Getting Smarter

When I first started blogging, I lived in a smartphone-less world.  I had the same little hunk of junk phone that I'd had all through my twenties, the crappy one you get for free when your mom and you buy the family plan with no bells or whistles, our numbers always just one digit apart.  I've stuck with those ten digits as long as I've had a cell phone; it's the next closest thing to a Social Security Number. "Yours is the only number I remember," my brother once said in a collect call from the pokey.  A number that's reliably, identifiably mine.

Back then, blogging was an inconvenient pursuit.  Posting daily meant not only painting the darn painting every day but scanning it, sizing it, and then spending dedicated time on that lunk of a desktop computer to bring the post to life.  Some days, it amounted to a full day of work. Other days, I would be out of town and have to use a chinsey digital camera, borrow a computer, and upload the stuff.  It was terribly inconvenient, but it brought my painting to a broader audience when I lived in a town that was smaller than a city block and thirty minutes drive from anything (also terribly inconvenient at times.)  Truth be told, there was something satisfying about that distance though.  You had no choice but to work for it.

I have a smartphone now.  The first time I went to New York city, I didn't.  I thought maybe if I bought an Ipod touch, I'd be able to use the limitless WiFi enveloping the city to navigate.  Boy was I wrong.  Turns out, internet ain't free.  The first time I tried to cross town to meet a friend for lunch, I ended up on the wrong street of the same name.  He lamented my mistake with an urgency to get out of that part of town as fast as possible as a gold-toothed man hanging around a dollar store heckled "why don't you take my picture, mama."  I was dragging around an analog camera too.  I am so obvious, I thought to myself.   I was an hour late to the lunch date, disoriented and completely freaked out.

These days, it takes little more than a few movements of a thumb to post an image, make a short film, explain damn near anything, or have the voice of a nice calm lady guide you anywhere.  Yet somehow, it doesn't make it easier for me to post a blog entry every day; maybe I've gotten lazy, or maybe I'm so over-inundated with technology that I've developed an aversion.  I wonder sometimes: have we lost our innocence, the naive curiosity that drives us, gives us the will to figure things out the hard way?  Have things gotten so much easier that they've inadvertently become more difficult because we don't have to use and exercise the tool we're equipped with, our brain.  When it all comes crashing down, will we still remember that number that makes us think of home?

Any way you slice it, I'm still working every day.  Here's a weeks worth of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

new heights

When I was young, I wasn't one of those horse girls.  That was just too typical.  My fantasy pet was a giraffe that I could feed by hand out the second story window of my childhood home.  I could picture it perfectly, and I still can today.  Because what is a giraffe but a horse with a fancy paint job and an extra long neck? This over-dramatic, prepubescent, angsty and artsy young girl's dream.

In my household, we always had at least one dog and one cat, with the occasional lizard, goldfish, or bird.  We are a tribe of devout animal lovers, every pet with it's barrage of nicknames and special voices used only for that animal, every pet a family member.  The nightly prayer of "Now I lay me down to sleep..." always contained a wholehearted "bless Sassy and Ping Pong and Fishy Sal."  in the list of persons we kept in our hearts at all time.  This may not be unique, but it has definitely shaped me into the kind of gal who prefers animal company over people most days.  And after a year or so of living mostly out of a suitcase, mostly dogless and catless, responsible for noone but my sad self,  I bit the bullet and adopted a tiny dog.  Formerly a death row inmate in the City of Angels, she is now glued to my feet, following me from one room to another, learning how to piss and shit outside, enjoying her gourmet hand prepared meals, helping me remember the simplest moments of joy in that divine companionship only an animal can provide. 

worth it

I feel excited to be an artist in Seattle right now. It's a blossoming scene full of highly motivated and forward thinking individuals.  Being surrounded by that kind of energy keeps me motivated to make good work, feeds the machine that chews up the inspiration, digests it, and comes up with new, better ideas. When I lived in the country, I was hungry for that variety of raw fuel, to be surrounded by art that makes you humble, makes you think, "damn, I wish I thought of that."  It was never enough for me to see it on a screen, or in the pages of a magazine.  That would just get me depressed.   Only when you witness a piece in person can you feel what the artist really meant.  Only then can it change you.   You stretch you mind around every possibility.  You learn different ways of seeing.  Your imagination ignites.  You grow.  You leave a better person, a better artist, determined to make something great of it.

