I don't know about you, dear reader, but I spend a lot of time ruminating and standing in the ruins.  Some of the habit of rumination can be attributed to introversion, being highly sensitive, having survived trauma and abuse.  But I believe a good portion of it is simply habit.  My brain falls into replaying conversations, and dissecting what went wrong instead of working on building the new empire. Wiest's words are part of a larger writing which begins with this: Your new life is going to cost you your old one.  Whoa.

And here we are - art imitating life, as the old paintings are obliterated by gesso and the new empire takes form on top of them. And again, whoa.

Art is visual storytelling.  Each painting has something to say, or to hide, or to shine a light upon.  These stories emerge from within - the stories the painter tells herself.  Whoa.

I find myself examining those inner stories recently.  The brain is a powerful tool, and the thoughts we think are mighty.  Artists are notoriously riddled with self doubt, imposter syndrome, criticism and anxiety about their work, their talents, their value and contribution to society. I've got plenty of that.  But if I see those thoughts, observe them and then ask myself what if I think THIS (or THAT) instead, they lose a bit of power and free up a space for bold adventuring without hesitation.

As this year begins to wane, I find myself asking what if I paint over everything and begin again? ​What does that story look like?  And my brilliant husband, an extraordinary and insightful artist, reminds me there is beauty in destruction, too.  So I begin, painting over, building the new on top of the ashes of the old, freeing space for bold adventuring.  Oh, oh, oh. Here we go.

And so, though here in the studio I'm  still exploring galaxies and worlds beyond, a momentary dive into portraiture and wistfulness seemed like just the thing.  She's a sweet spirit.  And she's got her eye on a spaceman emerging on a canvas across the room...:)

In the studio, I am stymied by too much inspiration.  

And so I begin in the way that I know best - showing up, letting paint move and following the trail it leaves.  Rubber wedge and paper towel, fingers, chopstick and brush.  While immersed in the wander of this luscious oil painting, ideas began to take root. A sketch of the next piece appears on the easel.  The mind eases back into where my feet are standing now.  Home.

And, of course, we will be witnessing and photographing all the beauty we can grab -  fodder for future paintings and creative endeavors that haven't yet been imagined.

On the easel, just completed, this selfie-inspired portrait (what to do when you've run out of inspirational models!) in oils.  Underneath the portrait is a full failure of a painting, which became a lovely base of texture to keep things from becoming too precious. Beginning with a notanized photograph, I roughed in a sketch in blue oil pastel.  Then a liquin-thinned wash of white mixed with ivory, grabbing the blue pastel edges and thinning it all into the beginnings of flesh-tones.  The requisite 80 million layers of paint, this time with a very small brush (usually I opt for something large to keep things loose).  The small brush allows some natural mottling and texture. The hair was roughed in with a rubber brayer, some chopsticks and the occasional shirt-sleeve (unintended)  

​The last painting of summer.  And now....fall!

Have you ever completed an impossible task?  Overcome the un-overcomeable?  Done the thing you didn't believe you could do?  I'll bet you have.    I think we all have bone dogs in our lives - a symbol of our own tenacity, resilience and determination.  With perhaps a little magic, serendipity and the love, support and encouragement of others.  When I think of the things I have done that I didn't believe I could do, I feel a little sparkle.

And so this piece - a dog made of bones - a talisman for the impossible.  Which we know, you and I, is sometimes very possible, likely, probable and ​done.

Somewhere in this odd couple of pandemic years, we began reading aloud each afternoon.  A bowl of popcorn, a couple of popcorn-hungry pooches and two humans transported by words to places far, far away. The places, the stories, the juicy descriptions and words - oh the words! Words to look up, savor and roll around the tongue.  Words to contemplate and share and deliciously place into sentences.  Words to forget as aging brains leak a portion of what we glean every day.

And this lovely ritual contains both learning and loving - Clarke's formula for happiness.

It also leaves two artists with brains stuffed full of adventure, creatures, planets, people, conundrums and endings.  It cannot help but spill over into the art.