Field Of Iris, 1996

We had made no real, solid plans of where to go nor places to stay. It was a spontaneous affair at its best. Every morning we would consult the map, and decide where to go. We would stop at every vineyard that looked inviting, stop at every beautiful setting that commanded a photograph for a future painting and stop when we got hungry, and thirsty, at whatever little place looked promising for a good meal and good local wine. Of course, it is hard to have a bad meal in Italy.

At every little restaurant where we stopped for lunch along our route, the waitress would walk over to our table with carafes of the local white, red and rose wine, place them on the table with several short, bistro glasses along with the menus, welcome us and start reeling off the specials of the day. That was soon followed by a basket of warm Italian bread accompanied by olive oil, balsamic vinegar and herbs. I was in heaven.

Around 4 pm each day, we would start to look for a place to stay the night. Some places were quaint, little hotels in villages, and on several occasions we found real gems, two of which I recall vividly. It was late in the day when we stumbled across the first one. A big, orange, glowing Tuscan sun was setting behind us when we passed a sign on the left of the road that said “La Saracina.” It appeared to be a B & B so we turned round, and headed up a long, tree lined driveway to an exquisite setting. Big willow trees were turning shades of lime green, and irises in every color decorated the landscape in every direction. We successfully secured a room as well as an incredible meal in an old renovated barn, where we dined and conversed with fellow travelers.

Road To La Saracina, 1996

Iris By The Well, 1996

We headed to Umbria, specifically to the village of Durata, a well known town for its pottery. The streets were lined with nothing but signs for pottery shops, and it was overwhelming. We spent an entire day here, putting together pottery collections to ship back to the states. At one point, I was sitting on the floor in a shop surrounded by stacks and stacks of plates trying to decide which ones I wanted from all the piles. We asked one of the pottery shop owners about a place to stay the night, and she referred us to the village of Armenzano. She gave us directions to a B & B she described as magical, tucked away in the hills outside this old, medieval village. And magical it was, so much so, that we stayed for three days there enjoying long walks in the olive groves, vineyards and consuming bowls of raspberry risotto.

Poppies In The Olive Grove, 1996

Toscana Shadows, 1996

Everything in Italy is old, from the churches to the medieval villages situated on hillsides to the traditions.

Pienza, 1996

The sense of ancient endurance is both impressive and mysterious. But what I loved most about Italy, besides the wine, food, vineyards and pottery, was the subtle embodiment in the hearts of the people for the “dulce vita“, the sweet life. Their language and conversations were full of expressions supporting the true art of life, their love for ” l’arte d’arrangiarsi“, the art of making something out of nothing. Unlike most Americans, driven by success and victims of stress, the Italians savored “bel far niente“, the beauty of doing nothing. It was common for an Italian to stop whatever work they were doing, and drop right in to a conversation with you over a glass of wine. The moment, and living it, was important and had meaning.

I have always experienced time spent by the sea as very healing. From the moment my feet touch the salt water, I feel my whole being let go. I hear the water tell me I can rest now, and allow the ocean to carry my burdens.  My heart aligns with the rhythms of the waves, and I become one with that flow. I feel safe here. I can allow this healing water to carry my wounds away, and bury them in the watery depths…forever.

One of the deepest mysteries in this life is that the light can only be found in the darkness. I thought about all this beautiful island light I loved, how much lighter I felt while simultaneously scanning the surface of the sea beneath which a whole world of darkness lay. Beside the ocean’s edge, I seemed more aware of this world of darkness within myself, in whom I sought my own light. What few gems of this light I had found here within were strengthened by the vibrancy of island light. I wanted to capture this light in my paintings. So I began a quest for the light. My journey would be a long one, and yes, I would have to journey into the darkness to find it. The gift would be my own inner light discoveries that would grant me new vision of the light all around me.

One late afternoon in Mexico, I was sitting in a sunlit courtyard with my sketch pad. I started to draw the scene before me of the afternoon shadows painting the courtyard walls in deeper hues. The cascading bougainvillea was on fire, and suddenly beneath it stood a sweet, little Mexican boy, his hand in his mouth staring at me. I quickly sketched him into the scene, and just as suddenly, he disappeared.

Late Afternoon in Mexico, 1986

It was rare for me to include people in my paintings. I had done so with my boys on occasion, along with a few portraits. I once had a therapist who wanted to examine my painting portfolio. Her first observation of all my work was how few people I included in my paintings. She asked me why. I replied that I wanted my paintings to be pure and beautiful. I suppose she concluded from my answer that I didn’t consider people pure and beautiful enough to be in my paintings. My paintings revealed a hidden, sensitive belief perhaps. But at this moment in Mexico, I found this dulce Mexican boy to be a most perfect addition to my painting.

