Finally I can show the paintings I’ve been working on for my chiropractor, Dr. Chuck McNeal. He approved them this morning. In fact, he was quite happy with them. The first one is called “Your table is waiting,” signed by “Jo Gogh.” The exterior view, also signed “Jo Gogh,” is “The Sun rises on McNeal Chiropractic Center.” That is, of course, my van parked in front. It was fun to emulate Vincent Van Gogh, my hero in art. He was so free, yet quite exacting. His knack for expressing emotion is unsurpassed. I learned a lot while painting these—trying to copy his strokes and colors. It was kind of eerie. 

            You just can’t go wrong with floral paintings. They’re fun to do and always popular. Any painting deals with the same problems: color, composition, values, execution, style, paint quality, and communication. I took Joyce Pike’s workshop on floral painting when I lived in Colorado. One of the participants complained, “I can’t paint roses.” Joyce replied, “It doesn’t matter if it’s a rose or a nose. Painting is painting.” It’s really true. When I just want to paint for the sheer pleasure of it, I often paint flowers. Here are a couple of small paintings that were a lot of fun.

 

            I’m getting tired of doing little paintings, so I will need to start a group of larger ones. It’s fun for a while, but then it seems confining. Painting on a larger scale seems less constraining. It’s probably not true but it seems like you can loosen up when you work bigger. But painting is painting. It doesn’t matter if it’s a big one or small one.

            Our class this morning was about prayer. I shared a personal story about Pat, a dear friend in Colorado, who had asked me to pray about her hip surgery.

            This was my journal entry from the night before her surgery:

            Lying awake with neck pain and brain swirl, worries and cares surrounded me. Trying to pray for a friend who was scheduled for surgery that morning, I was fighting with myself about what possible good my prayers could accomplish--except for the unshakable fact that dear sweet Pat believed my little prayers would help her. That alone was worth the struggle. So I trudged on through my barren wilderness of prayer. I thought of how tired I was of my own prayers, of all the crap I had uttered over the years to the God of the universe, and how pathetic I sounded. I thought: what good was any of it? Why would God listen to my ramblings and mutterings? I thought of all those preachers who tell me that I must have faith to get my prayers answered. The Bible itself says that the prayer of faith is what raises up the sick person. Even after all these years, I’m not sure what the elusive prayer of faith is. If it’s up to my faith to get someone healed, I don’t have much hope of success. After years of praying for healing and being prayed for concerning my own health struggles, my faith was at very low ebb.  I know truly that sometimes God answers prayers for healing. I also know that we attempt to rationalize away our lack of results with flimsy excuses, but it seems pretty easy to see if a prayer for healing is answered. Either it works or it doesn’t.

            So there I was in the middle of the night attempting to talk to the creator and sustainer of the universe whom I believe in with as much of my heart as I can muster. These words flashed in my mind like a neon sign: “Prayer is about me.” Since my deductive powers are still pretty good, I knew that didn’t mean me. I have learned through my journey with prayer that it’s an inscrutable beast that will not be tamed or known. So I folded those words over and over again within my heart: “Prayer is about God.” Seems obvious, even simple, yet like most great truths, it was revolutionary. It opened the heavens for a few seconds, maybe even a moment. It expanded my mind, my soul, my consciousness. The ceiling opened to the sky and there was God. I said in my heart, “God, you are awesome and powerful, beyond knowing. I don’t know what of my little words to mention in your presence, but here I am and I bring the name of my friend, Pat, to your attention, even though you are fully aware of her situation. You have a plan, you have a solution, and you have all things in your hands. I guess my acknowledgment of that is some kind of faith.” It was a solemn moment of real prayer. And then it was over. But it’s those kinds of moments that change a person’s life. I hope this one changes mine.

