The Queen of "IN"
"Cottage Dreams"
I love to paint interiors, specially those of vintage-cozy scenes lit up and inviting. Was very happy with this little scene, which captures the best of home-charm and hospitality.
Yesterday, March 1/2023, I lost my beloved brother, Henrique.
O PAIN.
In mid May of 2021 Henrique contracted Covid. Henrique was a Catholic priest and missionary in Gabon, Africa where he built a thriving mission and served for ten years. The dire virus made straight for his lungs, already exposed to Malaria multiple times, and turned them into stone. He was placed on an ECMO machine and remained so for six months after which, incredibly enough, he was deemed a candidate for a double lung transplant. He underwent a successful surgery on Nov. 21/2021. Then followed fourteen months of recovery with times of hope and times of challenge. He fought like a champ, but succumbed yesterday to a massive heart attack. He died in his sleep.
I also lost my Dad to Parkinsons on October of 2020, and my brother, Antonio, to Covid in December of 2021.
TOUGH...
As an artist, not only am very visual but attuned to the visual symbolism "written" in the language of life.
So, the Lord "talks" to me that way.
For both my Dad and Antonio I was "given" to paint something symbolic of their persons and lives right before they died. To me, they are priceless keepsakes. I write about the painting attached to my Dad's passing in my post, "Preparing to Fly".
On February 28, unaware of the imminence of Henrique's death and hoping for his dismissal from the hospital possibly the next week, I was looking at the Dandelions in my yard.
I love Dandelions. To me they are a symbol of all of life from the perky golden heads that start in the grass, to the tall stem that reaches for the sky just before haloing into the seed puff. Then, one day, there is the stark stem. The "soul", the flower, has flown and all that is left is the body, the stem. Yet the "soul" leaves behind seeds of goodness.
Was inspired to paint. Found a tiny crystal toothpick holder, placed six golden heads in it and two seed puffs.
Just as I was satisfied with my composition, one of the golden heads fell. I felt my heart "catch", it was so sudden and so quick, but then..."Looks good in the composition", so left it.
Painted away for two hours. When done, called it, "Here Today, Flown Tomorrow."
Next day, March 1, I received the news that my brother had passed in the early dawn. Hit me like a bolt of lightning.
Painful, painful day.
Towards evening, I remembered my little painting which I had named, "Here Today, Flown Tomorrow". How apropos was that...!
Inspecting it, I realized that there were five golden flowers in the vase and two seed puffs.
Suddenly, to me, it was like this:
Five flowers: us five sisters.
Two Seed Puffs side by side: two brothers that "flew" and are now together.
Sudden Fallen Flower: unexpected severing of Henrique's life.
Crystal Vase and the crystal reflection of a heart – my parents.
Henrique LOVED his family.
Again, uncannily enough, I had been given "Henrique's painting".
As long as there are interesting shapes, there are subjects to paint.
I paint by a large window in my studio, which I had the opportunity to work into the plans when we built our house years ago.
I still kick myself for not designing the space to include a whopper walk-in closet.
I also regret placing the largest window on the East side rather than by the North neutral light, but I manage that contingency with a hanging treatment that tames the morning rays.
Still, SO glad to have that window!
Sunlight is the painter's daily gift.
In this day an age, another gift can be artificial lighting that can effectively fashion windowless rooms into fitting studios, such as basements.
But I love my big window.
The other day I sat there, looking out, my fingers itching to paint, my mind scouting for a subject.
My eyes roamed to a scraggly earthen pot with scragglier weeds.
Felt bad and apologetic to the pot for failing to plant flowers in it this year.
Just then, the last afternoon rays reaching over the house roof illuminated the pot throwing interesting shapes. When I looked at the weeds, they had been transformed into a blazing glory.
I felt "forgiven" then got excited, reached for a painting panel and squeezed out paint.
For the next hour+ I got to do a plein air painting from inside an air-conditioned room!
I used artistic license to paint in a few small flowers to soothe my greenless-thumb guilt, and to introduce dabs of color.
So here's "Old Pot, Weeds and Last Sunlight".
