It’s Showtime !!!

A grand good morning to all of you readers friends and patrons alike…

It dawns bright here in the studio with some cooler weather drifting in so we can throw open the windows and clear out the cobwebs. With the first cup of coffee firing up the neurons I’m heading out to the garden to find a shady spot to weed. Glory days.

It’s hard to be here and not there, on the island, ironing my show shirt and getting ready to see well loved faces at the show opening and a surprise wave of sadness washed over me last night. We are so grateful for the beloved gallery family who I know will be there for us to represent and to shine a light as they do for all their artists. if you are on the Vineyard and headed to the gallery please give them each a hug for us. They are good huggers.

This morning I’m going to wipe away those tears and go to the happy place of tending to the tenders outside. Time to get a jump on starting the fall crops. Maggie wants to start with the mountain of dirt that we’ve been slowly shoveling into the new kitchen beds. Sounds good to me. Then when the sun moves a bit we can settle in to clear the asparagus bed of all that creeping Charlie.

Herself is clearing off the porch so we can enjoy a fresh tomato sandwich for lunch. Our pal Maureen is coming with an armful of cheeses and while those two watch the tennis match Maggie and I may just spend the afternoon at the easel listening for the whisper of Muses.

Wherever these words and paintings find you I hope there is a bushel of light, a wheelbarrow full of laughter and teacup full of peace.

My Sweet Pea

A word of gratitude before the Painter’s Notes…

for YOU…

All of you who took the time to send me support and love in response to the roll out of this years’ Granary Gallery show…

It is not a throw aside gesture to say that it makes all the difference
because to me it absolutely does.
We won’t be able to attend the opening in person
but from here in the late summer studio
I can feel the hugs and see the smiling faces virtually via your likes and comments
which goes such a long way towards affirmation and your kindness is contagious.

Maggie and I got some tomatoes gathered this morning
and in this hottest part of the year
the tall bushy green beans are apparently not as special a treat
as her long gone sweet peas
but our girl has bunnies to chase
and a field of wild clover to roll in
and we send you all a bucket of thank yous …
may your teacups overflow with sweetness.

My Sweet Pea

This was all Maggie’s idea.

Originally the intent was to have this composition
focus up close on my hands
shelling those beautiful peas
into a teacup.

I had the panel prepped
and the frame ordered
and it was the very last
of the paintings
for this years’ Granary Gallery show.

But when it came time to sketch it out
I couldn’t quite get the positioning of the hands right
just by drawing them in front of a mirror.

So I set things up in the new studio
and called Herself over late one night
to push the button on my camera.

She brought Maggie
who upon seeing the pea pod
came hurtling to devour the treat.

This has been Maggie’s first year in the garden
and after a crazy hot spell of a start to the season
when I feared the loss of all of the cool weather crops
we had a glorious run with the peas.

Both snow and shelling peas took off
and it became clear that Maggie LOVES peas.
She would sit patiently next to the trellis
waiting for me to catch up on our walks
and reach over the fence to grab her a handful of pods.

Just melted this old gardeners’ heart.

Back in the late night studio photo shoot
we managed to convince Maggie
to lay quietly beside Pat
as she snapped pics of my hands in different positions.

I sent them home when I climbed up to the loft office space
to look at the photos and see if I could work from them.
I needed one more take so back they came.

Something was amiss with the focusing on the camera
and the extra fussing must have annoyed the pup
because as I settled back onto my stool
and tried to hold my hands extra still
that little bundle of whiteness crept up
and came over to my side
and ever so gently she layed herself down
just as you see her here

with one paw on my boot
waiting patiently
my sweet pea
for her sweet pea.

Library Dreams

Welcome to my new studio
this is one corner of the library
my dream library
where all of the books
and props
and collections of treasures
have finally gotten a place
to play together.

It is a deeply meaningful space
designed after the Trinity library in Dublin
with ebony stained graduating shelves
and gold leafed alphabet letters
climbing next to tall fluted columns.

