On why my chiropractor is better than yours

Well I'm pleased to report that my whole happy little family is alive and recovering from the "oh that's what you're talking about when you talk about global warming" heat wave we've had in Seattle this week. Seriously though. It was so hot the kitty boys turned into flat puddles of fur on the hardwood floors and I stopped caring if the neighbors saw my midriff while I wandered through my house in a daze clutching my ice water and frozen grapes.

I know I'm being completely melodramatic and that those who live in other climates (Hi J and M) deal with 100 plus temperatures all Summer long (as did I back in California) but here's the deal: Up in the Pacific Northwest only 13 percent of the population has air conditioning - and we're talking residences, businesses, restaurants, you name it - and when it hits 104 degrees F, well, you can forget about it.

All that to say, it was simply out of the question to work in my non-air conditioned studio-with-the-whole-ceiling-as-a-skylight. So the question was, where to paint for the week?

If you answered "in the extra, unused massage room at your chiropractor's office," you answered correctly! My fantastic chiropractor (I'm totally one of those people who loves their chiropractor and goes around saying "My chiro told me...") offered up the space in his air conditioned building and the rest is history.

I can not even express to you how much I appreciated the space this last week and that got me thinking. I feel it is incredibly important to put thanks out there when it is due, to let people know when their actions have kept your stamina strong, that their belief has buoyed you up through the sea of your own self-doubt, that their own art (in WHATEVER media it is) has inspired your art to new heights. So...

TO ALL THE ART COLLECTORS,

ART SUPPORTERS

ART BELIEVERS

I appreciate you more than I will ever be able to express fully with words. Thank you for believing in my voice and my hands, for opening doors to opportunities previously hidden, for offering your resources to my cause. Thank you for creating the music that I work to, for writing the words that act at fuel, for asking the questions that make me think and for listening to the answers that discover.

Thank you.

I really couldn't do this without you

I believe in you too.

Eight Years Ago Today...

And I've never looked back.

BC

You are the love of my life

My one and only man

Here's to another 80 years

Of putting life first,

Living with hands wide open

Standing close

And knowing each other

As deeply as we do.

BILYLK

What I do when it's too hot to paint

Funny thing about this photo: After beaching, but before uploading photos, I was catching up on my bloggy gal pals and saw this photo. What can I say? Great minds, you know!

I really wish I had images to show you of the final product (like here, here, or even here) but, I kid you not, when I stopped this video a whole crew of camera men, lighting assistants, hair and wardrobe personal and approximately 14 pre-teenagers showed up on the beach to do a photo-shoot for über-trendy teen clothing. They decided to set up shop 20 FEET AWAY from me. Which, if you know me at all when I'm in the depths of my creative place, is WAY TOO close. When the football tossing ended up directly in the center of what I was doing, I decided to throw in the towel. Literally. As I left, they said "isn't it beautiful out here?" And even in a bit of a huff, I had to agree.

C'est la vie.

Such is the urban life.

Annie Get Yer Gun

To ring in the early celebration of our eighth anniversary (which is officially next week) BC and I decided to treat ourselves to a night of blissful coupledom. While most people seem to celebrate anniversaries with moonlighted walks, couples massage, or slow dancing, we decided to up the ante a bit. For us, the best way to say "I love you baby" was down the barrel of a .357 Magnum. That's right. How very Mr. and Mrs. Smith of us (plus, since the pilot episode of Lost, I've had this secret feeling that one of these days I might end up on a beautiful deserted island with a whole crew of crazies and only 3 guns and I will NEED to know how to handle a handgun).

Gun Face

(Trust me, you don't want a piece of this!)

Look at those guns (and I'm not talking about the shiny silver one!)

And after our very first ever handgun training class the official verdict is: I'm freaking Annie Oakley. No joke. Not to talk myself up (ok, maybe a little) but I tore UP those bulls-eyes like it was no body's business! POW! BANG! POP! Those little paper target didn't even know what they had coming! I'm so ready to move onto heads of cabbage!

I'm a lady who can rock 4 inch stilettos and a .45, all while striding up the mountainside.

That's just the way it should be.

I feel like kicking some ass now.

Excuse me while I go break down a door somewhere.

*** Side Note (which has nothing to do with the contents of this post whatsoever) ***

In addition to stilettos, pistols and mountain climbing, I also bake a mean loaf of bread. I've been searching for the magical recipe for Honey Whole Wheat Bread that will change my life. I've got a few recipes that are nearing perfection, but if you have one that you'd like to share, please send it on to me! I gotta carb up to keep up the fire power!

Yeah, I bought it.

Lately I've really been trying to make Wise Financial Decisions which basically translates into putting a cap on my random "ooohhh I love this!" purchases. However, sometimes a gal just need to buckle down and hit "Buy" when she finds something as fabulous as this: my new everything bowl from Pink Kiss Pottery.

It came. I love it. Totally and undebatably worth it. Look at that light; even the Heavens approve! I have a huge and undying love for the book Watership Down and there is something about this bowl, with it's dark rabbits gliding silently into the clouds that reminds me of Hazel, Fiver, Bigwig and all the other rabbits of the warren.

