"Following the Moses Voice" - mixed media on board, 16" x 20".  Available on Artfinder.

LAUNCELOT: Ask me the questions, bridge-keeper. I'm not afraid.
KEEPER: What is your name?
LAUNCELOT: My name is Sir Launcelot of Camelot.
KEEPER: What is your quest?
LANCELET: To seek the Holy Grail.
KEEPER: What is your favorite color?
LAUNCELOT: Blue.
KEEPER: Right. Off you go.
LAUNCELOT: Oh, thank you. Thank you very much
 ROBIN: That's easy!
    - from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 35

The bridge keeper asks the brave knights three questions each.  One of them fails to be certain about his own favorite color and is tossed off the bridge to his death.  Thank goodness this isn't a real test, because I would fail!

I am fickle about color, often changing my favorite.  Likely because I launch myself into one like a pig at the trough until I've had too much and then can't stand it for awhile.  The same with music, book genres, food.  Now I will come back to things again eventually, but not until I've had a long break.  And this is why I have no tattoos.  Thank goodness for the ability to change our minds.  And our hairstyles.  And our paint media.

This piece is a huge departure for me.  Let's start with the substrate - a type of wet media board which handles quite a bit of liquid without warping.  It isn't as tough as aquabord, but it's a lot less expensive.  Next is the surface treatment.  I just picked up some Daniel Smith gold watercolor grounds and wanted to try them on top of black gesso.  I was pleased at the shimmery bling it gave while accepting watercolor on top of it.  It might be my new favorite toy.  I think it makes everything fancier.  And lastly there are some mica-based iridescent watercolors in there.  I don't think they stood up to the dark color palette and really got lost, but I was intrigued with them and will bring them back out on a more subtle piece, maybe over white grounds instead.

And finally the inspiration and title...from another chapter of Seven Thousand Ways to Listen, this one comparing our "Moses Voice" in our heads (the one that bravely tries new things and embraces change) with our "Hamlet Voice" (the one that talks us out of changing our ways or trying anything different).  It is so tempting during 30 in 30 to stick to predictable  mediums and styles to save time and have a reliable outcome.  But I listened to the Moses Voice and went for it.  Truly delighted that I did.  I'm going to kick that Hamlet to the curb. :)

"Imperialistic Dogma" - mixed media on paper, 18" x 12".  Ready to frame.  Inquiries.

DENNIS: What I object to is you automatically treat me like an inferior!
ARTHUR: Well, I AM king...
DENNIS: Oh king, eh, very nice. An' how'd you get that, eh? By exploitin' the workers -- by 'angin' on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic an' social differences in our society!
                     - from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 2

​This is what happens when I clean out the ephemera section of the studio.  Bit of paper in heaps and piles, tiny piles of interesting colors, little scraps that ought to be trash.  A page of Mayan masks.  A quick sketch and some watercolor just for fun.  Then obsessive tearing of paper and gluing it down until hours and hours have passed and *poof* there is this crazed, toothy Mayan king and the piles of paper have not really gotten any smaller.  Sigh.  Eventually, I did whittle it down to a manageable bin-full.

I like to organize.  And I confess to doing it to avoid real work.  Bills need paying?  Organize a drawer.  Ironing piling up?  Take everything out the closet and spend the rest of the day putting it back.  Gutters need cleaning?  Categorize your books by subject matter. I see a theme here.

Organizing is also something I can do when I can't paint.  If I'm too tired, unmotivated, cranky or whatever to actually make art, I can still get things in tip-top shape for when I am ready once more.  Sometimes I will just gesso boards and leave them out to dry, where they will whisper to me on another day.  Other times I will purge old drawings and cut them into bits and pieces for collage materials.  On a really bad dad, I'll scrape paint off the floor.  But to me it all counts as part of the process.  It keeps me in the studio, putting in my time, waiting for the muse to stomp in and demand attention.  

And now I am off to paint.  Or maybe alphabetize my art books.

"The Soft Whisper of Winter" - mixed media on canvas paper, 16" x 20".  Ready to frame.  Available on Artfinder.

