A meadow of wildflowers

Once again I find myself performing a labour of artistic love: an interesting project for a worthy cause. What could be more satisfying? I'm talking about the Adirondack (or Muskoka if you like) chair that I'm painting as another fundraiser for Critter Care Wildlife Society.

Last year, you might remember, I completed a similar project only the theme I chose was Springtime in the Forest (read about it in A forest grows...in a chair?). The images were based on my rambles in Campbell Valley Park which is, coincidentally, where Critter Care's Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre is located. My inspiration for this year's chair was once again the park I love so well, but progressing into a new season: a summer meadow of wildflowers.

There are buttercups and daisies....

Lupines and tiger lilies...

 

And an abundance of ripe, golden salmonberries....

 

Bees buzz lazily among the blooms...

 

And a hummingbird flies by in search of nectar.

 

Voila! A chair from which a meadow of flowers springs.

 

Hopefully it will prove to be a good fundraiser for Critter Care who relies on sources like this to assist in the Society's necessary work of rehabilitating orphaned and/or injured wild mammals. A number of artists have painted chairs this year and all are being auctioned over the summer. You can see them at this online auction site: http://www.32auctions.com/crittersinthegarden (bidding starts July 12 at 11am). There's also a Critters in the Garden Facebook page.

The chairs will be making their in-person public debut at Critter Care's annual open house weekend, July 12-13, 2014. Full details about the event are available on the Society's website: http://www.crittercarewildlife.org. The chairs will also be on display at Arts Alive on August 16. The auction will close on August 17 and chairs will go to the highest bidders.

And what will be the theme of next year's chair? Visit my blog again in mid-July of 2015 to find out!

The Great Distraction

It's been challenging to focus on getting any work done in the studio these days. Why? Because of this:

Meet Lily - a two-month-old Cocker Spaniel puppy, and the newest addition to our household. Like our other newbie Hugo, she too loves shoes.

After being dog-less for nearly four months since my dear old Riley passed away, when I heard there were puppies available from a breeder I knew to have a good reputation - the place our friend Roxy originated (see Portrait of a Best Friend) - I knew it was time. As much as I loved my sweet, beautiful collie, her life-long struggle with food allergies and colitis, then in later life a degenerative spinal disease, and the task of managing an aging large-breed dog in a home with a lot of stairs led me to the choice of a small-ish dog, of a breed well-known to me, from a source where healthy, good natured pups are the priority. I am committed to re-homing dogs from shelters and rescue groups - Riley was one such dog - and support their work 100%, but I made this choice because I wanted the experience of the tight, long-term bond I would form with a puppy. Finding a puppy that fit my desired profile through the rescue network could take a very, very long time and without a dog in my life I was truly not myself. I needed to feel whole again.

Lily is, however, quite a distraction, especially when combined with the presence of another youngster in the house. Kitten Hugo is now three months old. Lily and Hugo have really hit things off after a bit of a rough start. Within one minute of her arrival here, Hugo had whacked Lily across the nose with enough vigour to make her cry. I guess he wanted to show just who's boss right from the get-go! But a week later they're now playmates and best buddies. Their rough and tumble play-times and games of Chase Me are highly amusing, to say the least, not to mention totally distracting! My efforts to photograph them while in mid-wrestle have failed so far - all I get is a fuzzy blur of black and orange - but I do have a couple of pictures that can give a sense of what's happening:

 

 

And when they sleep together, they are the epitome of inter-species cuteness.

Outside the house, the inter-species love fest continues. I have learned about the effect puppies have on humans. I have never had so many people stop to chat as when I play with Lily on the lawn! It seems everyone loves a puppy and wants to have a moment with a cute little wriggly girl who greets each visitor with a wagging tail and showers of puppy kisses.

Lily's first walk in the park was just a day or two ago. Given she's small, she spent a good part of the walk in my back-pack so as not to tire her too much. It was a nice, refreshing walk in the forest, riddled with missed photo opportunities - a yellow warbler that posed beautifully on a branch just a few yards away, baby cotton-tail bunnies munching on new grass beside the trail - because wrangling a squirming puppy and a camera at the same time proved to be just too much to manage. However, there will be many, many walks to come, and Lily will be my partner. She will learn, as Riley did, to wait quietly while I gather the reference photos that are the seeds from which artworks blossom back in my studio.

