R E F L E C T I O N 

Who stepped on a crack?!!

"Step on a crack, break your mother's back." 

My mother has a broken back. Her L1 vertebrae is cracked straight through resulting in 2 months of agony. So I ask? Who stepped on a crack?! I am one of 4 children, so someone is responsible!

I used to mumble this phrase to myself as my skinny legs jumped and skipped along the concrete boundaries of my youth. It was a fun little game tinged with fear. If I CHOSE to step on a crack, harnessing my free will, would it really have the power to hurt my mother — the person on whom my very existence relied? Heavy thoughts for a 5 year old. Yes, even then, I struggled with adult-sized neurosis.

The internet will tell you that this phrase dates back to the 19th century. Some say its origins are steeped in racism and that the line "break your mother's back" used to be "turn your mother black". I was sad to read that. Another thought was that is was from a poem by A.A. Milne called "Lines and Squares" in which a step on a crack resulted in being eaten by a bear. Other's say that cracks represent a portal where one could fall into the netherworld.

At some point it all morphed into a children's game.

But in the world of adulthood, a mother with a broken back is far from a game. It means hours spent in the hospital watching my mom endure pain that takes her breath away. If only a carefully navigated walk down the sidewalk could heal her, life would feel magical again, but I've outgrown magic. We have slipped down one of those dark cracks and are left wondering when we will see the light again.

R E F L E C T I O N 

The Human Painting

Paintings are like human beings. 

They are born as a cute little sketch, full of promise and hope, but before you know it, they're in the ugly adolescent stage — grumpy and gangly. You hope that they will grow up into well-adjusted adults, but only time will tell.

One Liner No.1 Sketch(Born 12/1/14)

One Liner No.1(Age 2)

One Liner No.1(Age 4) 

One Liner No.1 (Age 6)

One Liner No.1 (Age 13)

My painting is an adolescent now. I wish I could return to its childhood. I liked it better then, but that image is gone forever, buried beneath layers of paint. Will it mature into a handsome adult? After 20 hours of painting, I sure hope so. 

Onwards!

R E F L E C T I O N 

Walking into the Cornfield

(Field of Dreams reference)

Hours 

are minutes. 

Insecurity

stops the clock. 

The Pendulum 

swings. 

I journey on. 

I have begun a body of work (One Liners)that will take months to complete and I have no idea what the outcome will be. 

I began my first painting with a tracing transfer. The transfer didn't work out and I began painting before the canvas was properly prepped. I do that a lot. I just needed to start painting — I grow impatient with rules and technique. Intuition is my guide.

At the end of the day, the transfer lay upon the canvas slightly off registered and I snapped this shot. I think I will like this image more than the finished piece. I like things when they are messy — just like life.

 

R E F L E C T I O N 

Lost in the Dark

I dropped my faith

in a dark room

and cannot find it. 

It slipped between 

my fingers 

and fell to the floor

just as sadness 

shut the light. 

I grope in the darkness, 

but come up 

empty handed.

Dark winter days have been a fitting backdrop for world news and personal stories. This week, I watched as the world mourned deaths an ocean away, and again, I watched as friends walked behind the casket of their son.

I searched for comfort outside my window as cold hardened the creme brulée snow. An apparition — my bunny — my Lumpy Bunny with the forever twisted leg, emerged from the brush and danced for me under the moon. Snow sparked as he kicked, leaping poetically with his broken leg, reminding me I must do the same.

The next day I open my shade to reveal a blur of fur. Lumpy Bunny, again. He had nestled under the bushes just below my window. Is he seeking protection from harsh winds...or is he protecting me? I keep checking back — brown eyes gaze into green. He sits in stillness for hours until the mailman forces him to disappear.

This morning I looked down to see Lumpy's foot prints along my back step. He has stayed close to me, this tragic bunny. I'm am grateful for his company. He has lit a candle in a dark room.

R E F L E C T I O N 

Waiting on Line

I grew up since my last post.

After a 6-month home renovation, a job change for my husband, parenting my 15-year-old, launching a book, hosting Thanksgiving, and quickly regrouping for Christmas, I thought I might begin a new body of artwork — my "One Liners". But a mother with a fractured spine cannot wait on line. So my lines must wait for me.

I have reached the age where I'm parenting my parents.

Umbrella in hand, I steady my self as I walk the line between caretaker and taking care(of myself). A balancing act performed without any training.

Not being able to write or paint for weeks made me realize that my art is not a luxury, it is not a hobby, it is essential. It is my work. It is my joy. 

Like a thief, I steal time today, so I may begin my painting series for 2015. I plan to do at least 20 paintings based on my continuous line sketches — the ones I create while my tea steeps or my son takes a violin lesson. I will document the process here on my blog.

Its time to steal back some joy!

R E F L E C T I O N 

Chair Person

Chicken breasts sat on styrofoam trays. 

Peas hid in the freezer. 

Potatoes, like cast off shoes, 

lay on the counter. 

Dinner would be late — once again.

I had picked up this chair for $5 at a local thrift shop. Like Goldilocks, it seemed "just right" to me. It was perfectly worn out with hints of green paint revealing a past life.

 

No seat, no problem. I can weave one! And so I did, way past dinner time. Obsessed with my project, I became lost in under & overs as twine scraped through my fingers.

We ended up with a handmade chair — for a few bucks, a few blisters, and a late night dinner. 

No so bad, right John...John?...John?

R E F L E C T I O N 

Super Girl

What does a young artist do 

when forced to go to 

school wearing a uniform?

Hide a superball in her pocket, 
of course. 

I was restricted to grey and navy, but in my pocket was a multi-colored secret. A tiny work of art. The treasure would be revealed at recess, powered by my own force. Bouncing far above my head, it lifted my gaze — flying colors framed by sky. I could escape the plaid polyester. I was free.