"Meet Me on the Equinox"

Tantalizing golden light of false autumn (thanks, Texas!) filters through my windows. I get an itch between my shoulder blades this time of year, jealously dreaming of what I imagine real fall must feel like: misty mornings, and trees arrayed in red and gold. These are things I have never experienced. I’m working on my West Texas series, and the light pulls at my attention. I want to be outside, where the vastness and buoyant air beckon.

Meet me on the Equinox

Meet me half-way…

After a few weeks of intense art deadlines, I gave myself a bit of a break, but I’m back at it prepping for fall and winter shows. There’s just not enough time. Covid supply chain issues have made getting art supplies- particularly Venetian Plaster- difficult. I’m not sure what it’s like in other parts of the world (or even in other parts of the US), but here in Texas there’s a weird dichotomy to daily life: near pre-pandemic busy obligations, little news on Covid, groaning expectations in all realms of life; but at the same time, store shelves are bare, places are short staffed, and it’s really hard to plan anything concrete due to rolling quarantines and cancellations. It’s exhausting. We had Covid in my household at the end of August and we still haven’t caught up - and we were so lucky. I am able to do far less than I could, even this time last year, because I am so drained.

When we went camping this past summer, most of the other campers near us were either teachers or first responders. In fact, one night our camp host in New Mexico told us the entire campground was full of first responders, EMTs and teachers. We had the best conversations and the best time, sitting around the fire and talking about how grateful we were to be there. We didn’t discuss what we’d been through the past year- nobody did!- it seemed we had shared experiences, and also a shared need of renewal, fellowship, and spiritual rest. We thanked all the first responders we met, and were surprised and humbled when they thanked us for our service. The most any of us said about the past year was “It’s been really hard. We are so happy to be here, now.” We had no cell service, no access to social media or news.

It was so nice.

I am longing for campfires, stars, and reading at night by lantern-light.

Here’s to making it through this latest gauntlet. I’m going to celebrate with my first solo show! Milagros: Visions of the Desert opens at the Susan L Sistrunk Fine Art Gallery in Waco on Saturday, November 27 with a reception 5-8 pm. I’ll be there and I will give a brief artist talk about my inspiration and my process. I can’t wait to share what I’ve been working on over the past few months. Check out the event page here!

Breeding Lilacs, Mixing Memories...

April. How are we here, and not here- so long?

This year has its own inertia, its own chaotic ebb and flow that at times feels like it will spiral out of my control. “Why do you never speak?”

I have so much to say to you that I am afraid I shall tell you nothing.

We emerge, changed, wide eyed in the sudden sunlight. While I kept my studio space over the past year, I worked almost exclusively at home. The tides of productivity in my hands, heart and brain- unpredictable. Large scale paintings would flood out at the strangest times, in surges that wore me out afterwards. Small works, staccato, intermittent therapy.

Mostly, I felt like I was in the midst of Dry Salvages, in a contraction of creative energy. I still battle with feeling unworthy of the time to paint: undeserving the gift of time in the midst of obligation.

“For all is like an ocean, all flows and connects; touch it in one place and it echoes at the other end of the world.”

I began moving back into my studio two weeks ago. I’d been uncertain. I use my habits to maintain healthy inertia and work flow, and I am out of the habit of studio practice. Already an introvert, when I retreated to my home, those tendencies toward solitude swelled.

It felt really good to go in with some boxes and trash bags and get things cleared out and reorganized. I re-cleaned palettes that have sat, unused, for 13 months. I dusted paintings on lonely easels. I still need to mop, but for the first time in a long time, I feel free: lighter, unencumbered, joyful at having a dedicated space to create.

I began prepping for a solo show that had to be put off due to the pandemic, and I am finally finishing a batch of commissions that stalled out when the school year started.

It feels good to work.

I've been reading Demons, but I keep returning to the Brothers Karamazov for the truth and wisdom that burnishes a weary soul back to shining. Demons, like the Idiot, is a conceptual novel- driven by characters who represent ideas in parlor room dramas… but the Brothers K is like coming home. I find such hope in those pages: wisdom and mercy, and a keen understanding not only of what it is to be wholly human, but the sanctity of our human weaknesses that cause us to rely, beautifully, on humility, reconciliation, compassion, and love… and the one true source of those spiritual gifts.

As I roll up my sleeves in earnest, these lines “echo thus” in my mind:

“Be not forgetful of prayer. Every time you pray, if your prayer is sincere, there will be new feeling and new meaning in it, which will give you fresh courage, and you will understand that prayer is an education.”

To all things new, and to newly opened eyes: may we perceive our faults as blessings, and be patient with the faults we see in others. Cheers, to homecomings and happier times.

Season's Meanderings

Do you feel a sense of kinship with a particular season? Is it easier to abide in Autumn, with its falling leaves and crisp air and pumpkin spice promises? Or spring, when the fresh earth smell makes all things new? I am trying to learn to love January, though this dark time of the year is often cloudy and characterized by a cold that isn’t really cold (in Dallas), just damp, cloudy, and slow… like a dripping faucet. Wouldn’t it be nice to find peace and belonging in all seasons? I confess, I miss December’s cheerful Christmas lights that hold the winter’s dark at bay. I wish we could keep them up a little while longer, until the seasonal darkness lifts and the trees begin to bud. I’m already examining the bare branches for the first signs of new life. Yes, I know it is far too early yet.

This time of year, I gravitate to bold colors in my work. Cobalt and rubine and vermillion ease my mind when all the world is grey. I have taken a break after a busy 2019, and I am ready to roll up my sleeves and see what new sorts of messes I can make. Desert colors dance behind my eyelids. I’d love to experience all the seasons in West Texas, in Northern New Mexico. The quality of the light changes, and that, of course, changes everything.

For me, as I plot my yearly travels for painting references, the question is not only where, but when. Where and when would you travel, if you had the opportunity?

Abiquiu, New Mexico before a summer monsoon. June, 2019.