Your Holiday Guide

If the amount of dire warnings and special offers from my inbox is any indication, the Great Day of Gift Giving is nearly upon us.

Some of you are behind the eight ball. You’ve postponed your shopping safari for the creative individual in your life and now little sweat beads are beginning to form on your upper lip when you realize you have no idea what to do.

Take a deep breath, I’m here to help.

The following is my handy dandy idea gift list for those of you who have loved ones who construct, discover and imagine.

Sadly for you, Handsome Husband is already taken. He’s one of a kind, sorry ‘bout that.

Otherwise, consider offering -

A quiet space to work. It doesn’t have to have 12 foot ceilings or north windows - although that would be really awesome. A space all ones own, even if it's just a comfy chair, is important.

Time; time to ponder, time to wonder, time to put down in whatever medium they choose the results of that wondering and pondering. Time to grow.

A self-cleaning work space. (Oooh, I wanna get me one a those. Maybe next year.)

Acceptance. Of them, of their field, of their output. 

An ear. No, not like Van Gogh. I was thinking more in terms of listening. We creative types need to vent, mostly in a way that lets the fears and frustrations and delights and victories and annoyances out. Notice I didn’t add ‘advice’ to that. Ears open, mouth shut.

Toss in a few open-ended questions. Something like; how do you feel about that? Tell me about…, or how does that..?.

Exhibits. Go! Spend time looking with your sweetie. Use a few of those open ended-questions to find out what they find interesting. 

Pick one, two, or all of the above. Wrap them in ribbons and a hug. You'r welcome.

Sailing and Other Lessons

I DID IT!!  IdiditIdiditIdidit!!  I did it.  I DID it. 

After being ballast on various sail boats for the last several decades, I learned to sail solo yesterday.

A certain Fine Young Man spent a wonderful afternoon tutoring his mom in the fine points of sailing his gorgeous, banana-yellow Escape Rumba.   Turns out he’s an excellent teacher; patient, kind, and willing to turn the tiller over to a rookie without hesitation.  Maybe it was the confidence he had born of his own experience, plus the certainty of a small lake, gentle breeze and really good life jackets.

My first lesson: Go that way.

Fun is not the right word to describe the event.  Total focus, delight, deep satisfaction, - oh yeah it was fun.  Memories of sailing with my dad, the delight of hanging out with my son, hot sun, perfect wind, Handsome Husband watching from the shore enjoying a cigar, it was a complete blast.

Fine Young Man recognized early on that an important element of my lesson was to learn what to do when things go awry: getting dumped and righting the boat.  Once that was accomplished – both being way easier than I anticipated – the rest was just fun zigging and zagging across the lake like I knew what I was doing.  Handsome Husband could hear me laughing from the shore.

 Zooooooooooooooom

Sailing, like living well, seems to be about balance, both literally and figuratively.  Being too careful puts you in a position to wallow or flounder, meaning, quite simply, you don’t get anywhere.  Taking too many risks or not paying attention and you’re swamped before you know it.  Keeping yourself in the sweet spot takes experience and knowledge plus a willingness to experiment and except the consequences.  You can’t learn to sail by reading a book; you have to get wet.

Tim and I, soaked, sunburnt, and loving it.

There are lessons in all that for a studio practice as well, of course. 
Balance: risk, safety; pushing, pulling; standing boldly before the easel or checking email just one more time…

How is your balance?

Perfect Ten

This Tuesday, April 12th, is the anniversary of Handsome Husband’s birth.

He’ll be 55 years old. Fifty – five. 5 + 5.

In other words, he’s a perfect 10. That he is.

I want you to know about the man behind the woman behind the blog.

Handsome Husband has been at my side for 35 years, so I’m a bit of an expert on him. Even at that, describing him to you will be a bit of a challenge. How do I find words to tell you what a fine man he is?

I could list the many things he does to help, like taking over household chores so I can spend time in my studio, or hauling display panels or attending receptions when he’d rather be home in his jams. What I want you to know is that it’s not the list of things he does that I appreciate so much (and I do), it’s how he does them. Enthusiastically, patiently, kindly, always in my corner, he is the foundation of our family and my rock.

HH supported me fully in making the leap from sometime-squeeze-it-in painting to all-out-go-for-it-full-time artist. He’s the one who encouraged me to leave my paycheck job and follow my dream. Never ever did he say, “Gee, are you sure?”, or “Why would you want to do that?”, or anything of the kind. In fact, in his calm sure way he said, “If it doesn’t work, you can get another job”, in a way that told me it would work. His belief in my ability to have a successful art career gave me the courage to step out into my future with confidence. His belief in me and my abilities has made it possible for me to be who I am.

