September 16, 2022

White bones
bleached by sun
smoothed by winds and rains
skeletal mounds,
relics,
icons consecrated
by nature’s gods
not man’s,
sacred places
sheltered by heaven’s vault,
open plains
cradling what endures,
remnant affirmations
of what once was,
in memoriam
where the living fell dead,
one thunderous slump
of heft and breadth
in their time
in their place
without fanfare,
alone or
with the herd watching,
weeping,
yearning for resurrection
a return to life
a return to station
to progress with the herd
to this procession
of ancestral connection
where each step
urges past and present forward
toward an uncertain future
of more loss,
more inconsolable grief,
forever mourning what is left behind.

July 13, 2022

An art teacher, who encouraged me to stretch boundaries and try new

techniques, would do so by telling me, “It’s only paint”. To me, those words on

their most basic level mean go ahead, give it a try, see what happens, and be

fearless with your art. If one creative attempt does not work, try something else.

Change is possible. Just use more paint. Paint is not precious. Life is precious;

people are precious; paint is just paint.

“It’s only paint” has become a sort of mantra for me. I recall it repeatedly to move

myself out of the murky depths of artistic inertia, a place devoid of inspiration and

motivation, and where the fear of starting something new lurks. “It’s only paint”

reminds me every creation does not have to be a masterpiece and first, second,

or third attempts are just that – attempts. They do not have to be perfect or

finished because they can be set aside to work on some other day.

The same art teacher who gave me “It’s only paint” also gave me, “You have to

paint a lot of turkeys before you paint a masterpiece”. These words are all too

true and I have lots of turkeys to prove them.

Recently, I found myself sinking into the murky depths of artistic inertia. In an

effort to stop the plunge and find motivation and inspiration, I took to rearranging

and reorganizing my studio workspace. Eventually, I got around to sorting

through my turkeys; paintings I did not like for one reason or another. I picked

through them, placing most of them aside for reconsideration at a later date.

Then inspiration and motivation struck when I found one painting I valued enough

to begin reworking immediately. I still appreciated the subject and most of the

composition but disliked my application and use of color. I decided to paint over

the turkey. So using the same canvas and oil paint, instead of the water colors

used for the first painting, I went to work. “It’s only paint” kicked in and

kick-started a turkey rework.

When I compare a photo of the first painting with the reworked painting I believe

the turkey is banished. The first painting had hard edged shadows and a horse

whose coat seemed blotchy and thin; in the reworked painting the shadow edges

are soft and the horse’s coat is smooth and seems touchable, almost velvety. In

the first painting the sky was small and the distant trees large, seeming to

overshadow the horse. In the second painting the horse dominates the scene

which is exactly what a focal point is meant to do. The second painting’s

perspective is vastly improved from the first’s. Finally, compare the field and the

fences. In the first painting the field does not ground the scene as it does in the

second painting, nor does the first painting’s fences have the texture and

dimensional heft they have in the second painting.

I believe the second painting banishes the turkey that was the first painting.

While maybe not a masterpiece, the second painting is a good one that, as far as

I am concerned, is finished. Using new paint provided me the opportunity to

recycle materials and rework an image worthy of reworking. To make that change

I needed to adopt the “It’s only paint” philosophy of being a little fearless, trying

something else, and seeing what happens. I like what happened. Change was

possible. All it took was a little bit of paint.

June 16, 2022

I have heard two colors, black and green, maligned by my fellow artists (and many art
teachers). These same folks often criticize using any premixed color straight from a
tube. Adjectives I’ve heard used to describe premixed black are dead, flat, toneless,
lifeless. Premixed greens are called garish, bilious, harsh, lurid, gaudy. Using any color
straight from a tube? That is labeled amateurish. These critics use words like always
and never. For example, they say they always mix their own shades of black and green
by combining other colors; they never use any color right out of a tube; and they always
adjust colors by mixing them together. Ok those techniques work; but never and
always? Really?

In my own practice, I have mixed beautiful black colors using some shades of blue with
the earth colors; and as anyone who understands basic color theory knows, different
blues and yellows combine to create lovely shades of green. In fact, I rarely use any
color directly from a tube. For many reasons, I modify them with other colors; but to me
the most important reason is creating just the right color to stroke across my canvas.
Some of my favorite green colors bloom from mixing black with yellow. I combine colors
to achieve positive painterly results not because the words never and always preclude
me from using any color any way I choose.

In my own practice, I also use colors (including black and green) directly from their
tubes. I do this whenever it works for painting portraits, landscapes, seascapes and still
lifes. Touches of pure colors alone can add depth to shadows and distant objects and
vibrancy or clarity to focal points. Erasing the words never and always from my color
palette has increased my satisfaction with my results. I mix and match or use pure color
without feeling constrained or like I am breaking important rules.

