As I revisited, reviewed, reworked and renewed this painting, which started out its life as “In a Blaze of Glory” in 2005, I tried to keep aware of the things I liked about it: the dramatic sky, the grasses, the purple barn, and the things that I felt distracted from the overall composition: the silo, the tree, the “out of the tube” viridian green.

In revisiting the painting, I felt it lacked focus. I needed to follow my mantra: Simplify, simplify, simplify. So, with only a brief hesitation, I jumped in and painted out the silo and the tree. Immediately, the painting was better. Those two elements were detracting from the barn, and eliminating them opened up the space in front of the barn, letting it breathe.

The sky seemed wishy-washy – and worse yet, competed with the barn for attention. I needed the sky to support the barn, not overshadow it. After more revisiting and reviewing, I suddenly saw a drawing problem with the barn. Wrong angles/proportions on the roof, which I redrew and corrected. It is funny how you can look at something for years and the “suddenly” see something. The veil lifts and reveals. Once the drawing was right, then I noticed that the doors and windows on the barn were too symmetrical. That is actually how the barn was “in reality” but hey, I’m an artist and I don’t have to accept reality! At first I just removed a door and added another window, then added some of the sky color into the windows. But then it seemed too busy, so I eliminated all the windows and added a wide door. Much better!

The barn color seemed a little dull, but was it the color of the barn that was off or the straight-out of-the-tube viridian green that dominated the grasses? I guessed the green, and spent quite a bit of time varying the shades of green, adding in strokes of blue, purple, yellow, orange and red. While I was painting the grasses, I was listening to Gypsy Caravan, a compilation CD of gypsy music from around the world. I can’t help but dance when I hear gypsy music, so I danced with my paintbrush and the meadow came alive with birds and grasses and flowers.

A stroke of bright cadmium green landed directly in front of the “man door” of the barn. A mistake, I wondered? I decided to wait and see – would that mark help tell the story or detract from it? I sat on my thinking couch and thought. There was something about the tension between the mark and the doorway that seemed to resonate with me. The more I looked, the more the mark became a figure, stopped along its journey, staring across the expanse of grass at the barn, the open door, the light beyond. I felt there was a yearning, a desire to enter the barn, but also a sense of fear and uncertainty – not knowing exactly how to get there without a clear path.

Once I started thinking about paths, I saw all the paths in the meadow, and started thinking about the journey through life, and how there are as many paths as there are people. And how for some people, choosing the “right” path is simple: They see one path and they stick to it. Others see many paths and have trouble choosing which one to take. And some start down one path, wander off the path, get lost, end up on a different path…

Once I got the concept of many paths and the standing figure, I decided the man-door needed a little more light coming through, so I brushed on a little yellow/white mix, which was a little too thin, so I wiped it with my rag and then – another figure, this one more defined, more developed (although seriously, just a paint smudge). And it dawned on me that the figure in the door was the same person as the figure in the grass. And they were manifestations of myself, the viewer, the figure walking into the scene, looking up the hill at the barn and the light beyond. Searching for my right path. Stuck without clear direction.

That figure in the grass had to go. It was causing the eye to stop there for too long; the tension was unbearable. So I painted it out. The figure in the doorway beckoned. The tension was released. But still the painting seemed to need one more element to heighten the drama without overwhelming the barn. Light! Rising or Setting, the sun brings hope and peace to the world.

And so, renamed, Sunrise, Sunset is finished in this incarnation.

 

 

In my dream I am standing on a narrow path through a forest. It is winter time – no, it is the time when autumn still glows like the dying embers of a campfire. A time of letting go, winding down, entering the realm of darkness and dreams. A fresh blanket of snow covers the ground and I notice how it glistens in the moonlight. 

The woods are silent as I drink in the scent of the coming season. I am aware of the cold as I look up through the trees at the night sky; deep ocean blue gradating into a glowing turquoise. Stars dance against the backdrop of infinity.

As I start to walk, I realize I am headed north. I begin to be aware of the eyes of those who watch, hidden, from beyond the path I travel. And I understand without question that these are my guides, and that they mean me no harm. And so I walk, my guides – unseen – and me – a dream. Cresting a hill, a clearing appears before me, and I slow my pace.

A magnificent Elk steps out from the brambles, silent as the snow. Time suspends, my breathing all but stops. He regards me fearlessly, his eyes bore into mine for what seems an eternity. Slowly, like a yoga master, he stretches his head back, and I notice his swirling antlers, glowing like ancient antennas. And then he opens his mouth and releases the most hauntingly beautiful sound…a song unlike anything I have ever heard. Wild, primal, melancholy, visceral; the words to describe the sound do not exist in my vocabulary.

I know in the core of my being that I am listening to the anthem of the earth, the song of Nature, the Voice of the Universe. The sound resonates through my body, and I feel enveloped by an energy which comes simultaneously from within and from outside of me. I suddenly know the fundamental Truth; the connection of all things, seen and unseen.