 

            This is the response I got back from my friend Pat, after she was out of the hospital:

            “I want to tell you of an experience that I had at the hospital. The only reason I am relating this is that I hope that it will greatly encourage you in realizing and knowing that prayer makes a HUGE difference!!!! While I was coming out of the anesthesia, I had a real literal experience of being somewhere between Heaven and earth. I was very aware that the earth was beneath me and that Heaven was above. I was in between the two. But I could hear this incredible symphony of voices, many (it could have been thousands or even more) going on at the same time. It was incredible. I knew instantly 2 things: 1) That these were the prayers of the saints—of course not only for my situation, but for all kinds of requests; and 2) That these prayers were ascending to the Throne of the Father and that they made a HUGE difference in the earth. The funny thing is when I was in this realm I kept thinking that I have to remember this as it is so wonderful!!! Because I know that sometimes we get weary of praying and not seeing any results, so I hope that this sticks in your mind and is an encouragement for you!!”

 

 

            One gallery is downsizing, so I go pick up my paintings and bring them back home. Another gallery is rebooting for the tourist season, so they bring older art back and trade it for newer work. It’s a constant state of flux. I rehang our gallery yet again. I rearrange the storage closets. I shuffle things around. It’s the life of commerce. It takes away from creative time, but so does Facebook—not to mention the Olympics, housekeeping, and figuring income taxes. It’s all part of the game.

The art game—it’s the strangest business I know.

            Galleries are run on good will. What other business is there where you can get free inventory--where vendors are waiting in line to offer you free goods and services? Galleries don’t buy art, but they do sell it. Artists are vying for gallery representation. Competition is fierce. I’m on both sides of the fence. I am an artist with my own gallery and I have my work in a few other galleries and locations. Our gallery mostly features my work, my husband’s, and my dad’s. We don’t have room for other artists—although there are many fine Eureka Springs artists that I wish we could feature. We have one annual invitational show that features other artists: The Art as Prayer Exhibit during the month of May. It will be here soon.

            Day-to-day life is busy and fulfilling. I try to write when I have the time, but it tends to get crowded out by other chores. I paint as much as possible, but sometimes a few days slip by. There are plenty of paintings in the gallery, so there is no hurry to produce more, yet I am compelled to paint—if only to try and reach the height of my potential. It seems the days go by so fast. Old people used to tell me that but I never believed them, until now.

          “Childhood Prayer,” the title of my recent painting, is a portrait of my favorite house I ever lived in: an old two-story house with a full basement in a tiny Kansas town. Upstairs it had a sunroom that overlooked my favorite place: the tree house. The tree pictured here is that special one where I spent so many hours dreaming about how wonderful my life would be. I had no reason to think it wouldn’t continue to be wonderful in the future. The swing is symbolic of our basement trapeze. I don’t know if it was the house that was so special, or merely the time in my life when I was just a kid having fun—playing, skating on the sidewalks, climbing trees, roaming the streets of our safe little town, enjoying simple family life. Many people never have the privilege of a happy childhood—even for a few years, so I need to express my extreme gratefulness to my parents for providing such a safe and nurturing home life.

            The house was next to a secondary highway that led out into the rolling hills of extreme northern Kansas. The scapegoat is on the road waiting for me to leave my beloved home and travel through life. I missed my old gray house terribly, but a person has to move on and live their life. I loved the next place we lived, although the house was not as magical. The town of Greensburg, Kansas, became my hometown where my real life started. It also was a safe place where I was free to walk the streets, ride my bicycle, and grow up unconstrained.

             (If you don’t know the symbolism of the scapegoat in the Old Testament, look it up sometime; it’s a fascinating study.)

 

Every artist needs a healing team. Me—I go to McNeal Chiropractic Center in Berryville, Arkansas. Dr. Chuck and Ramona McNeal, a crucial part of my artistic team, help keep me together. If my back hurts or I have a headache, I certainly can’t paint at the peak of my creativity. Standing at the easel day after day contributes to a certain amount of neck and shoulder stress—an occupational hazard. So I look forward to my sessions with Chuck and Ramona to keep me on the narrow path of health. I don’t know what I would do without them. I can walk into their office with the worst headache and a half hour later, I’m all good again. I consult with them on all my health issues and get not just care for my musculoskeletal health but also advice on supplements, exercise choices, diet, stress management and lifestyle. And they are a joy to work with. Chuck and Ramona, I salute you! And Sandy, their faithful assistant, too! You all are wonderful!