There is absolutely no doubt that Lily herself will provide artistic inspiration. She's not the first Cocker to have done so. Besides our friend Roxy there was Lady, a sweet girl who was my mom's dog some years ago...

... and more recently I completed this portrait of a darling boy named Ben who loves his ball.

So welcome Lily. You are depriving me of sleep and distracting me from my work, but you're also bringing great joy and a sense of contentment. You have some big shoes to fill but I expect you will grow into them and make them your own.

I think my old cat Rupert is particularly glad you're here, giving him a well deserved break by providing Hugo with a more energetic and much less crotchety playmate.

My tree of life

In the middle of my front lawn grows a beautiful tree: a honey locust that my mom planted 25 or so years ago. She set a trend: soon one neighbour had planted a similar tree, then another, then a few years back municipal workers planted several more to grace our boulevard. Since then, I have often thought our street should be named for them, perhaps something like Honey Locust Lane.


The honey locust trees that line our boulevard.

Our tree has flourished and grown and spread its branches gracefully, and now shelters a good portion of the front lawn. It's positioned where I can observe it from my downstairs studio window or from the picture windows in my upstairs living room, and the tips of its branches nearly touch the glass of my bedroom window. I am intimately acquainted with this tree. In the fall, when a million tiny fallen leaves blow against my front door and somehow find their way inside in their multitudes, there is a brief period of time when I am not enamoured with the tree. Thankfully it is short-lived and I have a good vacuum cleaner. 

At the base of the tree is a clump of snowdrops whose delicate blooms inform me of the arrival of spring. 

The tree's small chartreuse-coloured leaves, when they appear in late spring, offer the most delightful dappled shade - a perfect place for my old dog Riley to while away many an afternoon during the twilight of her life (see my post The Dog Days of Summer). The inviting bench below the tree draws passers-by to stop and visit. Our long-time 90-odd-year-old neighbour would often pause to rest there and chat with Riley. Both he and my old dog departed from this earth earlier this year, within a week or so of each other, but I'm certain both their spirits grace the place still.

The tree is a lively place, often bustling with birds. There are very nearly always chickadees flitting about, and often bushtits too, as well as juncos, various types of sparrows, and occasionally pretty pink finches. They twitter cheerfully to one another as they examine the branches for anything edible and use the tree as a staging area for my adjacent bird feeders. I have observed a chickadee deftly hiding sunflower seeds in crevices of the tree's bark, stashing them away for future times of need, and have seen whole broods of newly-fledged youngsters sheltering comfortably in the tree while their parents ferry snacks to them. 

My artist's eye appreciates the rich blue of a Steller's jay's plumage set against the tree's vivid green leaves in a lively analogous colour scheme, as demonstrated by this rather scruffy looking young bird.

This spring I developed the habit of every so often placing a handful of nuts in the fork of the tree's trunk, much to the appreciation of the crow couple who have been raising a family high in a nearby evergreen. Now, when they see me anywhere near the tree, they come flapping over to check and see what I've left for them.

One evening some weeks ago, when the locust tree's leaves were just beginning to bud, I glanced out my front window to see, remarkably, what I think were a pair of Townsend's warblers just a few feet away. I imagine they were using the tree as a rest-stop on their spring migration.

Another time I witnessed two Pileated woodpeckers sparring on the trunk. They circled the tree for 20 minutes or so, deeply engaged in a contest with rules incomprehensible to their human observer.

The other day, as I gazed appreciatively at the tree from my living room window (for it is at this time of year, when the leaves are fresh and new, that it is at the peak of its beauty) a green heron - the smaller, more reclusive, and much less abundant cousin of the great blues - flew between its branches right before my eyes, leaves rustling softly in its wake. A lively robin often sings its evening and morning arias from a lofty perch at the very top of the tree's branches. I awaken, with pleasure, to this soothing serenade. This morning the steady peeping of a nuthatch served as my alarm clock.

Not only do birds enjoy the tree, other species are drawn to its welcoming branches. It produces clusters of tiny flowers that attract swarms of bees whose hum can be heard inside the house. One spring I observed a stunning swallowtail butterfly camouflaged amongst sheltering foliage, just inches from my window. 

And of course the neighbourhood squirrels make good use of the tree as a vantage point from which to plan their assaults on my bird feeders.

The abundance of activity in the tree provides hours of entertainment for my cats who must content themselves with watching the world from the safety of the indoors. 

Strategically positioned cat perches provide them with excellent viewing platforms. When birdwatching proves to be too exhausting, they simply nap there with the tree providing a colourful backdrop. 