As soon as I become aware, Elk lowers his head and steps silently back into the brush, disappearing into a shroud of mist. It was then that I notice snow-capped mountains rising from beyond the edge of the clearing. The sparkle of a gold talisman wrapped on a branch where Elk had stood catches my eye. When I look back at the mountains I see they are not mountains at all, but tipis, their painted outer walls glowing. I smell burning cedar and sage.  I turn around and begin the walk back home.

 

Proceeds from this painting will go to the Wildlife Rehabilitation & Nature Preservation Society, Inc.

The other day I forced myself to look at the images coming out of the Gulf of Mexico. The dead dolphins, sea turtles, brown pelicans and other sea birds, all coated in oily brown muck. I saw the orange sheen of oil on the surface of the water, the balls of tar on the beaches, the desperation of people whose way of life is forever changed, the compassion of people working tirelessly to save what wildlife they can. With no real solution to stop the millions of gallons of toxic chemicals and oil erupting from the broken pipe each day, I wonder how long before even compassionate people burn out? What happens when hope dies?

That night I dreamed I was on a boat in an ocean of oil. All around me, dead fish and sea mammals floated in the brown sludge. I became aware of movement on the side of the boat, and saw a turtle, a dolphin, a wading bird and a seagull – all coated in oily brown. They seemed to try to communicate with me, imploring me with their eyes to help. Suddenly, from between them, a brilliant white bird flew up out of the water and into the sky. I knew that this bird, which somehow had not gotten coated in the oil, was a gift from the earth; a symbol of hope. I woke up from the dream with tears in my eyes and I knew I had to try to paint what I had seen.

“Hope Takes Flight” is based on that dream. This is not a "pretty" picture - my dream was not a "pretty" dream. It was full of despair, ugliness and feelings of hopelessness. But when the bird emerged from the water, I knew that there is hope, and I knew I had to help spread the word. Yes, there will be hard times ahead, for we have unleashed something like we have never seen before. But we must believe in the power of hope, and attach our energy to that hope. And believe that the dove will return with the olive branch.

To find out about purchasing this painting, click here.

As I sit here typing, I hear the beautiful song of a Meadowlark. It fills my soul with joy and peace. My life gets so hectic sometimes, it seems I even forget to breathe. But this morning, I am soaking in the quiet music of the fields; a symphonic blend of crickets and songbirds, woven together with the soft rustle of tall grasses, occasionally punctuated by the lowing of cattle and the bray of a neighboring donkey.

I just returned last evening from a trip out to San Diego to attend the Women Artists of the West show, which was held at the Olaf Wieghorst Museum in El Cajon. The opening reception took place last Friday night – the museum and community really made us feel welcome and the show was well attended. Although I didn’t win an award, I felt honored just to be in the company of such talented women artists. The show is incredible – take a look!

The other reason for my trip was to visit with my family…and I was thrilled to have the opportunity to visit with my niece who was in San Diego (sadly, for a funeral) for a few days. Laurel was in Ukraine for two years with the Peace Corps and then was accepted into the master’s program at George Washington University. This summer she is working in Senegal, Africa, with the 10,000 Girls program. Although we tend to hear more about the next generation being disconnected and self-absorbed, my niece and the many of young adults like her, are proof that the caring, giving side of human nature is alive and growing. There is hope for the world!

Although my trip was short – slightly less than a week, I was able to relax a bit. I stayed with my parents, who are in their 80’s. Much of their days consist of un-rushed routine. My father raises the flag each morning, then feeds the birds and reads the newspaper while sipping a cup of coffee and listening to classical music. My mother prepares breakfast for them. Most of the day is spent reading and watching the birds that come to their feeder. Sparrows, doves, finches – sometimes unusual birds (for San Diego!) like Baltimore orioles and downy woodpeckers. And last week, a green parakeet! Most entertaining is the Crow family. My parents put out table scraps for the crows, who arrive each morning in a family unit: mother, father and two “babies” (who are as big as the parents!) The babies still want to be fed though, and carry on like spoiled brats when Mom doesn’t feed them fast enough. And they are picky, too! The pieces of bread have to be dunked in the birdbath first before Mom shoves them into their open mouths.

The sparrows flock in, filling the branches of the trees and oleander bushes in the backyard. Then they take turns, in batches of six or seven, landing on the bird feeder or on the ground below, pecking and scratching until, as one, they fly back to the safety of the bushes and another batch swoops in. It is like watching a ballet, so choreographed and seemingly effortless.

Sometimes there are skirmishes: the little hummingbirds get feisty when they want to drink sugar water and find another hummer at the feeder. The ring-necked doves and the crows squabble over table scraps. But mostly it is peaceful co-existence among variations of birds. We humans could learn a thing or two about taking what you need and leaving the rest for someone else. Settling arguments with a show of feathers and some squawking, then going about your business without thoughts of revenge.

Sitting on my parents’ back porch, watching the birds, feeling the heat of the day, sketching, reading, enjoying just being – no place to go, nothing to do, no pressure, no deadlines, no stress – reminded me of the summers of my childhood, spent watching the birds at our feeder, the clouds passing by overhead, listening to the buzz of cicadas, learning the songs of different birds, reading library books, taking a walk with my sisters, drawing, creating forts and trails in the woods. Each minute lived in the present.