Lynn’s Daffodils

Back in our twenties
when the cost of the ferry boat
and a sack of spaghetti fixings
was all we needed of adventure
Lynn would invite a friend or two
or three but never five or more
to come along on a trip to camp.

Her homemade cloth carrying bags
which could double as storm shelter if needed
stuffed mostly with cookies and books
were shoved under our feet for the crossing
and if we stopped
it was only to pee
and usually for me.

My memories of these excursions
drift further and further away
from the smell of the sea air
and the feel of winter cold sand beneath our feet
but my mind’s eye can still see her
Lynn
reaching deep into those duffels
for a handful of bulbs.

Was it every trip
or just a few times.
Did we all help
or watch from rockers.
I can see now
here in my dotage
her mother earth form
kneeling on the bluff
with a rusty shovel
lit from behind
by Camp Sunrises’
sunset.

Being there
for the planting
and plantings
and more
was all of the road I knew
and all of the journey I needed
until this spring…
when all these decades
and spaghetti suppers later
I finally got
to bend down
with the salty spring air
at my old lady back
and to say hello
for the first time
to Lynn’s daffodils.

My New Easel View

Shortly after we first took stewardship of this property
a mighty wind took out the top of this maple tree.
A couple of well meaning cousins climbed up
and cleaned it out and she went on about the business of shading us.

When Sid came for a visit he took one look
and said that’s an example of   “…”
some German word which apparently meant
a tree poorly trimmed,
mutated by the looks on Sid’s face.

Well that moaning maple has spent her dotage
harboring hundreds of nesting and feeding animals
from the tiniest tit mouse
to the grand piliated gals.

Once Maggie came on the scene
it became a refuge for the squirrels whom she chased up to that jagged leader’s tippy top
only to sit watching below as they lined up in Monty Python manner like the french
to throw insults and taunts at her and her elderberry smelling patriarch.

In every season
and in every light
the stalwart maiden
has stood watch.

The easel window in my old studio
had a glimpse of this tree and the barn just beyond.
Designed around that tree
my new studio view
is just as you see it here.

Every morning so far,
when the sun clears the woods out back
it lights up her trunk like a rock show.

So it was fitting
a couple day ago
after another of those mighty winds blew through the holler
that Maggie called me over on our walk
to show me that the lowest branch
which had taken hours and hours of time
for my brushes to render
had fallen to the ground.

It’s hard to see in this picture because the day was drawing nigh…
but My Mulcher promises to make quick work
of shredding this pile
as the grand old dame
continues her long walk home.

The Contractor

“You will have only one story. You’ll write your one story many ways.”

The twisty round about way I came to that quote from a character in Elizabeth Strout’s novel, My Name is Lucy Barton, was by catching on to it in a thread of conversation which Mary Chapin Carpenter was having with poet Sarah Kay in a podcast, One Story, where they had an in depth discussion of her album, The Dirt and The Stars.

There’s a basket full of accreditation in that last paragraph and I’m sure to have left out some of the weft, alas one’s weaving gets lacier after 65. I now know. But hearing MCC say those words in her smokey weathered road warrior timbre and in relation to the decades long trail of her song writing career…well… it clanged my bell.

Upon hearing that… that kernel of wisdom that we all have only one story…the totality of my own compositions snapped sharply into a perfectly ordered row.

I’ve only been telling the same story
my one story
in every painting
all along the way.

I’ve reflected recently in these blog posts about the paintings and even the Painter’s Notes as being breadcrumbs. Notes left in the margins which I suppose could be used to follow my way back tracing milestones to find what…the origin? I appreciate knowing the trail is well lit and documented but right this second I’m not really interested in going back there thank you. It feels much more important now to think about what I’m picking up from where and who I’ve been and choosing what is worth tossing into that basket nestled on my aging shoulders moving forward.

Seeing those breadcrumbs collectively as my “One Story” helps me make sense of the feedback that has come from patrons and viewers along the way who tell me they felt a personal connection to the paintings. Because when it comes down to it, it is really “Our One Story” isn’t it.

To draw upon another overheard podcast conversation I listened to this week, Joni Mitchell told an interviewer that (years ago and I paraphrase) I never wanted people to see me in my songs. If they see themselves then I’ve done the thing I set out to do…or words to that affect.

I certainly didn’t start out all those decades ago to tell anybody anything. Still not my thing. But like all lovers of mysteries, I enjoy connecting up a row of dots. And I have learned above all to listen to the Muses. They seem to have been throwing the voices of coveted musicians and story tellers in my path of late. It has lead to some wonderfully nostalgic evenings in the cavernous studio where sounds and whispers love to climb into the moonlight filled vault and dance.

Stopping here for a bit of reflection, I’m gathering those newly connected dots and I’m folding them all in origami fashion along crisp clean lines into a tiny paper crane. Light of weight and simple of beauty it will fit nicely into my basket. Leaving room for new paintings of old stories going forward and the promise of grace in the spaces in between.