​ARTHUR: Knights! Forward!
[boom boom boom boom BOOM boom boom boom boom]
What manner of man are you that can summon up fire without flint or tinder?
TIM: I... am an enchanter.
ARTHUR: By what name are you known?
TIM: There are some who call me... Tim?
               -from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 3

What might happen if we look in the mirror each morning and say "I...am an enchanter"  - would flames shoot from our fingertips?  Would potato chips savored in the mouth become like kale in the belly?  I've been pondering the power of the mind (a theme I often return to in, well, my mind) and the limitations we place on ourselves with our self-labeled descriptions.  Our minds don't hesitate to call us names (softly, sneakily whispering words like ugly, boring, fat, shapeless, failure, victim, powerless, unlovable or whatever your own subconscious' cup of tea might be.  And we KNOW these things aren't true, yet we listen...

What if, just for a moment, we replaced these outrageously negative labels with equally outrageously positive ones?  This is my mental math at work - let's balance the scales and make things even-steven.  What if we shouted back things like ​outrageously resilient, courageous, stupendously gifted, terrifyingly powerful, compassionate, love bomber, hug maker, word whisperer, paint wizard...well, you get the idea.  Just typing the words made me smile.  What if I SAID THEM?  oooooh no, first thought is people will think I am full of myself.

Second thought is so what?  Shouldn't we be full of ourselves?  Our biggest advocates?  Our greatest super fans? Our tenderest lovers?  There is a divine child inside of each of us, perfectly formed and deserving of every tender word and thought.  And maybe she wants pancakes for breakfast, but more likely she just wants to feel cherished by us.

I'd love to know, sweet reader, what is the most exquisite compliment  you can give yourself.  Let's help each other build a vocabulary of self-adoration. 

Is it fall already?  A little glimpse of golden and amber trees in Cleveland this week, a little morning chill there.  Fall is my favorite season.  I miss it in the land of eternal summer.  Is there a company that will send you seasonal treats?  Like a box of red and yellow leaves, freshly fallen from towering trees, a snowball or two in the winter, tender lettuce shoots in the spring and beach sand in the summer.  

My dad passed away in the spring.  An entire season has come and gone now.  It hardly seems possible.  Somehow it feels disrespectful when time continues to move forward while we're grieving.  Shouldn't there be a pause button?  And yet the river of time flowing onward encourages me to also move on.

I was struck by another quote from Seven Thousand Ways to Listen this morning.  ​"I know there is no place to go with your grief other than to feel it and ride it like a raft until that rough sea brings you to a strange, familiar shore that is both where you have been and entirely new."  The changing of seasons is that - both something I have experienced and also something new.  As the calendar pages turn, I feel the raft gently bumping the shore.  My ears perk up, listening for something new, curious to find out what is beyond the rough seas.

“The Bridge Inspector” - mixed media on reclaimed wood.  NFS

CROWD: Get on with it!
NARRATOR: Oh, anyway, on to scene twenty-four, which is a smashing scene with some lovely acting, in which Arthur discovers a vital clue, in which there aren't any swallows, although I think you can hear a starling -oolp!  
            - from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Narrative Interlude Two

(The lights have flickered and the movie reel is running, so let’s grab our seats and see what’s next with King Arthur and the odd knights of Camelot...)

Artist’s dates.  Those lovely excuses to go out and play. Thank you, Julian Cameron, for coining the phrase and for assigning these playdates as necessary.  Because most of us do not, will not take time to do something for the pure joy of it unless we’re told it is a task we must complete.  Why is that?  

What does play do for us?  As an artist, it gives me new inspiration, a relaxed mind to better approach creativity, a fresh perspective.  As a human, it gets me out of ruts, routines, rigidity and makes me go with the flow.  Even if that flow is cancelled flights, unannounced gate changes and contractors quitting on the job.  A little time away helps me see each of these as an opportunity for something new to happen. 

Don’t get me wrong.  Routines are good.  Showing up day after day, putting in the hours and effort - this all pays off.  It is not to be abandoned!  But to be stepped away from now and again.  If you are at all like me, the more you settle in to a routine, the more you expect things to go as planned.  And it is that expectation that sets the stage for frustration and for missing the opportunity in the flow.  So get thee away on an artist's date.

And now to this piece of art, The Bridge Inspector.  It is painted on a piece of wood salvaged from my dad's garage after his passing.  The paper bits are from old letters found in his files, including one to my grandfather, Pano (which was misspelled in the letter) and some old bank statements.  This character’s shirt is created from my dad's college architectural drawings.  The pants are from his college dictionary.  And the background, a deep red, from the paint in his studio.  The first painting created from the pile of aging artifacts which didn’t make the box of sentimental things (I say box, but it’s truly more like a footlocker) but are too delightful to send to the recycling bin.