Never feel too hopeless or–as in my case– too guilty for lack of a subject.
The Sun's "wand"may just surprise you and transform a "pumpkin" into a painting.
I looked out there...then gasped.
A bloom! A bright yellow bloom on my dying rose bush!
Couldn't believe it.
Had so wanted yellow roses in my yard, but with my not-so-green-thumb, had chosen an inhospitable spot. So...little rose bush began struggling, then positively dying, all brown and scraggly.
Yet one morning, there it was a little sun shining!
Wow, this rose deserves to be painted.
And so I plucked, placed the rose under the lamp, and painted.
And as I did so, I thought of life with its struggles, mistakes, illnesses, death. And how, despite all these challenges, It is possible to not only survive, but thrive and shine, even when feeling alone against the wind of adversity. And how God's light shines down and makes that life grow and glow.
So I had a title, "That Lone Rose".
Then, a lady from Georgia fell in love with the painting online and bought it.
A while later she writes, "I gave my beloved rose to a friend who is sick and it gives her peace like it did me. Miss my rose, though, can you paint me another?"
"Another 'Lone Rose' coming to you, M'am!"
More recently, she writes me again, "I have a niece who is going through a tough time and loves my rose. Can you paint her another?"
"Absolutely."
By this time she and I are developing something of a friendship and calling "That Lone Rose" a "tradition".
And so it is.
And so, despite the fact that its bush has long been uprooted, "That Lone Rose" refuses to die and keeps on shining.
This was painted three years ago au plein air.
Had had a miserable week.
Lost a dear friend who left us suddenly.
Had a great disappointment with a canceled trip to be with family I hadn't seen in years.
But packed up my art supplies and headed for the Baton Rouge Botanical Paint Out, which I had entered months before.
Spotted this bunch of roses growing by a treliss and knew that was my scene.
As I painted, I felt sore with grief, yet the very act of pushing paint around soothed my mood and gave me purpose. Also, the semi-detached state of mind gave me distance from the usual painter's anxiety of getting things "just right".
The result was that I painted quickly, recording values, swatches of color and shape impressions, enjoying every brushstroke.
The event was Baton Rouge's Botanical Garden first plein-air paint-out. About thirty artists worked from early morning to late afternoon for three days in the gardens behind the main library. In the afternoon of the third day, we were to meet in one of the library's reception rooms for a "Wet Paint Sale".
As I entered the spacious room, I was pleasantly surprised at the large turn-out. I had three paintings, including the one shown, which I called "Sunlit". Somewhere along the line I missed the instruction to bring display easels, so I simply stood my paintings on a table against the wall, and went to sit by a friend.
Again, I was in a semi "daze" my mind on my loss, on the funeral and on missing my family I couldn't travel to meet.
Then I see the event's coordinator coming toward me with a big smile. Why is she smiling at me like that? What did I do?
"'Sunlit' won first place People's Award!" She was saying.
Looking over at my painting, I also saw the tell-tale red dot. The painting had sold! Ans so had another.
Then I was up in front of everybody, receiving a potted orchid and everyone was clapping.
Was so proud, so surprised and so grateful.
Thank you, Lord, I needed that.
An Artist "writes" all of life into her paintings.
So this week, as I strolled through my yard, I spied the only thing I envy from my neighbors, their blue Hydrangeas. I have tried to make them grow on my side with little or no luck.
Love, love Hydrangeas, specially in the Cobalt Blue hue. Where I grew up, in a small town called "Petropolis", in the moutains above the beautiful, bustling city of Rio, Brazil, these bloomed profusely. The climate, milder than that of Rio's, lent itself to this variety. They like sun but not overmuch.
As I admired the blooms a few days ago, my heart was heavy with the knowledge of a brother battling Covid on the other side of the Atlantic. He is a priest missionary in Gabon, Africa, a strapping, strong fellow who built a beautiful mission in that country. Through the years there, he contracted and survived Malaria several times but is now in a medically induced coma fighting for his life...
I needed to paint something to ease the heartache. So my neighbors who are also the best of friends, generously offered me to cut all I needed.