            A friend who read last week’s blog remarked on how puzzled it left her. All last year I complained to her about how dismal church life was, and how much I didn’t like it. Then, to her great surprise, I wrote this really sweet blog about it. “What happened?” she asked. I told her that I’m sorry but I guess I am a hypocrite to my own negativity.

            I have been angry at the church for so long that I must have gone past the threshold and arrived at some kind of tolerance. Anyway, I can no longer tolerate my own anger so I guess I had better learn how to tolerate the church. Anger takes too much out of me. For too long I have been going to church mad. I have not wanted to be there, yet I kept going back—mostly, I told myself, for my husband and family. But I have free choice in the matter. Something in me must have wanted to be there.

            It seemed that I often left church more disappointed than uplifted. I looked back through my journal from last year and my ranting about the church is mostly negative. Twice last year I recorded that God actually showed up there. But maybe it was me that finally showed up. There is always a choice to gaze full upon the darkness or to turn towards the light. Maybe it’s a miracle and I have turned a corner of some kind. Maybe it was just the Xanax I took for my headache last week that helped me to enjoy the church service. Maybe it’s that I could finally accept imperfection. Perhaps it’s the imperfection that makes it so dear. It’s just a bunch of imperfect people who are trying their best to serve God and their fellow humanity, who want something more than just an average life, who have faith that God is there, and this is the best way they can show their love for him. It’s not sophisticated. In fact, you have to become very simple to find God.

            So today I tested my theory. No Xanax, even though I had another headache. It was Boy Scout Sunday. The scouts carried in the colors to open the service. The reading was from the book of Jeremiah. During the children’s moments, the kids determined that Jeremiah was a bullfrog. Stan asked if he jumped at the chance to be a prophet.

            I looked around at the cast of characters. Sitting near me is a man in an epic battle with cancer, a woman who has just lost her mother, a man with Alzheimer’s who stares hunched-over frowning at his watch, a woman behind me raising her great granddaughters, a friend whose mentally ill daughter has gone missing. The list goes on and on—people struggling with life, both winning and losing, depending on the day. My friend, Rose, dressed in valentine colors, wears her heart on her sleeve—literally. Funny. We sing too many hymns. We stand up and sit back down a lot throughout the liturgy. I try to focus on God in spite of it all. My headache is pounding. I ask God if he will help me, so I don’t have to resort to drugs.

            What does Jeremiah have to say to all of us?

            Stan gives us the seminary explanation of the “call narrative:” 1) God calls the prophet; 2) the prophet says “No way!” 3) God adjusts the prophet’s attitude; 4) the prophet says okay, and then is usually martyred at the end of his life. Stan said that he finds this standardized way to become a prophet similar to how we begin our books of non-fiction. The first page, usually acknowledgements, is similar to the calling of a prophet. Then the story begins. Then we like an orderly and settled story, just as we want our lives to be free of chaos. We dream of a day when things will fall into place. We like our routines. No unqualified surprises for us, thank you very much. We prepare for disasters with insurance and retirement planning. We plan for the worst, but hope for the best. We build our walls of security and protection, but then the floods of life overwhelm us. What do we do?

            That’s the situation Jeremiah was in. A time of cosmic chaos and disorder, his people saw their homeland reduced to rubble. Everything that humans loathe and guard against happened during Jeremiah’s day. That’s why he was called the weeping prophet.

            It’s not that we wish for chaos, but when it comes, maybe we can stop and hear the voice of God and let God overcome our fears. We often live in a fog of unconsciousness. Only something startling awakens us to what’s important, even though it was right before our very eyes all along. Destruction eventually turns into building and planting. That’s evidence of the work of almighty God—always doing new things. Stan asks: "Is it in spite of or because of the chaos?"

           As I leave the congregation this day, I am more convinced all the time that the parable of the treasure buried in the field is about the church. You can find the priceless treasure there, but it’s not without the effort of digging in the dirt.