This particular tree gives me great pleasure each and every day. It is a unending source of artistic inspiration right in my own front yard, and I have learned that I don't have to travel far to observe wild creatures going about their daily lives. It has also taught me how significant one tree can be to a community. It enriches the lives of many - human and animal alike - providing shelter, a place of refuge, a quiet resting spot, a source of food, or simply a feast for the eyes. It also makes me realize just how much each and every tree counts.

There's a saying that goes something like, "The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago." If my mom were around today, I'd thank her for her foresight. 

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What's in a name?

For most visual artists, the final act of creating a piece of art is to sign their name to it. I got to thinking about this topic when I recently had the good fortune of viewing an exhibition of art by Miro at the Seattle Art Museum. I was completely engaged by his exuberant paintings and wildly creative sculptures. His profound enjoyment of art making was obvious, and it pleased me to know that right up until his death at the age of 90 he continued to create. Looking closely at his paintings, I noticed his signature. It embodied his distinctive style as emphatically as any of his artworks. It was positioned inconspicuously, but it was just as much an integral part of each painting as were the strokes of his brush.

This took me back to an art critique I attended years ago for a juried exhibition. The jury members invited artists who had submitted work to attend a session where they would discuss the selection process. The one thing I remember about what the jury had to say is this: they had seen several pieces of art that had been basically "ruined" by poorly executed signatures! They said the signature must be part of the artwork - unobtrusive yet intentional and never dominant or distracting. As a young artist with little experience, I was shocked to learn that a signature could potentially make or break a piece of art. I looked at my oil pastel drawing which had not been chosen for the show (I'll refrain from using the harsher word "rejected") and, with new eyes, viewed with horror my signature which I had clumsily scrawled across the lower right corner in large, black, block letters. Ooops!

Then and there I set about revising my approach. I worked on developing a way of signing my work that would be distinctly mine. I actually practiced what my signature would look like (and distinctly remember doing so during a math class in college; needless to say, math is not my strength). The result is this: my maker's mark that I have been using ever since:

It might look like nothing much, and it certainly lacks the style and flourish of Miro, but it's always consistent: uniquely formed capital letters strung together in a distinctive way that says "this is who I am."

I am also consistent about where I place my signature: normally in the lower right-hand corner of the artwork, leaving a bit of breathing space between the right and bottom edges, but sometimes switching it to the left it benefits the composition of the artwork. It's always written parallel to the bottom edge of the artwork. I make sure it's small and unobtrusive but I sign it deftly and with purpose.



You can barely make out my signature in the
lower right corner of this silk painting
"Blue Headed Parrots". (The watermark
in the left corner is applied only to photos
of art that I'm publishing on the Internet.)

My signature is on the left in this drawing, 
providing balance to the bird's intense gaze.

These days when I look at a piece of art, I nearly always notice the signature. What does the signature reflect about the character of the artist, about their professionalism, about their level of confidence? I find that I can usually deduce something. After all, how an artist signs their work reflects who they are. Each and every mark made on the surface of a piece of art counts.

Of course no rules are carved in stone, particularly in the art world! Some artists only sign their work on the back of the art, some like to break with tradition and put their signature on its side or at an angle (something that long-ago jury said was a poor option), others don't sign their work at all - a choice that puzzles me a bit. For me, my signature is the grand finalé of the art making process; it's that moment when I say, "this is finished" and "this is my work". On the back I write the title, the year and I sign it again. I've watched enough episodes of Antiques Roadshow to know that when a drawing or painting of mine shows up there 200 years from now, that information could be helpful!

The topic of signatures might seem totally trivial. On the scale of possible topics, it most definitely is! But my point is that even if we're not big-name artists, we can approach our work as if we are and make sure our art speaks to who we are, right down to the final, small detail of how we sign our names.

The meaning of art

It sounds like the name of a Monty Python movie. It's a big topic. So big, in fact, that I'd be deluding myself to think I could even begin to do it justice. While the title of this post could be perceived as either very lofty or very silly, my intention is to express my thoughts on what art means from a personal perspective as a working artist and a life-long appreciator of art. 

