On the way home from Mississippi, we stopped for a few days at The Antlers. The Antlers is a log cabin on Lake Cherokee that was built by Reese’s great grandfather, Ewart Hoyt Lightfoot in 1948. Descendants of his son, Reese’s grandfather Thomas Ewart Lightfoot have had use of the cabin in the six decades since. For a few more years, before the Antlers changes ownership, Reese and I have limited use of the cabin, and consequently the lake.

As mentioned in the last blog entry, Skipper, the petite pedigreed poodle pet of ours follows me with great devotion. He, at least with regards to me, truly is an always faithful dog as his middle names imply; Semper (always) Fido (faithful dog.) No question about it, Skipper adores me. In fact, it’s fairly common knowledge that if Skipper had the strength to force Reese to walk the plank, he would, just so that he (Skipper) could have his mistress (moi) to himself.

Skipper, poor dear, is getting old. His teeth are falling out, his hair is so thin that one can see all his liver spots on his pink skin, undeniably, he has cataracts, and it appears that he may actually be blind in one eye. We had newly arrived at the Antlers, and were already on our second journey to pier’s end to enjoy the view. Skipper is not new to the lake house. Skipper has walked on the pier many times. As I mentioned, he follows me everywhere, so back and forth on the pier is no exception. We heard his little clickety paws trailing behind us as we walked; and then…..the tiniest of splashes. Skipper, bless his teeny fast beating heart, pranced stage right off the pier and into the lake. Accidentally, of course. Thank God that Reese has long arms. He prostrated himself and rescued the poor pooch just before he swam out of reach. Reese gallantly took off his shirt, wrapped the pitiful sorrowful waterlogged pet in it, held him until his body heat transferred to Skipper and the shivering stopped. We were naturally distraught for Skipper and yet extremely tickled at the same time. Honestly, at random intervals throughout the evening, one or the other of us would laugh, and in the next breath say, “Oh, the poor dear.”

The lake house is in possession, thanks years ago to Reese’s dad, of a 1970’s small fiberglass Sunfish sailboat. Some of Reese’s fondest memories have been out on the lake in that little sailboat. This trip was no exception. After repairing the rudder, and re-attaching the sail, we harnessed what little wind there was and headed for a small island several miles away. Reese tacked back and forth and about 45 minutes later, we had sailed around, what is commonly referred to as Bikini Island. We paused, took a dip in the lake to cool off, refilled our water bottles, pointed north, and set sail for the cabin. Only now, there was no wind. In the space of a few minutes at the island, the lake surface had literally become as smooth as glass. It would have been perfect for water skiing had we the use of a ski boat, but it was not so great for sailing. Without wind to fill the sail, we were so still that we actually had time to become friends with a family on shore. It took us so long to “sail” past their pier that we watched a young teenage girl walk to the end of a pier, start fishing, catch a fish, the grandparents come out to congratulate the young fisherman, and us all discuss how proud we were of this young lady’s accomplishment. [The fish was this big, as I hold my hands apart to demonstrate.]

Still no wind. Reese paddled. Reese jumped in the lake to push and pull us. Reese paddled some more. Every now and then I would shout, “I feel a breeze!” We would catch a wisp of air that would take us about twenty feet, and then perfect stillness again. It was a good thing that before our journey began, Reese encouraged me to bring a book and snacks. I have borderline hypoglycemic tendencies, which means that it’s best for the environment at large that I eat on a regular basis. The book was Jane Eyre, which is so wordy and antiquated, that, being well fed, I was therefore quite distracted with reading. Hours passed, but many thanks to Reese’s valiant efforts, by the grace of God above, we safely made it back to the Antlers. In my humble opinion, not sailing that afternoon made for an absolutely wonderfully charming memory with the most amazing Reese. And of course, our little pet couldn’t have been more content. He was with me on the sailboat and he spent the entire time imagining that he was finally my Skipper, (and naturally Reese would have been his Gilligan) on our slightly more than three hour tour. Oh, the poor dear; Skipper still doesn’t win…..I have always had a preference for Gilligan. 🙂

Last week Wednesday was another one of those days. In between cleaning and preparing to leave for a little vacation, it occurred to me that there might be a few hours that could be devoted exclusively to painting. So, I painted. But for various reasons, even after starting with brushes, I finished by using my fingers. Honestly, it’s probably a cancer invoking health hazard to use one’s flesh with lead based paints. If I grow a third ear, or cut off one of the ones already attached on either side of my head because of lead paint based insanity, I’ll be sure to let my gentle readers know.