In that context dear readers…here is the very next painting to be put into our basket…

The Contractor – 33 x 24

Sitting in the new studio loft
with Paul Winters’ joyful clarinet
dancing in the rafters
and Maggie asleep in the sun…

I am writing these notes
roughly a year after coming upon this tool belt…

It makes my heart soar
to remember back to that time last year
when a tired but smiling Dan and Skippy
were closing the latch at the back gate
after a week of celebrating the first walls going up.


I had turned to unclip Maggie’s harness
and she was free to make her daily inspection.

Each afternoon she would roam the construction site
and find one piece of wood
which, when properly gnawed,
became that nights’ symbol of a job well done.

I had followed her to step for the first time
“into” my new studio
only to once again step aside
as the Muses broke loose
and flooded the scene with their favorite light.

Dan had set up a new work table
to lay out the plans which had been folded and refolded
and sat upon and mulled over
a thousand times already
as each new stick of wood went in
and each new tradesman looked for direction.

But for the first time
with the walls up
and a roof on
it was safe to leave the loose sheets open
with his trusty toolbelt to keep the summer winds at bay.

With the windows and doors yet to go in
and just outside
the Ruth Stout garden fallow for the season
only the wren’s song was in the air
to remind us of harvests to come.

Today it is in a full blossomed mess of glory
with potatoes under that blanket of hay
dozens of tomatoes finally ripening
one or two last peas hanging on for Maggie

and this artist’s heart is wild with delight
to realize that this glorious new studio was built
right in the middle of her garden.

My most favorite part of this painting
was Dan’s reaction when I first showed it to him
“Hey, that’s really my handwriting !”
Yes it is Dan,
you have left your mark all over this magnificent building
…and our hearts.

And Skippy,
the coffee stain is for you.


A Freshening Horizon

If you are reading this today
you will know something of the road
we have been on…together…
for the last couple of years.

See the smile in my heart then
as I now open the doors for you
to the first of the paintings
created in the new studio.

A Freshening Horizon – 24 x 26

Here are the actual doors… to the studio I mean…

Just days after the marvelous crew of friends
moved everything “studio” from the old building to the new
I was sitting in the early morning library
listening…

When the Muses popped up…
and raked this new angle of light
across the old props
in the new corner.

Just for fun…
here is a pic of the actual interior
and that bold wash of light
and everything between here and there
which I decided to edit out.

You can probably imagine
that while they never actually left
crashing right back in
with their typically dramatic entrances
was a welcome jolt to begin my new chapter here.

Wasting no time
my constant muses
threw open the great big windows
to welcome in
a freshening horizon.

Granary Gallery 2022 Show

And here we go…

The first of the New Paintings for this year’s Granary Gallery show is ready for the reveal…

Hands down the happiest part of our lives right now is Maggie. She’s an amazingly fun addition to our tiny family and she certainly keeps we two old ladies on our toes and in our cups with laughter and life.

The Painter’s Notes tell the story behind the friendship between dog and sparrow and Maggie always has a favorite stick nearby. Part Tigger, part mountain goat, her joyous and helpful spirit is my constant shadow and her youthful exuberant spirit is tamed by Herself’s calming nightly massages. So it is only fitting that the first painting up on the blog should be this bright light of a companion. She sets the tone for our brighter horizons.

My New Muse – 24 x 18

This is our Maggie.

The happiest
wiggliest
friendliest
most curious
most lovable
thing in our lives.

Seven wonderful months old as I write this today…
she was two months younger
when we sat together
early one morning
in the studio kitchen
watching out the door
to see what would become of our day.

What was that ?

We both turned our heads
towards a flicker of white.

Well Maggie was the first to see it.

What caught my attention
was that she kept turning
from me
to the porch
back to me
until finally I got up to go see
what it was
that she could see.

Just beyond the porch
perched on the wire statue
of Beatrice…
who used to watch over us
on the log cabin porch…
was this little sparrow.

And,
as you can see,
in her beak
was the craziest white and wild feather
almost twice the size of the bird.

I was almost
as excited
as Maggie was.

And with her persistence
I snapped a pic
just so I could remember
the proportion
of bird to feather
and feather to bird.

Then I gave her a big pat
on that tiny furry white head
and nodded a thank you
to the chorus of Muses
watching from behind my shoulder
as they gave their new apprentice
a proud and raucous
round of applause.

That’ll do pup.
That’ll do.

Good Fortune

Well now…

Here we are with half a year flown by…
The solstice has come and gone
The daisies are in their second bloom
Herself is up swimming at her lake
Maggie is happily chomping on a new bone
A batch of new paintings lean in between piles of boxes and bags
And the Granary Gallery Show is almost here !

It has been a wild and crazy ride since last year’s flood.
As Billy Collins would say…A freaky blast…which is my new favorite way of looking at the world.