I have often thought of artists as proverbial canaries in the coal mine when it comes to economics, at least when it comes to average working artists who make and sell art for a living (I'm not referring to those who get by on grants or who are at a career point where their work is in the ethereal realm of serious collectors). As a rule of thumb, when people tighten their belts, artists are the first to feel it because what we produce is, in truth, something people can do without when there's a choice between buying art or buying groceries. That's not at all surprising, although it can be disconcerting to those who make and sell art to buy their own groceries. However, even when times are not tough, many people choose to buy things other than art and are content with covering their walls with department store prints that match their décor. I'm not judgemental - anything on the walls is so much better than nothing, and during my life I have had my share of space-filling pictures on my walls. But as both an artist and someone who appreciates art made by others, I can't imagine my home without art that is meaningful to me and, if at all possible (i.e. within my limited budget), created by hand by the artist. 

As you might expect, my house is full of art. Both inside and outside my studio hang portraits of my own animals, some still living and others not. For an animal-loving artist like me, there isn't much that's more meaningful that a portrait of one of my four-legged friends. Of course not everyone could or would want to have as many portraits as I do, but given the business I'm in, not only do these images keep me connected to my animal buddies, they provide useful samples of my artistic skills.

My portrait of my horse Duke (now long deceased).
It keeps me company in my studio.

My portrait of one of my current cats, Archie.
It hangs outside my studio door. The real Archie
enjoys hanging out with me in the studio.

Throughout the rest of my house there are batiks and paintings and serigraphs and other art pieces that have special connections - and no, not all of them depict animals, and no, not all of them are originals. None of them were very expensive. However, they're all meaningful to me. They can take me back to the place where I bought them, or make me feel a wash of emotion through the interplay of their colours, or they connect me with a time, or a person, or a thing that holds significance. I get deep enjoyment from them. There are prints and posters on my walls too, and while each of them means something to me, it's the originals that mean the most.

A Haitian style painting that I purchased in a harbour-front market
in St. Lucia. I can feel the bustle of the market when I view it.

A paper batik in a style not dis-similar to my own.
It has adorned my walls for many years and I never tire of it.

Some west coast art - raku starfish and a First Nations serigraph -
each of which I acquired while vacationing on Vancouver Island.

Owning a piece of original art means having something completely unique and special. It gives us pleasure and is something that we, our families, and our friends will admire, enjoy and discuss for years to come. Thankfully, original art doesn't have to be expensive although it certainly can be. For the price of a pair of shoes or a weekend away we can have something on our walls that has lasting value both on a personal level and quite possibly as an investment in the future. After all, history demonstrates that art is a legacy that is passed down through generations.

The direction this is taking might sound like a bit of ruthless self promotion - and perhaps in a way it is - but it's also a plug for supporting whichever local artist strikes your fancy. When you purchase a piece of art you also support the artists who enrich our communities. Their efforts enhance our quality of life in ways that often are not recognized or appreciated, but that's a topic for another day. True artists are compelled to make art, whether they sell it or not. However, selling a piece is validation; each sale is a meaningful moment for the art maker.

I think it's safe to say that without art our lives would indeed be the poorer for it. The art in my house is a large part of what makes it my home. I've spoken before in other posts about clients who are moved to tears when they first see the portrait I have made of their beloved pet. Interestingly, I've also seen tears in the eyes of people purchasing a piece of art that they saw and simply fell in love with. And I always feel a little pang when a piece of art I have created leave me for its new home. It's an emotional business!

Over the coming months there will be art fairs, and arts festivals, open studio events, paint-athons in parks, and all kinds of spaces and places where artists will show their work to the public. I encourage you to stop and have a look. Maybe you'll see something that strikes a chord within you, that will look perfect in your home, that will give you years of enjoyment, that will have personal meaning. Take it home, hang it up and enjoy! And take pleasure in the knowledge that your purchase also meant a lot to the maker of that piece of art.

In with the new

I don't think there's ever been a time in my life when a cat has not been part of my household. Over the years there has been a parade of felines - sleek cats and fluffy cats, tortoiseshells and tabbies, boys and girls (aka toms and mollys) - a veritable clowder of them! Many have joined me at very young ages and spent their entire lives in my keeping. The longest was a calico named Pumpkin who was with me more than 20 years, and I am expecting that my current old guy Rupert, now 19 and still going strong, may surpass that record (you can read more about him in my earlier post Rascally Rupert).

My aquarelle coloured pencil drawing of Pumpkin.

Up until a couple of days ago, I had two cats: Rupert and his three-year-old sidekick Archie. They're a good team, they enjoy one another's company, and appear to be happy and contented house mates. 