I painted with a softer, delicate touch in my efforts to capture the light.

Bermuda Cove, 1985

I wanted to be faithful to my simple, spontaneous style, yet I found myself being pulled into the most intricate details of what I saw. It seemed my paintings were becoming a disciplined exercise in seeing every little thing that was before me. My earlier spontaneous interpretations were giving way to a new depth of seeing that was now loyal to those visions. I could feel it was taking me somewhere, but I didn’t know where. I surrendered and went with the flow.

Last Day At Kanaha, 1994

I would return from my seaside sojourns with new sketches, and dive into the sea of painting. I would keep the energy of island life alive for months as I painted blue rockers on the porch and island hammocks. I would immortalize my island experience in shades of blue and coral. The light was there somewhere in all those shades. I had to capture it fully.

The Blue Rocker, 1994

Island Hammock, 1995

It would take another few years before my fascination with the light would begin to reveal itself in a new way. It happened after a man I had really loved broke my heart. The light found in the darkness once again.

Christmas of 1995 was tough. The man I loved was gone, I lost a good friend in a drowning accident just before Christmas at the same time my sons lost one of their best friends in a plane crash. Then my mother lost her husband, my step-father, the love of her life, on Christmas Eve. I scooped up my boys, and flew to the island of Tobago Christmas day leaving the holidays behind. I lost myself in colorful beach shacks and sun drenched bougainvillea. I gave my sorrows to the sea, and prayed for more light.

Beach Shack, 1996

Blue Horizon Bougainvillea, 1996

A few months later, I journeyed to Venezuela and the island of Margarita. I was a wind surfer, and Margarita Island was famous for its pale turquoise waters and steady winds. When I wasn’t screaming across the surface of those luscious waters, I was soaking up the island, and more island light. The island was full of hidden beaches, brilliant colored villas and unusual, remote stores.

Peaceful Playa, 1996

Blue Villa, 1996

One of those remote stores was quite magical. It was part of a sacred site according to the owner, who filled it with ancient, artistic artifacts honoring the sacred. The walls and rooms overflowed with crosses, painted gourds, old vessels, old paintings, jeweled silver urns and more. He had the most amazing collection of urns I had ever seen. The sunlight dancing all over them in the late afternoon was magnificent.

Urns In The Sun, 1996

I returned frequently to this sacred store with its sun drenched urns and pots to capture the sunlit shadows at different times of the day. Finally, I felt, I was learning to capture the mystery of island light.

Sacred Pots, 1996

Over the course of the next ten years, I continued to paint the beauty that captured me in my immediate environment. I painted flowers in vases, flowers in the garden, setting suns and whimsical beach scenes.

My Zinnias, 1985

Evans Farm Flowers, 1986

Orange Sun Squash, 1983

Sandy Feet And The Passers By, 1985

I stayed with works on paper for the sake of ease, my love for working with the fluidity of water and my lack of time and patience. It was the spontaneity of colorful expression that compelled me. I wanted to capture the moment right then and there, as opposed to a long journey with oil paint. During these years, I made a switch in media from watercolors to acrylics. Acrylics gave me a bolder use of color. I could thin the colors to behave like watercolor washes, or use thicker washes to really pop the color. My technique for using acrylics on paper was uncommon. To this day, the average viewer is surprised that my works on paper are acrylics, not watercolors.

We are taught in art school to develop a unique painting style that will define us as an artist. It was clear to me that I was a colorist, but I was not always clear as to the consistency of my painting style that I wanted my colors to express. I recognized that I could not force my style into existence, and any attempt to birth it with my mind was futile. I often experienced some deep anxiety over not being certain of my style, and what I wanted my brush to say. This anxiety was exacerbated  by gallery owners, who upon viewing my work, always wanted to know which paintings represented my true style. I never really had an answer for them, and not the one they wanted to hear. I was silently holding a twinge of resentment that my painting style should be of such importance. I believed my life as a painter was a journey, and that my work was still evolving…and maybe always would. My artistic expressions were the reflections of my own inner evolution and growth. How was I to put a halt on that? I feared being hemmed in or pressured to define a permanent painting style.

I finally made some peace with my own artist path after reading The Art Spirit by Robert Henri. It was the following passage that grabbed me and never let me go.

“ART is the inevitable consequence of growth and is the manifestation of the principles of its origin. The work of art is a result; is the output of a progress in development, and stands as a record and marks the degree of development. It is not an end in itself, but the work indicates the course taken and the progress made. The work is not a finality. It promises more, and from it projection can be made. It is the impress of those who live in full play of their faculties. The individual passes, living her life, and the things she touches receive her kind of impress, and afterwards bear the trace of her passing. They give evidence of the quality of her growth. The impress is made sometimes in material form, as in sculpture or painting, and sometimes in ways more fluid, dispersed, but nonetheless permanent and nonetheless revealing of the principles of growth.

