November 10, 2018

1999 pumpkin
Pumpkin, October 1999 (watercolor and Prismacolor colored pencil on illustration board)
Newspaper pumpkin
The Tribune, 10/31/1999

Not really sure how I got the idea to submit my art with stories to The Tribune in San Luis Obispo almost 20 Halloween’s ago. But this was the first one. Once I formulated a plan to draw and write like this, it seemed a bunch of similar ideas for art and stories for kids and their families in the garden started to grow somewhere in my subconscious. And once I first saw this published in the newspaper a kind of floodgate of images and words began to tumble from my brain and out onto the waiting paper. There was a really nice editor at the newspaper who was my champion, so to speak. Beginning with that first story, she loved everything I sent her. That was really fun and satisfying.

Before I ever put pumpkin to paper and/or word to word processor I’d been thinking of Halloween and carving a pumpkin with my son who had just turned 5. I remember being struck by how beautiful pumpkins can be—not those wary ones. Some might think orange a rather rude color, but I’ve always admired the audacity of something so humble getting so much colorful attention. The shape of a pumpkin is pretty fun and unmistakable, and was forever made famous by being turned into a coach for Disney’s Cinderella. So, I always felt kind of sad for the pumpkin turned to jack-o-lantern because if you leave it alone, it’s the stuff of dreams and will remain whole and unabashedly bold for months—way past Thanksgiving and Christmas. But the minute you make that first stab into it, the pumpkin will soon die a quick, but painful death with tiny hairs and black spots of mold and mildew engulfing all that orange and shapely loveliness. Pretty dramatic, I know. But that was the angle I was going for with this first story.

But the real reason I posted all of this was not to lament the life of a carved pumpkin, but to share the untold story of the art I had created for it. I could also make a case for posting this now because Halloween was just 10 days ago and Thanksgiving’s pumpkin pie is a few weeks away, but I digress. I remember enjoying all the colors I had used to make the art, layering layer after layer of watercolor and Prismacolor colored pencils on my wonderful cold pressed illustration board. And as I built up the colors the pumpkin began to look very real and round on the flat page. But where this gets tragic is that I didn’t create the right shadow for the pumpkin, but hadn’t figured that out just yet. I kept looking at it and it looked somehow weird. Of course the editor was ready for me to submit it with my story and there wasn’t time to redo anything. And even if I’d had the time I wasn’t sure what I should do. So, I emailed the editor my story and drove the 30 miles from our house in Paso Robles to San Luis Obispo to drop off the art to The Trib. The editor loved it, and that was good because I didn’t have it around the house to look at and obsess over anymore. Now I just waited for the next Sunday morning to see what it looked like in the newspaper. It was quite a bit smaller and that was fine. Of course, once I saw it there in print I realized what was bugging me. The shadow was definitely off and it looked like the pumpkin was floating above the surface of the page and not sitting on anything. Darn! But it seemed that it was only me who noticed, so I basked in all my friend’s friendly comments about the art and story and sent a copy to my mom and dad.

After that I made sure that all the art I submitted to The Tribune was grounded on the page, or at least didn’t have a kind of surrealistic style. But the tragic story of the floating pumpkin did not end there. Here’s what happened next. As I said, I mailed a copy of the newspaper clipping to my mom and dad. They were of course very proud and extremely pleased for me. And that Christmas they gave me a present of the article beautifully framed—complete with a double matt. This, of course, was meant to hang on my wall somewhere. I still hadn’t said a word to anyone about my pumpkin shadow faux pas, so they didn’t know I probably didn’t really want to look at it. (In fact, in writing this very story I just realized that I have never told it to anyone until now.) They had also framed a copy for themselves and had it hanging on their wall, for all the world to see. I was horrified! Now this pumpkin was meant to be displayed not only in my house, but was hanging on the wall by their front door as well. They told me they showed it off to everyone who came to the door—even the UPS lady I suppose.

I dutifully hung mine up when I got it home, but couldn’t stand to look at for very long. (In fact, I put the original art in a drawer and hadn’t really looked at it again until I did this story.) I decided I would bring it out for only special fall occasions and holidays—beginning with Halloween and ending with Thanksgiving. And that’s what I have been doing for the past almost 20 fall seasons. In fact, it’s hanging up in my living room right now. But now that both my parents are gone, I proudly bring it out and celebrate the season and their lifelong belief in my art and me. I don’t look for the shadowy imperfection anymore.