This weekends excitement was contagious, with all the hullabaloo about the first Seattle Art Fair and all the events that occurred alongside.  I mean, if you ever wondered if people here cared about art, all you had to do was walk upon the event center opening night to see the people lined up as far as the eye could see. Not for a new Star Wars, or a Seahawks game, but for art.  I mean, I'd wait in that line, any day.  I mean, I kind of got emotional about it.  Working for two galleries this weekend and seeing the sheer human force that goes into this kind of production, I'm thankful that people give that much of a shit.

Because let me be honest: I waver.  For the last ten years I've committed my home to art and artists.  I live in a gallery, or rather, I've converted my home into an artspace.  It gets old.  And for ten years, I have foregone the comforts of a conventional living room or dining room in order to have a place to paint.   That gets old too. I have given up financial security and the luxury of a nice wardrobe for buying art supplies.  I feel like Raggedy Ann.  Yes, that was my choice, and yes I must live with my decision, and no, I don't regret my decision. I work for my passion and currently support myself on art alone.  But this month, and many months, I'm still on the "oh shit, how am I going to pay rent and feed myself?" tip.  Aren't I too old for that?

At a certain point, it gets old to be hand-to-mouth; all this hoping, working, waiting, working, and hoping some more.  Trying not to have raw nerves, trying to stay up, stay strong, stay motivated and optimistic. Life is expensive, and the societal treadmill can move faster than I wanna run. That being said, it is getting easier.  You run long enough, you get in shape. You get in good enough shape, you can keep up with the pack.

This time around, I got my runnin shoes on.

clarity

I paint a lot of common objects.  I think back to when I first started with watercolor:  I had grown sensitive to the solvents in oil paint, they made me nauseous every time I sat down to work.  I had to try something new, my livelihood depended on it!  I didn't know what I was doing, and that was incredibly scary.  Picking a subject simple and repetitive was the easiest way out of a seemingly insurmountable challenge: come up with a new skill, a new way to make a living, a new aesthetic.   Grab an object.  Examine that object. Paint it.  Repeat. Don't think about concept and content, just learn how to paint.  What began as an escape from the responsibility of having to think up a new idea every day ended up becoming a concept in and of itself.  The quantity of the work grew and grew as the days passed, the paintings told an elegant story of the most mundane aspects of life.  And in the midst of the most terrible grief and emptiness of losing my mom, I learned how to start from scratch, I learned: its never too late to start over.

“So what do we do? Anything. Something. So long as we just don't sit there. If we screw it up, start over. Try something else. If we wait until we've satisfied all the uncertainties, it may be too late. 
- Lee Iacocca”

quietude

There are things about being a self-employed artist that only other self-employed artists understand.  For instance, as glamorous as it may sound, it is quite the lonely proposition.  Any typical "eight hour day" might consist of all sorts of ways to fill the empty space that surrounds you.  A professor once said you'll spend an hour painting and seven hours looking at/thinking about that painting.  He wasn't exaggerating.  When things get too quiet, which they almost always do, you'll find yourself turning on some music, only to get annoyed by said music.  You'll stop for a snack, and stare at the fridge resentfully knowing there's nothing fun inside.  You'll avoid the room wherein your work lies, you'll do every awful thing BUT work, washing the dishes and folding the laundry and exercising.  You take a moment to pet the cat, play with it, and then get real bothered when it lays on your paper or steps on your computer keys.  You might turn on a self-help podcast, or some comedy on YouTube, wishing it was somebody to talk to.  You'll check Instagram, Facebook, Craigslist, Instagram again, you'll shop for something you don't need, you'll check your horoscope on two or three different websites, you'll consult the I-Ching Online to see if you're making the right decisions.   The whole time, you're thinking, hard.  Somewhere in there, you'll put your pencil to paper, and work.  Its a desk job with the typical shoulder pains that come with looking down and favoring one hand too much.  There are failures upon failures, fears of failure, tedious moments of tenuous ascent, building up an image, carving something, anything, from the looming whiteness of the blank page.  Eventually, from the nothingness, an idea comes to fruition.  Success!  And boy did you earn it.

