Do we ever forget first times? I’m not sure we do.
Do we ever forget first times? I’m not sure we do.
I still remember the first time I lost a tooth, the first time I rode a bike without training wheels, and the first time I went camping (no I wasn’t a child). My middle grandson has been fortunate: He has done all three this summer with the camping trip just last week.
We were in the mountains of North Carolina where the white squirrels roam. Yes Brevard. And it was surprisingly cool for July. Just ask me about the dip in the swimming hole at the river. We also had his 13-month-old brother along who had just learned to walk, so we had a bit of a challenge just keeping him from eating the gravel on the site and from taking too many samples of leaves and moss.
But in our two days we still managed to see two waterfalls, both close to the road, and hiked along the Davidson River on the bike path for about a mile. I have pictures of the river trail and of Mills Shoals and Looking Glass falls, which will certainly inspire paintings.
But so will the excitement of an “almost seven-year-old” on his first morning in camp.
All of these are magical places. Transforming places. Since childhood, these were places that opened me to myself, soothed my soul, and offered me solace, inspiration, and just plain happiness.
It is a very hot July day, and I have just hiked two miles over a moderately difficult trail. Of course I hear it before I see it. That’s always the case for waterfalls, but I do not expect it to be so large and powerful. As the trail flattens out at the last rise, there is a railing. I stop immediately, finding myself being cooled and tickled by the spraying water from Rainbow Falls. It is difficult to believe something like this is in the middle of the forest in a gorge in North Carolina. A discovery all my own; a discovery shared by so many.
Peter Wohllenben, author of “The Hidden Life of Trees,” believes trees speak a “silent language,” one that communicates via smell, taste, and electrical impulses. But it is not just forests. I have also seen the ocean speak. I see people sit and stare at it for hours, bathe themselves in its saltiness, and walk its sand looking for reminders of their visit to what can only be called a sacred place. Now I know waterfalls also speak.
All of these are magical places. Transforming places. Since childhood, these were places that opened me to myself, soothed my soul, and offered me solace, inspiration, and just plain happiness. So, you can understand why I have a difficult time understanding those who would destroy it for their benefit and who would try to convince me they were actually doing it for mine.
Artists have either painted or used almost every aspect of our natural world as model or inspiration. We are quite indebted to its beauty and power. I am particularly indebted and have made a small gesture acknowledging my thankfulness. I know it’s a small gesture; “a drop in the bucket” would be the term. However, as I have noticed in many plumbing events at my house, many drops do fill a bucket. So I have aligned myself with a generous site called For Mother Nature—which links artists with those who love nature. It is not a direct sales site, but rather a network of artists who support various environmental causes with a percentage of their sales. As part of their network, I have pledged to donate 10% of all my sales to Friends of the Earth.
Friends of the Earth (https://foe.org) has been around for almost 50 years working to protect people and wildlife through systemic reforms and collaborative effort. They have grassroots groups in 77 countries and currently focus on clean energy and solutions to global warming, protecting people from toxic and new, potentially harmful technologies, and promoting smarter, low-pollution transportation alternatives. They also believe that the fight for justice and the movement to protect the health of the planet are part of the same struggle.
Does unfinished artwork provide insight into the creative process?
La Montagne Sainte Victoire vue des Lauves, 1901 – 06, Paul Cézanne
Is an artwork ever finished? Some artist can say yes, sign it, and let it go out into the world. Others, unless (it goes into the world) will keep changing and refining it. So we have finish as in “complete” and finish as in “process.”
When I did a little research I found that Paul Cezanne was among the painters who left many paintings incomplete. One historian blamed some of this on his analytical methods and his use of thickly placed layers of paint since it likely took months to finish any piece. But editors of a book called Cezanne Finished- Unfinished explain that the unfinished areas were possibly experimental at first but were later deliberate and provide us with insight into his creative process.
This all started because I am constantly “finishing”—one of those who fits both definitions. Just a few days ago I decided that a small portion of a large painting that had been hanging for at least two months wasn’t right. A shape in the corner seemed to lead your eye off the page so of course I had to fix it. And now it is “finished” again.
