I am continuing to work on my painting. Here are two new ones.  And you knew from previous comments that sooner or later I would start drifting toward abstract art.

My attempt at bold living. This is a result of a class I finally allowed myself to take from Hank Pulkowski at Art & Soul Gallery. I liked him and will go back soon. All in my plan of living boldly.

What happens when we're on the brink of something new (new phase of our life, bold new direction perhaps)? 

On the brink of something new I often feel like I'm going to die. I've had that feeling many times. Once I got pneumonia trying to make a major change in my life. When I was first getting sober I kept dreaming that an ex-lover of mine had died until I realized that it was my old self that was dying. I cam home from three days in Woodstockwith some of my oldest friends refreshed and enthused. I felt that I was finding my spiritual center in Woodstock. My friends, always encouraging, helped me to decide on my next step with my art. So I entered a contest through the Artist
s Magazine and promptly got sick. I've been in bed since Tuesday and am only today feeling like I can do anything but eat soup and watch TV or sleep.

Today I think I've given my mind and body a break by resting and am now ready to live with a more courageous and fun mindset.

I may not be physically ready to go out in the world yet but I am awake and have started a new painting. With it I've decided on a more confident and bold me - artist - watercolorist - friend - lover - family person.

Thank you my friends.

I dreamed I was part of a design challenge. Three of us had parts of one room. I had no idea what to do so I left to go shopping. While out I picked up a few things but realized I wouldn't be back in time to make my part acceptable so I stayed away.

Now, mind you, the real me is not into interior design. I have no eye for it nor am I particularly interested other than the end result when I'm watching David Bromstad on TV. The real me however does know about giving up on my dreams. I've done that countless times. And was in danger of doing that just recently. A few weeks ago I was chatting with an artist with whom I had become friendly. I happened to mention that I still take classes and came to painting late in life. She said "Oh, I thought you were...." and didn't finish the sentence but I did it for her. My mind went straight to "Oh, I thought you were a real artist."

How quickly I give my power away. I reeled against that for a couple of weeks. I finally talked myself into painting again but it wasn't until yesterday that I shared my work. They are perhaps not my best work but they are part of my healing process.

I know I'm a "real artist" but on that day my sensitivity became palpable (death to the artistic spirit). I can take constructive criticism but dismissal throws me back to childhood. I have to work to bring my self-esteem back to the reality of today. I'm all grown up. I'm an artist who is still learning and growing. Thank God for that.

Here are those paintings.

Is happiness an inside job or does it more depend upon our geographic location? Eric Weiner in his book The Geography of Bliss. He has travelled around the world looking for the places where people are purportedly happy. The Swiss claim to be happy but Weiner finds them boring. He travels to Bhutan where they have a Gross National Happiness index and the people mostly claim to be happy but he is not. Right now, in my reading, we're in Iceland where everyone is purportedly happy again. Is it the booze? Is it the isolation from society? Is that they're in love with the language? (I doubt it's the weather myself). What is it that makes these people happy.

Weiner spends a little time explaining that the Icelandic people love their language and that it is pure from Viking times. They invent words for things that have been invented since Viking times - their own words - they don't bastardize their language with pigeon English or pigeon anything else. But does that make them a happy people?

I love language. I love the spoken word and the written word. I love to read fiction and non-fiction. I love poetry (both reading it and listening to it). I love dialogue, good conversation. I love language. But does it make me a happy person? No. I'm happy when I'm reading something I enjoy. I'm happy having a good conversation. But, I'm not a naturally happy person.

I'm happy at the beach. I love the weather down here much more than that of upstate New York or New Jersey. I love the number of sunny days we get here. I have SADD and the winters in upstate I found more depressing even back in the days when I got out and did winter hiking which made me happy for that time and made it possible for me to function in the winter. So the change in climate has added to my happiness index. However, I love the culture in the northeast and miss that terribly. I have good friends here but really miss my "community" in New York.
I'm happy that Carol's health is better than it was when we were in New York.

I'm happy that I don't have to struggle to my job everyday all winter long. I'm happy that we can sit at the beach whenever we want to. I'm most happy painting.

Are we a happier people along the coast of South Carolina? Right!