Since I didn’t make it to the Chocolate Fest at the Inn of the Ozarks or the spiritual chocolate fest out at Christview Ministries, I had to have my own in the studio. My dogs only got to watch, as they are not allowed to indulge in harmful human habits. Have you tried the new chocolate bar with sea salt and roasted almonds from the health food store? Wow. I am working on more miniature paintings—also on another painting that is not ready for viewing. I can’t wait for my client to see his two wonderful paintings! I hope he likes them.   The snow is almost gone. I’m not sad like I usually am when snow leaves. I guess I’ve had my fill for now. But I still love it when it snows here. Eureka Springs is beautiful covered with snow.

	The Lovin' Oven not only has the best pizza in town, they also serve up a great slice of Eureka culture. Friday mornings our little band of Methodists have coffee there (they also have the best pastries). Today we got a sneak preview of Larry Mansker's soon-to-be-published book. He showed us the original watercolors that are going to be represented in the book. Our local flower-lady Georgette Garner came in to consult with Larry on the finer points of the floral aspects of his project. Then Julie Kahn Valentine came over to our table with her latest batch of original valentine cards--just in the nick of time to save us from embarrassment. At the other tables were various artists, writers, dancers, pastors, journalists, photographers, organic gardeners, and retired nuclear physicists. What a town! It's the greatest. It's a very cosmopolitan city disguised as a small town. People know each other and even care about one another.
	So I am blessed to be an artist here, to live and work in such a picturesque and marvelous place. The atmosphere is quiet, yet stimulating. The pace is not rushed, but there is a lot going on. The creative vibes are at a very high frequency. Life is good, and when it's not so good, we pray for those among us who are suffering, and we try our best to offer assistance however we can.
	I had a long and wonderful day in the studio yesterday. I can't show you what I'm working on, because it's for a client who hasn't seen it yet. But I will show you some more little paintings that you haven't seen yet.

	Happy Almost! Only a few shopping days until the love holiday! Eureka Springs is the perfect place to spend Valentine's weekend. You can shop for that special present while you're here, thus alleviating the stress of pre-buying. Just come here and stay in one of our lovely bed-n-breakfasts, cabins, or hotels. Eat in our great restaurants. Shop, relax, get a massage, sit in the hot tub. Go to the Chocolate Festival.
	Most importantly, buy some art! What could be better than an original work of art? How about a miniature original oil painting--framed and ready to hang? Come to Studio 62. Or go to one of the many other fine galleries of Eureka Springs.
	I know this is a shameless advertisement, and not really a blog. Sorry! I will show you what I have been working on. Will that make it up to you? Here's some more wonderful miniature oil paintings (you know, the kind you want to buy for Valentine's Day???) Oh, sorry! I did it again. Take a look at the new ones. Thanks for tuning in, Mom!

 

            More snow! At left is a photo taken yesterday morning.

            I have spent a lot of time in the studio during the days of school cancellations. Those poor kids will be in school until July this year. Even the health club has been closed a lot this winter. Everything just shuts down here when the roads are bad. With all the hills and valleys, it’s just too treacherous. 

            Three more pastels have been resurrected from the bone pile—which are pictured here. I improved them enough that I can put them in the gallery. My skills increase very slowly, but they do increase. I thought I would be a really great artist by now. Instead I am a very humble artist.

            Also a new pile of small paintings are started—which I will show you tomorrow. So I had better get busy.

 

 

 

 What’s an artist to do?

            What do artists, poets, and musicians talk about when they get together in coffee shops? Perhaps not what you might think. Many are involved in an important but overlooked aspect of our local economy. Every time the newspaper carries the event listings for the latest benefit auctions, the artists are involved. They contribute to Eureka Springs’ very own version of catastrophic health insurance-- people getting together to solve their own problems, without relying solely on the help of government programs, that in many cases are inadequate or nonexistent. We are told that the key to our future survival is local economic sustainability. Well, this is it, folks. The artists and musicians, who often struggle for their own economic survival, are engaged in the time-honored Eureka Springs’ tradition of helping others who are also struggling.

            With artists, it’s always about the art—but equally about the deep need to share the work with others. Often plagued with the dilemma of balancing the joy of creation with the making of a reasonable living, artists can offer valuable services to their communities.