To be home we must find solace. It must stir our heart.
Sometimes home is the place where we live physically—where we earn our living, where our children play in the park, where we walk our dog. Other times “home” is another physical location, somewhere else—away. Because to be home we must find solace. It must stir our heart.
Some of us have several homes, but they are not structures. Don’t get me wrong. I love the house I share with family, but the place that gives me solace is nature: the mountains, the rivers, the fields, the marshes, the ocean. I think I am made of a bit of it all. I breathe it in and become part of it.
“Away” was inspired by a trip to the barrier islands of the Carolinas.
We all know you can’t prepare for everything. We want change that is gradual and slow so we can see it coming, but life has way of sideswiping you when you least expect it.
Almost 6 years ago my husband had a “heart incident” as we like to call it. His heart fluttered, skipped a beat and threw a small clot. Even the paramedics could find nothing wrong when they arrived, but he felt a pain like “toothache” in his chest. So just to be safe he went to the hospital. While there was no damage, we discovered that sometimes he has an irregular heartbeat. “Sometimes” was really hard to deal with at first, but now after so much time he just exercises, eats right, and carries nitroglycerine in his pocket.
I was reminded again of how slowly, and quickly, things change and could change, while hiking the trails in Stone Mountain State Park. The large rock faces with layers and splits big enough for climbing were formed by geological exfoliation. While they seem impenetrable, as if they will be there for thousands of years, the reality may be different. The change to these rocks is climate related and normally happens very slowly, but according to the park rangers because we don’t know the depth of the splits there is always the risk that rocks, particularly those with vertical and horizontal cracks, will shatter and slide. Of course, should there be an earthquake, they could crumble very quickly.
It’s both a bit scary and a bit comforting how human life parallels nature. Mostly, the changes are gradual, but we are all shifting.
Nothing makes for a happy day like being an art volunteer at your grandson’s school. What else made it happy: meeting his organized and well prepared teacher and engaging with his classmates, most of whom seemed to enjoy the opportunity for creativity.
The teacher did an amazing job setting up the lesson by having the students watch a five- minute video about contemporary African American artist Nick Cave who creates “Soundsuits” using fibers, buttons, and found objects in his sculptures. I’m not sure of the source of her segment, but there is a good interview on Art21(https://art21.org/artist/nick-cave/).
So what did I really do in my job as a volunteer. My work—well it was way too easy: sharpening pencils (And they really had a great sharpener, not a joke. I’ve never seen so many different size holes). I tried passing out a few papers, but my grandson quickly took over that job. Then I showed two students how to spatter paint like a pro, which on second thought perhaps wasn’t a grand idea, but all in all, watching them engage for 30 minutes or so (girls better than most boys) was fun.
I had to laugh when I heard my grandson tell his art teacher that I was a really famous painter. But if you’re going receive praise who better to hear it from. Yes, an inspiring day.
Graveyard Fields is a ghostly, but enriching landscape that leaves me feeling very large, yet very insignificant at the same time.
This new painting was inspired by a hike in late August along a trail called Graveyard Field in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s a flat mountain valley just off the parkway surrounded by mountains like Black Balsam Knob, Tennent Mountain, and Sam Knob. The day we hiked the goldenrod was already evident as were the wild blueberries, and many people left carrying overflowing hats, pails, and milk jugs.
It was an easy hike except for the climb to the falls, but I was most fascinated by the boardwalks that keep the trail elevated in areas that tend to flood—and the flatness even though you are at 5,000 feet elevation. The Park Service history says the name may have come from a windstorm fell that downed hundreds of trees or extensive logging in the early 1900’s. Either way the stumps eventually resembled moss-covered graves. Later fires devastated the entire valley, apparently heating the soil enough to sterilize it so that plants had difficulty growing. Now some trees, shrubs, and grasslands are slowly thriving.
It is a ghostly landscape, but an enriching one as well. Like most of my trips into the woods I leave feeling very large, yet very insignificant at the same time—and very much at peace.