nancy wrote that they added a drop of food coloring to the bubble mix for sweet lily. it must have been enchanting…colorful bubbles in way-below-freezing temperatures, crystalizing, transformed by the absolute cold. i know there are bubbles in this house; i just have to find them. and then, next time, i will be out on our back deck, wand in hand.
there really is something about bubbles. in the summer, at the farmer’s market they sell gigantic bubble wands. while browsing one day, there was this little girl….chasing these enormous bubbles. no worries on her mind, just arms outstretched, running, ready to embrace oversized magic. it instantly reminded us of the innocence of a child, the seizing of something simple, the joyous caress of a moment.
this morsel and this not-quite-done-painting CHASING BUBBLES make me want to run into the sunshine or, perhaps, the falling snow, and chase iridescent dreams.
i searched for quotes about risk. there are a plethora of them out there. then i realized that maybe the best one for today was already there – no good adventure is without risk. there are no guarantees in life. we all know that. nothing that says if you do this, that will definitely happen. the ifs-thens are not absolute. the ifs-thens aren’t even, well, iffy on occasion. and sometimes there’s no chance in hell that an adventure, an experiment, an endeavor will work out. we jump anyway.
in this anniversary week of THE MELANGE, we’ve done a great deal of looking back at our jumping. those jumps reach much further back than just this past year. as two artists living together, two artists working together, two artists laughing and breathing and arguing together, we have experienced lots of falling-into-the-water as we’ve gone. our individual artistry output pre-dates this year by decades. epic moments of success are conjoined with moments of missing the next rock in the stream (see CHICKEN MARSALA sketch above to see what that looks like.) but, even knowing that – by reverse-threading now – in looking ahead, at all the mystery of that, we jump anyway.
nothing worth doing comes without hard work. no good adventure is without risk. there are no guarantees. all wise words. all daunting. we jump anyway.
as you know, we are two artists living together. so everything around our house has meaning of some sort. each rock, each piece of wood, each feather, each vintage suitcase, each peace sign, each wooden box, each old window frame, each peeling screen door, each painting. before david’s paintings also found their way onto the walls, there were several paintings i had painted. well, “painted”. i spattered and brushed black and white paint to the beating of my heart onto large canvases until i knew the paintings were done and then hung them up. they each have a story – a heart narrative that might not be obvious to you, but is something i can feel each time i look at each of these paintings.
david’s work is stunning. although some of them are for sale, we have pieces of his displayed on our walls – stories on canvas, we have chosen to hang paintings that tell part of our story together. you never get tired of looking at something that is a piece of your life, a canvas of an intimate moment here or there. K.DOT & D.DOT SEE AN OWL is one of those. it’s an exquisite collection of color and movement and reaching. in our story, it is about seeing an owl in the big old pine tree in our backyard. on your wall, it could be about any moment in your life that you and your beloved looked forward, pointing into the future, embracing it, excitedly sharing together something inordinately full of meaning and just yours. paintings are like that.
in the last few days, one of my friends became a first-time-grandmother. those of us who were aware of her daughter’s giving-birth-countdown would text her asking for any news or updates, as excited as if it were our own story. sunday morning she texted to say that indeed a little baby girl had been born in the pre-sun hours of the day. her daughter, a friend of my own daughter’s since kindergarten, was now a mom and all was perfect in the world.
i saw this painting-in-process as i walked down the steps into david’s basement studio. the new mother, sitting cross-legged, gazing intently at her new baby made my heart skip a beat. i recognized the look, the tilt of her head, the gentle but secure way she was holding her baby. it took me back – immediately – to my first moments holding kirsten or craig, those nothing-short-of-miraculous minutes when time stood still and everything was perfect in the world.
i cannot imagine the power of this painting when it is completed. it’s already intoxicatingly striking. it brings back every memory. it reminds me of what is most important. the delicious feeling of holding a tiny baby, the dreams that soar in your head, the bond of love. times when everything is perfect in the world.
“…no one can tell us because life is not something which can be understood from a book…” (krishnamurti)
when my big brother died almost 27 years ago, my world tilted, never to return to the same again. i struggled to understand that this amazingly smart, talented, witty man – someone i depended on my whole life – was no longer going to be in this world. losing him left me with a lot of questions.
ever since then i have not been able to wrap my head around how the world keeps going if you cannot feel it anymore. and yet, each loss i have experienced is evidence that is exactly what happens. the world keeps going. it’s all a mystery. no one can really tell us.
there is no handbook available to explain all this. life’s complicated layers and sideroads, the junctures where we choose left or right, the places we decide to stop or go…it’s all a mystery. no one can really tell us.
