- Published on
The River Feale at Sunrise
You can't have too many breakfasts.
Especially if they include scones, brown bread with jam, streaky rashers, eclairs and salted caramel cake. Thank goodness there are many flights of stairs in the flat, else my backside would need a room all its own by the end of the month.
Each breakfast is accompanied by a good strong coffee. You CAN have too much coffee. Ok, I had too much coffee.
Especially if they include scones, brown bread with jam, streaky rashers, eclairs and salted caramel cake. Thank goodness there are many flights of stairs in the flat, else my backside would need a room all its own by the end of the month.
Each breakfast is accompanied by a good strong coffee. You CAN have too much coffee. Ok, I had too much coffee.
Sleep deprivation will cause excessive breakfast syndrome. It is also caused by sweet and lovely people who have been dearly missed and offer to sit and break bread with you.
Maybe I shouldn't have started the day with Winegums. But when in Ireland...
Maybe I shouldn't have started the day with Winegums. But when in Ireland...
Chic Boutique featuring Olive's illustrations larger than life!
Listowel Castle at Sunrise
Day one was a flurry of activity (between breakfasts) as Olive worked on the gallery's holiday window in preparation for the lighting ceremony this evening and holiday shoppers in December.
I did manage to unpack my art supplies and gesso some boards. I'm pretty sure my sleepy self couldn't paint anything worthwhile, so gesso was just about my speed.
The morning of day two I dashed outside to grab some sunrise photos. Holiday music is being broadcast throughout the streets this month. And wait, was that Bob Marley? Indeed.
I did manage to unpack my art supplies and gesso some boards. I'm pretty sure my sleepy self couldn't paint anything worthwhile, so gesso was just about my speed.
The morning of day two I dashed outside to grab some sunrise photos. Holiday music is being broadcast throughout the streets this month. And wait, was that Bob Marley? Indeed.
Home for the Month!
- Published on
Bleary-eyed. It's 5 am when I arrive in Shannon. Which is past my bedtime, I think, in Florida. My mind is a blur, everything is moving in slow motion. Coffee. Yes. It's quiet here in the airport. No rushing about or jockeying for position. Soft voices, kind faces. Even the public announcement voice sounds friendly. And then a familiar face appears (Listowel's ambassador extraordinaire, Damian Stack) and we are off chasing the sunrise on the way to Listowel.
There was a bit of light snow on the roads along the way. A dusting of Christmas, better than a red carpet welcome.
Waiting for me in the flat is a copy of Christmas in Listowel, a coloring book collaboration with illustrations by Olive Stack and story by yours truly. It is the first time I've seen it in print, and it is a beauty. An auspicious beginning, and a real honor to work on a project like this with Olive.
The shops in Listowel are all decked out with holiday decorations following the theme of the Lartigue Monorail and Listowel's North Pole Express (more on this later). A wonderland of coordination among the local businesses. I am already delighted. When it stops raining, I'll head out and get some photos. Um, oh yes, it doesn't stop raining here. I'll just grab my raincoat then, shall I?
My bags are unpacked and the water is boiling for tea. But first, a pause to put my feet up and enjoy window theater, the best seat in the house with views of shopfronts and of the hustle and bustle of Listowel. The lights are just coming on, shop owners are unlocking the doors. Day one is unfolding.
- Published on
Gelli plate prints, acrylic on dish wrap paper.
There is a push and pull to packing for a long journey. In my head, it is not dissimilar to the pushing and pulling of creating a well-composed painting. We strive for a balance between too much and not enough. And yet, where I feel most alive is when I risk taking too little, trusting the universe to provide exactly what I need, knowing deep in my psyche that I cannot possibly anticipate everything.
I am taking less on this trip to Ireland. Less on my back in this backpack, less in my suitcase. Less in my head. The benefits of having traveled here before are many, but this one, the knowing a little better what to expect, allows my thoughts to freely wander elsewhere and to enjoy the journey more.
