A dear friend told me that she really enjoys my blog posts when I write about thoughts. Here, this is what she said:
Maybe it’s because I’m a worker of words, but I really enjoy your entries that describe your central valley world, your life in it, and your feelings. The reader responses you receive indicate many others do too. I believe getting to know the artist who produces beautiful views of the world beyond our human angst and cultural foibles is an important part of any sale, and I hope you keep posting such thoughts often! I can see them in a book of your own some day. 🙂
Wow. That was thought-provoking, encouraging, and as always from this friend, very kind.
Late one night I had a mental list of ideas to write about. Instead of writing, I went to bed. Now my head is empty, so let’s just have some photographs today with a little commentary.
That giant flowering pear, the last one to hold its fall color, is also the first one to bloom. I took this picture on February 2.My flowering pear is not quite thinking about blooming yet.
There are no words. Well, there were some words, and those were them.
Look at the black stripes on Jackson’s tail: they get wider as they move toward the tip. Made me think about Perkins’ checkerboard tail.
Both cats came from the same place; well, more accurately, Jackson’s mother came from the same place as Perkins.
Linda’s Barn, pencil and colored pencil, SOLD This barn used to be an excellent source of cats, but alas, the Order of All Things has unfolded and we are developing hard hearts in order to cope with the harsh realities of trying to keep cats alive in Three Rivers. (Tucker, Jackson, and Pippin are all thriving at the time of this blog post—thank you for your concern.)
This is what winter can look like in Three Rivers.
Don’t you wish your computer had scratch-n-sniff so you could fully enjoy this rosemary?
Okay, maybe I’ll just sit here for a pair of minutes and see if any of those great late-night thoughts reassert themselves.
There is an excellent museum in Three Rivers, and parked in front are some old fire trucks plus this tow truck. I had to wait for a couple of friends stuck at one of the many ongoing lengthy roadblocks, so I wandered around with my inferior phone camera.
On a recent walk, I took this photo because it reminded me of my painting titled Swinging Oak. You can see it below with a convenient link for purchasing from my website. It’s just business. (I’m tryna earn a living here!)
Swinging Oak, oil on wrapped canvas, 12×16″, $375 (plus tax in California) Available here
Where’s the other chair?
Why am I not showing you any paintings or drawings? Because I am spending most of my time in the studio, editing another book for another writer on another topic.
A good friend, mentor, and wise man asked me if I have a relationship with my paintings. I wasn’t sure what he was seeking, so I just told him what goes through my mind while painting. Then I looked at the email conversation and thought, “Hmmm, this might be an interesting blog post”.
Just a typical view on a morning walk in Three Rivers. Nope, not down those steps to the river—just passing by on the road.
When I start a painting, I have photos to look at, and I copy what is there while also trying to improve on it. Move a tree, brighten a color, ignore a tangle of branches, don’t get too weird about making those rocks or cracks in the cliff perfect, increase the contrast, make that insignificant part blurry or leave it out. . . on and on and on, a continual mental conversation about how to depict a scene realistically but cleaner than real life. Real life is pretty messy, and I try to clean it up.
Often I think a painting is finished when it isn’t. It takes awhile of studying it, sometimes a couple of years, before realizing that it can be improved. This isn’t improvement to make it look more like the photo, but improvement to make it more appealing to the viewer.
A very popular place to walk in Exeter—and the way we prefer to drive home when the hills are green. I used to walk this in the olden days when I was training for some very long walks, before my feet were numb.
My method of painting is to layer and layer, over and over, tightening the details, correcting the proportions, remixing the colors with each layer. Usually when I start, it is very sloppy, getting better with each pass over the canvas. This is similar to writing, where you tell yourself the story in the first draft. Then as you edit and rewrite, you refine your words, rearrange your paragraphs, realize that something can be misunderstood so you correct that piece, decide that something sounds foggy or stupid or unnecessary so you delete that sentence or phrase. Then you think it is done, until you look at it the next day or the next week or after you hit “Publish” and WHAM! THERE’S A TYPO! Or you wonder “why did I say that??” Or you think, “Nobody cares, why did I write this?”