nearly every day there is some world-tilting reminder to wholeheartedly embrace the moment you are in; nearly every day we forget. it’s not as easy as just remembering. it’s not easily understood. your shoes are not my shoes and, although it is easy for me to sense all the concurrent emotions in a room, i still cannot grasp what you are actually going through. my sun could be your rain. it’s all a mystery. no one can really tell us.
so we try. we try to understand, without instruction, the strands and tattered fragments and shiny-mica-bits that weave together into life. mostly, we keep feeling life. and the world keeps going.
in the 1972 choral piece IT IS GOOD by Jack Normain Kimmell and Adrian Swets, there are these lyrics: “…and the Lord saw the work of His hand and said, “it is good.”
this painting morsel – and the painting WEEPING MAN in its entirety – make me think of this piece of music. the universe. this earth. this country. this community. this family. this life of yours. this life of mine.
regardless of what you believe about how THIS all came to be, regardless of your view of THIS – in an historic way or a spiritual way or even regarding the contemporary state of affairs, THIS all exists. for each of us. it isn’t always good. it isn’t always not-good.
there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of overwhelm, the moments of absolute weariness that, despite all evidence to the contrary in your tired mind and body, actually do lead to Next. times you feel alone, times of sorting, times of grief, times of fragile vulnerability, times of regret. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
and there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of stunning awe, the moments of sheer exhaustion at your goal-line, moments that actually do lead to Next. times you feel enamored of life itself, times of incredulity, times of unquestionable good fortune, times of serendipity, times of simple all-consuming sweet love. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
AND SO HE WEEPS – we recognize it. we can feel it. and we know that in another moment he -or she, for there is no pronoun-hogging here- will slowly raise his head out of his hands and Next will have arrived.
often, david has a signature in his paintings. not his initials or his name, but these petals…they bring an element of the organic into a piece that may not speak to nature in any other way. they are a breath, sneaking their way into a painting to remind you that your relationship with this very canvas is a living, changing, ever-evolving thing. the gift of art in its every form: we grow by it, through it, with it.
i was drawn to them in the charming boutique in ridgway, colorado. flying wish papers were intriguing and whimsical. “write it. light it. watch it fly.” it touted on the cover of the pack of wish papers. captivating. i thought of how many times i have blown kisses or wishes to someone. this was a vessel for me to do the same in a magical moment or two. they were a little pricey, but what price do you put on wishes and hopes….or on the experience of sharing those with others?
we flying-wish-papered with My Girl, each of us dedicating kitchen-table-together-time to writing our wish or wishes on the magical tissue, then wrinkling it into a ball and rolling it into a tube. we placed it on the wish platform and lit it. it was true glee to watch it burn, lift off the platform and fly, bringing our wishes and hopes into the universe. sweet. we’ve since flying-wish-papered with wendy aka ben aka saul and also jen and brad. each time it’s a gesture i won’t forget. simple and yet powerful.
this painting morsel – BLOWING WISHES – reminds me of those flying-wish-paper times, reminds me of all the times i have blown wishes across my hand. a beautiful morsel from the full YOGA SERIES painting GREET THE DAY, it offers a post-holiday-end-of-the-year breath…to stop, greet the new day, the new year with hopes and dreams and flying wishes.
this painting!! i fell in love with it the instant i saw the horses. utter-arms-outstretched-bliss on horseback. what is not to love? i have been horse-crazy ever since i was little. my room decorations at one point in my life included stable-brown walls, burlap curtains, horse statues and ribbons on shelves and wall space and my headboard.
i took horseback-riding lessons as a little girl; i relished every minute of it. it was expensive (horses in general are expensive, whether you own or rent or just go on a trail ride) and the opportunity ran out for these lessons, but when i can, i ride. a couple years ago My Girl and i went on a trail ride out in the mountains of aspen. it was sheer heaven!
this painting!! it makes me think of other recent times looking-into-the-gentle-eyes of these beautiful animals. we walked later at night in holland past fields and obvious horse-fencing. i heard the sound of a horse nickering, that blowing-out of air so easily identifiable. i walked in the dark toward the sound. there at the fenceline was this beautiful horse, just waiting for us to quietly talk to him, stroke his face. no treats, just love.
this painting!! linda and bill can relate to horse-love. their horse chance is the sweetest. she literally finds her way to the side kitchen door in the morning if they haven’t gone out to feed her yet and will stick her head right inside the car as you drive slowly by.
this painting!! it transports me to warm springs ranch, a budweiser clydesdale eden with sweet foals and gentle giant mares. a glorious afternoon with wendy and jani, david followed me around with a camera, documenting my glee.
this painting!! it brings back all my having-a-horse-one-day yearning. ahhh. someday, i think. i have many brochures about the wild mustangs of out west, all needing homes and an adoptive chance at life, not to be swept up in roundups due to an imbalance of excess and lack.
this painting!! how will i be able to let it go – because someone will want this stunning painting for their home…
reverse threading 