Flowers Shall Grow

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This is a field of yellow flowers. I didn’t note which species on my photo, but I know enough about yellow composites to know each flower is not that remarkable on its own. It probably had a woody stem, perhaps even slightly prickly, and they usually have a fragrance that is…well, stinky. As I painted, I thought of the thousands and thousands of acts we go through as mothers – the small things that alone don’t amount to much, honestly, they too might be just a wee bit stinky. However, if you can get a bit of perspective, by climbing a tree, standing on your car, or perhaps a stack of calendars and yearbooks the big picture can take your breath away.

From My Rotting Body, Flowers Shall Grow, and I Am in Them, and That Is Eternity
—Edvard Munch

Freezing Feeding

20131212-140020.jpgThis is Lisa, a woman after my own heart. She has raised chickens in the hostile climate and conditions of Northern New Mexico for years and cares for them greatly. She fights off coyotes, bobcats and badgers, as well as sub-freezing winter temperatures, to protect her flock. Here she is feeding her flock a recent 20 degree morning.

20131207-140910.jpgMy friend Rick sent me a small photo and the above story describing Lisa. I started with a underpainting in a warm, grey violet because it sets a great overcast mood. The photo was small, so it was fun to fill in the fuzzy areas with color from my imagination. I intentionally left the hens as a blocked in mass of colors. If you have ever fed chickens, you know they never would sit still long enough to capture their beauty (at least mine won’t). I like how blobs of color allow them to move in my mind.

Cloudcroft Afternoon

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I love the grey days we have been having in North Texas lately, the atmosphere has a quiet quality. As I have been running around the last few days, I have been color mixing in my head…dappled yellow and gold foliage against a warm grey sky. I haven’t gotten out to paint it yet, wet weather is tricky with pastels in plein air, perhaps next week. In the meantime I went through my photos, this one is from Cloudcroft New Mexico, it was late summer and the trees were green, but the wildflowers and overcast sky satisfied my immediate desire to paint yellow and grey.

Afternoon Light on Cut Hay

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The influence of the impressionist on my perception is strong. Sometimes when I look at a pond filled with waterlilies, or a field of cut hay it brings tears to my eyes imagining the impressionists studying their subject matter. If the impressionists would have been in Texas, they would have painted the wildflowers, for honestly, the quality of the light is not that remarkable. This field had lovely strong shadows, but the color was muted. I am in Texas, not France, but because the impressionist painted, I know what is possible. I followed the light and shadow, but imagined the color, and was pleased with the result.

Rockledge Rumble

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It was a beautiful early morning by the lake, and I had a perfect spot waiting for my trail runners so I did a little plein air study.

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Here is my last runner, so ready or not my study is done and I am off to the rest of my day. Good to get outside and paint and support the fine sport of trail running.

Beach Boys

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This painting started as a memory: the last morning of a great week at the beach with my family. It was cold, we carried a thermos of coffee and hot chocolate down to the ocean to watch the sun rise. We walked, and sipped, and enjoyed the cool sand beneath our feet. I love the way my boys often lean into each other when they walk.

Of course, like any good Labradors, or my children in this case, they did not stay out of the water. I packed up this memory with the kids wet and sandy sweatshirts and pajamas. Now months later, my memory finally found its way to my easel (fortunately my husband is better at unpacking than I am, he dealt with the wet clothes the midnight we came home).

Black-eyed Susan

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Black-eyed Susan

Who is this, so tall and slender
Like a graceful maiden fair,
By the roadside in the sunshine
With her locks of yellow hair?
See you how she leans and listens
To the west wind wand’ring by
As the sun god calls and woos her
Stands the bashful maiden shy?
Must I tell you in her splendor
Her quaint old-fashioned name?
Would you know her when you meet her
With her tawny yellow mane?

Arthur Bernstein (May 9,1953 / New York, New York)