Now for your viewing pleasure, a little clip of the wild and crazy guy I got to see this past weekend - he's my favorite honky.

"Judy, Judy, Judy" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20".  Ready to frame, or can be leaned upon a shelf.  Available on Artfinder.

MINSTREL (singing):
Packing it in and packing it up
And sneaking away and buggering up
And chickening out and pissing about
Yes, bravely he is throwing in the sponge
                      -from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 31

Ah, the halfway point.  Day fifteen.  Have you enjoyed this wild ride of a month so far?  In the beginning of this thirty day marathon, I was facing a full calendar (including some travel), and had given myself permission to be less than perfect in completing the challenge.  And that was before a hurricane.  So now I am going to go HOG WILD and get out of Dodge for a few days, drop my paintbrushes and take an intermission.  And how perfectly perfect that Monty Python and the Holy Grail actually has an intermission in the middle of the movie.

Yesterday, our garage began filling up with one of the bright silver linings in hurricane Irma: plywood.  Everywhere are piles of wood, all being sentenced to the dump.  My intrepid husband, who cycles every morning in the dark, has been grabbing the best bits for me.  Better than flowers and chocolate.  They will be dry and ready for paint when I return.

So this piece of art, a more grownup girl in her seriously fancy gown, brings up a piece of movie trivia.  Did you know Cary Grant never actually said "Judy, Judy, Judy" at first - it was an impersonator who said it originally, which was then attributed to Grant, who later said it just so people would get off his back about it.  Art (an impersonator) imitating life (Grant) imitating art.  

Feel free to get some popcorn over the next five days, along with some jelly beans and a chocolate bar, a large slushy and a soft pretzel.  I'll flicker the lights when it's time to come back.

"I Never Did Mind the Little Things." - mixed media on canvas paper, 16" x 20".  Ready to frame.  Available on Artfinder.

LAUNCELOT: We were in the nick of time, you were in great peril.
GALAHAD: I don't think I was.
LAUNCELOT: Yes you were, you were in terrible peril.
GALAHAD: Look, let me go back in there and face the peril.
LAUNCELOT: No, it's too perilous.
GALAHAD: Look, I'm a knight, I'm supposed to get as much peril as I can.
        - from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 11

It is post-storm de-programming time.  You know, when it's time to stop watching the weather channel and CNN 24/7, to reduce the number of times you peer outside and check the sky, to stop hoarding food and water like its the apocalypse  and to begin planning actual fun in your schedule.  It is also a time when I re-examine events in my head, sorting out what I could do better next time.

Of course, there are at least a dozen preparatory steps I could improve on, including keeping a list of things to do in the event of a hurricane! Ha!  But what I learned most from this experience is to be my own barometer of peril.  It is very easy to get overly anxious because others think I should, or to become too lax following the advice of another faction.  I spent a lot of time questioning my own feelings and actions this past week after listening to others.  Next time, I will spend more time listing to my own instincts, which generally don't have me get upset, just prepared.  Taking action makes for calm nerves. 

The title of this piece comes from a movie I watched long ago.   I can't remember the name of the movie, just that there was a lot of Nina Simone music throughout (she is one of my favorites) and this one line..."I Never Did Mind the Little Things"  which struck me as something to aspire to for the rest of my life.  I am still working on it, twenty years later.  After yesterday's studio debacle, it was delightful to be in the throes of abstraction, pushing and pulling until resolution appeared and the piece announced its completion.  And this time I am not wearing a puddle of gesso. :)

Breathe" - acrylic on gallery wrapped canvas, 16" x 20" x 2".  Ready to hang.  Available on Artfinder.

HEAD KNIGHT: Firstly, you must find... another shrubbery! [dramatic chord]
ARTHUR: Not another shrubbery!
HEAD KNIGHT: Then, when you have found the shrubbery, you must place it here beside this shrubbery, only slightly higher so you get a two-level effect with a little path running down the middle.
RANDOM: A path! A path! Nee!
HEAD KNIGHT: Then, when you have found the shrubbery, you must cut down the mightiest tree in the forest... with... a herring! [dramatic chord]
ARTHUR: We shall do no such thing!
                     - from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 31

It was one of those days.  Eight hours (yep, EIGHT) in the studio and the painting was not fit for man nor beast.  So I took a break and made a cup of coffee.  Except I forgot to put coffee in it and didn't notice until I took a sip of, well, hot water.  ACK! Clearly my mojo was off.  Time for a break.  A little Facebook check-in, and a message from a wise friend telling me to breathe.  So took a few deep breaths, went back into the studio and did what any sane person would do - I started all over again.