This time I shipped ahead (from Jacksons, an art supply store in the U.K.) a plethora of art supplies. But again, I didn't over plan. There will be things I am missing, but it will push me to create with what is there, to be present, to push boundaries. Because what is the point in traveling so far just to recreate what I already have at home?
The universe conspires with me this day, as I finished the last pages of Mark Nepo's Seven Thousand Ways to Listen just in time to leave. And how perfect, this part: "So being here involves more than just reacting to the things that come at us. It requires that we initiate a love affair with all that calls to us, seen and unseen; that we run with open arms into questions and moments of living as urgently as we do burning buildings to retrieve who and what we love." I run with open arms into this journey. Surely it is no secret that I am wildly in love with Ireland.
There are nearly five weeks stretching before me. It feels bountiful. A feast of time and exploration. But this I know: I will wring every second out of every day, because time is a fickle wench who races by and laughs at me when I turn and see that she is gone. Right now, this moment, as I board for the final leg which will land me in a misty, verdant landscape at 6 am, I will enjoy the thought of days and weeks of adventure and delight and the magic which only Ireland, only Listowel and its inhabitants, can bring. Sláinte!
There is a push and pull to packing for a long journey. In my head, it is not dissimilar to the pushing and pulling of creating a well-composed painting. We strive for a balance between too much and not enough. And yet, where I feel most alive is when I risk taking too little, trusting the universe to provide exactly what I need, knowing deep in my psyche that I cannot possibly anticipate everything.
I am taking less on this trip to Ireland. Less on my back in this backpack, less in my suitcase. Less in my head. The benefits of having traveled here before are many, but this one, the knowing a little better what to expect, allows my thoughts to freely wander elsewhere and to enjoy the journey more.
This time I shipped ahead (from Jacksons, an art supply store in the U.K.) a plethora of art supplies. But again, I didn't over plan. There will be things I am missing, but it will push me to create with what is there, to be present, to push boundaries. Because what is the point in traveling so far just to recreate what I already have at home?
The universe conspires with me this day, as I finished the last pages of Mark Nepo's Seven Thousand Ways to Listen just in time to leave. And how perfect, this part: "So being here involves more than just reacting to the things that come at us. It requires that we initiate a love affair with all that calls to us, seen and unseen; that we run with open arms into questions and moments of living as urgently as we do burning buildings to retrieve who and what we love." I run with open arms into this journey. Surely it is no secret that I am wildly in love with Ireland.
There are nearly five weeks stretching before me. It feels bountiful. A feast of time and exploration. But this I know: I will wring every second out of every day, because time is a fickle wench who races by and laughs at me when I turn and see that she is gone. Right now, this moment, as I board for the final leg which will land me in a misty, verdant landscape at 6 am, I will enjoy the thought of days and weeks of adventure and delight and the magic which only Ireland, only Listowel and its inhabitants, can bring. Sláinte!
- Published on
"Give Voice to the Fire" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to frame, or can be leaned against a wall upon a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
Exhaustion. The result of too many late nights and early mornings. Which are the result of a hoard of twenty-somethings camping at the house. It's been a long time since I was twenty, and the hours they keep are brutal. I am looking forward to an appropriately geriatric bedtime this evening.
Exhaustion. The result of too many late nights and early mornings. Which are the result of a hoard of twenty-somethings camping at the house. It's been a long time since I was twenty, and the hours they keep are brutal. I am looking forward to an appropriately geriatric bedtime this evening.
This piece is a response to the prompt: ANGER. It was a particularly difficult challenge, as I have spent decades giving anger the big boot, mostly by making sure I expressed it instead of letting it fester, but also by taking things less personally whenever possible.
As I painted, the music playing contained the lyric (and now title to this piece) give voice to the fire. Ah. There it was. So I allowed fire to be the catalyst for the art (see early in the process photo on the right). After many twists and turns, I felt the fire slowly calming, softening, sputtering, turning into embers in the sky until all was calm again. The last voice of the fire whispers in the night sky.