With the help of some dear friends and short controlled bursts of “freakishly” hard work
we have new paintings and exciting prospects on the horizon.

Last month, in a moment of particular exhaustion
after a day of navigating roadblocks
and jumping through hoops that kept rolling on through
I opened that dinner’s proverbial fortune cookie
and read this…

Whoever put that into the tiny folded cookie
could never have known how prescient the sentiment was
or how much we needed to hear it at that very moment.

So I taped it up on the easel
in order to keep the focus
in the midst of the chaos
on
the CHILL.

Soon, very very soon dear patrons and followers
I will be able to reveal both the new paintings
and that new big project
which is indeed coming our way.

Stay tuned for the Annual Granary Gallery Show Rollout.

The opening is August 14

Until we meet again…
smell a rose for us
take a walk on the beach
throw your dog a bone
and stay safe out there.

H

The Shirt Off My Back

This is a pairing down of what’s left of the original Camp Sunrise.

But it’s by no means the end of her story.
Merely the beginning of the next chapter.

The family endures and they are carrying on the legacy of that magical place.

They have built a new house out back beyond the meadow
and were able to move the original old garage along side.

The old sleeping cottage is there too and the essence of that humble anchor
will live on for the making of new memories for generations to come.

I visited the new site just after the construction was complete.

On the day I drove down the long lane there was a wild and wicked wind storm.

It was honestly touch and go as to whether or not it was safe to get out of the car.

But I did.

I watched from behind the new camp house
as the wind whipped around the newly knotted clothesline
and what did I do…

I ripped the shirt off my back and pinned it in place.

It held.

The new house held.

The legacy holds.

From the new front porch
you can see the white stones clearly in the distance.

They are still keeping us all safe.

I took artistic license to move the clothesline back up to the edge of the bluff.

I didn’t ask
but I think the muses approved.

Chilmark Ceide

This painting
is by way of walking backwards
in a circle.

Retracing steps along my path
to here.

I have it in mind to make my way back
to the beginning.

When I first met the island.

Which was by way of
the gift of Lynn.

You can find most of the breadcrumbs I’ve been leaving
sprinkled throughout my paintings.

It’s all there
if you know where to look.

Some of the signposts I’ve left
are bolder than others.

This one is positively screaming
at the top of her joyful lungs…

I was here.

Reduced slowly and with a wild patience
like the simmering of a fine balsamic glaze
the essence of camp, for me,
will always be Lynn’s spirit.

And like the foundation of the island itself
the embodiment of her soul, for me,
is that Chilmark wall.

She was its tender caretaker.

It was her mission and her meditation
to clear it every year
of the entwining vegetation.

Whose mission it was every year
to further obscure
those rugged faces.

Those ancient maplines of New England.

So as I work my way back
I’ve begun to reach out
and to play around the edges.

I’ve been dancing around this idea
that in order to tell the story
to do justice to the monumental opening
in the fabric of my time
which was her introducing me
to the Vineyard
I would need to paint her wall.

I want it to be big
bigger than life
like Lynn’s life always was.

But the muses seem to want me
to come in sideways.

Gently gently.

So this year I made a start.

The wall in Jane’s Crow is a little sliver.

And this one the next
only a little bit more substantial
and with a sidestep
which the Muses threw in my path
by way of Krista Tippet and an episode of OnBeing.

She was interviewing the nature writer Robert MacFarlane
primarily about his new book, Underland, A deep time journey,
and the conversation wound its way to the image of
“the ghost hand”.

I knew instantly when I heard his description
that I had my way into this painting.

Actually, until that moment
I had no idea that this WAS going to be a painting.

It literally sprang onto the easel.

When it happens like that
I jump right the way over and let it flow.

I’m still circling
but this is an important pebble on that road.

The oft painted line of white rocks
has been fortified
with one single stone left
to keep us safe on that bluff.

The sea still rises beyond
but viewed only through the lacy openings
like those of the ancient laid Celtic Ceide.

I’m going to transcribe the original quoted conversation here
and let you sit with it for a spell

A hand …
reaching across time…
and into the future.

OnBeing – ep. 962 Recorded in 2019
Robert MacFarlane

    “There is one image at the heart as it were of Underland, and OF THE Underland, which is the hand.
The open palm, the stretched fingers, and that we know first, is in a way the first mark of art.
The maker would place their hand on the cave wall and then take a mouthful of ochre, red ochre often,
and then spit the dust against the hand and then pull the hand away and so you leave the ghost print.
And, for me, (it is) that hand, that open hand, that is reaching across time, that is pressing against rock,
but leaning also into the future, but also the hand of help and collaboration…and I found it everywhere.”

Over and Under

All of the knots
over all of the years
the lobsterman’s hands remember.

All of the waves
the tides and the drifting
beat in the fisherman’s veins.

Setting the bait
and lunging the gaffe
the muscles can do when their sleeping.

But never a gale
‘er blew out at sea
could wither her salty remains.