I love a great piece of pottery. Sighhhhhhh

Jam-tacular Lovin'

I'm willing to lay large cash bets that NO ONE has eaten as much raspberry jam in the last week as I have. We're talking sugar-rush-one-pint-in-a-day-and-a-half and I'm barely holding myself back from going in for more. What's a gal to do with ten toasty pints of fresh raspberry jam, the first canning foray of the year? Eat up! Call for a second baguette, another scoop of chévre, a wee smear of butter (ok, yeah, not so wee...)

Also, as a side note, what does it say about my jammy-greed level that ten pints might not be enough for me, let alone enough for sharing with neighbors and house guests? I best pick up another flat of berries next week... Especially because I've been talking trades of homemade pickles and white grape jelly (Ladies, you know who you are)!

ALSO, I had a rather embarrassing revelation concerning the fact that I, the textile hoarder, the sewing addict, the queen of "oops, did I just make that," do not own a single working kitchen apron. When the jam is a popin' I've got to duck and dodge the sticky missiles of goo and that is a sight to behold (let me tell you!). Something really must be done to remedy THAT situation...

In other news:

The sun is shining and puffy little white clouds are breezing by my windows

The kitty boys are loafing about, well supported in my personal pillow collection

I'm sitting rather unlady-like (crossed legged in a skirt, tut tut tut)

I'm thinking about this little painting I began just yesterday (the largest in my series of little guys at 8" square)

And OH LA LA! It's Bastille Day which means I need to pour myself a glass of rosé in honor!

Vive La France!

Vive La Rosé!

Vive La Jam!

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious-polyester!

Thank God for the fashion sense of the 70's right?

Hope and Hopelessness Part Two

And that was what we in the business refer to as an freaking fabulous day in the studio.

"On the Duality of Hope and Hopelessness"

While not yet finished, this piece came a long way today, and is probably now 70% done. It feels good, really really good.

I know I'll sleep well tonight.

Thank you so much sweet birds, I felt so buoyed up by Hope today that my feet hardly touched the floor and I had to crank my easel up taller than ever. I'm taking a deep drink from this chalice, but I'll pass it on, so be ready to receive.

Hope and Hopelessness Part One

Lately I've had a lot of time to think, so that's exactly what I've done. I've been thinking on Hope and Hopelessness, which coexist as fluidly within my body as my left and right hands.

(Gallery Sitting: Six long and quiet hours on a holiday weekend, with no distractions other than thought provoking art.)

I am a child of Hope, and the days when Hope fills my soul, it shines out of every crevice and pore, bubbling up, the cup overfloweth. I know my purpose, the very reason I was placed here and now, the reason I exist and my job in the long line of humanity. I only wish to exude love, to burn with that higher vibration, to be the humble tongue speaking that others may interpret and learn.

But the other days, the days of Hopelessness, are dark.

I lay at the bottom of the well, asking why, why have you forsaken me? Why does this winged cloud of doubt sink it's claws into my spine? Why am I lost, my eyes scaled, my feet turned inward, hands bound, grasping at the fragile thread of hope which twists and turns at my fingertips?

That these two opposing forces can reside within, fascinates me. But more than that, Hope and Hopelessness are two very real forces within my art, simultaneously beautiful and terrible, but more than anything, Honest. The days of Hopelessness create fodder for the days of Hope, which give way to understanding why it is we are tried by fire. If my work were made of nothing but Hope, it would be beautiful indeed, but devoid of a very real element of human existence. And more than ever, I wish to be sincere.

About a week ago I had a rather profound realization on these lines as I worked in my studio. I came into the studio on a Tuesday, wound up with the stresses in my life, and fluttered around restlessly. Picking up a painting, adding new imagery, washing it out, frustratedly setting it aside, repeat. I left hours later with no sense of accomplishment and only a gnawing feeling that "I must have forgotten how to paint" (this happens to me ever so often). On Thursday when I returned, I arrived with such determination, eyes wide open, waiting for the sign, the sight that would spark my thoughts and open my mind to the messages and meaning I needed to paint that day.

And I received my message.

Paint about Tuesday.

The day was real, part of my existence, even if it was difficult. And how can I possibly grow without acknowledging ALL of the learning that is presented to me? And so I painted, and the oil flowed. My heart was filled, my eyes overflowed. I began a new painting, a new exploration of Hope and Hopelessness and the understanding that both are beautiful, both are part of this life, and even though I prefer one over the other, both make up the message I am clumsily trying to interpret with these two hands.

And so on that note, I leave today for the studio.

Please send me your Hope today friends, like a shower of pale blooms that rains down with the sweetest scent and a feathered grace.

The Friday Confessional, July 3rd

Confession Number 221: I wander around the house while I brush my teeth. Sometimes for upwards of ten minutes, I'll be perusing the closet, watching the kitty boys play, checking the computer, opening mail, you name it. In fact, it's very difficult for me to even stay in the bathroom while brushing. The bristles come out and my feet just itch to wander. But here is where stuff gets hypocritical: Other people brushing their teeth, specifically spitting out toothpaste, triggers gag reflex so fast it's dangerous. Blech. Just thinking about it... eew.

(I also decided to go photo-free for this blog - because honestly, you don't need to see any pictures of me and my teeth AND I don't want to hear of any gagging!)