Is There a Better Way to Start?

I see that this blog has had no new entries since June.

It has been a lovely summer and there are certainly things I will want to remember through this blog. So even though, it may not be the way to do it, I'll do what I usually do and pre-date a few things as I find the photos, notes and words. It is probably not proper blog etiquette. Oh, well.

But I don't want to forget Lucy and her painted hubcaps, cousin Sheryl and her big towel, another trip to Orlando by Greyhound bus, the experimenting which I did with Linda and Martha, Lucy as Cinderella and Belle with her dolls . . . Yes, there were days . . .

I think I'll just start here for now.

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The day began quietly out in the country, the rumble of the distant Interstate traffic mimicking the ebb and flow of surf. The birds had not begun their cheerful/grumpy/joyful calling and the sun was not up. I lay in the old bed, only partly awake. As morning's first light pushed up from behind the trees, the sounds began with the thump of a squirrel landing from a tall pine onto the tin roof. It was followed by another and their little feet scratched their path across the peak. Suddenly, there was a harsh scream and some commotion as the birds called out "danger! danger!" and I knew that the big hawk was also awake . . . and catching breakfast.


The morning breeze flitted through the open window, giving no hint that today would be very hot and I prepared to watch the sun come up. As the rays touched the leaves with long ribbons of light, first one and then another, I sat on the porch listening to the morning conversations of the birds.

And then, from inside, I heard the quiet babbling of baby songs as Lucy and Belle began to wake.

Is there a better way to start?

BushStrokes (c) AAB

Understanding Two Things

My little country house is on the grounds of a church campground which means that three times a year, our time there coincides with planned events. It means there are more friends, family and guests to prepare for, but also more times to be quiet with music and words under the big open air tabernacle.

This weekend was one of those times. While the summer week has been a tradition for almost 200 years, the fall weekend was my mother's idea and she has guided its program for 15 years. She gives much thought to how the musicians and speakers will balance each other for the services under the big open tabernacle and assigns everything from altar flowers to sausage biscuits.

My assignment is usually Saturday lunch for the ministers. In a primitive cottage with no hot water and sawdust floors, meals need to be easily prepared and served. This year, a few cool days called for a huge pot of vegetable soup, some biscuits, saucers of butter and a couple of pies. No one cared that I used frozen, not fresh, vegetables in the soup pot (a big pot roast cut into bite-sized pieces gave them flavor), that I used fat canned biscuits which were baked in my electric skillet ('how did you get them so crisp and brown on both sides?') or that the lemon and chocolate silk pies were thawed just before serving! A centerpiece of pots of chrysanthemums and fall figurines, an assortment of antique dishes which have collected in the cabinets and big soup bowls added to the ambiance, and laughter filled the chairs around the big table for much longer than usual.

On Sunday morning, as I drank my coffee and watched the sun coming through the trees. I thought about the times when those Saturday menus have been complicated and 'from scratch.' I don't know that the food has been any better or that the meal has been any more satisfying.

In the quiet morning, I understood two things: Complicated process is not always best. Successful shortcuts are learned through practice.

Two things which work in a simple place;
two things which work in the studio.

AAB

Morning notes: The black and yellow book

Most mornings, I take a final cup of coffee to this corner of my dining room. The painting and 'stuff' on the table top changes with the season or my mood. The sun filters in through the bare limbs or narrow leaves of the tree outside. I sit and check my schedule, plan a blog entry or a painting or read and sing to Lucy (an almost daily event.)

This week, I've given some thought to the 'black and yellow book.' Last year, I had written that I was "Disappointed that I will not see my name on one of those black and yellow books. Annoyed that I let this become so important." ( see Endings and Beginnings) Now, I am surprised that I had put it behind me so well that I didn't even think about it's possible release date. I was not prepared to find it on the shelves of my favorite bookstore.

I pulled it down and sat in a big chair to glance through the pages. The author is a textbook writer/publisher. He has been a newspaper art critic and has a Masters in both teaching and English. There was nothing surprising, it fit the formula -- a formula which I could not seem to get. It will sell well.

Mostly though, I have thought about the differences in what I had envisioned for "my" book and the one I held in my hands. I think the difference is in approach.
As an artist, teacher, art judge and sometime writer, my presentation of art history has been related to art techniques and colored by a degree in religion. I have tried to show art in history in relation to art today and art makers in relation to the world around them. And . . . I want the contribution of women to be important. I think somewhere there might be a need for my kind of book. It just won't be black and yellow.

Seeing Once More

Since I had a few requests in comments and in emails for larger images of my previous morning photos, I have reposted "Unexpected Seeing" and changed the photos to individual shots which should enlarge a little more.

Today we have RAIN! RAIN! RAIN! and no, I didn't go out to get more drippy shots. But, just in case you don't have enough fog/rain morning photos, I added these new ones from my early attempts.


We are at Moving Day minus five, so blog entries may be a little quirky this week and next. We'll see!