But I am not cured of my mania; there is a huge mural of clouds that I did a few years back.

cloud canvas
Fantasy Clouds, spring 2017 (acrylic on 43 by 55 inch unstretched canvas)

Somehow, I let a little cheeky cloud creep onto the canvas on the left side. It just doesn’t belong there. Now, I am scheming to see if I can mix a pot of the perfect blue acrylic that I can use to make it go away. I will write about that, and the other half of the art, in a later post.

Fire update from SoCal

On June 16th of this year I posted a little watercolor I did of a structure at Paramount Ranch, just over the hill from Malibu. I had heard in our local news that some, if not all, of the structures at Western Town at that location had burned down as a result of one our latest wildfires. Hearing that news made my heart sink. So far no official photos to confirm or deny that story have been posted. However, somehow an urban sketcher got a picture and shared it online. It showed that at least one of the Western Town buildings had burned to the ground. Just unbelievable to see the “before” and “after” shots. In that photo I could see that the building constructed for the West World series (and the one I painted for 6/16/18) looked OK. But I couldn’t see if the oak I had sat under to paint that piece was unharmed. The winds here in SoCal on Thursday night and most of Friday were horrific and so many people have been evacuated for that fire–not to mention all the other fires burning in California right now. It would be so nice if we had a few rainclouds on the horizon, something to lighten this dry and fiery load. No more words from One CA Girl today…

November 3, 2018

Descanso:lights1
Descanso Garden, Enchanted Forest of Lights 2018, October 27, 2018
Descanso:lights2
Descanso Garden light vignette, October 27, 2018 (watercolor and Inktense pencil on watercolor paper)

If you’ve read many of my previous blog entries you might realize that I don’t usually post photos of where I am. But I posted this one for a couple reasons. First, I thought it interesting to see the actual objects/plants that inspired the actual piece of art. I also think that putting the actual art somewhere in the actual scene gives the viewer some kind of indication of scale. I like that. Second, urban sketchers commonly post photos of where they are with a finished painting or sketch so you can compare the real view with the made up one. I know this sounds like I’m repeating myself, but I need to add here that many of the urban sketcher posts I see come from people all over the world. And I think they secretly want us to be jealous that they are sitting in a café in Florence drinking another heavenly cappuccino from a ceramic cup and saucer with tiny spoon, waiting for a train in Osaka, or looking out over a tranquil scene in Bali. And those of us looking at the art are not. Finally, I wanted to share the connection we feel, as artists, to the places we are inspired to paint. I walked all over the Descanso Garden last Saturday, looking for the perfect spot that would share something about the holiday light show they are getting ready to present.

It took me a while to find this spot and I was getting pretty anxious by the time I finally sat down on a bench and started mixing my pots of color. As I have said, the minute I walk onto a prospective painting location my internal timer gets set to 10 minutes. And I really find myself hurrying about because the drive to paint is greater than my overall patience to wait to start painting. For this one I was really trying to think of a composition that would capture something without repeating the string of stars in the rose garden from last week’s post. I was taken by the rather perfect light spheres, but also wanted to show off the beauty of the garden as well. There must be 100 of these spheres lying around all over the garden. It was as though a couple giants had been playing night golf and forgot to pick up the random balls they had left behind. Finally, I saw this vignette of the slightly violet-colored light sphere nestled in with a chartreuse coleus with delicate lavender spiky blossoms and the vertical lines of a flowering cherry. I don’t know, maybe it has a kind of “Ikebana” feel to it. Maybe not.