accountability

It's my birthday, this special day for reflecting on who I am, who I've been, and what I'd like to become.  Most often, I get really sad about losing the lady who gave birth to me that fateful day. I might be found crying in a puddle, about everything, about nothing, in the trenches of a grief that sneaks up from beneath the heavy rock where I left it.  I don't want to be angsty about what's not quite right in my life.  In general, I'm an upbeat, motivated person.  But on my birthday, every year, I hit a wall, HARD.   As a result, I usually make a list for the coming year, how I've just got to do better, how I'm going to take life by the horns in this way or that.  So, my friends, as a result, I've decided to wipe the dust off this old jalopy of a blog and give it another whirl.

You see, there's something about a daily writing & painting practice that keeps a gal in check.   Right about now, I could stand to check myself.  I live in a new city, I'm in a new relationship, I have a new dog, a new house, a new gallery, a new band, a new car.  Yet the old me is still in there: that self-employed, broke-as-fuck, structureless, stressed out, disorganized artist who has trouble focusing and thrift shops therapeutically then freaks the fuck out when she gets down to her last penny every month, that YES-girl who care-takes everyone but herself and then crashes with a KABOOM, the woman who can't seem to have real self-esteem or body-confidence in spite of it all, the gal who might drink too much coffee or alcohol and then forget to eat, the lady who doesn't clean up her messes and then gets mad at the house for being a pig sty.  STUPID ME! I find myself saying.  Grow up and figure your shit out!  Every year, about this time, I say I'm going to make some real changes.  This time I'm making them, slowly but surely.  And part of making those steps of self-improvement is realizing what works. What have I abandoned and why?  What is important to me?  Let's get real, Jess.  I'm my own boss, which means only I can hold myself accountable.  Year 35, here I am.  I'm stepping up to the plate.  And all I can say is, it's about damn time.

chaos

i'm back.  and i finished an entire show's worth of work.  it was good.  i'm different now.  these days, i enjoy giving time to projects that aren't mine.  i want to hold the hands of the children of my friends.  i want to paint the things i haven't pictured, and don't know of yet.  it is a time of unknowns, of crossing uncomfortable distances.  it is a time of bravery, and friendship, comradery.  it is a time of healing.  and community.  

 

it's time to embrace the chaos, and become its friend.

may i place you on hold?

i'm getting ready for a collaborative show with my good old friend kj.  for me, that means work upon work, priming, cutting, sanding, sketching, drawing, painting, repainting, assessing, discussing. it means adding sequins, rhinestones, gold and silver where necessary.  it means learning the grim sad stories of dead rock 'n' rollers, and avoiding their eyes, drawn by your hand, watching you walk around the room.  it means driving up to bellingham to look at those portraits side by side, some by you and some by she, maybe listen to hall&oates radio and add a few details here an there, gossiping all the while.  but mostly, it means that the one a day project gets put on the back burner.  the hiatus, it's worth it. i promise, it will be worth it. i swear.

the daily grind

hanging signs, hand-lettered

having a blind cat of 18+ years means many things.  namely, it means patience, with a side of concern.  today, it meant cleaning up pee and poop in the usual spots, in my usual manner: wipe, rinse, spray, repeat.  it also meant sitting on a bench outside in the sun, waiting and watching, trying not to count the minutes while max explored the sidewalk out front.  it means leading him with my voice, with pats on the ground or surfaces, leading him to the soil or the gravel, where he can sniff around and pee like a man, like he wants to, outdoors and on his terms.  it means occasionally getting up to run defense, between him and the road, the cars, or the customers, while he wanders around not really knowing where.  today, it means your neighbor andrea finds max standing there blankly in the middle of the street, and picks him up like a good Samaritan to put him back in safety of the fenced enclosure.  sometimes it means running defense  between him and pato, the territorial duck who comes a'running and flapping beak first toward any cat in his backyard.  on a daily basis, what it means for me is slowing down for long enough to give max what he needs, like fully supervised time outside, lap time, belly rubs, and a carefully concocted meal.  it means trying my hardest to read his signals, to interpret his quiet subtle version of cat language, so i don't piss him off too often, so i don't confuse or disorient him, so i can guide him gingerly to the places he wants to go.  it means not flinching or cringing every time he bumps his nose into a wall.  having a blind cat, well, somehow it changes everything.