"Through my works I reflect about the world where I live and about the space that art occupies in it. I particularly work on two concepts: beauty in the broad sense and craft as support of the work." A quote from Alejandro Rosemberg in an article I read the Artist's Magazine.

Very succinctly put. Craft supporting beauty. Having the techniques to convey on paper what I see. I'm not with the hyperrealism movement (that is seeking to recreate reality with the precision of photography). I admire those who convey beauty through color. Those masters that I admire the most tend to be the impressionists - very old school of me I know but there we are.

Yesterday I spent time drawing and sketching trying to improve the craft. Today I did some of the same but spent lots of time reading about and experimenting with mixing color.

I've been working in greys and blues lately conveying foggy seas; grey days at the beach. It's been a change for me and we'll see how it goes.

My friend tells me that I don't open up enough. I think I do. I think the only drama in my life is my struggles with my art. The fact that I'm always broke is an ongoing drama and that I really don't want to talk about ad infinitum. It's been the story of my life. I've made bad choices and it looks like I still do.

So should I cry about it or just get on with the life I have? If I want something different I have to do something different. What I have I can live with today. Do I sometimes envy others their seeming good fortune? Sure I do but I try to remember what an old friend of mine used to say "Don't compare someone else's outside to your inside".

I have everything I need today and am grateful for that. I've had a hard life but much of that had to do with my own choices. I would rather have freedom than money. Some of you will say that money give you a certain freedom and yes, it does. However my freedom is a freedom to be who I am, to love deeply, to enjoy what I have and who I have in my life. Painting can frustrate me because I'm never as good as the next guy but I'm as good as I am and strive to be better. I strive to express myself through my painting. Painting gives me freedom. It allows me to focus, to get away from my rambling thoughts for a while and it just feels good. It feels that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

This is my life and what you see is what you get.

Greetings from the beach. My beach book this summer is Mike Lupica's The Big Field - a book targeted at teenage boys. I, however, love those kinds of sports books and I enjoy Lupica. He was one of my favorite sports writers back in the day when he wrote for the NY Post (the only good thing about the Post).

I played baseball and softball when I was young. In high school (maybe it was junior high) we had some softball for girls but by then I wasn't much of a team player or popular so didn't play much. In my twenties I played one season for a corporate league and would have been picked for MVP (so I was told) except that I didn't actually work for the company. The next year they cracked down on ringers like me and required that players actually worked for the company they were representing. That was OK by me because I wasn't interested in the corporate world or team playing. I still loved the game and loved watching but was OK with not playing.

As a teenager it was the Jewish Community Center that saved my life. First, it gave me access to a wonderful pool where I could swim my laps. There was nothing so calming or good in my life as swimming laps: stroke, breathe, flutter kick. Nothing to gain but the end of the pool, turn around and come back. I took some classes. I even took lifesaving although I never got the certificate because I could never find the cinder block on the bottom of the pool. Still I learned basic lifesaving skills and would know what to do if someone was drowning, unless of course you were at the bottom looking like a cinderblock.

So in New York when I stopped playing softball I joined the YWCA at 50th and Lex. I swam three days a week on my lunch hour until I moved to New Mexico where I took up fishing and hiking. I gave up fishing but continued with hiking until I hit my fifties. In Albany I joined the Jewish Community Center and swam. So my favorite activities for myself were swimming and hiking - solitary activities. I know, you're not supposed to hike alone but I've never been so good with rules. I did spend several summers with the Appalachian Trail crew building pontoon bridges, stone staircases and relocating trails. That was a team activity but only lasted one week per summer.

The closest I came to a team sport was boxing. I took it up in my fifties. Boxing a team sport? I always had a partner who pushed me and who I pushed to do our best, strongest workouts. There was a crew of four of us who became good friends. (We still are even though I live 1,000 miles away. We have a bond borne of teamwork.

Maybe I'm getting better and can do team sports now - except my favorite exercise is still swimming. I do play golf so I have a few friends I golf with once in awhile - otherwise I go it alone.

Team player? Still, not so much. However, progress not perfection. I spend time with my partner, with my friends and can open up a little more than I once did. And it's all OK. I am who I am.