A friend and I went boldly trespassing through some orange groves on a walk a week or two ago.
I’ve never thought about it as a relationship with a painting. It is a project, separate from me. I talk myself through it, talking to myself rather than to the painting. Sure, occasionally I’ve said to a painting, “Buddy, you are toast!” just before painting it out entirely.
But the conversation is entirely to myself—“WHAT are you doing?? Stop licking the canvas! Choose the right color, get it carefully on the best brush for the job, and decide what you are doing before you just dab and jab. Okay, that is looking good, so now do it again over here. Your brush is too small and this will take forever. Whoa, I thought that part was finished and it looks really weak. Oh great, now you’ve missed entire pieces of the conversation on the podcast you are listening to because you were trying to mix a better green.”
So now you know what goes through my brain while I am painting.
Contemplating matters of consequence
With drawing, things are much easier, more automatic, and it is easier to talk to other people, or listen to a podcast while drawing. But I don’t feel as if I have a relationship with my drawings either. Many years ago I had to learn to keep emotional distance, to stop viewing them as something fabulous and irreplaceable or it would have been too hard to sell them.Â
And here is your reward for reading to the end of this very long post.
Some friends went to Mineral King in January and shared this photo with me. Now I am sharing it with you. (Thank you, KC!)
I’m not much good in town, but if the town is on a beach, I’ll cope with it just fine. These paintings were done from photos taken around Monterey, but I am simply titling them Pacific Ocean I, II, and III, with hopes for IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, and IX in the near future.
Pacific Ocean I, 5×7″, oil on gessobord, $75 (plus tax—sorry, we are in California)
Pacific Ocean II, 5×7″, oil on gessobord, $75 (plus tax)
Pacific Ocean III, 5×7″, oil on gessobord, $75 (plus tax—is there an echo around here?)
Email, call, write me a note, or tell me in the comments if you would like to buy one of these paintings. (They look better in person, as you probably already know.)
We can pretend they are in Pismo, Cayucos, or any other spot along the Pacific Ocean that floats your boat.
In 2017, I met Bill, who came to me for some illustrations for a book he was writing on the old tuberculosis hospital in Springville, which is in the southern part of Tulare County (above Porterville).
This is a topic that really interests me. I’ve been curious about that place since I first saw it on the way to Scicon* for a day trip as a 5th grader.
You may recall that helping local authors get books published is a sideline of mine**—I edit, proofread, photo-edit, format, do a little cover design (but not much because all my covers look alike), and get books to a printer. (Most are out of print because they are very short runs for limited audiences).
This was the preliminary cover design which we submitted to the printer and asked them to improve on it.
Bill hired me to draw three pictures and then to be his editor, or more accurately, his book shepherd. He loves research more than any other book task, and the scope of the book continued to expand until we realized that he was no longer writing about Springville. The subject became tuberculosis, as it was documented by writers, poets, and other well-known literary (and literate) folks through the years when it was a disease that was feared, and not understood.
TALES OF TB: WHITE PLAGUE OF THE NORTH
Seven years of research, learning, writing, rewriting, finding photos, fighting computers, working together and becoming friends have finally culminated in the book, which Bill received a few bound copies of last week.
Bill chose to have the printer, BookBaby, handle the distribution, which they will eventually do through Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Until it gets up on those giant sites, you may order directly through BookBaby by clicking on this link: Tales of TB: White Plague of the North. (You might be able to order from BookBaby after it is up on those giant sites. This is a new experience for me, because most my previous authors have sold their books themselves.)
This is the improved cover put together by BookBaby’s cover designers. (Don’t tell me if you like my version better because it is TOO LATE.)