Art appears in many forms. To some degree every human being is an artist, dependent on the quality of their growth. Art need not be intended. It comes inevitably as the tree from the root, the branch from the trunk, the blossom from the twig. None of these forget the present in looking backward or forward. They are occupied wholly with the fulfillment of their own existence. The branch does not boast of the relation it bears to its great ancestor the trunk, and does not claim attention to itself for this honor, nor does it call your attention to the magnificent red apple it is about to bear. Because it is engaged in the full play of its own existence, because it is full in its own growth, its fruit is inevitable.”

I began to understand more deeply that my paintings were the outer expression of my inner growth. Because growth is not static, but ever changing, it made sense to me that my paintings would constantly evolve as I evolved. This would continue to be a dilemma for me and the galleries who wanted their artists to keep cranking out a style that sells. It is a crossroad every artist must encounter: to be true to one’s self and the evolution of themselves and their work, or to be true to the galleries and their desire for the perfected style. I chose, for the time being, to be true to myself.

Art is all about seeing. This becomes so evident when a group of artists all paint the same exact subject, yet not one painting resembles another. The quality of art we create is inherent in our ability to really “see” what is before us. Robert Henri was noted for saying, “It is harder to see than it is to express.” I set out on a mission to truly see what was in front of me, to see what was ordinary, extraordinary and even beyond the obvious. As the power and quality of my seeing grew and changed, so did my painting.

I especially recall one moment in the summer of 1984. I was coming up the road to my old farmhouse in Virginia, when I saw a scene in the backyard that just stopped me in my tracks. I had bought my boys an old seesaw, and we had painted it a bright red. There was this this brilliant, red seesaw surrounded in a sea of green shades, the summer breeze swaying in the background bushes highlighting accents of blue violet blooms and the late afternoon light casting deep shadows. I had driven up this  old dirt road every day, yet I had never “seen” this before like I was now. It jumped out at me like a big whale out of the water. This ordinary scene suddenly became extraordinary. I could only attribute it to some shift in my “seeing” since this scene had been there all along. Within hours I had captured it on paper in living color.

The Red Seesaw, 1984

I would guess in every artist’s life, there are moments such as these that change everything. I began to see differently and more deeply into everything before me. I abandoned my concern for style. If what I saw before me were big, bold shapes of color, that is what I painted.

Passing Green,1993

If my seeing took me to the play of light and more delicate detail, that is what I painted.

Summer Birthday, 1995

For the most part, my paintings during the 1990′s began to express a finer attention to detail.

Looking To The Mountain,1993

Yet, there was still the occasional painting where big, bold, simple expressions of color ruled.

Purple Shadow, 1994

As I moved deeper into the 1990′s, I would find my paintings becoming more complex and detailed. I have often wondered if this was influenced by life itself becoming more complex, and the ever increasing need to tend to more details in daily life. My husband and I had divorced, though thankfully it was relatively amicable as far as divorces go. But my life as a single mother became more busy and stressful. If it was so that my paintings were the outer expression of my inner growth, then my growth was definitely becoming more deep and complex. I was losing my innocence.

My father encouraged me to pursue a degree in environmental studies. He often stated that the environment would be a big focus of the future. He was right. I set out to get my degree in Environmental Science, but hard as I tried, I could not pass the required Calculus course. After a full surrender in flunking my mid-term Calculus exam, for the third time, I wandered over to the Art department to console with a friend. I sat down next to her in a watercolor class, picked up a brush and mindlessly painted as I talked to my friend about my dilemma of no longer having a major. The art teacher was making his rounds when he stopped next to me, picked up my painting doodle and said to the class, “Now this is what I am looking for.” The funny thing is that what he picked up was a scratch piece I was doodling on while working on the actual piece in front of me. I turned to my friend, delighted that art had found me. I now had a new major. And I have never put that brush down.

Art is a curious thing, and artists are even more curious because we delve into our hidden wild side. We are not the norm, and are often referred to as eccentric, entitled, emotional, free spirits and a bit crazy. I agree. We can be all of these. But we each come in with our own special design. Our job is to understand what that design is, just like an iris knows when it is time to bloom and show all its beauty that is different from the rose. Like the colors and textures of flowers, we humans also have personality designs that come with our appearance. The key is to blend our personality (ego) with our higher human design so that we live a life that works. I have my moments with my artistic fate since an aptitude test showed I would make a great lawyer. I chose to follow my intuition instead, my love for color and beauty.