            Three friends, Ann Carter, Jody Stephenson, and Ron Lutz, decided they wanted to do what they could to give back to their beloved town of Eureka Springs. Instead of traditional philanthropy, they devised a way to use their artistic gifts to the most advantage to help a worthy cause. Ron had volunteered at the ECHO Clinic for the first two years of its existence, so he was familiar with the impact of the work being done there. 

   Ann Carter compiled her life’s work of poetry into a beautiful volume entitled, Sweetness: Collected Poems 1974-2009, and dedicated all profits from book sales to go to ECHO. Her book is available at the ECHO bookstore and at Studio 62.

            Jody Stephenson and Ron Lutz of Studio 62 were inspired by Ann’s example. After they toured ECHO’s  new facility and saw the expanse of warm yellow blank walls, they prepared a collection of Jody’s paintings to help beautify the space. Knowing what a significant difference the presence of original art makes to any home or public space, they decided to start the ball rolling with the donation of a collection of 41 paintings—hoping that other artists might be inspired to join in this worthy community project.

            This is not the first time that Ron and Jody have donated a large body of art work to a worthy cause. When Jody’s home town of Greensburg, Kansas, was hit by a massive tornado, the couple had an exhibit of 50 works at the 5.4.7. Arts Center designated to go to the tornado survivors, and any donations received went solely to benefit the art center’s work.

            The ECHO Clinic has received a lot of press coverage and has brought Eureka Springs national attention for being a town that cares. That, in itself, is a great accomplishment—as is the great work the clinic does in helping the well-being of the community. It’s a privilege to live and work in such a town as Eureka Springs.

 

         Since I go to the First United Methodist Church of Eureka Springs nearly every Sunday, I thought I might blog about it—at least my experience of it. This morning, February 7, was cold and dreary with the threat of more snow tonight. Church has been cancelled 2 out of the last 5 Sundays due to the weather so we were all glad to be there. Our little Sunday school class is almost like a family. Always glad to see each other, we share life stories, local news and jokes until our teacher, Virginia, arrives. Her lesson today focuses on the option we have to “not worry.” We can choose to tune into the worldly channel of false hype, commercialism and doom, or we can listen to heaven’s whisperings whose resounding chorus is: “Don’t worry, God is in control. There’s no reason to live in fear.” It’s a timely message that we all need. We close with prayer and then head over to the church building.

            The foyer is a mass of people talking, greeting, hugging, scurrying about, drinking coffee and eating treats, before going into the sanctuary for the morning worship service. After we are all seated, prayer requests are announced: people who lost loved ones, those struggling with illnesses and facing surgeries, and those embarking on travel plans. Announcements ensue: the upcoming UMW chili supper, a fundraiser for the monastery that burned down last year, and a benefit for the local nursing home. Tickets are available for all. Tragedies and joys are interwoven—paving the narrow path we walk between despair and joy.

            Our wonderful local physician, Dr. Bell, leads us in a prayer of confession, reorienting us to a position of faith and forgiveness. The elements of the Lord’s Supper wait for us at the altar. The offering is taken by the ushers, reminding us of our true position as dependent creatures on the providence of God to sustain our fragile lives. The woman in the pew behind me taps me on the shoulder and comments on my crazy socks, asking me where I got them. I’m wearing a sweater knitted by a friend who is sitting a few pews ahead. She looks back at me and gives me the thumbs up. It reminds me of how we are knitted together by love and care in ways we don’t even realize. It’s the magic of the local church body that in the midst of all this, we are partaking of a greater reality then we can currently comprehend. It’s much too subtle for us to feel its full effects.

            The gospel reading is from Luke 5:1-11, the passage about Jesus teaching the crowds from the boat, then the miraculous catch of fish, then the disciples leaving their fishing business to follow Christ. Stan jokes that the only miracle Jesus couldn’t seem to pull off was that of getting away from big crowds. People followed him everywhere. In the story, the disciples have fished all night and caught nothing so they are just standing around with their hands in their pockets. Jesus tells them to go back out and try again. A miracle happens. Two boat loads full of fish. In an instant, they have achieved sudden financial solvency. But instead of setting up a bigger office, they leave everything to follow the Lord of the miracle.