Here is the official description:
Though all but forgotten in affluent regions, tuberculosis is an ancient pandemic that presently kills 1.5 million people yearly. It was rampant in the England of 1800 and accepted that 1% of the population succumbed each year to the wasting disease—consumption—a grim reaper that would one day be known as tuberculosis, or more dramatically, “The White Plague.” Seven well-known people of a not-so-distant past left detailed accounts of their tuberculous lives—in their various letters, essays, poems, and biographies. Their surnames are Barrett-Moulton, Keats, Bronte, Poe, Browning, Trudeau, and Stevenson. Although it was most often a disease of poverty, no one was safe from the White Plague. The stories of these talented writers, poets, and their doctors are explored here and portray the variations of the disease and the personalities of its victims. Beginning with the subject in the well-loved painting “Pinkie” by Thomas Lawrence in 1794 through Robert Louis Stevenson of Treasure Island fame, the book moves into the sanatorium era of the late 1800s and first half of the 20th century. In 1950, medical science came up with several semi-miraculous medications that amazingly cured the worst types of tuberculosis. However, the White Plague has soldiered on, and there have been unexpected happenings that play a role in maintaining mortality: (1) the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) (2) drug resistant tuberculosis (3) the Covid-19 pandemic, which has severely damaged tuberculosis control and reduced access to medication in the less privileged regions of the world. Will tuberculosis always be with us as a “forever” pandemic?
Currently I am working on two new books for 2 other authors, and still eagerly waiting for the book on the Springville TB Hospital to get written. (Yes, I am still painting, drawing, and teaching drawing lessons!)
*Clemmie Gill School of Science and Conservation, where 5th graders go for a day, 6th graders go for a week, and high school juniors and seniors can go as a counselor. Maybe. That’s the way it was in the 1970s.
There must be a few things that I learned in January. Thirty-one days of nothing seems a little out of character here. As Winnie-the-Pooh said, “Think think think!” January was occupied with relearning, persevering, and never quitting. (If I was a smoker, I would have really done a number on my lungs in January.)
Something that I thought I learned in October (Item #1) turned out to be an “urban myth”. (I put that in quotes because I am not urban but I bought into the myth.) Microwaved water does NOT kill plants. A friend tested it. She also sent me to Snopes, a site that I don’t fully trust, so when I heard that myth from someone I trusted, I just believed. I’m sorry for misleading you.
Every Drop, graphite on archival paper, framed and matted to 14×16″, $400, available here.
2. After over a year of wrestling through design, decisions, details, logistics, and finances, this is the result. It was a process, and I think the overarching theme is “Nevuh nevuh nevuh give up”, as pronounced by Winston Churchill (This seems to be a post of quoting English sources who repeat words. )
3. While putting in my monthly shift at the Mural Gallery and Gift Shop in Exeter, I discovered a new kind of picture frame for paintings—oil or acrylic, not watercolor, which require mats and glass because they are on paper. If I can find them AND if they aren’t expensive AND if they look good, this could be a way to frame my plein air paintings for the show coming in August. (Did anyone from England famously say “If, if, if”?) I paint on board, not canvas, when painting plein air, so they need to be framed. (Just learned these are “float frames”)
4. There is another topic under the heading of “Nevuh nevuh nevuh give up” which deserves its own post and requires some permissions, so it will have to wait. But here is a clue (just the preliminary cover design):
5. I am now in the process of editing and formatting two new books. Neither one is ready for public disclosure, and as I work, it becomes very apparent to me that I will NEVER be comfortable with anything designed by Microsoft or Adobe. When I think I understand how something works, either it gets redesigned so that I have to spend time relearning it, or so much time has passed that I have to start over because NONE OF IT, NONE NONE NONE, is intuitive like Mac.
February, my first favorite month, will rescue me from this malaise.
Someone I met through giving my How To Draw talk back in November expressed a desire to take an oil painting workshop from me. She is a can-do, git-‘er-dun kind of person (takes-one-to-know-one), so we set a date, and she gathered 4 other interested people. I learned that she is an art teacher, as is another attendee from the talk. They were joined by a third art teacher, along with a couple of family members for a day of oil painting.
I set up samples and my supplies on one end of the room.Covered with old drop cloths, these tables were ready to receive five students.
We sat together for some chit-chat (a talk about the tools and techniques), and then they chose what to paint from photos that I passed around. (One overachiever chose two.)