As I painted, the music playing contained the lyric (and now title to this piece) give voice to the fire. Ah. There it was. So I allowed fire to be the catalyst for the art (see early in the process photo on the right). After many twists and turns, I felt the fire slowly calming, softening, sputtering, turning into embers in the sky until all was calm again. The last voice of the fire whispers in the night sky.
This is the last blog post before I head to Ireland for a month long residency at the Olive Stack Gallery. I'll be using the next ten days to pack, repack, explain to Pongo where I'm going to be, and then maybe have some turkey before I go. Once in Ireland, I will resume painting and blogging, including some posts on the gallery blog. If you followed along with me on my last trip to Listowel (August 2016), then you will surely recognize the cast of characters! If not, you are in for a real treat. There is nothing quite like Listowel - it is a magical place indeed.
Until then, happy turkeyness to you, dear reader! Wishing you a full belly and the joy of family. I am off to drag my large suitcase out of the attic. :)
Until then, happy turkeyness to you, dear reader! Wishing you a full belly and the joy of family. I am off to drag my large suitcase out of the attic. :)
- Published on
"Wind-Rider" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to frame, or can be leaned against the wall upon a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
People come and go so quickly here... (Thanks, Dorothy!) This week I had an amazing house guest, whose wisdom and experience with everything "woo woo" had me astounded and pondering. I am so grateful for the time, however brief. She also is an exceptional role model for how to age with a sense of adventure and excitement. She runs circles around me mentally and with her activities. I want to be more like her!
On our last morning together, as we sat around the kitchen table sharing our life stories, a huge flock of vultures descended upon the bank of the lake behind us. At least a dozen on the ground and another bunch perched in a tree. Ominous, large, silent. I've written before about these fascinating birds and their totem meanings, and today's vulture visit seemed directed toward me personally.
These wind-riders are masters at energy conservation - soaring on warm air thermals without beating their wings. One of their messages is personal energy management. I've been spending a whole lot of personal energy this month as I race toward my departure date for Ireland. These big beauties are telling me to conserve a little, look for easier ways, rest a bit and harness the energy of the wind and sun (sounds like a prescription for a little beach time, perhaps?)
Vultures also mean purification and new beginnings...moving on from people and things which weigh you down or do not bring you happiness. I've been contemplating a slight adjustment of course in recent days. Fine tuning some goals for next year and pondering better balance and bliss. There is nothing quite like a flock of these beasties as a resounding validation of new directions. It comes with a caution though - to think things through and to remain silent while contemplating. These birds are among the most patient of all creatures. My patience pocket is generally filled with lint. So I must cultivate my inner vulture in the coming weeks. If you see me sitting on the rooftop, peering down ominously at passersby, it is just part of my new patience meditation practice. :)
If you want to learn more about the majestic vulture, enjoy this "Creature Feature" from the Cleveland Museum of Natural History.
People come and go so quickly here... (Thanks, Dorothy!) This week I had an amazing house guest, whose wisdom and experience with everything "woo woo" had me astounded and pondering. I am so grateful for the time, however brief. She also is an exceptional role model for how to age with a sense of adventure and excitement. She runs circles around me mentally and with her activities. I want to be more like her!
On our last morning together, as we sat around the kitchen table sharing our life stories, a huge flock of vultures descended upon the bank of the lake behind us. At least a dozen on the ground and another bunch perched in a tree. Ominous, large, silent. I've written before about these fascinating birds and their totem meanings, and today's vulture visit seemed directed toward me personally.
These wind-riders are masters at energy conservation - soaring on warm air thermals without beating their wings. One of their messages is personal energy management. I've been spending a whole lot of personal energy this month as I race toward my departure date for Ireland. These big beauties are telling me to conserve a little, look for easier ways, rest a bit and harness the energy of the wind and sun (sounds like a prescription for a little beach time, perhaps?)