since max has gone completely blind, all of these little things happen on a daily basis.  they're new chores, new mental clutter to add to my already long list.  as his caretaker, his momma, i feel it is my duty to see him through this phase of his life without complaint. it's hard sometimes, but i keep doing it, if for no other reason than the hope that someone will have the patience to do the same for me when i grow old and clumsy.  i guess that's what love is for, providing us with the patience and willingness to see each other through the roughest spots, and to show each other the beauty hidden in the darkest corners.

falling off (the wagon): part 4

miraculously, we found a mechanic that would take us.  we had the van towed, puppies inside.  in the cab of the towtruck on I-5 north, i kept looking back worriedly, the van at an angle, the puppies at an angle too.  i couldn't see them, and wondered how it was, their first towtruck ride ever.  so many firsts, every day full of firsts, firsts for them, and firsts for me too.   

we arrived. at a remote gravel lot with an unmarked building in north olympia, the towtruck pulled in.  once at the shop, we couldn't be in the van, neither could the dogs.  we had lots of time to kill.  so we set out with the puppies for a walk on a busy and fast road, what we later found out was the "deadliest highway in kitsap county".  

the road was desolate and dangerous.  nothing for miles.  i was stressed, unnerved by the noise and commotion, longing for the peaceful and slow bend in my road, the road home.   the puppies flinched at each loud motor screaming past.  we passed three crosses, casualties of speed and metal machines.  i felt hopeless.  

soon, we came upon a gas station. with a schwag deli! and a coffee cart!  and outdoor tables!  "hallelujah!  this is an oasis!"  i thought aloud.  we settled comfortably into some chairs.  i bought a round of scratch tickets, for good measure.  

we spent all day there, all damn day, scratching the silvery wax off of paper tickets, figuring it might just be our lucky day after all, if we invested our winnings, or picked just the right penny to scratch with.  we scratched and scratched, until five hours had passed, until we had spent forty dollars on coffee pizza and scratch tickets, until it seemed like our van might just be ready for us.

falling off (the wagon): part 3

commission

 we stayed up late that night while grandma told us stories, mostly ones we hadn't heard yet, about her father the world book salesman and her mother's decision to divorce back when nobody did that kind of thing.  she told us how it all went down, all the gritty details.  in that room on the second story of the sequoia house, while the light went down and until it was black outside, we talked and talked.  and somehow, it seemed fated that our car, grandpa's van, would break down there of all places, and that we would finally take the time out of our crazy lives to get to know our grandma even better.  somehow, it seemed necessary.  she had just turned 87, after all.

we slept in the van that night, surprisingly well, with the dogs snuggled into us under the blankets, not as crowded as i would have thought.  and in the morning, so early it was, 5 o'clock maybe, we awoke to the sound of grandma, shuffling by in her walker, anxious for a trip to Ihop and a real, hot breakfast for a change.  Those cold scrambled eggs they served at the sequoia house weren't from a shell, after all.  they were powdered, and just plain nasty.

grandma kept a surprisingly quick pace on the mile or so walk along that busy busy road to ihop.  once there, we snuggled into a booth, drank coffee and ate as much pancake and eggs as we could.  james thumbed through a phone book, and we all silently hoped for a mechanic with an opening that afternoon.

falling off (the wagon): part 2

commission

commission

our car was broken.  but breaking down so close to grandma was ironically convenient. with the help of some screwdrivers and a culinary knife bought from cash&carry, we were able to limp the van to her apartment complex.  driving there, every light seemed to turn red before us as the thermostat rose higher and higher.  finally, the gauge had peaked about as far as it could go, with the telltale smell of smoke before self-combustion.  finally, we made it.  we rolled up on the sequoia house, an assisted living apartment complex, right next to the hospital where grandpa gordie died. a large sequoia tree marked the entrance,  looking strangely impotent surrounded by asphalt and the white columns of the convalescent center.