There was barely enough time to clean fingers and brushes before Reese and I were due at a neighbor’s house to play bridge. The neighbor had knocked on the door to fetch us, but wanting to photograph the painting in good light, and knowing that we wouldn’t be home before dark, and thinking there would be time to write about finger painting after bridge, I carefully yet hurriedly put the painting on the ground outside the back door to photograph it.

We have a pet. We have a five pound neurotic pedigreed out the wazoo toy poodle named Skipper Semper Fido. Skipper, with great devotion, follows me everywhere all day long. If I take three steps to the left, Skipper also travels the same distance in the same direction with the nails of his little paws clicking on the wood floors like a tap dancing lady in high heels. Add his identification tags which are a miniature version of a cow bell all day long, and please understand my immense dismay when I heard the clicking tinkling tiny cow bell at my heals. Skipper saw me in the doorway and was desperate not to be left behind. He launched himself into a stag’s leap out the back door. Mid Skipper flight, it slowly began to dawn on me what was happening. That very wet painting was positioned exactly in the way of his landing. That dog must have somehow re-calculated and adjusted his flight pattern, or more accurately the landing based on the physics of everything, because those tap dancing high heeled paws of his just missed, by God’s amazing grace, the wet painting on the sidewalk outside the back door by a hair’s breadth. The neighbor was at the door waiting to play bridge, the dog almost gave me a freaking heart attack, and the excessively wet paint of the painting produced a big glare, as is evident in the accompanying photo.

And then, because of last minute preparations to drive to Mississippi for a Heidelberg family reunion, there still wasn’t time to write a blog entry until now, now being one year exactly from our last visit here.

One year ago to the day, we were all in Jackson to celebrate my dad’s 70th birthday. One year ago today, we went to church with my parents. One year ago today, I lost my glasses after leaving them in a pew at church…in Mississippi. Today, exactly one year later to the millisecond, after church, Reese and I were pointed in the direction of the lost and found. The lost and found is in a desk drawer of the church receptionist’s office. The receptionist’s desk and the drawer were behind a locked door. Providentially, someone with a set of keys to the office was near by, and knew which desk drawer hosted the lost and found. Slowly, Mr. Set of Keys opened the drawer. There appeared a surprising number of lost glasses. We looked through the ones in the front. None of those were mine. What about those glasses in the back? Mr. Set of Keys said that those were the glasses that had been there the longest. Then I said that that’s where we should look, as my glasses had been lost one year ago today. As I looked in the back dark corner of that office drawer, the heavens opened and the angels started to sing. What amazing grace! Exactly one year later, in the deep dusty dark bottom of a desk drawer in a church receptionist’s office in Jackson, Mississippi, were my glasses. Like the old hymn Amazing Grace says, they once were lost and now are found. I was blind, but now I see.

Me, small and meek, and curiously busy
but has not time or moment to seek
more than some housework, which makes me dizzy,
the washing and folding, an occasional weed
to pull in the cracks and crevices
before the weed spreads to seed.

The days, weeks, and moments of planning
to work on a painting, the time is unjust
and what I imagine is time for the taking
is only a matter of time to adjust
my schedule to one or another of lacking
adequate time to begin the said painting.

The frustration experienced while trying to honor
the tug and the pull of different directions
the doer of chores, a wife and a mother,
the sweeping of floors, amidst imperfections,
never ending expectations to bother,
preparing a meal and tasty confections.