On Writing and Painting

I published my blog and I painted Monday just like I said I would. Later in the afternoon I took myself around the golf course. I find that golf relaxes me, makes me feel at one with the universe even when I'm not playing well, which I wasn't. The walking, the breeze in my face and the concentration on the ball all contribute to my sense of well being. Life is grand!

Did all this inspire me to look at one of my manuscripts? Not really although I have started sifting through one of my notebooks relevant to my latest work in progress. Who knows, maybe I'll actually finish this one.

Who knows? Start, stop, start, stop, finally abandon the project by putting it away. The fear of writing relates to something my friend Bill said the other day. "I can hear your voice when I read your writing." So I'm sharing myself in a way that I can't go back and deny. When I paint I leave the interpretation up to the viewer. When I write I have a harder time leaving it to my reader because I have exposed myself on the page. Even publishing this little blog which was supposed to be about my painting often leaves me drained. So I share my latest painting with you and leave it to you and my writing, once I hit publish I have no choice really but to leave it to you.

I've always thought that it was quite amazing that I turned out to be like my mother, with her love of strong tea, all things English and her strong political views. But in looking back I see more superficial similarities to my mother and more deep-seated similarities to my father.

My mother operated from her left brain mostly. She was good at math, She kept facts in her head supporting her views and opinions. She was very practical, pragmatic and terribly efficient.  She turned a windfall into a lifeline that made her senior years quite comfortable.  I share none of those attributes.

My father on the other hand lived by the seat of his pants. Money floated away in vats full of booze. When he wasn't drinking it away he was busy recovering his losses. After he and mom split up he only ever managed to live very sparsely. I'm like that with money - comes and goes - mostly goes. I don't live sparsely. I live with Carol in a beautiful 1600 square foot condo in what is almost paradise but if I were alone it would be quite a different story.

I remember being with my father on Saturday afternoons listening to the live broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera. He had a grey, metal typewriter table with an old Underwood ensconced in the middle and unfinished manuscript on the sides of the table, on the floor, anywhere on his side of the room. I'm not so different. I have two unfinished manuscripts lying around my house and copious notes in notebooks and file cards that could make up a third manuscript if I would convert those notes into a manuscript.

What is the lesson here? That I fail because I haven't tried to put the finishing touches on them. Well, to be fair to myself, I had sent the first book out and was rejected but got some encouraging feedback. The failure of mine was that I wasn't willing to do the work to publish the book. And my second book? I look at it in a folder under my desk everyday.

So what is my next step? Think I'll paint after I publish this blog.

I've been painting up a storm, actually an activity more important to me than writing up a storm. My friend Bill writes a blog and he says "Write everyday." Well, I do, but I don't blog everyday. So much of what comes through my pen is self-centered hash. I like to think I'll be able to paint everyday. I don't because I often need a day to do just about nothing and then a day to paint. This week I got that and painted.

It's funny how I can paint all day and come up with nothing. Sometimes I do come up with something that is acceptable. A couple of days ago I worked on my Lake Geneva painting and that was all. It's OK. And yesterday I painted all day; worked on various paintings and my "At the Close of the Day" was the only one that is acceptable. (It hasn't come up to my ideal of what I wanted but I'm closer than I've been). The rest of my work I label experimental.

I like experimental. I can do anything and justify it's existence and my work by saying "it was an experiment" glossing over the facts that maybe I'm not inspired today, or not on my game or really that I'm afraid to try to say what it is I really want to.

Sometimes of course I try for what I want and fail. So my lesson for myself is to try again; do research; talk to people; read; go to an art show; practice to perfect my technique. Practice, practice, practice. When one avenue is blocked do I just go home or do I look for another route.

Our friend Ellen died yesterday morning. It was peaceful, she was in no pain and she was not alone. We, in our little group, have been grappling with this. All day I looked at pictures and postings from her friends, her students, colleagues, and finally had to shut my computer down. Our group has communicated with each other but still I find for myself at least, the pervading confusion and emptiness. "What just happened?" It's not that her death was sudden. We all knew it was coming. We all prepared; we wrote her notes; Nancy went out to be with her. In short, we knew she was leaving us. But still the confusion and emptiness remain.

