Homage to the pot

I don't really like this painting, but this idea is so inward to me that I had to risk it. There are no windows or escapes; this is looking inside on a beautiful summer's night and trying to celebrate the plain old pot, one that was bubbling with carrots and onions in preparation for a soup I was making for my wonderful friend, Nancy, who takes her husband to hospital for a hip operation on Wednesday. I am making her favorite carrot soup for her return from the hospital on Wednesday evening. She will need it. She has nursed her mother, who died, her father through knee surgery, her husband through heart attacks and now this hip. It is people like Nancy who keep me on track and sane because I watch her so lovingly and effortlessly care for everyone she encounters. The is a gift for her.

Tumbling joy

Even though there is little light today, I took these two photographs at my back steps because these nasturtiums (nasturtia?) and

petunias splashed over their borders and looked so full of vigor and energy today that I had to capture them; I wish these pictures could show the bounce of the brilliant orange against the dark greens and the vibrant purply petunia pink that spills down the stone steps. Sometimes, I suppose language trumps image. Today I drive to New York to spend my birthday with Lisa, after a sushi soiree last night with Oonie and Jack that brought me such warmth and laughter because they are SUCH goofballs and clearly so fond of each other. We will all meet in Orleans on the Cape next week. Life is good - and as it gets shorter, it pinches the poignancy of moments, images and exchanges. I am lucky.

Unmitigated joy!

I cannot be positive, but I believe this is a drawing of my 6 year old master artist either doing a handstand or merely peeking between his legs. Whatever the drawing IS, it has such delight and play in the movement of the stockinged feet and the head that "you can never be sad" looking at it, which is what my son once told me long ago about skipping. He should know!

What's the diff?

I fiddled with this bowl, some of the shadows and the background, adding more yellow to it, darkening the shadows and trying to make this bowl FEEL more like BOWL. I think this one should just go into the files of "good try, Sistah," and spend some time in "time out" so that I can reuse the canvas some day. I do love the idea that a pencil sketch of Jack playing the cello is beneath the paint; that alone makes the piece meaningful - at least to me and maybe some day to him.

Once upon a time...

When I first moved into my wonderful purple picket fenced, magical, spiritual space, I painted this on a board, using fabric, acrylic and God only knows what else. A dear friend loved the piece and asked me if she could have it to hang in her living room; I was flattered to bits and just recently asked if she could send me a photo of it. Now I yearn to see it close up, but just looking at it brings back to me the feelings of joyful possibility that I had when I moved here. I must remember those feelings so that I can hold them close when circumstances conspire against them, and glee seems to have fled.

End of nasturtiums and bad bowls...

Sometimes I wonder if my brain is lopsided. When I see things like this bowl, I wonder where my eyeballs were as I was painting this funky acrylic on canvas, a canvas that I had used to sketch a picture of Jack playing the cello when he was much younger. If you look closely, you can still see remnants of the penciled face in the top part of the painting. I like the way the inside of the bowl ooks and the inside of the plate, but the rest is ready for the trash. Sad to end my painting days in such a skewed fashion, but such is life.