What will I do? Will time grant some peace?
Or a piece of time in which to begin
that blasted painting? Or will the mouse
win this battle with men
and nibble away at resolve like a louse
never a moment’s piece of zen.

For what happens when hope is lost or is missing
and all of these years hope has been practiced
religiously believed and now it is dashing
like a wave on the shore relentlessly splashes
the moments add up and all of the sudden
one is broken, lost, and is perishing.

My hope is or was to work with a passion
whether cooking, cleaning, or things of that sort
to live each day in some sort of fashion
that elevates beauty, pure thoughts to transport
But life’s best laid schemes require so much tension…
naive and hopeful, maybe tomorrow’s for art.

Painting portraits is hard. What on earth possessed me to think that anything about painting a portrait would be something that came naturally? Why do I keep torturing myself? Perhaps it’s a disadvantage to have not studied art. It seems like for every painting, I have to re-learn how to mix paints to get the right colors. Well, at least this way, nothing is formulaic.

Painting is always a little easier (for me) when I pose the subject, or take my own reference photo. The subject of this painting is a very lovely friend, and this painting really doesn’t do her natural beauty justice. Her husband took the reference photo, which is a piece of art in it’s own right. But for the purpose of the painting, I took a few liberties. In the photo, she’s wearing a black winter coat, which made it very difficult to distinguish where her hair ended and her coat began. Painted with the colors in the reference photo, the portrait looked dull and boring. But then, after changing the color of her coat to red….voila, it worked.

OK, really? Eyelash Arts and Sciences? What?

Gender neutral? This must be here on account of those who might not remember whether or not they are male or female….just in case. It is in the corridor outside a bar, so maybe when one is inebriated, this facilitates a quick trip to the loo. Though, in a drunken state, the sign seems more likely to confound rather than relieve confusion with regard to gender. Or maybe it’s only for those who are neither male nor female.(?) Or perhaps, this restroom is for those who consider themselves to be androgynous, a person who does not neatly fit into typical societal gender roles. So….all things considered, it is a rather thoughtful gesture, I suppose.

It would be a really good idea if I took advantage of tomorrow’s quiet, empty house. Sigh. Deep breath. Relax…. Just practicing some self soothing techniques. Wouldn’t it be great if the techniques actually worked? Well, sometimes they do, but not right now. I’ve got the jitters because I might actually have time, place, and opportunity to paint tomorrow. Nervous excitement is what Reese calls it. Whatever it is, I’m a bit apprehensive that my brain and hands won’t remember how to paint, and yet strangely pleased that I get to try.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll start the day tomorrow with a smile….

It’s so easy to get sucked into the computer vortex. Good grief! One thing leads to another, and another, and before realization fully kicks in, it’s been hours. Presumably, time management would be enhanced if thoughts would flow a little more freely. But today, when I sat down to write about this week in art, so many competing ideas surfaced that it has taken a while to coalesce them in a concise manner.

Last week, I finished the painting of the Guadalajara Beggar Woman. It needed some refining touches, and now they are complete. Mmmm, looking at it here, I can see it might need more work…again. With oil paintings, it seems that they change some as the paint dries. And when I don’t obsess over them for a while, then I can step back and assess the paintings more objectively, less passionately, which sometimes helps produce a better painting in the end. We’ll see what happens with this one….

This week and last, I worked on a portrait of my good friend, Martin. It is unfinished as of yet, but Martin came over today and saw it, and liked it, so it stands to reason that a photo wouldn’t offend in any way. One of the most difficult challenges of painting portraits is that everyone be pleased with the finished product. Maybe it helped that before he saw the painting, he was prepared by a gentle admonishment that the eyes, mouth, and fingers would be re-worked after the paint dries a bit….next week some time. It took forever (OK, not forever) to select and sketch the pose, but when I finally got this one on the canvas, it practically started to sing….or chat, as Martin often does. 🙂 That’s one reason of many I like him so much. Oh, and by the way, this painting is 95% finished. Sometimes though, that last 5% takes a long time to get done.