When you're a cog in a wheel you rely on each other to keep going. But what if you're the wheel? I've always thought of Ellen as the wheel. The one that kept us moving toward each other and yet separate; the one whose life we revolved around, kind of like the planets revolving around the sun. We are here; we are entities with our own lives but we've been brought together by our sun. The sun, of course is a star and a star loses light and heat as time goes by. And we've seen her getting weaker as days went on and now that our sun has faded where do we turn?

We turn, of course, to each other and savor the sun that we had and forge through with the sunlight she imparted to each of us.

And so to Ellen, "au revoir" and "merci". Be seeing you.

On Becoming a Woman

I've just finished Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye. It was tough going, partly because of her inventive use of form but because, although I sometimes had a hard time following the thread of the story, I had no problem following the theme of hardship and tragedy brought about by oppression and the consequent self-oppression. I guess I wasn't prepared for the stark cruelty and tragedy of the ending but I should have been. Where else could it have gone? Self-deception and madness.

Morrison wrote this in the sixties when we were just waking up to the horrors of bigotry and that eye-opener pushed many of us toward Civil Right and then for me, Women's Rights and Gay/Lesbian rights. The sixties and seventies were exciting times. We were changing the world. And we did to some extent. Many of our children and grandchildren don't face the barriers we faced.(Of course, another group faces those barriers which we make legal by pegging groups, illegals, threats to our society, to the American way.

My nephews fight those fights. Me,  I am just catching up to myself as a woman. There are countless women like me who grew up in the sixties weighted down by self-oppression, self-hatred for being who we were. Be proud, demonstrate, dance in the streets and I did all those outward things that helped change society. It's the individual struggle that takes place and keeps many of us in the same place. The Pecolas of the world (the main character in The Bluest Eye) go to extremes of self-deception to avoid self-loathing. It was her only way to avoid self-loathing. If she had blue eyes she wouldn't be ugly. She believes herself ugly because everyone else does in a world where blue eyes, blonde hair and white skin are held in the highest esteem.

It's no accident that I identify with Pecola. When I was a kid I renamed .myself Tom. I lived in the fantasy of being a boy because everyone knew girls were silly, stupid and vulnerable to the whims of boys (i.e. powerless). I eventually gave up the dream of being a boy and reconciled myself to my fate - that of a girl, albeit with bad grace. I became introverted and mostly stayed away from having girlfriends. As an adult I realized that I was a lesbian and so worked on behalf of lesbian/gay rights.  And the friends I made then and until recently have mostly been men. What a surprise! I've always been more comfortable with men and especially gay men. This way I avoid the big issues of how I see myself as a woman.

I'm only just coming into being comfortable as a woman and it has taken me all these years to realize I am one of the strong woman. It has been my re-acquaintance with my "tribe" - the women I knew as girls in high school. I can see and celebrate our "culture" - the glue that keeps us together which celebrates our likenesses as well as our differences.

It's since our reconnection through Facebook that I've come into my own as an artist. It's not just their encouragement and support (for which I am grateful) that has helped me so much in this area, but it is through them, remembering where I come from, were we come from and how far we have come as women that I take my rightful and proud place in the universe among these women.

I've been feeling sorry for myself because I haven't healed quickly enough from my cataract surgery. So after having a little pity party today I went to my studio and started the second series in my studies of the Rock River at flood.

The green on the trees is a little fanciful - those of you who were there in april remember that it had only just stopped snowing so there wasn't too much in the way of green leaves yet. Still...more to come.

I finished a small paint - 6x4 that was really just an exercise in painting autumn trees and their reflections. It's the only work I've done over the past week except of course for writing and fretting about working. Such a waste of time - fretting but it has let me know that my "inner terrorist" has shown up again. You know, the guy/gal that tells me I'm inadequate, that I'll never be any good, it's too late anyway, so why bother?"

He's the guy that lives in my head. He can be dormant for months and then suddenly, or maybe not suddenly but subtly, appears, rears his ugly head and before I know it I'm in the midst of negativity.