HH is willing to listen to me talk my way through the issues I’m faced with, whether it’s deciphering a color wheel or figuring my taxes. He readily admits that he doesn’t understand a lot of what goes into either the business end or the creative end of being an artist. He is, however, willing to share a conversation to help me evaluate what I have learned and to figure out what it is I need.

Handsome Husband is the best kind of human being. He is an honest and ethical man, one who believes in others until they give him a reason not to. His goal is to make those around him rise to the occasion, and generously gives them all the credit they are due. He is loyal to his friends and family.

Of course he has his faults. Sometimes his socks don’t match and he’s not bothered a bit by that. He can’t tie a tie and has no interest in learning as long as clip-ons are still being made. He’s been known to fall asleep on me during a fascinating conversation about the difference between cerulean blue and cobalt blue. Shocking, I know.

Happy Birthday Sweetie.  You're my perfect 10.

Plan B

"You can't fit a square peg into a round hole."  Handsome Husband


Last week I started a line of inquiry into Michael Gelb’s national best seller, “How to think Like Leonardo Da Vinci, Seven steps to Genius Every Day”. I had truly hoped that reading this book with Mavis and with you would open our collective minds to the mysteries of creative thought and endeavor.

Abandon Ship.

Like wearing 6-inch heels to the prom, this book was a bad fit. I fell in love with the idea, but the reality didn’t match up.

No offense, Mr. Gelb. You did what you needed to do to sell your book. The truth is, however, that this is not about Leonardo Da Vinci, or steps to genius. But then, if you had titled it “How to Think Like Bernie Schwartz, Seven Steps to Paying Attention”, no one, including Bernie Schwartz, would be paying attention.

What Gelb does do is remind us that there’s a pretty amazing world out there, and that we may be unaware of that because we have narrowed our focus to those ideas that are habitual, or perhaps have a foundation that needs to be re-examined. He has developed some interesting exercises that are designed to prompt us to open our minds, not only to new experiences, but also to the understanding of how we got to where we are. I like that. It’s a good thing to examine the roots of our opinions and thoughts, especially as our world gets smaller and smaller and we mix and mingle with others from histories much different than our own.

I’m glad I own the book, and I’ll peruse it now and then remind myself to pause and wonder about those things I may be passing by. I can dash around full of myself with the best of them, passing up opportunities to learn new things in my desire to get somewhere faster. In fact, just the other morning as I was scurrying to an early morning meeting I heard the ghost of Leonardo whispering to me to slow down and absorb the exquisite quiet of the morning air. I did, and my day was better for it.

I will also go to the library and check out a book about Leonardo and figure out for myself who this man was, and why we don’t see more of his type around. And I’ll give myself a pass on becoming a genius. It’s probably overrated anyway.

You’re excused too.

Passionate Repose

One of the first books I read about the steps one needed to take to become a professional artist started out by asking the reader to determine if he/she were passionate enough. It stopped me in my tracks. Passion?

Yikes.

That's a pretty big word, full of sweat and temper and ... stuff.

Since then I've read other books, blogs and journals about the trials and travails of the artist's life. Nearly all of them encourage, warn, advise or admonish the reader to find, dig up or uncover passion. Live on it! Let it drive you! Run headlong into your life! Be intense!

I believe what the world needs more of is calm repose.

I'm just now back from two weeks off. Fourteen days of not working in my studio. And honey, I'm hear to tell you, it's fantastic.

I did not do one extreme, emotional, fiery, thing. Read a couple of books. Pulled weeds, washed windows. Watched Handsome Husband fish. Watched two Fine Young Men get sunburned. Watched movies. Picked tomatoes. Visited family. Allowed three really nice people to buy some of my art. The strongest feeling I drummed up was when I got up in the morning..."Ooh, goodie, coffee!"

I eased through the day. I sat and thought. I practiced tranquility. Every now and then I'd move - not much, but enough that the squirrels didn't try to bury acorns between my toes.

I believe in calm repose. I believe it's necessary. I believe we should do it often and with great regularity, daily even.

If I spent time in a passionate dither, would I have time to look at the cottonwood tree across my alley and study the way the leaves changed color when the breeze ruffles through them? Does passion allow contemplating the color in the shadows as they creep across my yard? How do I sit very still in the early morning and catch the sun's first rays on the very tip-top leaves of my maple tree if I'm all wiggly with aspiring fervor?

Passion's fine for teenagers, but it seems to me that what the grown up art world needs more of is deep breathing of the yoga variety. Slooooow down.

Allow time to let the sun cross over your feet while you sit in the garden. Allow your heart to beat slowly. Allow your muse to come to you slowly, surely and confidently.

Allow yourself time to think, time to ponder, time to enjoy your artistic expression.

Breathe...