Vultures also mean purification and new beginnings...moving on from people and things which weigh you down or do not bring you happiness. I've been contemplating a slight adjustment of course in recent days. Fine tuning some goals for next year and pondering better balance and bliss. There is nothing quite like a flock of these beasties as a resounding validation of new directions. It comes with a caution though - to think things through and to remain silent while contemplating. These birds are among the most patient of all creatures. My patience pocket is generally filled with lint. So I must cultivate my inner vulture in the coming weeks. If you see me sitting on the rooftop, peering down ominously at passersby, it is just part of my new patience meditation practice. :)
If you want to learn more about the majestic vulture, enjoy this "Creature Feature" from the Cleveland Museum of Natural History.
- Published on
"Willa" - mixed media on aquabord, 18" x 24". Ready to frame, or can be leaned against a wall upon a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
Howling. A versatile communication tool. It is what we are called to do when circumstances drop boulders on our heads, wrench our broken hearts from our chests and drop our precious love to the hard ground. It is also what we do when we are triumphant, crushing our opponents (perhaps in a game of backgammon which has gone all road warrior) or beating circumstances when the odds were stacked against us. These are the lone howls - solitary voices expressing pain, rage, triumph or blessed survival.
There are also group howls. Now perhaps you think I've gone off the deep end this morning, but we've taken to group howling at our house. At first, it was to encourage our very quiet dog to feel free to express himself. And, with a bit of help from his housemates, he will now do this. But after a time, I came to discover how alive I felt when our voices rose together, vibrating loudly in a primitive chorus, Pongo's head raised high to the ceiling, lips pursed in his best wolf imitation. The chorus of voices together feels like drum beats, thrumming, wobbling strands of sound. My entire being zings when we howl together.
We don't actually need a reason to howl. Sometimes we randomly howl in the middle of the afternoon while looking for a snack. It changes the very vibration of the house and its inhabitants. Like sound smudging. It is also quite impossible to not be present when howling. It chases all the worries away.
Funny, I've never seen group howling listed as one of the benefits of dog ownership. Perhaps it is time to revise the brochures?
In case you are new to howling, here are a few beginning howlers to help you get started:
Howling. A versatile communication tool. It is what we are called to do when circumstances drop boulders on our heads, wrench our broken hearts from our chests and drop our precious love to the hard ground. It is also what we do when we are triumphant, crushing our opponents (perhaps in a game of backgammon which has gone all road warrior) or beating circumstances when the odds were stacked against us. These are the lone howls - solitary voices expressing pain, rage, triumph or blessed survival.
There are also group howls. Now perhaps you think I've gone off the deep end this morning, but we've taken to group howling at our house. At first, it was to encourage our very quiet dog to feel free to express himself. And, with a bit of help from his housemates, he will now do this. But after a time, I came to discover how alive I felt when our voices rose together, vibrating loudly in a primitive chorus, Pongo's head raised high to the ceiling, lips pursed in his best wolf imitation. The chorus of voices together feels like drum beats, thrumming, wobbling strands of sound. My entire being zings when we howl together.
We don't actually need a reason to howl. Sometimes we randomly howl in the middle of the afternoon while looking for a snack. It changes the very vibration of the house and its inhabitants. Like sound smudging. It is also quite impossible to not be present when howling. It chases all the worries away.
Funny, I've never seen group howling listed as one of the benefits of dog ownership. Perhaps it is time to revise the brochures?
In case you are new to howling, here are a few beginning howlers to help you get started:
- Published on
"Pongo" - mixed media on reclaimed (Irma) wood, 27" x 34". Ready to hang (wood has been wired for hanging). Inquiries.