A final story seemed to come to me when I realized that I had chosen a “linear” man-made light next to the organic shapes of a particularly lovely chartreuse coleus with diagonal irregular lines of the flowering cherry. I was reminded of a comment made by an instructor in a “materials for painting” class when I was at UC Berkeley. One afternoon, after we had finished an assigned project, it was time for us to place our work on a chalk tray for critique. (I don’t remember what materials we were exploring. I think it might have been acrylic paints. Not very exciting…) I remember one student’s work for some reason. She had painted a piece of pie with an ice cube on top with water running down the sides. I think I remember the art because it was pretty funny and so was she. Anyway, I don’t remember what he said about her piece of pie, but when he got to mine he made a grand comment, not about my masterful use of the targeted painting material, but about the composition. He said that I had created nice interest in my art by juxtaposing a linear shape (or something with a definite man made bent) with something more organic or something from nature. The painting was of an overstuffed chair that looked like it had been pushed into the corner of a room. And the texture of the material that covered the chair looked like fabric covered in huge yellow, green and red flowers with black outline. I remember being impressed with myself for being so brilliant, but showing such brilliance wasn’t intentional. I think I just nodded with agreement that he had understood my work on a different level apart from using a particular assigned painting material. And it wasn’t some random piece of strange pie on a Styrofoam plate. What a laugh, right?

And that’s the point here. I often wonder if some of the things we see in a painting were intended or just a happy accident that somehow worked brilliantly. If you are an artist I think you know what I mean. Do we let on that it wasn’t intentional? Or do we nod, humbly and knowingly, like our brilliance was finally discovered by the masses? Of course it could be worse and have the opposite effect where we try something and it doesn’t work. Then and you might find yourself saying that you meant it to look that way. And we convince ourselves that we are pleased with the effect, but somehow these are not the right “masses” and they just don’t get it.

Finishing this up just now I am already planning next week’s post. But there are actually possible two bits of art with stories I might tell—one about a piece of pumpkin art that went terribly wrong in so many ways and another about a piece I did last evening. I had planned on doing a sketch of some of the altars and people at a Day of the Dead Celebration in Pasadena. However, I couldn’t find a parking space and found myself back at my beloved Norton Simon Museum, just down Colorado. And there is quite a story of me sitting out front, sketching some of the “zombie-like” statues out there as the sun went down. (I hate zombies…) So, now I have to decide which one comes next. I guess we will all wait and see which one bubbles up first in my brain first, as long as zombies haven’t gotten to my brain first. Stay tuned…

A note about the dark of the moon, November 7

You are suppose to plant your bulbs at the dark of the moon. I thought the New Moon was tomorrow and had planned to put my paperwhites in the ground then. But I guess it’s not until Wed. Wish I hadn’t looked that up just now. I wonder if the flowers will mind if I am a few days early?

October 27, 2018

Enchanted Stars2
Enchanted Forest of Light, Descanso Garden October 2017 (watercolor on watercolor paper)

Two Octobers ago I went to my first Enchanted Forest of Light display at the Descanso Garden. This is part of that display. When I did this watercolor, I hadn’t yet seen the lights at night. And the afternoon I looked up and saw the star shaped lanterns I knew there must be more to the starry story. I think it was just about that time when a friend suggested we see these lit up on a night later in November. I was keen to do that. But getting back to this watercolor I remember I was again intrigued with using this odd shaped paper and decided it was perfect for this string of daytime stars. When I wrote of this watercolor paper a couple blogs ago (watercolor of trees at the Cayucos Cemetery) I like that it worked there because it added to the feeling of movement of a particular stretch of Highway 1 running between a row of trees and a favorite Cayucos beach. For this one, I liked the idea there was to be movement when you looked up and across from one side of the rose arbor to the other. I also liked that you could see the overhead trellis filled with roses and you knew you were in a garden as well as a special place to see such a display of stars during the day. When I later saw these stars the dark colored arbor disappeared into the night sky and they looked like they were just suspended there as if by magic or some other cosmic “star like” force. I also wrote about the Enchanted Forest of Lights for my January 6, 2018 blog entry—if you’re interested in my continuous obsession with being in the rose garden at the Descanso Garden. Ah me!