at last we found grandma mickie, an oasis of love and comfort amidst the turmoil of a broken down engine.  she insisted we eat, so we followed her down the burgundy carpeted halls, she chugging determinedly forward with her walker, to a cafeteria filled with all of the old folks.  we sat at a circular table for a feast of shit on a shingle, just a triangle of squishy wheat bread with a little turkey and gravy, that plus a dixie cup of broccoli salad and a big cup of jello salad.  it was all cold, and barely palatable, but i didn't complain.  because i was going to eat what everybody else ate.  a crazy old lady asked for seconds of jello, and i gave her ours.  i was terrified, but strangely at ease.  so this is where the old people go, i thought to myself, overwhelmed, not sure what to think about the glaring reality of it all.

falling off (the wagon), part 1

hey folks, it's me.  i know, you haven't seen me in a while.  and maybe it's true: i've fallen off the wagon.  but i've still got a leg up on the damn thing.  i mean, i did make some paintings.  good ones.  but in a flurry of business, i hung them in a show and forgot to photograph them.  so for now, you'll just have to close your eyes, and imagine what they're like.   

let me explain further.

last week i went out of town, off the grid.  it was the four year anniversary of my momma's passing, and every year since i make a pilgrimage to the place where we spread her ashes, a cozy fishing cabin on a remote lake at the base of mt. st. helens.  there, i slow down, do what feels natural...breathe the cold mountain air,  watch the reflections in the lake, take walks, snap photos with real film in my heavy old camera, float around in the canoe.  there, i work on the place a little, work against nature's pull, rake the fallen winter's branches, hammer in a few shingles.  there, i work on paintings with the ghost of my mom, work until the light goes down and i can't tell one color from the next, just shades of brown.  at night, its blacker than coal, you can't see in front of you.   at night, james and i play card games by candlelight, sipping whiskey and laughing at the dogs, sleeping belly up.  when i go to the cabin, i reflect and reset, i slow down, my rhythm quieting to match circadian, the pulse of the trees. the forest soothes the ache and loneliness at those times i miss my mom the most, and for that reason now i know why she wanted her ashes spread there, of all places.


four days and three nights we spent, barely able to tear ourselves away from our hectic lives and animal feeding schedules to get there, not to mention daily maintenance on max the blind cat, who can't seem for the life of him to find the correct toilet to use, me trailing him daily with paper towels and a squirt bottle.  but we did it anyways, knowing it was risky: we made a break.  and on day four of our respite at the cabin, we were done, rested, reset and ready to head home. we headed up I-5, to Olympia to have an afternoon visit with grandma mickie.  It was, after all, her 87th birthday, and we had an envelope with 87 dollar bills to give her, one for each year of her life, just like she'd done for all the grandkids for as long as she could.


just off the exit was when it happened.  billowing smoke.  after about an hour of doing laps with the dogs in the cash and carry parking lot, james came out from beneath the van.  the water pump was shot.

the permanence of pattern

last week the paramedics came for dana.  i was really worried so i ran down the street to see what was the matter.  i couldn't really get a straight story, lots of theories as to what may have happened, a seizure or a panic attack, he fell down or bit his tongue or something about diabetes.  i waited around on the edge of the bulkhead, waited until he was wheeled out by the paramedics on a stretcher.  he looked a little confused, and worse for the wear, but i made an i love you sign with my hand and blew him a kiss as they wheeled him into the ambulance.  when he saw me, he smiled, as he always does. as surly as he is, he's always got a smile for me. dana calls me the twirp.  it's my favorite nickname.

dana is the grandaddy of the art community in edison.  he opened the edison eye, edison's first known gallery and the locale for many a raging art party in the seventies and eighties.  he has been known for his slick business sense and wry humor.  nowadays, dana loves to play cards at the casino, and when he rolls his little brown sedan through town on the way to get there, he might roll down his window too and tell ya he's goin to work.  he must be good at what he does, because he's still ahead.