I was ever so slightly intimidated by these well-educated art professionals, but there was no reason for that foolishness. They concentrated, asked relevant questions, and we enjoyed the time so much that I forgot to take photos until the 4-hour session was almost finished.
The Overachiever also had the largest canvas size.
This painter used to oil paint regularly, perhaps 40 years ago.
This painter thought her pomegranate looked like a tomato until we figured out a little visual texture through color variation was the answer.
This painter admitted to feeling a little uncomfortable about learning publicly; I confessed to the same feeling with all her education and experience. We had a good laugh, and then carried on like old comfortable friends.
This first-time painter showed me some photos of her own art, —custom designed, beautifully decorated sugar cookies! (She didn’t bring any, boohoo, but I am glad I didn’t have to tell her, “It is forbidden.”)
Excellent start! Because my style of painting is called “glazing” (layer after layer after layer), it is my hope they will finish these paintings on their own. (And if they need help, I hope they will email or call).
THANK YOU FOR AN EXCELLENT PAINTING WORKSHOP, Maddie, Amy, Janeva, Angie, and Jeanne!
P.S. They learned about layering, working “lean to fat”, getting the design on the canvas without first drawing it in pencil, mixing colors from a double primary palette (2 blues, 2 reds, 2 yellows, + white), how to get the paint onto the canvas to look like what you want, how to put leftover paint back in the tube, and how it takes FOR-EV-ER to complete a painting.
… is in bloom in my yard in January. They are called “paperwhites” and are very fragrant.
That…
… was completely blocking everything in the driveway one day. My neighbor is an outstanding tree service guy, and it was time to do some serious tree trimming on our property. (Not going to plug his business for him because he doesn’t have a website and doesn’t want jobs outside of the area.) I didn’t watch him and his crew do their interesting and skilled work because I was doing a year’s worth of bookkeeping in preparation for taxes. Ugh. That again. (year after year after year after . . .)
Something Else
What is this? Gessobord is a smooth surface on which to do very detailed oil paintings.
After my week in Monterey, I wasn’t convinced that plein air painting is for me. (Still not convinced.) However, I was convinced that I love the beach (this is not news), that I really love mixing these colors, and that I want to do some very detailed paintings of the waves. This means studio paintings from photos, because you may have noticed that those waves will NOT hold still.
First, a thin layer to cover the surface and establish where things will go. Just the opportunity to use non-mountain, non-citrus colors thrills my little heart.
The second layer gets even more thrilling. (I didn’t show you the beginning layer of these two.)
After these dry, I will add even more detail, then sign them. After they dry yet again, I’ll scan them so you can appreciate them more.
Finally, you can see them in person when I have my next solo show, coming in August*. The paintings always look better in person.
*Hold your camels; I’ll let you know more about it when the time is right.
Let’s just enjoy some photos today, no chitchat about going to town, no stressing over prices, no struggling with plein air painting.
That pair of red chairs is so insignificant in a photo but calls to me every time I look across the canyon.
Twenty-six years ago when I walked in this place, it was hard to find the trails. Now everyone who walks here seems to know the place because it has been splashed all over the world wide web.
At least now there are good bridges over the creek.
This would make a nice painting. Not plein air, at least not for me. Too far to schlepp the gear, and the light wouldn’t hold. Too many people hovering too.
A commissioned pencil drawing for a retiring Visalia city council member in 2022.
This post is just to vent my thoughts about a day spent in Visalia. It might fall into the categories of “Why is She Bloviating Again?” or perhaps “Too Long, Didn’t Read”.
I headed down the hill to Visalia one morning and was tailgated around the lake. What does tailgating accomplish when there is no place to pass and the tailgatee obviously cannot drive any faster than the person in front of her? The tailgater ignored the first 2 passing lanes, and then roared around at the third one. Good riddance. (See you at the light at the four-way, if I’m careless and you are lucky.)