I realized that when I first saw these amazing larger than life stars dangling from the arbors that the whole garden (not just rose garden) was getting ready for something very special. I started thinking about what it meant to get ready for something and decided that it was really more than just anticipation as you had to get some kind of idea in your head and then actually do something. I guess since I wasn’t responsible for doing anything for this event, I could just enjoy the anticipation. I had no expectations, but was looking forward to seeing the lights anyway. I vividly remember that evening. There were 4 of us in all and we had decided to delay the lights viewing by first having dinner at a new restaurant at the garden. That was a mistake! The meal itself was forgettable, the service slow and it was overpriced. So, there was a momentary bad feeling mixed in with my anticipation for the evening. But here’s the interesting part, when we finally finished dinner we had to get ready to go outside and see the lights. It was to be a cool evening and we had brought heavy coats, hats and gloves. Now I would be ready to see something special without whining about having cold hands. I still didn’t know what I was about to see, so the excitement of anticipation crept in again as I zipped up my coat and plopped my hat on my head. There were no more disappointments after that. The lights were amazing and the moment we walked into the Enchanted Forest I had already forgotten about the forgettable overpriced meal we had endured the first part of the evening. And we all vowed to do the lights again the next year.

For the fall 2017 light show we assembled a slightly different group of friends and made reservations to see the lights. We did not endure a disappointing dinner before hand as we went to a favorite near by Mexican Restaurant. (You should know that Mexican restaurants are a definite thing here in California, especially in So Cal.) And after we finished that meal we drove over to the Descanso and got ready to see the lights again—putting on our warm coats and hats before going in. It was again an amazing event and the Enchanted Forest did not disappoint for the second year in a row.

This year a similar group of friends are planning another trek to the Descanso to see the lights. I am anticipating that the upcoming evening will probably start again with a wonderful meal of tequila, guacamole, salsa and mole. And I am looking forward to getting ready for the whole evening.

Do you see where this is going yet? I think I am kind of stuck on wondering about what we get ready for and then what happens after we get ready. As I’ve already said I see a kind of distinction between anticipation and getting ready as anticipation can actually be done in your head, but getting ready might involve a number of things like buying someone a gift, loosing weight, or investing in the right stocks or bonds because you are getting ready for retirement or maybe setting up a college fund.

And as I got thinking about getting ready for things, I kept remembering that I’d heard that expression before. And bang, I remembered that my mom used to say that to introduce many topics for a variety of things we did as a family growing up. I think she used to say it as a kind of reminder that we were supposed to be doing something together. For example, she might say to my dad and us kids on an afternoon in early December, “I was just getting ready to decorate the Christmas tree.” And as if by magic we got the decorations down from the attic, put on some agreed upon music, opened the 5-pound box of See’s Candy and passed it around, and began decorating the tree—with my dad first putting on the lights.

Most often my mom used that carrier phrase to announce a meal. She might say something like, “I was just getting ready to start the beans.” Or she would say, “I was just getting ready to put dinner in the oven.” But upon hearing this particular statement my father often said that he was sure my mom had first served the meal we were about to eat to another family because it seemed we were always just getting ready to eat “leftovers” again.

So, then I got to thinking, or obsessing if you must know, about different events you could begin by saying “I was just getting ready to____.” And you can fill in the blank however you like. I had fun making lists of odds and ends that could go there. They seemed to fit into odd categories that included: thoughts and deeds, foods and pets, your habits and personal grooming, and finally the musical and important.

I had way more on my list than this, but here are a few I thought I would share.

I was just getting ready to:

  • tell you that I love you.
  • practice the piano.
  • change that light bulb.
  • get to the bottom of this.

Or, I was just getting ready to:

  • give the dog a bath.
  • clean the cat hair off the refrigerator door.
  • eat the last piece of cheesecake.
  • figure out what’s gone bad in the frig.

Maybe I was just getting ready to:

  • get my first tattoo.
  • get another tattoo.
  • get just one more.
  • wax.

And finally…I was just getting ready to:

  • “Peel me a grape, crush me some ice, skin me a peach—save the fuzz for my pillow.” (lyrics from the song titled “Peel me a Grape,” by Dave Frishberg. Blossom Dearie and Diana Krall recorded pretty good versions of it. I was sure Peggy Lee did this one too, but couldn’t find a recording of her singing it. Oh well, dad.)
  • help someone in need.
  • make a donation.
  • vote.

One final final note: Just came back from painting at the Descanso Garden, and the lights are going up. So, I am already getting ready for next week’s blog.

What are you just getting ready to do?