dana wears an occasional eye patch.  these days, he is often seen trailed by his trusty black dog jake, who was given a death sentence by the vet years ago, but much like dana, has persevered.  in the morning, dana can be found tooting on his pipe, wearing three colors of plaid pajamas and slippers.  i love dana, he is a fixture of this town, as integral to the landscape here as the bend in the road.  so when the ambulence came for him, i was pretty worried.  

it's not the first time.  years ago, brandin told me that dana had died.  i didn't know him as well then, but still, i was pretty upset.  i went across the street to announce to andrew,  andrew, dana has passed away.  andrew was pretty upset too.  turns out, it was just a rumor.  false alarm.  just some small town bullshit drama, i suppose.

dana is home now, and recuperating.  every summer, depending on how he's feeling, he will host a few shows in his gallery.  this year's invitational is called "The Permanence of Pattern: What Is on Top?". 

as dana puts it: "The title springs from a book I've been reading, "What Is a Number?" by Robert Tubbs. A complex book. The title, fused by mystery and colour, should produce a substantial art show. Perhaps more than that.

The chalkboard drawings above will be tiled in a group as part of a larger piece for this show.

small miracles

this evening we got a call from toni-ann.  Theres a baby duck! it was in my house and now it might be under the deck, do you want to come rescue a baby duck?  yes, of course.  another recruit.  me and james hop right to it.  i guess we're the go-to people in edison for all your animal rescue needs.  

we go running down the street,  across town, around the flutter inn and along the slough we walk with a salmon net in hand, trying to track the little bugger down.  more elusive than you think, that baby duck is; we can't seem to find it under any porch or bush.  every cat seems suspect, i eye them suspiciously.  every dark corner is a hiding spot, a possibility.  we ask john and mike, have you seen the baby duckling?  they point.  there it is, james says, and i see it: the tiniest of things,  brown like the mud, tearing ass down the middle of the slough.  we follow it closely with our eyes, but soon lose track of it under a dock.

 after waiting a few minutes for it to reappear, we give up, decide to go home, to let nature take its course.  will the baby duck die without our intervention?  maybe.  we'll never know.  sometimes it's hard to make that call, but really, nature does what she wants around here where she's left to be herself.  yes, she'll do what she wants, with that duckling and with us too.  sometimes it's the miracle of life she gives us, and sometimes its the hard lesson of death.  one thing i've learned is that i have very little control.  and it's all a miracle, every bit of it.  it's all beautiful, really, it's just a matter of how you look at it. 

more important things

i haven't felt much like writing lately.  or painting.   i've been waiting until the last minute to do it.  and then just slogging my way through it.  that's just the way it is sometimes, and sometimes you can't fight it.  call it procrastination, call it avoidance, call it adrenal exhaustion....call it what you will.  a few weeks back into this one-a-day thing, now i remember why i was so excited to be done with it, once and for all.  

i started a cleanse last weekend, thinking of all the things that needed spring cleaning, little ol' me might need it the very most. no sugar, no wheat, no dairy, no meat....no booze. that's an awful lot of no's.  i thought that maybe it would up my motivation and energy, but so far i feel like it's only kicked up a bunch of dust and made me miss all of my favorite vices.  they were, after all, something i looked forward to.  every day.

there are plenty of things i do feel like doing, things that i am excited about...like spacing out, weeding the garden, picking the twining morning glory off of branches.    i like to walk in the school field, watching the pups run, holding james hand and watching the clouds play on the hills in the distance.  

and i always have time and energy to  fill the bird feeders.  i could sit and watch them birdies eat forever.  yes, i love it so much it even distracts me, like a buzzing cell phone, distracts me from almost every other thing i'm doing. 

and lately, i anxiously await the birth of baby birds around the premises as their mamas sit long and hard on those eggs.  i love to listen to the new baby robins, two of them, gently testing out their voices, squawking above my bedroom door in the morning. 