Rupert and Archie holding "hands" - a picture of contentment.

However, over the past while I have observed that Archie's youthful rough-and-tumble style of play has become challenging for Rupert. Once in a while Rupert will have a burst of energy but more often than not the old guy would rather find a sunbeam to curl up in for a nap. This brought me to the conclusion that it was time to infuse some fresh energy into the house to give Archie a new playmate and Rupert some respite. As a result, a new recruit has now joined the team:

Meet Hugo, the newest member of the household. He may be small at just 8 weeks old but he's already showing signs that he is going to be a force to be reckoned with, not unlike his "uncle" Rupert. When he arrived just a few days ago he marched out of the cat carrier, sized up the situation, and started to play. Just like that, he made himself at home.

He has displayed a particular liking for shoes, particularly pink ones, and it matters not whether a human foot is inside them. I have learned to keep my ankles covered.

He and Rupert have hit things off pretty much from the start. Rupert, during the course of his long life, has seen cats and dogs come and go from this house. Some were long-term family members, others were short-term fosters, and others were simply guests. He has taken each one in stride. There is very little that has ever fazed Rupert and Hugo has posed no exception. As I write this they are snoozing together on the sofa, big and little, senior and baby orange cats together.

Rupert and Hugo's first encounter.
Hugo tries to show just how big and tough he is.

Archie, on the other hand, has not been quite so gracious - in fact he's been quite stand-offish and even downright rude to the little guy. However, I can see he's intrigued with Hugo's playful antics and I'm confident it won't be long before they're frolicking together.

If all goes as expected, Hugo will be a cherished member of my family for the next couple of decades. During that time he will amuse and at times annoy (while I've been writing this he woke up, jumped on the keyboard twice... no ... three times, attacked my elbow, climbed on my head, and irritated Rupert enough that he decided to go find a more peaceful spot for his evening nap). 

Hugo will be my friend, companion, and confidant, and there's absolutely no doubt he'll inspire some art just as those who went before him have done. And it won't be the first time an orange cat has been my muse.

My silk painting "Orange Cat and Red Geraniums"

So welcome Hugo - we're glad to have you aboard! Well, maybe not all of us... not quite yet anyway.

 

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Both Hugo and Archie were adopted via the good folks at the Katie's Place Cat Shelter - an amazing non-profit organization dedicated to the welfare of cats and kittens.

Turning the tables

Earlier this month I had the infinite pleasure of participating in an art workshop - not as instructor for a change, but as student. The instructor: artist Dawn Emerson. My artistic goal: to loosen up and have fun! The outcome: success (at least I think so).

Dawn Emerson is a mixed media artist from central Oregon. The workshop coordinator for my local chapter of the Federation of Canadian Artists is an enthusiastic fan of Dawn's and suggested we bring her north to teach us a bit of what she knows. When I saw Dawn's work online I knew I wanted to experience whatever she had to offer (you can check out her work at www. dawnemerson.com). She has a colourful esthetic and powerfully abstract point of view, and you're bound to notice that she shares a passion for animals not dis-similar from my own. She also, like me, loves to draw.

For three days, under Dawn's guidance, we scissored and pasted and sketched and immersed ourselves in what were, for me, some unfamiliar media and techniques as well as some that were old "friends" from my days in art school: charcoal, pastels of various types, paints and papers I'd forgotten I knew anything about. We contemplated our subjects in abstract terms; in the simple language of light and shadow. We fooled around with colour, not from life but from our imaginations. We played and experimented with combinations of different media and techniques. It was a wonderful opportunity for me to leave behind the business of art making and all it entails, and simply enjoy the experience.

Interestingly enough, we concentrated for a time on images of pears - something with which participants in my own coloured pencil workshops are very familiar!



Pears in charcoal - light and shadow creating forms.

Pears in mixed media - six varied approaches.

I was really pleased with what I produced, particularly on the third day of the workshop. It began with a series of big, loose charcoal sketches based on a black and white photograph of a marsh wren I'd brought along for reference. Here is a sampling of some of the sketches:

 

 

The series culminated with this colour sketch completed in charcoal and pastel, with only the black and white photo and my previous sketches for reference:

It's a far cry from the finely-detailed coloured pencil drawings over which I slave for days on end, or for the highly-refined concepts that I produce as silk paintings. It was fast, it was loose and it reminded me of why I make art - for the pure joy of it!

Thank you, Dawn, for a memorable art-making experience.