It's My Painting. I Want Blue Thunderclouds

My studio gets a bit crowded at times. Ghosts from my childhood stand around waiting to be recognized. They are always friendly, just not always helpful. Yesterday it was Mr. Todas telling me about Mr. Nolan. I really didn't have time to hear about Mr. Nolan, I had a painting I wanted to finish before the end of the day. I listened to Mr. Todas tell me how Mr. Nolan lost his sight because of a gas attack in the first World War, leaving him a very angry man. “Never leave your toys on the sidewalk where Mr. Nolan will have to kick them out of his way,” Mom told us. I guess that's why I stop sometimes and put things away in the studio when I am busy with painting. “Never think bad of Mr. Nolan,” Mom told us.

I was having trouble placing a cow in my painting. Mr. Todas came forth with some advice - nothing to do with my cow problem though. My ghosts are like that. Couldn't see how watering my geraniums would help with my cows… While watering my geraniums, I see the problem with my painting. Ghosts just pop up at times with advice not even remotely helpful, then I see the problem. I scraped off the cow and took a deep breath, watering my windowsill geraniums for Katie Linster and Mr. Todas. Sure enough, I got my cows right with my second attempt. Mr Todas went back to reading the paper to Mr. Nolan, which was what he did in the corner of the studio. Katie went back to sewing. Uncle Melvin approved of the cows I'd been playing with in my landscapes, though he did have questions about the clouds that seem to be creeping into my work lately. A knock on my door and everyone scattered.

Ann and Addie, from down the hall, came for their daily visit. Addie is Ann's little dog. Now Ann doesn't see my visitors but I think Addie does, Addie is always staring up at something and sniffing around my canvas rack where Sportie, Katie's dog, runs when visitors come.  

With the visit over, I return to my painting and my friendly ghosts return. Now why did I like that blue for the cloud? Has to be more than for its name, Paris Blue. Kim says I like it. It made her jeans look sexy in the painting of her. “Do you want sexy clouds?” Uncle Hank asks. “Stick to the blues I taught you to use,” my art teacher interjects. So many voices sticking their nose in. Time to sit back and watch the clouds drift by my window and unpack my new frames. Put a few things away before Mr. Nolan kicks them out of his way, and then back to the cows and that Paris Blue thunder cloud. Moans from my friends and more questions about blue clouds.

It's my painting. I want blue thunderclouds, at least let me turn the grey clouds with my blue.   

Mounds of Old Memories

Last summer my neighbors had a fence put in around their backyard. They couldn't afford to have the entire fence put up by professionals so half was built by their tenant. Every morning I take the time to pause and look at one board pulling free as it warps. Nails can't hold. A robin sits atop that fence each morning, admiring his work covering my windshield. I smile and compliment him on it.  

Switching on the studio lights, I leave the outside world behind. I turn on the coffee maker and computer, to get started.  My world begins to waken. Greetings from my easel, a friendly smile from a clean palette, brushes ready, I lay out fresh dabs of paint on mounds of old memories of long forgotten dreams. Sips of hot cocoa ready me for a day of work.

A little on-the-spot painting has had my attention for a week . It should make for an interesting day as I attempt to combine it with sketches of cows and a sunset burning in my head. No music again today, I’ll listen to a movie that I have watched already. "Wonder” is a movie about a little boy facing the world of school and peers with his scared face. Twelve times I've watched it - or rather listened to it. I need good people in my studio, even if they 're only present on my computer.  

I'm blessed with being able to close my studio door and create this world for myself. I share this world with others through my paintings. Sometimes I take a trip back to my childhood in painting a scene of Katie Linsters kitchen window, other times I travel back to do a painting of my cousin in a hammock reading. For me, painting is about feelings, not about being clever.  I forgive myself for the bad compositions and designs I stumble through. Katie forgives me too most times and Uncle Melvin laughs at my badly drawn cows.  The hills are a bit higher, the grass a bit greener, and that purple cloud from the post office has found its way to the hills I see alongside my sketchbook cows.

As my movie plays on, my painting begins to breathe and the smell of the country comes back. Grass beneath my feet now, wildflowers brush against my legs as I lean back and take in what has appeared on the scarey white canvas that first greeted me. I reward my brushes with a warm bath and give my palette a good rubdown.  Switching off the lights and returning to that artwork on my windshield, my day ends. Audie Murphy shares my dinner with an old Western as the sun sets, pulling me out for one last bit of glory to file away.