2/28/2012 9:34:55 AM
In 2003 a good friend called, crying. A longtime friend of hers who had been sitting high up in a huge tree in protest of the clear-cutting of some of the last of the Northwest's ancent forests, had fallen to his death. No one knew why, but it appeared that he had unclipped his safety belt. Just a few days before, he had celebrated Thanksgiving with our friend and her family.
This event inspired me to write a poem, the first I'd written in years. I am drawn to share this years later as I find myself feeling ever more touched by the need we all have to care for our only planet and its incredible ecosystems, on which we and all life depend. Trees and forests are, indeed, the lungs of the earth, providing the very oxygen we breathe.
The painting is of the ponderosas next to the second floor deck of my parents' beloved "castle" where they spent every summer from 1971 to 2008 just before they passed away. I painted it onsite, as a gift for their home, later inherited.
In Memoriam: A Forest Activist
Down to the earth he fell,
Through limbs that could not catch,
Through boughs that could not grasp,
But only wave good bye friend.
Down he fell,
Hundreds of feet down,
Down to the earth.
His ancient home.
From such lofty heights he had ascended,
Released his clip: no one knows why.
Perhaps to better see that bird,
That tree,
That grove,
That world
He sought to save.
So recently here,
So recently giving thanks,
So normal, so here,
Gone now, gone to the earth,
Gone to the sky,
Gone to the everywhere
Within us all.
He fell home.
Home now.
Let go that clip,
Let go that fear.
Let go that last reserve.
He helped us see,
He let us see
What people do for love.
Here is a hug, friend,
A warm hello,
A sweet goodbye,
Whether we knew you well
Or not til now,
Now we see you,
Now we know you,
Now we thank you,
Now we bless you,
Now we send you Home.
To us
And to this world
You will always be
An angel.
—December, 2003.
2/26/2012 6:49:26 PM
After twenty years of slogging through the rainy Northwest, I was quite happy to return to the sunny Southwest in 2006. Not only did I grow up in Arizona, but Sedona has been a great place to revive the art career that somehow washed away when we moved north in 1985 from California so that we could afford a decent home.
Do you detect a small note of resistance in this? Well, you are perceptive.
It's not that the Northwest is not full of beauty. Summers are great: all three days of it, as we used to say. And it's not that one can't be happy under just about any circumstances with the right attitude. Indeed, I loved much of my life in Oregon. It was a great place to garden, a wonderful place for biking and camping, and it has a progressive culture. Not to mention those delightful Farmer's Markets and summer's outdoor festivals. And housing is definitely more affordable than in beautiful coastal California where you can mortgage your soul for something your dog might decline.
But for all this ... You Pay.
You Pay with month after month of mostly cloudy weather. You learn to cope, mostly by adopting the lifestyle of native Oregonians, who can't wait for the winter months when they can finally put away the mower and the weeding tools and simply curl up by the fireplace with a good book.
OK, enough grousing. This is all background for The Day I Came to Peace With Rain, October 26, 2011.
Here it was, nearing the end of the 2011 Sedona Plein Air Festival. Most of us festival artists had packed up and headed to Jerome early that morning at the invitation of the local Chamber of Commerce. And it's a great place to paint, with stunning vistas. Driving up the hill, I saw the writing in the sky: dark, dark clouds pouring over Mingus Mountain, ready to pounce on the tiny berg of Jerome, still bathed in glorious morning sun.
Quickly, I pulled off to the side of the road, hurled my pastel plein air gear in place and whipped out a 30 minute rendering of the scene before me. I was about 95% done, thankfully, when at first a few small splats of rain hit the piece, creating small dark blotches in the sky of my landscape. No worries. Took about 10 seconds to get it under cover, and another 60 seconds (well, maybe a little more, but this is how Plein Air Festivals are, you understand) to dive into the car and head on up the hill to the town.
Arriving at the festival tent to check in, I found a handful of artists, staff and volunteers huddling around the coffee and doughnuts, stepping away from the edge of the shelter as a "hard rain began to fall". At least Arizona rains don't fool around for two to three months like those in Oregon. They know when to rain and when not to rain. And this was rain time, most definitely.
It was a cheery crowd, though. It's really good to see the rain in a desert land, after all, and the good people who put on the Sedona Plein Air Festival are a lot of fun. After a while it let up enough to set up a small shelter under my van's hood, overlooking the old Jerome High School and the distant vistas below. It's a good thing I use different artmedia, because pastels are no match for a rainy day. Nor are acrylics. OILS, on the other hand, definitely do not mix with water. This is the day of my life that I really, really learned that simple axiom.
And so I painted two different vistas in the shelter of the van, as a few intrepid festival visitors stopped by in the occasional sun showers between torrents. One was such a favorite that my husband claimed it for his office, "Here On This Mountain":
It was darn fun, actually. Here it was, 2 or 3 pm and I'd already gotten three pretty decent paintings for the day. I was on a roll.
AND, the festival was almost over and I still a 24x24 stamped panel waiting THE Frame of the Century I'd had custom-made for the event by Mountain View Frames in Cottonwood, a carved copper beauty. So I packed up, buzzed down the mountain back to Sedona, saw an incredible sun spotlight against the dark sky again, this time against the lovely red rocks on the west side of town by Zaki Gordon Film Institute and, well, the old town dump.
This time I jumped out of the car even faster, forgetting my hat and jacket. Dashing off to the prominence about 40 feet from the car where the view was ideal, I whipped my trusty Soltek easel into position, plopped the panel in place, and, using the largest brush I had, blocked in the scene in about half an hour. Whew.
What a beautiful squall it was, as I brushed it in, coming over the red rocks... Coming... which way? Oh...
Soon the squall was no longer There, but Here, a pouring, drenching sheet of rain that left a half inch of water in my Soltek trays and turned me into the approximation of a drowned rat...
But I was nailing it, I thought. No matter the rain! Soon the sun was out again and the brush flew over the panel, leaving my hands hanging on for dear life. And then the rain would come again, ha, ha, ha! What a tease it was!
And so I continued painting another 20 minutes or more, laughing almost hysterically, the tension of twenty years of resentment about the reality and necessity and life-giving beauty of rain washing away into the damp red earth.
Finally, it was time to stop. The painting was done enough, certainly fresh, and the day was coming to a close. But the laughter and the smiles continued all the way home and then some. It was a great laugh.
And that is why I named this piece, "Hilarious Squall."
Later, after the festival was over and it had not sold, despite the aura of joy beaming from its every pore, I confess I did spend a half an hour or so of considered time in the studio doing what artists do: adjusting the brightness here, the shadow there, the hue and detail at this place and that. Not too much I hope.
After all, I wouldn't want to paint over the lesson contained in this piece: to welcome whatever it is that life brings us!
:)
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"Hilarious Squall", still in the frame of the century, is available for purchase. To inquire, phone 928.203.1095.