            Stan continues: Experiencing the living God is what it’s all about. We feel God, and then we decide to follow Jesus. That’s how this thing works. Stan has shared with us over the years the people who have helped him find God. Today he related his great dreams fresh out of seminary of building a congregation. He immediately went to work, studying census statistics and demographics to prepare his strategies for church growth, all the while maintaining his normal pastoral work. Visiting Edna, one of the church widows, was a duty that turned out to be life-altering. Through her 14 faithful years of church attendance and exemplary lifestyle, her skeptical husband was finally converted. Watching this kind of modern miracle put Stan’s preacherly plans in proper perspective. He realized then and there the impact that others have on our lives is the profound means of grace that Wesley was talking about. From there he smoothly transitioned us into another means of grace: Holy Communion which Methodists perform once a month. Stan says it won’t stir or overwhelm us every time (I don’t agree) but there are enough times when we have felt the living God there that we want to follow Jesus. Stan closes his sermon as always, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” It gives weight to the words that precede it.

            Methodists believe in an open communion service, welcoming anyone no matter where they are in their journey of faith. This we do in remembrance of Christ until we feast with him in the heavenly banquet. “The body and blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ given for you, may it keep you unto eternal life.” Over and over, like a mantra, the pastor repeats this phrase. Each time it gains in power and momentum—like the engine of a train carrying us into the great beyond. “Go in peace to love and serve God and your neighbor in all that you do.” The ushers choreograph us through the orderly ritual as the weight of the solemn ceremony crushes down upon us. I gaze over the people kneeling at the communion rail, most I know by name. It is a dear sight to see them there as I have so many times before. Jesus said to remember him—this we do here and now. I try to ponder his great sacrifice as I kneel there. The sweetest part for me personally is when a fellow church member hands me the communion bread and then the plastic cup of juice—especially if they call me by name and look me in the eyes. After it’s over, the members cough in a scattered collective chorus, perhaps choked on the sweetness of the undeserved grace we have just received. The pastor gravely covers the remains of the communion elements with white cloths. We sing the closing hymn: “Fill my cup, Lord.” The candles are extinguished by two lovely young girls, one of them the pastor’s daughter.

            Another week done. Stan gives us the benediction and we depart in peace. The solemnity is over. Immediately the roar of talking and laughter fills the sanctuary. This too is a solemn and sacred rite—people exchanging their own taste of grace with each other in their jokes and stories and questions of concern. It’s not what they say, but the shared love and intensity of the exchange. Most file through the double doors to have their turn at shaking the pastor’s hand. Some of us duck out the side door, grabbing the last two chocolates left from the fellowship coffee—the most wonderful chocolates I’ve ever had. They seemed like sweet life-giving communion bread--filling my soul with happiness as we walked to the car. Back home--to life, to business, to chores and responsibilities. May the body and blood of the Lord Jesus Christ keep me unto eternal life.

           Blog, blog, blog. What if everyone had their own blog? Who would be left to read them all? The longer I blog, the more I doubt the validity of this activity. But if I question this, I would have to assess the relative merits of the rest of the things I do. And one thing I’m sure of: I don’t know which of the things I do are meaningful in the true sense of the word.

 

 

           A co-worker of mine once said something profound while I was questioning the validity of our seemingly mundane work preparing a bulk mail-out. She said: “If this is meaningless, then everything is meaningless.”  I’ve never forgotten those words. All of our lives and activities are interrelated, never as closely as now. We don’t always know what the important things are. Sometimes the least little comment we make can be life-changing to someone else. We do not know the ultimate impact we have on others--so we have to keep on trying, keep on believing, and keep on doing art. God will sort it all out in the end.

         I worked some more on the bone piles—trying to bring the pastels up to speed. Once again, I don’t know if I succeeded or not. I need to constantly remind myself: It's a privilege to paint, a great honor to be an artist, no matter what happens on the ladder of success. The worst thing would be to get to the top of the ladder and find out it was leaning on the wrong building. 

        My friend Julie used to call her stack of paintings in the basement, “the old bone pile.” Every artist has got one: a pile of paintings that you always meant to finish but lost interest in, or works that are finished but unframed, or those uncooperative paintings that you just couldn’t solve.