The question is how to move the terrorist out. I tell him to shut up and move out. I tell him he has no idea what he's talking about and I can say I'm the artist here, you are just a bogeyman. Get the hell out of my head!"

It looks like my plans for a two day watercolor class in the middle of June might come to naught. The reason is that we ran out of money once we paid our monthly bills and put groceries in the house. The end of the month is small paychecks with large bills (you know, like the rent). I'm trying to take the positive out of this. We went to an art show on Saturday at Brookgreen Gardens. There were plenty of visual artists who knew how to draw and paint representational scenes. The problem for me was that they all looked alike.= except one guy named Dave.  He put on show a few watercolors (mostly he showed in oils which were geared toward selling) which were lovely. And were not the run of the mill scenes of Charleston or Pauley's Island. They spoke to me. I enjoyed talking with him; he offered to take a look at some of my work; and he may hold a class in the fall. So maybe I'll save for that one.
So back to painting.

We spent a beautiful two and one half hours at the beach which made me realize that I need, want to get back to seascapes. It takes me back to my dilemma of plein air. Those that I've done I've done from photos or rough sketches but rough sketches miss the colors; photos are better for that but I seem to have this ideal vision of sitting on an ocean bluff with my easel and paints and painting the perfect seascape. One I did last summer...

Studies of the Rock River at flood

Paint, paint, paint. Well, I didn't paint Wednesday. I played a round of golf in the late afternoon but the next morning I painted my fourth study of the Rock River at flood. This one is closer but I don't have the shading right yet. However, it was a satisfying morning of painting.

I haven't opened my package of Bockingford rough yet.  I think I'm afraid to open it because I feel a little intimated by it. It seems magical to me.  It's like the paper has these mystical qualities that are going to transform me into something more - a wonderful painter with as yet unsung technique and feeling.

It's like a little day dream. Time to get on with it. Open Sesame! 

I'm doing a series of paintings of trees and flooding lakes or rivers all leading up to a painting I want to do of the Rock River. The first two I did were OK - one 6x4 and the other 8x10. The one I've been working on today is crap but I'm trying to do it all wet on wet and I guess I need to know more about what I'm painting before I put that water on paper.

done au plein air - sort of - view from my window edited for compositional purposes.

From someone's photo of a house in Spain I think. Both done in May

Take a deep breath and paint. That's what I did this morning. I'm not totally happy with the results but they are leading me to how to do my projected painting of the Rock River at flood tide. I'm looking at it as practice for what I really want.

Painting spurs me on, keeps me interested in life. I love to admire others' work, and I love to paint my own even when I'm not feeling adequate (whatever that means). So when a painting doesn't come out the way I had planned I put it away - unless the plan was flawed and the painting is a nice surprise. The point is to paint or at least sketch everyday. There are fifteen minutes in the busiest of days to devote to my art/craft.

I read about painting. I write about painting but where is my painting? I haven't put brush to paper for at least a week. I have sketches going (I have been sketching at least everyday) but haven't taken the time to sit in my studio and put brush to paper to add color to my life.  It's not for lack of ideas. My sketchbook is full of them as is my camera. Sit down, take a deep breath paint.

We were in Savannah from Wednesday to Friday so I didn't blog nor did I paint but I did sketch and I took a lot of pictures. I saw lots of "original" art. Many of them showed us fine techniques and good drawing and compositional skills which they used to represent scenes from Savannah but most fell flat in my eyes because they had no originality. They were geared to the tourist. Painted only to sell, certainly not to move or excite the senses. Mostly they looked like they could be photos...

Am I criticizing because I don't have those blocking and drawing skills yet? I don't think so. First, these artists were working in oils or acrylics so their techniques and overall effect will be very different from watercolors and second I do admire some of those skills but not the lack of an original voice.

Lessons I draw from this is that if I want to sell my work I need to apply drawing techniques and use my eye (my voice) for what would please a potential buyer but if I want to paint just because I love to paint and love to express my voice in color and depth then I just really need to take a deep breath and paint in my voice through my eyes.