To sit in this space
in an early morning light
with the stove lit and beginning to warm
surrounded by my familiars
is dreaming my biggest dream.

To make something of an overture
and by way of marking new adventures
the Muses chose Moby Dick
as the very first book to pull from the shelves.

Sitting in my captains chair
tucked inside of this literary snug
felt the very essence of being inside of a whaleship
and I was every full measure
of CS Lewis’ “Surprised by Joy”
each morning as I read.

Here’s a peek behind the curtain
at my Library Dreams
sitting in
my dream library
which is sorta fun.

A Gift of Purple

The generosity of the Morse family knows no edges
and the quiet gesture of handing Herself this little purple vase
is what I’m talking about…tender kindnesses

And when she filled it with water
to place into it the daffodils
which they told her it was ok to pick
from their front yard
and the water leaked out all over the counter…

it was that second of the purple vases
which was offered to her that really spoke to their hearts.

The daffodils as theme
was a gift of its own in the studio for this years’ Granary show
and putting the three blooms which grew in our home yard
into one of those purple vases was a perfect foil
for Aunt Imy’s lilac teacup
resting on one of Polly’s hand sewn handkerchiefs
which she embroidered with violets.

But it was the muses I have to thank
who stepped in
to stop me
just before
I tried to give those flowers
a drink.

The whispers of clover are my own tiny celebration
of having finally moved out of the  “heavy construction” phase
of our rebuild and now every day
a little bit more of what was the mud and straw strewn yard
that surrounds our home and studio
is growing lush and green with our new lawn of clover.

So much to be grateful for.

Little Lady

Another gift from my early spring wanderings
this familiar peek behind the fishing shacks
in Menemsha was brought into a different kind of focus
which only a winter of island weather could provide.

I’ve taken hundreds of photos from this vantage point
over the decades but in the three growing seasons of the year
that bank across the water is a wall of green vines and scrub oak
which all but obscures the old wooden stairways
and hides most of the foundations and some of the porches.

On this day in late March
there was the barest hint of warming sap beginning to run
into the tips of the shrubbery and the capillaries of the tree branches
a glowing harbinger of the promises of spring.

I wrote in the Coast Guards notes of the peaceful solitude
that accompanied me on the walk around the harbor that day
I was able to stand in this scalloped niche
for an extended time of totally uninterrupted observation
watching and listening to the light play with the reflections
and the water lapping the mossy pilings
the breeze whispering through the rigging
and the ropes slackening
then pulling taught
over and over and over again
in a rhythm as old as the sea itself.

Moorings

A peaceful gentle cove
that curves around a back corner of Menemsha Pond.

A favorite lunch spot for island tradesmen
and when we pulled up in late March
there was a small van in the little lot
with its window rolled down
and the glimpse of  an old workshirt sleeved arm
resting on the sill
holding half of a homemade sandwich.

Maggie needed to stretch her legs
and I saw an interesting painting prospect up ahead
curious about all those bobbing bubbles floating
so we left the ladies in the car to keep chatting
grabbed the camera and took to the beach.

One of my hearts’ most favorite things to do is spend time with Jane.
Two of my hearts’ most cherished things to do is to listen to Pat and Jane
solve all of the world’s problems and to laugh together.

Couple one and two with roaming the island
exploring painting ideas on a beach walk with Maggie
while listening to Pat and Jane laugh in the distance…yep it’s priceless
and in this case also hilarious.

I had left Jane in the front passengers’ seat
Pat buckled in directly behind her
with both of their windows open
right next to, but a bit behind, the open window of the van
and trust me
when these ladies get to talking and laughing
they can be heard all the way down at the end of the beach.

I’m still wondering what that tradesman took home from their conversation.

I love the stillness
of these early spring moorings
lapped gently by the swells
and soaking up the sun
while they wait patiently
for their families to return…

and the echo of old lady giggles across the pond.

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.