Also, the top photo was taken outside (Beggar Woman) and the bottom one (Martin) inside. Neither are true to the colors in their respective paintings. It’s often a frustration that the photos of the art aren’t a true match to what it’s like to see them in person.

A quick little poem to ensure
that readers have cause to endure
almost a week’s break;
we drove to see Jake
and listen to uke playing pure.

His name is Jake Shimabukuro.
He can only be called virtuoso,
an ukulele he plays
and performs to amaze;
he’s become an uke playing hero.

We saw him perform at the Cafe
named Cactus on campus at U T;
an intimate crowd,
spellbound and “wow”ed…
we listened and cheered and were happy.

But now to the new tasks at hand
without which life would be quite bland;
a painting to paint
and supper to bake…
‘n staying cool in house air conditioned.

Finally! It took more than a lil’ bit of time to finish this painting. There were many frustrating moments where great globs of paint were scraped off and thrown away like yesterday’s news. I’m very pleased with the finished product, though. It’s extremely satisfying when a painting comes together and (according to me) works.

This is the third time that I’ve painted this image. All three paintings are a little different, with different colors, brush strokes, and viewpoints. The other two were more landscapey, while this one (in my opinion) is almost like a portrait of this particular bit of city forest. It’s called Trees in Hermann Park – 3 and is 36″ x 24″, oil on linen.

Farm on Highway 71 will be displayed in Houston’s City Hall for either nine months or a year…the specifics of the exact details have been a little sketchy. I just found out a few hours ago that the exhibit opening is tomorrow between 11:30 and 1pm. Houston area artists were invited to submit up to two works for consideration in an Art on Loan Exhibit for the City of Houston. This one of mine was accepted!

Yesterday, I took my cruiser to a bike workshop in the Third Ward. The poor groovy bike is old, and needed some tender lovin’ care. When the gracious folks who volunteer there asked if I wanted to patch my flat tire, or install a new tube, of course I asked for a price comparison. Free for the patch vs $3 for a new tube? Just show me what to do to patch this baby! Three attempts at patching later and I was happily buying a new tube. Then, because real fear occurs when bike brakes don’t work, I installed new brake pads…for all of two dollars. The way this bike workshop works is that people bring their bikes in to get fixed, and then do the work themselves. It was the first time I had ever worked on a bike. So, for $5, and a couple of hours of sweat equity, this cruiser works like a charm.

Also, I’m starting a new blog. 🙂 It’s called Purely Poetry, and will basically be a compilation of poetry that I’ve written for this blog…and if I feel really brave, maybe some random prose.

Getting whooping cough has been one of the best things to ever happen in my life. The constant tiredness caused by the cough forced me to slow down, and because of that, I finally had both time and opportunity to learn to play the ukulele. For whatever reason, I’ve taken to the ukulele like a duck to water. And delight of delights, Reese (on guitar) and I (on ukulele) play music together morning and night.

Not long into this new found love, it was decided that Reese and I needed to take it to the streets. So last night, spur of the moment, Reese and I went busking. (Busking is the practice of performing in public places for tips and gratuities.)

We live a short walk from a shopping/restaurant area of Houston. Deciding that was the place to have our first outdoor public performance, we loaded up the guitar, some sheet music, the ukulele, a djembe, the playlist, and a hat…for the tips, IF we got any. In the actual act of putting one foot in front of the other to walk there, not knowing what was about to happen, Reese and I both started to get a little nervous. But honestly, there was nothing to worry about…we would just play the same songs we play and sing in our living room every day. Piece of cake.

Sure enough, once we got started, there was nothing to it. Because the playlist wasn’t very long, we ended up rotating through the same songs over and over. We played for an hour and earned enough money to buy ourselves a few beers plus a tip for the waiter….during which time,
while enjoying said cold frothy beverage, we realized the whole busking event had been undocumented with a photo. So, we went back and performed the songlist again, this time making sure to ask if someone would please take our picture. (?) And yes, during the second set, we earned more tips.

All in all, it was a most excellent adventure, one we are eager to repeat.