As I painted, I prayed that, like these beauties, he thrives again.
So, here they are, "Happy Blues", "Happy" for the blooms, "Blues" for my heart.
Perhaps artists should be called "admirators". I know the word doesn't exist. As I type, the spell checker just underlined the word in red.
But that is what we are as all of life/nature is fascinating to us. And then we get out our paints and try to immitate.
I like to think this admiring soul stance is a type of prayer of praise to the Creator. Admiration is certainly complimentary, and immitation the best flattery, right?
So, when a few days ago in this early May I checked the Gardenia bushes outside my studio window, there wasn't a bloom in sight. Today it is star studded. I marveled as if seeing the blooms for the first time. The profusion of snowy white flowers takes my breath away every year and the perfume as well.
And immediately I saw a painting.
So, for once, I didn't have to drag my plein-air parapharnalia outside but got to paint an outside subject from the comfort of my studio.
So here it is, "Gardenias Outside My Window" a few of those hundreds cascading down the ackward spindly stalks.
I treated this painting in a lose, impressionistic style, allowing the underpainting to show for a fresh, unfussy look.
I couldn't believe my eyes. It was early February in South Lousiana and I was looking at a flowering bush of what looked like perfect roses.
I had just been introduced to the Southern Camellia.
A Northern bride, here to stay, I rejoiced at the idea of a flower, and such a gorgeous one, blooming in Winter. To me, snow is the Northern Winter's grace, and Camellias are its Southern counter-part.
So, when we built our house, I made sure to plant Camellias. As luck would have it, one of our neighbors heads the Local Camellia Society so we had valuable input and a few gifted bushes.
This year, the profusion of Camellias was astounding. So I rushed to paint as many as I could. So glad I did as, in early February, we were hit with an Artic blast that sheathed every bloom in an icy glaze.
Here's "Smoky Red Camellia", one of my favorites for its deep crimson perfection with bluish petal tips.
This painting will forever remind me of my Dad's passing.
I worked on this Cardinal on the weekend of October 24/25 of this incredible year...As I sought a title, I couldn't come up with one I liked.
Early October 26, I packed my husband's lunch, then stood in the driveway with my dog as he drove out, a custom from my early married days, and which my Lab now holds me to. I also say a prayer for a safe trip.
That Monday, as I finished my prayer, I looked up at the morning sky just in time to see a dazzling Egret fly directly over my head.
As I came into the house and began my day, the phone rang. I "knew" it was the call I'd been lately expecting since I was told Dad's battle with Parkinsons was in its last stage. All I could say over and over was, "O...Lord..." fighting back the sobs.
The day before I had given him to the Lord, "If you need me to let him go," I whispered, "I'm letting him go". Amazing how a presence on earth, no matter how physically diminished, is so powerful and so hard to relinquish.
As I hung up the phone, in the midst of the excrutiating pain, there was relief that his long suffering, bravely and generously born, was over.
Looking at my painting, I now knew exactly what to call it, Preparing to Fly. And this one, I will never sell.
Winter arrived with a roar in South Louisiana this December (or at least what we Southerners call a "roar"), mornings in the thirties and afternoons in the fifties. It's certainly cold enough to light the fireplace, that afterthought in our house plans. We almost didn't put one in, but, at the last moment, installed a unit in a corner of the living room. So glad we did!
Thanks to the region's humidity, it turns out that it feels frostier indoors in our mild Winters than up North where I lived for years. The lit hearth takes out the house chill. So there I was, hugging a cup of hot chocolate, watching my first fire and thinking of painting a wintery scene.
Looking through photos, I came to a dead stop before a Blue Bird fluffed up against the weather. Instant inspiration. LOVE Blue Birds. The first time I saw one on my lawn, I thought that a piece of the sky had fallen.
The flitty fellow looks just as good in snow.
Somehow this chilly painting of a brave bird, his perky face set against the cold and his feathery coat filled with air for insulation warmed the hearts of 700+ fans online.
Indeed, "Blue in the Blizzard" debuted to raving reviews!