"Tatum Ventures Out" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to frame or can be leaned against a wall upon a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
Another two-fer day in the studio, as I finished up one more demo piece AND this enormous whimsical pooch. There is something about open windows, ocean breezes and cooler temperatures that make studio time more blissful than usual. Also, Pongo discovered how to squeeze himself under my work table, so now I have a paint-spattered foot warmer in there. Another layer of bliss.
I've spent a lot of time introverting in the last couple of weeks...hiding in the cave, not venturing out much, recharging my batteries and contemplating the state of things. There is so much raw emotion, pain, openness and angst in the world. My first instinct is to RUN AWAY and dodge these bullets of feeling. So, of course, the universe conspires to dump several chapters on pain in the next section of the Nepo book, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen. I cringed at first, but went on to read them despite my misgivings.
There is a lot about stilling the urge to run from pain. Ok, a direct message for me. But there was also a delicious section on how "our culture is obsessed with how things fall apart." True. The news is almost exclusively negative. But Nepo goes on to say this - "...things are constantly coming together, though we have forgotten how to hear them." Oooooh yes! A change in focus on how things come together after falling apart - just what I needed.
So as I shift my view from the pain in the world to the coming together, I can see so much beauty. In our neighborhood, where hurricane debris piles are still around (though fewer of them), blue tarps flutter on rooftops and enormous tree stumps reminds us of what is now gone, broken or damaged, there are neighbors helping each other, meeting folks they may never have otherwise, reaching out and forging connections that will last long beyond the debris piles. And as our new pooch settles in to family life, the pain and loss of prior pooches softens...the skills we learned with our last Great Dane have helped us understand this noble beast so much better. And as the months fly by after my dad's passing, the pain and confusion of end of life issues begin to weather and fade, leaving more room for sweet memories and smiles. Things are coming together...I can hear them now.
"Tatum Ventures Out" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to frame or can be leaned against a wall upon a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
Another two-fer day in the studio, as I finished up one more demo piece AND this enormous whimsical pooch. There is something about open windows, ocean breezes and cooler temperatures that make studio time more blissful than usual. Also, Pongo discovered how to squeeze himself under my work table, so now I have a paint-spattered foot warmer in there. Another layer of bliss.
I've spent a lot of time introverting in the last couple of weeks...hiding in the cave, not venturing out much, recharging my batteries and contemplating the state of things. There is so much raw emotion, pain, openness and angst in the world. My first instinct is to RUN AWAY and dodge these bullets of feeling. So, of course, the universe conspires to dump several chapters on pain in the next section of the Nepo book, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen. I cringed at first, but went on to read them despite my misgivings.
There is a lot about stilling the urge to run from pain. Ok, a direct message for me. But there was also a delicious section on how "our culture is obsessed with how things fall apart." True. The news is almost exclusively negative. But Nepo goes on to say this - "...things are constantly coming together, though we have forgotten how to hear them." Oooooh yes! A change in focus on how things come together after falling apart - just what I needed.
So as I shift my view from the pain in the world to the coming together, I can see so much beauty. In our neighborhood, where hurricane debris piles are still around (though fewer of them), blue tarps flutter on rooftops and enormous tree stumps reminds us of what is now gone, broken or damaged, there are neighbors helping each other, meeting folks they may never have otherwise, reaching out and forging connections that will last long beyond the debris piles. And as our new pooch settles in to family life, the pain and loss of prior pooches softens...the skills we learned with our last Great Dane have helped us understand this noble beast so much better. And as the months fly by after my dad's passing, the pain and confusion of end of life issues begin to weather and fade, leaving more room for sweet memories and smiles. Things are coming together...I can hear them now.
- Published on
"Selah" - mixed media on aquabord, 18" x 24". Ready to frame, or can be leaned against a wall on a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
It was a week of scrubbing away.
Scrubbing away the dog slobber and paw prints on the floor. Scrubbing away the mud on the back porch. Scrubbing away the paint layers in the utility sink. And scrubbing away on this painting, until there was just enough left.