 

 

 

    Today I faced one of my piles. I got out some oil pastels that I had never quite finished to my satisfaction. Since hopefully my skills are at a higher level a year later, I attempted to improve on what I had left for dead.

 

            So that is how I spent the afternoon. It was rainy, snowy, sleety, dreary, chilly, and just downright wintery today—a good day to be in the studio. I started in with full resolve. Surely I can do something great, I thought.

 

 

 

      Fast forward to the end of the day, and all I can say is that I did what I could—to the best of my ability and concentration on this wintery day. I’m not convinced that any great work was achieved, but I tried.

I was having chai tea at my favorite place in Rogers: Borders at Pinnacle Promenade. I gathered up a batch of current art magazines to peruse while sipping. I was flabbergasted at the number of excellent new artists that I had not previously even heard of. I try to keep up on who's who in the realm of art that interests me: contemporary impressionistic semi-realism. (I guess that's a category.) I love the work of Kevin MacPherson, Walt Gonske, Doug Higgins, Steven Charles Shortridge, Ted Goerschner, Mark Daily, Camille Przewodek, Doug Dawson, Duane Wakeham, and John Axton. Those are just a few names that I can actually remember, but there are many more whom I admire. 

Well, now there are dozens, even hundreds, of new names on the scene, that are equally as good. I don't know whether to be inspired or depressed. Looking at the work itself is thrilling for its own sake. But when I find out that a body of beautiful mature work has been painted by a 20-something-year-old newcomer, my inspiration comes to a crashing halt. To know that there are many artists better than me who are 30 years younger is somewhat hard to take. I honestly believe that there is no real competition in painting, that every artist has their own style, and that is what is important--even though there are gazillions of painting competitions to prove me wrong.

The best advice I can give after spending most of my life painting is this: Use what you have to the best of your creativity, ingenuity, and motivation. Give it all you've got with all your heart. It's a great life just to do it, even if you never make money or achieve fame of any kind. I guess it's enough to know that there is an awesome crop of new painters for the world to enjoy, that painting has not been replaced by the computer as some predicted it might, and that people still love to paint no matter what the outcome of their individual struggles with it.

         My mom says that my paintings are like tribbles; they just keep multiplying. As Captain Kirk quickly discovered, the trouble with tribbles is that you have to find somewhere to put them or they eat you out of house and home. For self-preservation, you resort to desperate measures like secretly beaming them aboard the Klingons’ ship.

 

         Instead of that, I started hanging my small paintings in our gallery, taking down a lot of the big expensive paintings. It felt good to get a new look going. It’s always a boost to change things, to improve and update the place. Now all we need is for the weather to please cooperate so we could get some tourists to come to Eureka Springs.

 

        Not much time in the studio today. More little paintings that needed tended to. I guess you could call it “processing.” A lot of chores needed done. People came by this afternoon for tea. Writers group met tonight. That takes time to prepare for. That group has become a very important part of our lives. Meeting once a week for nearly four years now is a significant investment in each other’s lives. Together we’ve seen a lot of creative work accomplished—books and articles written and published, skills developed, hearts opened, pilgrims progressing. It’s a very good thing.

 

 

         After writers group, I am more aware of the craft of writing, and of the awesome responsibility of saying something. Then there is the fear of presumption, which begs the question: Should I fill up cyber-space with my little thoughts? Do I have anything worthwhile to say? 

 

 

            I am trying to focus this blog on art. But even when I reflect on my art, I wonder if I have much worth saying about it. I am too close to it. Perhaps someone more objective would be better able to discern what I am doing. Maybe a neutral observer would assume that I have very deliberate intentions, and that I direct all my efforts towards fulfilling those goals, and that what I’m doing is somehow important. Sometimes it feels like I’m just floundering around, and that I rarely, if ever, accomplish what I hope I will.  

            My painting teacher in Ft. Collins, Barb Marquardt, used to say that you work and work, and then you look at art, and then you work some more and then you look at some more art, and then you work some more, and then you look at more art. Through constant immersion in the looking and the doing, you push the envelope and move to the next level of progress. I hope she is right, because that is exactly what I am doing.