Trying to paint when you're not in the zone is like cutting down a mighty tree with a herring.  You can work at it all day long and have nothing but something super smelly in your hands.  And perhaps a big bucket of frustration next to your chair.  But there is always something to be learned, even in failure.  The painting I worked on all day was an epic failure.  A real stinker-oo.  A nose-pincher. 

What did I learn?  Other than some color, composition, texture and line lessons (so many lessons!) I learned sometimes a deep breath or two can re-start your mojo. And that it is ok to scrap one painting and start another.  By the end of the day, the above piece appeared, fluid, intuitive, flowing and then done.  

So I decided to start a third painting while I was back in flow, got a juicy background down, singing a happy little tune, reached to grab a brush and then SPLAT.  Dumped a tub of gesso over the new background (and my table and the floor).  Sigh.  Apparently, there is a finite amount of mojo in one day.  

"Nate Stayed Up Very, Very Late" - mixed media on aquabord, 11" x 14".  Ready to frame.  Available on Artfinder.

ROGER: Oh, what sad times are these when passing ruffians can say `nee' at will to old ladies. There is a pestilence upon this land, nothing is sacred. Even those who arrange and design shrubberies are under considerable economic stress at this period in history.
ARTHUR: Did you say `shrubberies'?
ROGER: Yes, shrubberies are my trade -- I am a shrubber. My name is Roger the Shrubber. I arrange, design, and sell shrubberies.
           - from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 29

If Roger the Shrubber lived in Florida, he would have a whole lot of business in the coming weeks and months.  Everywhere are plants that need replacing.  But the very good thing about Florida is: you can stick just about anything in the ground and it will grow.  So, though we are all mourning the beautiful trees that Irma decided to dispatch to the wood pile, in a few years there will be gorgeous new growth all around.  For example, two years ago we planted both an avocado and a mango tree.  They were tiny sticks which needed to be staked in even a slight puff of wind.  Now, the avocado is fifteen feet tall, and the mango tree is nearing that as well.  They both survived Irma. 

As we were unpacking all of our plastic-wrapped treasures and putting them in their proper places, I marveled at how a hurricane can clear out more than trees and shrubbery.  It seems some of my mental cobwebs have been swept away.    There is a change of perspective evolving in my thoughts that apparently took a hurricane to get started.  Hmmmm.  I'll tend this little twig and see how big it grows.

Now this piece is what happens when your thoughts get rolling and your dreams grow big late in the day.  You stay up very, very late, wide-eyed and rabbit-like, jumping from one thing to another.  Nate is full of late night malarkey.  I may have to separate him from the rest of the menagerie in the studio, or else no one will get any sleep around here. 

"Untangling the nets" - water-based ink and acrylic on aquabord, 6" x 6".   Inquiries.

CONCORDE: Uh, I'm-I'm not quite dead, sir.
LAUNCELOT: Well, you shall not have been mortally wounded in vain!
CONCORDE: Uh, I-I think uh, I could pull through, sir.
LAUNCELOT: Oh, I see.
CONCORDE: Actually, I think I'm all right to come with you--
LAUNCELOT: No, no, sweet Concorde! Stay here! I will send help as soon as I have accomplished a daring and heroic rescue in my own particular... (sigh)
CONCORDE: Idiom, sir?
LAUNCELOT: Idiom!
CONCORDE: No, I feel fine, actually, sir.
LAUNCELOT: Farewell, sweet Concorde!
CONCORDE: I'll-uh, I'll just stay here, then, shall I, sir? Yeah.  
    - from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 27

We woke up this morning to light rain and gentle breezes.  The sun is peeking through the clouds.  A feeling of deep gratitude anchors me now.  We didn't blow away in hurricane Irma.

The morning was spent in rain gear walking the neighborhood.  The roads are blocked with trees for the most part.  It looks as though, well, a hurricane came through.  Today, as we untangle our nets and put things right in our world, I will let images speak for me.  This is what Irma left behind...

And then a little image of hope and resilience....our backyard ducks are unscathed. :)