It is an abstract approach that calls to me. Building up layers, scrubbing away. Adding more layers, sanding down. Throwing on more paint, polishing away with a soft cloth. It feels like life on a canvas...how things in our lives are worn away, polished smooth until the rough edges and firm boundaries are gone. Sea glass. Tumbled stone. The soft leather of an old chair. The perfectly faded, softly rounded fit of old jeans. Worn away until what remains is exactly right.
Sometimes I get a heightened sense of this in my own life. The wearing away of rough edges. The softening of bones and skin. The fading of hair and eye color. The fuzzy, worn memories and elusive words and phrases. Yet what remains is all I need. The rest was superfluous. I wish I could say I feel lighter with the wearing away of things. Instead I feel (and literally am) more weighty. Perhaps because each remaining bit is meaningful and cherished.
Here's what I've been listening to in the studio this weekend. Selah, by Emeli Sande. And the Gestalt A Capella version from their new album, Beyond the Archetype, which is now available on Spotify. (shameless plug from a very proud mama)
It was a week of scrubbing away.
Scrubbing away the dog slobber and paw prints on the floor. Scrubbing away the mud on the back porch. Scrubbing away the paint layers in the utility sink. And scrubbing away on this painting, until there was just enough left.
It is an abstract approach that calls to me. Building up layers, scrubbing away. Adding more layers, sanding down. Throwing on more paint, polishing away with a soft cloth. It feels like life on a canvas...how things in our lives are worn away, polished smooth until the rough edges and firm boundaries are gone. Sea glass. Tumbled stone. The soft leather of an old chair. The perfectly faded, softly rounded fit of old jeans. Worn away until what remains is exactly right.
Sometimes I get a heightened sense of this in my own life. The wearing away of rough edges. The softening of bones and skin. The fading of hair and eye color. The fuzzy, worn memories and elusive words and phrases. Yet what remains is all I need. The rest was superfluous. I wish I could say I feel lighter with the wearing away of things. Instead I feel (and literally am) more weighty. Perhaps because each remaining bit is meaningful and cherished.
Here's what I've been listening to in the studio this weekend. Selah, by Emeli Sande. And the Gestalt A Capella version from their new album, Beyond the Archetype, which is now available on Spotify. (shameless plug from a very proud mama)
- Published on
"The Divine Miss Debi" - mixed media on reclaimed (Irma) wood, 13" x 48". Inquiries.
"I Picked These For You" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to frame, or can be leaned against a wall on a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
October. A cool front. A package of autumn leaves in the mail. Windows open (in Florida, we close them against the heat, and re-open when it cools off). Clouds, gray skies, pumpkins. Breast cancer.
Breast cancer? Yes, it is breast cancer awareness month. Which happens to coincide with my annual mammogram. This way I won't ever forget to have one. Just like our wedding anniversary is on Valentine's Day, which I believe was designed just so people won't forget when they got hitched. :)
I was pondering this annual ritual as I sat in the waiting room. Every year, sitting here. Wondering if I have cancer. This isn't something I would normally even contemplate. But on this day, every year, because I sit here, I wonder. It is an excruciating emotional exercise. Especially if your mom died from breast cancer. I sit here wondering what I would do, what treatments I would choose, whether or not I would bother with reconstruction, with a tattoo'd replacement nipple, if I would have any sensation remaining. If I would be alive to know it.
The results arrived in 24 hours. I don't have cancer. This time. But many do and have.
One of them, for which the first painting is named, is a testament to the triumph of the human spirit, the exuberant joy of being ALIVE and the determination to choose a vibrant existence surrounded by positive people. She exudes ferocity. And her hair is a gorgeous mane. It isn't flowers, but it could be. And isn't it perfect that she is painted on reclaimed wood from Hurricane Irma - something strong surviving a tempest.
The second painting is a completion from the recent demo. This one a little contemplative and studious. She has a story, but she hasn't whispered it to me yet. Did she tell you?