i love to watch the flowers bloom around me.  i stare at the colors long and hard, trying to burn those blossoms into my retinas for when i want to paint a picture full of life, long after the flowers have all fallen.  spring has hit the valley fast and hard this year, like a freight train, and i'm standing at the edge of the track marveling at it's force and velocity.

needless to say, i get distracted from my work.  but all of these other things take precedence sometimes.  sometimes, work must wait. for more important things.

playing catch-up

 

(as a pair)

*

*

it's not that i haven't been working...i have.  but i just can't seem to get myself to sit in front of the computer when it's sunny.  so here are the last five days worth of one-a-days.  now that it's raining, that rug in the backyard grass and the vulnerable little seedlings won't need me as much, and maybe one of these days, i can spit out some wisdom.  until then, i'll be trying desperately to squeeze everything  i can in to one short day.

lightness

 today, when we went to the river dike to walk the dogs, the grass was all mowed down.  i took it as a good sign, being that it was haircut day and all, looking for signs everywhere to help me muster up the courage to cut my hair in the first place.  it is, after all, a part of me, that hair is a timeline of my life.  but it's spring, and somehow, the new growth around me encourages me to shed the past.  the dogs reveled in the short grass path, the ability to see, how cutting the tangled tall grass makes space, makes way for new growth.  they ran joyfully hard and fast, two dogs full steam ahead, stopping every now and again to sniff the mounds of dry grass along the edges, hunting like coyotes for casualties of the mower blade, a mouse or vole carcass to swallow whole.  they are smart like that, instinctual, and we let them be wild on these walks.  for us, it's an exercise in trust.  because nature usually takes care of us, if we allow it the space to do so.  and we don't want to raise little obedient robots, after all. 

around one bend and then another we walked, until ahead, i spotted a coyote, hunting those same grass mounds as my pups.  colored grey as a sandy beach, all feral rough and fluffy, he didn't see us coming.  a rare sighting.  i froze, and then turned to make sure my boys were close.  coyotes are everywhere here, but they are elusive.  the wind must have been blowing in just the right direction, hiding our scent, so we were closer than i've ever been.  i took it as a good sign, and couldn't get the picture of that coyote out of my head as i drove up to town to get my long locks lopped.  

driving home with two cut braids in my bag, i felt lighter than i have in a while.

because

maybe you've noticed that the last few paintings haven't been for sale.  that's because i'm working on a series of illustrations for bellingham's subdued stringband jamboree.  who knows: these drawings might be on a poster, or maybe a ticket, a coaster, or maybe even a t-shirt.  but mostly, they're just a gift, a thank you, inspired by the enormously talented and supportive music community of this region, a community of players and listeners and venues that work really hard and give it everything they've got, for nothing more than the love of music and the joy it spreads.  there are few causes more worthy.

channeling

lately, my work has really started to remind me of my mom's.  i'm drawing animals in people costumes doing things that people do, if we were smarter we'd act more like animals and less like people, i think to myself.  i'm drawing while i'm sitting in the sunny backyard, surrounded by mourning doves, finches and hummingbirds, ducks, dogs and cats, all of my "friends" that i've somehow lured here to live here, with food water shelter and a soft voice only for them.  it's only natural that these creatures would make their way into my artwork.

 nowadays, there's a certain way that my hand wiggles to make the mouse's or bear's hair, or how i leave the highlights in the eye as two tiny dots of white, there's a finesse with the line, these certain things, that remind me of mom's illustrations.  i look at these pictures i've painted when they're done, and it feels like she drew them.  and sometimes, it feels strangely like i'm not even behind the wheel, like she's doing all the driving here.  it's a trance-like state, a deliberate intention with the work that i've never had before.  

all my life i searched for it, something to call my own, some purpose behind my pen....call it experience, call it a signature style, call it a good teacher's influence or just call it an idea that springs up amidst artists block....sometimes, it's hard to know what you want out of a piece of art that you're about to make.  sometimes, the pressure is frightening.  and sometimes, when you don't know any better, you think too long and too hard about it, and it comes out all wrong.  

nowadays, i've learned to just let the drawings draw themselves.