Autumn in New York - from a photo

Painting Au Plein Air (or good old outdoor painting)

I walk with the dog and I sometimes see an interesting aspect of the landscape - a tree stark and bare against a wooded background; a palm tree against a building; the view outside my door or my sunroom; and I think why don't I paint that? Often, I already have and sometimes several times - all different; all showing aspects of my progress or not. Like my progress in color mixing or composition or whatever.

I often let life get in the way of my daily painting or writing but more often I get in my own way. Why? If I'm outside painting or sketching I soon have company. People want to watch me, talk to me ask questions or worse make suggestions. I don't want the company, thanks. I know when I start a painting it takes time before anything comes of it and that my rough sketches are very rough (drawing not being one of my strong suits) so I don't want to explain those things to people.

I admire people who take easel, paints, brushes, canvas or paper and set up outside, start painting and something emerges. For some, their work turns into great art, for others maybe not so great but they all seem to have the ego strength I lack. They can get out there, work and ignore or not be bothered by company.

So more often than not I use photographs. I'm outside and then I take them into my studio. They help me with concentration and composition. And they sidestep my shyness when outside trying to work. Everybody takes pictures.

I'm reading an article in the Artist's Magazine where the artist is describing her set up and under drawing for her still life. She set up with precision, used a viewfinder and took a photo which she developed into a 4x6. Then she worked on her under drawing which took her three days to complete.

The process was precise and rather daunting to me (maybe why I shy away from the still life). I tend to take things away from my backgrounds to make them as simple as possible. Then I can concentrate on my focal point - the flower or the plants themselves. Maybe I'll try her way because while I know how to get perspective in my landscapes and my seascapes I have trouble with the still life.

One way I learn is to try different techniques, different styles. I'm not strong on precise, detailed paintings -it's not how my brain really works. My work is representational yes, but I go in for a looser style. Maybe because I don't really draw well but more, I think because I'm attracted to color and the way color conveys the message of the scene.

From the summer of 2012

I've been thinking about this artist thing - my having the cujones to call myself an artist when all my life I've just seen myself as an average joe. My father was a writer, my brother writer and visual artist, my sister a musician and I just an average person who got along in the world working. Do I blame anyone for crushing my artistic side? Not really. In truth, I never showed any proclivities towards the arts except as connoisseur, avid reader and avid museum and gallery attendee.

I did once write a book which I never bothered to do the work to publish (and am in the middle of a second one now). Why not? It made me tired. It wasn't that I couldn't see that I needed to rewrite and do the work to get my book into a publishable state, it was that I couldn't see how to do it. I tried to get help for it but could never profit from the advice I got. With my latest book, I actually haven't asked for help yet. And that may because I never really considered myself a writer. (Where is Carl Jung when you need him)

Painting however, I've asked for and gotten help. that's because I couldn't have started painting without the help of a small art class. Progress has been slow for me but there has been some progress because I love to paint. I feel calm and focused when I'm in that process.  True, I don't like everything I paint but I've done some paintings that do speak to me. And now I want to spend as much of my life as possible painting and learning from others.

from 2011

what next?

I've figured out to upload pictures of paintings onto my profile but I'm not sure I get how to do that here. I'm in the learning process of blogging but confess I'm a little frustrated with it. Let's see how it goes. Meanwhile I finished a painting and have an idea for something new. I spent two weeks in Northern Illinois plus half a day in southern Wisconsin. Got some great shots and did some sketching but haven't put anything in paints yet.

I've set up this new blog for my art work. I started painting less than 3 years ago after I had retired and moved to the Myrtle Beach area.  I work with a group of friends who come down for the winter but am really on my own for 9 months out of the year. People tell me to take workshops - expensive for one on a fixed income. So I read magazines, books and go on-line once in a while to get ideas.

I'm looking for my own voice and so I thought if I write about my challenges and frustrations daily I might get some insight. Feed back is what I need really. I can talk to myself until I'm blue in the face but I spin my own wheels.

Background: the last time I had picked up a paintbrush was when I was about five. I never figured into the artistic branch of the family although I did write sporadically throughout my life and even had a few poems published back in the seventies. So, after we had moved down here and met some folks who lived in our condo complex for the winter, one of our new friends announced that he would be willing to teach watercolor. I've been painting ever since. I think I've progressed but am still  trying to find my way.