I was pondering this annual ritual as I sat in the waiting room. Every year, sitting here. Wondering if I have cancer. This isn't something I would normally even contemplate. But on this day, every year, because I sit here, I wonder. It is an excruciating emotional exercise. Especially if your mom died from breast cancer. I sit here wondering what I would do, what treatments I would choose, whether or not I would bother with reconstruction, with a tattoo'd replacement nipple, if I would have any sensation remaining. If I would be alive to know it.
The results arrived in 24 hours. I don't have cancer. This time. But many do and have.
One of them, for which the first painting is named, is a testament to the triumph of the human spirit, the exuberant joy of being ALIVE and the determination to choose a vibrant existence surrounded by positive people. She exudes ferocity. And her hair is a gorgeous mane. It isn't flowers, but it could be. And isn't it perfect that she is painted on reclaimed wood from Hurricane Irma - something strong surviving a tempest.
The second painting is a completion from the recent demo. This one a little contemplative and studious. She has a story, but she hasn't whispered it to me yet. Did she tell you?
- Published on
"Susan Celebrates" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to frame, or can be leaned upon a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
Can you feel it? Or maybe the lack of it? Less humidity, more breeze, and tantalizing almost coolness in the early morning. Fall in Florida. When we trade in our sandals for...more sandals, but maybe with capris (or "half-pants", as my husband calls them) instead of shorts. Yesterday, I actually went outside in the middle of the day and didn't absolutely die from the heat. Fall is here.
It's another demo week, where my dog and pony show whipped up a series of mixed media pieces to entertain and educate. There is a heap load of preparation for these events, but I am always so delighted by the time it's done - a batch of paintings nearly completed, a bunch of laughter enjoyed and new faces in this ever-expanding art tribe.
This time I learned something interesting from a man who noticed my left-handedness. He approached me afterward to chat about a book called Sinister Tennis, which was about the strategies used with left-handed tennis players. Of course I was intrigued to find out the origin of the word sinister means left-handed. Hmmmmm, sinister malarkey, anyone? Maybe I can add the word sinister to my self-described traits? Can I get a sinister notebook, please? sinister scissors? My sweet guy turns the vitamix handle to the left in the morning if he uses it before me (bullet coffee is a must!)...shall I thank him for making it sinister?
In case you were wondering, the girl in this painting, Susan Celebrates, is left-handed as well. And now I will think of her fondly as Sinister Sue. Which, according to this article in The New Yorker, might actually make her smarter than all the other characters in the studio...just saying.
Can you feel it? Or maybe the lack of it? Less humidity, more breeze, and tantalizing almost coolness in the early morning. Fall in Florida. When we trade in our sandals for...more sandals, but maybe with capris (or "half-pants", as my husband calls them) instead of shorts. Yesterday, I actually went outside in the middle of the day and didn't absolutely die from the heat. Fall is here.
It's another demo week, where my dog and pony show whipped up a series of mixed media pieces to entertain and educate. There is a heap load of preparation for these events, but I am always so delighted by the time it's done - a batch of paintings nearly completed, a bunch of laughter enjoyed and new faces in this ever-expanding art tribe.
This time I learned something interesting from a man who noticed my left-handedness. He approached me afterward to chat about a book called Sinister Tennis, which was about the strategies used with left-handed tennis players. Of course I was intrigued to find out the origin of the word sinister means left-handed. Hmmmmm, sinister malarkey, anyone? Maybe I can add the word sinister to my self-described traits? Can I get a sinister notebook, please? sinister scissors? My sweet guy turns the vitamix handle to the left in the morning if he uses it before me (bullet coffee is a must!)...shall I thank him for making it sinister?
In case you were wondering, the girl in this painting, Susan Celebrates, is left-handed as well. And now I will think of her fondly as Sinister Sue. Which, according to this article in The New Yorker, might actually make her smarter than all the other characters in the studio...just saying.