My first stop in town was one of those giant office stores to get some papers shredded. There are 2 on the same side of the same busy boulevard, and I picked the wrong one. “Wrong one”?, you may be asking. This one apparently had only one employee who was running his feet off. It also is the one where the customer has to stuff all the papers in a bin, rather than the employees just taking care of it.
I survived. That sort of situation with waiting and inconveniences is a chance to just look around and observe folks. I saw 2 other women near my age, and all three of us had our hair up in those claw-type clips. There was an obese man in a cart who felt the need to explain to the clerk (a second employee eventually emerged from a break room) that he had been a dedicated baseball player who played on winning teams until age 38. No one seemed put out by his need to explain why he requires a cart to get around; the dude was obviously very lonely.
There was a quick stop to unload a box of unnecessary items at Rescued Treasures, a thrift shop enterprise run by the Salvation Army the Rescue Mission. It was close to the wrong giant office store, so maybe that wasn’t the wrong one after all.
A kind and generous friend had given me a gift card to Sprouts, which is a fancy grocery store with bright lights, organic foods, and shockingly high prices. My hope was to buy raw milk, something I have been curious about for a long time. (My interest began when I met some people associated with an Arizona dairy called Fond Du Lac Farms.) Alas, it wasn’t meant to be because their shipment hadn’t arrived for the week. Another customer was waiting for it and he told me that he pays $17 a gallon. I would have been quite content with just a pint, but that curiosity will have to wait.
The prices almost made me need oxygen, and the lights were so bright that I wondered if sunglasses might be in order. I wandered around the store, reading labels, thinking, doing math, not wanting to waste the gift card on stupid stuff. Finally, I chose some lunch meat and a tray of sliced cheeses to share with friends on an upcoming outing, found some herbal tea that supposedly fights blood sugar levels, and a few mixed nuts that promised no peanuts (because they are just too pedestrian for Sprouts’ customers). The checkout was a self-serve with a friendly worker there to assist. The total for my four items was $29, which was $4 over the gift card. (I thought it was better to be over and pay some cash than to have to return to use up one dollar.)
Next, I headed out to find another new grocery store, about which I have heard great stuff for several years. Aldi’s is on the far south end of town, bringing to mind a threat in my childhood that “one day Visalia and Tulare will be merged into a single town.” Hasn’t happened yet but the growth is steady in that direction.
Aldi’s is known for charging 25¢ for its shopping carts, which gets returned to you when you put the cart back in the corral. (It locks into the cart behind it to spit your quarter back out.) I wandered around the store, comparing prices with those on a Winco receipt, trying to be smart about spending. I bumbled and fumbled through the self-checkout with its pushy computer voice telling me to either scan the next item or finish and pay. I kept telling “her” (it didn’t announce its preferred pronouns but the voice was female) to just hold on. Oddly enough, the total was also $29, but this time I got eleven items.
My grocery list was barely touched, so next I headed to Winco, my normal grocery store. I try to only shop every 6-7 weeks, with Trail Guy supplementing for dairy and produce at our local overpriced but convenient market (Let’s see. . . 1-1/2 hour driving and $15-20 for gas to save money? Nope.) It was a thrill to quickly find just what I needed at prices I was accustomed to paying. It had only been about 5 weeks, so the cart was manageable. Sometimes I almost need 2 carts when I wait too long between trips.
It was a massive relief to finally be on the freeway heading east into the mountains. The foothills are green, the sky was blue with puffy white clouds, and although there were a few tailgaters, I was heading home and didn’t care. Does it bother anyone else when people try to force you to pull behind a big rig so they can drive 80, not caring that you are quite happy to go 70, which is 5 miles over the speed limit, not caring that you don’t want to drop to 55 or 60 behind a big rig? What is wrong with people?
Here is my theory about what is wrong: people live in crowded conditions, with too many stores, too many choices, too high of prices, too much to do, too little quiet and privacy. It makes them anxious and cranky and impatient. Or, to quote Anne Lamott from her Twelve Truths of Life: “Everyone is screwed up, broken, clingy and scared.”
P.S. Dennis Prager wrote about this topic several years ago:Imagine No Big Cities. (Thank you, DV!)
