly or damage will be done. Why is all this stacked on my table? That's another blog.

overwhelmed

I walked into my studio tonight and was completely overwhelmed. I was overwhelmed by the change it has experienced in the past year. A year ago, I dragged my own paintings in among my student pieces to keep the walls from that bare sense of longing. Tonight, I consider hauling the last two out to make room for the up and coming.
As I looked about the room, I saw familiar pieces waiting for their resolution. Some are babes, just starting, expectant and invigorating. Some are adolescents, troublesome, uncooperative, but slowly bending to the heart and hand of the artist. Some are maturing quietly, rapidly, almost ready to leave this group home where they have grown and improved and become.
Against the wall, sit the lifeless, yet expectant future works of art in various sizes, all primed and ready for that touch of color that starts them on their path to being. I know the destiny planned for some and I can't wait to see it happen.
Taking in each piece, I hear the laughter, the frustration, the pleading, the excitement, the moment of Eureka! when their creators 'got it.' I feel the good will, tension and interaction between class participants and the thick intense learning of the one on one in private lessons.
The acrylic students ask about the progress of the oil painter who's impending move will wrench her from our lives into a far off place. She hasn't sold yet. The news brings both joy and sadness. They comment on the earlier class works in acrylic, giving critical evaluations both positive and questioning.
Even when they don't see the faces, they have gotten to know the product of each other's love and struggle. The oil painters spoke their admiration and concern for the acrylic girls who are doubling time to try to finish before their vacation. One took a drawing class last week and brought her work. I complimented, then explained what needed fixed. She understood and looked with new eyes on her handiwork. Now why didn't the teacher say something about that? I gave as much grace as I could while thinking the same thing. But it was a one day class at a nature center with, I can only imagine, how many students. Yes, grace, grace.
I rethink the instruction and plan for my next opportunity as I hear the classes replay in my mind like a hidden recorder. I hear and spontaneously join an old song in my heart.
Boundless love, unending joy. This is my life, it's what I know. And I can't believe that He selected me, Jesus My Lord, it's you I owe.
The sound fades off. Quietly I walk away from my own holy ground.

Entry for August 02, 2007

When I did the blogthings Who should paint you, I got Andy Warhol. I guess it works if we take the idea that he did an image over and over and over with little or no change. That seems at times like the way my life lessons go. Sigh. But of late, Kokashka has come to mind: acidic colors, bold strokes, in your face. Some times Munch: the crazy dream you can't wake from.
I've mentioned to a few of m v-friends that I loved the water color illustrations of Paradise Lost by Salvador Dali. Yet if he were to paint my life, it would be one of those multi meaning, search for the hidden, surreal jobs.
I have a tendency in painters to appreciate opposite sides of the thought and application pool. Kandinsky and Joseph Stella ignite my mind and subconcious. I get lost in a Pollock. Yet if we're not going there, I want the romantic/impressionism of Constable, Homer, Moran. I think I really like realism. It just doesn't have a lot to do with my living!
On second thought - scrap the realism.