Little did I know that choosing this path would bring me such challenges. I mean, how hard can color and beauty be? The actual immersion into it is heavenly and almost a necessity. For being an artist is a calling to give life to all that untamed passion we carry inside. It is called a luxury by some who are conditioned to view it as such. But it is a necessity once the call has been made. Artists take the powerful sea of emotions and feelings that we all share, and channel these into creative form. We would like to be more seen and understood, but after time, that falls away to just the purity of expression and the form it takes as being vital. Art is something that calls you, pulls you, grabs you and once it does, there is no going back if the call is true for you.

Mountain View, 1976

The painting doodles, that caught the eye of my future watercolor teacher, became my signature style. I quickly learned how to create depth with washes from light to dark, then enhancing the details with my now infamous doodles. These were nothing more than dabs of color using the same light to dark build. I struggled with oil painting , and tolerated drawing class. I couldn’t quite figure out exactly what oil paint wanted to do, plus it smelled, took forever to dry and required building a big stretcher with all kinds of prep work to the raw canvas. I was already in love with the way color and water mixed and flowed. I found drawing to be bland and boring. My drawing teacher once commented on an assignment I did saying,” It feels from your drawings that you hated doing this.” I did. I pushed hard with my adviser to replace a Realism painting class requirement for a different painting class. I just wanted to cut loose with color, no boundaries.

I was married young while in college, and became pregnant with my first child my senior year. It seemed I was the only pregnant woman on campus. I accumulated many curious stares as I waddled across campus with my ever growing belly while loaded down with big stretcher frames, or big sheets of beautiful glass as Stained Glass was my minor. After my son was born, my husband took a job as a photographer teacher at the Banff Fine Arts Institute in Alberta, Canada. During our time there, I completed my Fine Arts degree with an independent study in painting with a Canadian painter.

My Canadian Art teacher disliked the watercolor doodle technique that had changed my life. He was all about simplicity of style, minimalism and pure shape and form with color. The next thing I knew, I was painting this.

Cow Field, 1977

Now this was different. I kind of had to open to the idea since he was my teacher. I had just taken to him the best portrait I felt I had ever done, and he demolished my painting technique, pushing me to a bigger, bolder expression. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. It was early. I was still trying to find my style. He seemed to have an issue with the fact that I often showed up to class with this baby wrapped around my chest. The first time I walked into class, he looked at my chest and asked, “What’s that?” I smiled, and casually responded, “This is my son.” He just shook his head. Contrary to his reaction, at the end of the summer artist exhibition, a woman walked up to me and pointing to my baby sleeping on my chest said, “Now that is truly a work of art.”

After getting my degree, and settling in back home, I began to paint every day with works on paper. My husband and I had returned to Virginia, and were scheduled to return to Banff for the winter, but the photography department had caught on fire and burned to the ground, leaving my husband without a job. So we stayed in Virginia near my family’s farm. I was exceedingly blessed to have a peaceful, happy baby who liked to eat and sleep. As a result, I was able to produce 70 works on paper during his first year. I focused on the landscape around me, and cows were a frequent subject since most of the fields were full of them. I continued at this time to be influenced by my Canadian teacher’s eye for the simple, bold use of color while at times combining my doodles of color.

Cows, Winter and Sunset, 1978

Pink Cloud And Black Cows, 1978

Bowl Of Trix, 1978

Early Morning Swim, 1977

Wild Horse Stare, 24″x 30″, acrylic on canvas, unframed.

Original Painting

Wild Horse Stare $1,260.00

Giclee Prints

8"x 10" $80.00 12"x 15" $180.00 16"x 20′ $320.00 24"x 30" $720.00

Sunset Run, 18″x 36″, aqua oil on canvas, unframed.

Ten percent of my sales from any wild horse painting or print will go to The Spirit Riders Foundation in an effort to protect and save the wild horses from extinction.

Original Painting

Sunset Run $1,134.00

Giclee Prints

10"x 20" $200.00 12"x 24" $288.00 18"x 36" $648.00

Prayer For The Lost Ruins, 24″x 36″, aqua oil on canvas, unframed.

Original Painting

Prayer For The Lost Ruins $1,512.00

Giclee Prints

12"x 16" $192.00 15"x 24" $360.00 20"x 30" $600.00 24"x 36" $864.00

Desert Water Bearer, 30″x 40″, aqua oil on canvas, unframed.

Original Painting

Desert Water Bearer $2,100.00

Giclee Prints

12"x 16" $192.00 15"x 20" $300.00 20"x 30" $600.00 30"x 40" $1,200.00

Ghost Dancers Dream, 36″x 48″, aqua oil on canvas,unframed.

Original Painting

Ghost Dancers Dream $3,024.00

Giclee Prints

12"x 16" $192.00 18"x 24" $432.00 24"x 36" $864.00 36"x 48" $1,728.00