Many well respected artists used black and/or green successfully in their paintings.
Black is notably an element in some of the paintings of Rembrandt, Matisse, Picasso,
and Pollock. Green plays prominently in some of the paintings of O’keefe, Rousseau,
and Van Gogh. The vibrancy of many Impressionist paintings is attributed to the
availability of paints in tubes that could easily be carried out into nature to capture the
colors and light outdoors. Surely artists used those paint colors in a manner that worked
for them, either mixed together or applied as squeezed onto the palette.

I decided to challenge myself by painting a green pepper (I had one wonky one in my
vegetable crisper drawer) using: Mars black, diarylide yellow, cadmium yellow medium,
gamboge extra, and yellow ochre to mix my greens. Then I pulled out sap green and
Hooker’s green to add sparingly and a little defiantly directly from their tubes. Titanium
white was necessary for tinting; and since I know that red is a beautiful compliment for
green I pulled out the earthy burnt sienna, a “just in case I need it” color for the
background. I painted this little acrylic green pepper still life quickly using the colors as
described.

While it is certainly not a masterpiece, my green pepper painting is a small testament to
the viewpoint I express in this journal entry which is: in art as in life, never and always
are restricting words. The one “rule” that reliably opens up a world of possibilities for any
creative is listening to your creative heart and letting it be your guide. Classes and
learning are important for honing any skill; but so is practice. Practice refines what
works for you and what does not. I say, base your choices to mix or not mix colors on
what feels good and true to you and helps you create a painting you love. Mistakes
happen but so do masterpieces. We just never know when one or the other (or
something in between) will occur. That is just part of the journey and adventure we
experience in the creation of what we call art. My personal philosophy is: adapt, adopt,
apply, and if necessary discard. If it feels right do it and if it feels wrong forget it. Only
embrace what works for you.

June 2, 2022

Snow falls,
sugars the brown barn,
brown ground,
the leaf-bare silver-gray aspens.
Pinky sleeps in his stall,
swayback wrapped
in tattered, red-plaid flannel,
breath fogged with cold.
He stirs.
Ears flicked back,
listening.
Storm door shuts,
porch boards creak,
snow crunches.
“Hey, boy.”
She rubs his mottled muzzle.
He noses her wool-gloved palm,
smells apple,
moves closer, nudges.
“Easy boy, easy,”
latch scrapes back,
she steps inside,
“we’ll get there.”

June 2, 2022

When I knew them, they were old and
looked nothing like they look in the photos.
Nana and Wha,
my great grandmother and great great Aunt,
sisters, helpers, healers, sewsters, cleaners, cooks
hands always moving, hearts always open, steady,
ready to listen, reprimand, praise, hug.
When I knew them, their pasts cast long shadows
their futures almost none, high noon.

In the photos they are young, Mary and Margaret,
sisters, jaunty, flirtatious, lighthearted,
wearing sailor hats, twirling a parasole,
smiling, unlined faces,
unburdened yet by what was coming,
years of loss and sorrow
broken engagements, dead babies and husbands,
the great depression,
two world wars.
Do their smiles signal optimism and hope
as they anticipate tomorrow
and the many tomorrows to follow?
I want that to be their truth but
I’ll never know for sure.

Memory, my fickle companion, knows this –
those substantial women survived.
They thrived in this foreign country where
blending in made it easier to be Irish
and just being here made it easier to be Catholic.
My great grandmother, Mary.
My great, great Aunt Margaret.
Sisters. Women.
Forever in my earliest memories
of family and home.

June 2, 2022

The orange tree’s
green-leafed boughs
are heavy with
buds, white and purple, and
blossoms, white and yellow,
sweetening the garden air,
wafting honey-scented ambrosia
everywhere and
rousing ambitious bees,
whose indulgence in the bounteous floral nectar,
orchestrates a resonant buzz
ascending to an intoxicated crescendo of
tiny wings vibrating,
a celebratory tribute to
Antonio Vivaldi’s frenzied violin.

June 2, 2022

Tug sinks into the back cushion,
window gazing,
warning-off the outside world
until sleep lids her eyes and she dreams.

She is my muse,
this little dog,
so old now that I carry her up the stairs
to our shared space.

We each have our roles here,
creator, companion,
crafted perfectly after
so many years of practice.

All the years, all the practice
have blended the roles like watercolors,
melding us in affectionate symbiosis.
Dare I say love?

With clouded eyes, she watches my brushstrokes,
observes my every move from her familiar perch.
She approves what I do and I appreciate
her kind critique, her loyal presence.

Does she perceive this as our space
or as her space which she lets me use?
Does it matter?
No, it does not.

All that matters is this:
Today is another day and we are together in our studio,
this small, aging dog and
I, her grateful, faithful, aging friend.