October 20, 2018

Indian Paintbrush
Atascadero Castilleja, spring 1991 (watercolor and Prismacolor colored pencil on illustration board)

I saw a hillside of these wildflowers in Atascadero in the spring of 1991. I was riding around in the car with a fellow wildflower enthusiast. Her name was (and is) Aunt Ruth, and she had seen this patch of flowers and took me there one afternoon when I was visiting from northern California. The road we were on was kind of a funny single lane old country road that desperately needed some potholes filled. At one point we jumbled around one corner and she slowed to a stop. Yeah, it was that kind of road—no one was there. The view that I saw took my breath away. It looked like a million paintbrushes had been dipped in red paint and then pushed into the ground, bristles side up. When I say red, it’s so much more than just red from a crayon box, it’s a kind of scarlet that takes some mixing when trying to come up with just the right watercolor color. The irony is not lost on me that these flowers look like paintbrushes and also have that as part of their name. A true painter might use the common name, but a true botanist would not call it Indian Paintbrush. Oh no. They would of course have been just as “gob smacked” as I upon seeing all these “lovelies,” but would have been much more cool. Instead, they would have commented on the very lovely display of Castilleja affinis and not used the common name. It’s just too common and most definitely the incorrect nomenclature if you are that kind of purest. At that time I had already become aware of this taxonomic scoop as I had been working in the botany department at the Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park. There I helped prepare specimens for their herbarium, did some pen and ink drawings for a couple botanists and was taking art classes from some of the natural science illustrators in the San Francisco area. I loved it all. I loved traipsing around hillsides with Ruth, I loved traipsing around the Strybing Arboretum, I loved the quiet halls of the botany department, I loved the long and important words I was learning and I loved the scientific, natural science and medical illustration I was learning at the Academy.

One of the classes I took at the Academy gave me the idea for this botanical rendering of the Castilleja you see here. First, it’s all about using this amazing Strathmore cold press illustration board—it has a wonderful texture and will take a pretty wet watercolor without rippling. If you start by laying in the dark shadows with Prismacolor colored pencils, the flower seems to immediately take on a three dimensional quality. And as I am scribbling in that first bit of color I am thinking about the colors I will be mixing in my watercolor pots. This is way different from what I seem to be doing now because back then I was more interested in painting very detailed and realistic flowers and trees. So, for this one I didn’t want to set up my paints on that road, I wanted to ponder the paper and colors back in my studio to get just the right layering effect that would make it look so real you could reach out and grab it right off the page. Of course the actual size of this piece is way larger than an actual Indian Paintbrush. But it’s very common to do such illustrations pretty big because if it were to be reproduced in some journal or other, it would be at least ¼, or less, the size you see here. This would give the renderings an even more realistic appearance. So, because I wasn’t going to sit in the dirt and paint I took a bazillion close up photos and did the art back at my house in San Ramon when I got home a few days later. No worries.

I have already written about my life with Ruth in my One California Girl ramblings (June 17, 2017). For that entry I inserted a copy of a sweet vase of wildflowers (that had come from her garden) I had painted for her birthday one year. It’s quite a story—meeting the same person three separate and disconnected times in a lifetime. I was first introduced to her when I was 10 or 11, then our paths crossed again when I was doing my student teaching as a senior at Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo and last she became a permanent member of my California Girl’s Club (she was born in Adelaida) as I married her nephew. I’m not married to her nephew anymore, but I have a son that is a blood relative to that amazing Aunt Ruth. So, I am related to her by an unmarriage, which somehow works splendidly for me.

I think wildflowers are an interesting thing to decide you like. Wildflowers spend lots of the year nowhere to be seen at all. Then they burst on the scene in all too brief blobs of glorious color and finally they just look like a bunch of weeds. But Ruth and I love them for sure and don’t mind the waiting, or the weedy stage because the blooms are just that special. So, when our life paths crossed for the third time (this by the late 80s) I took up the wildflower mantle and began traipsing through spring fields, always on the look for just such bits of beauty. Since then I have gone on many such walks with Ruth, as well as other wildflower lovers. And there’ve been times when there was no one to walk with, so I went by myself. To this day I still enjoy traipsing through roads and fields in search of those tiny blobs of color.

1991 Indian Paintbrush and journal
Catalina Castilleja, spring 1991 (watercolor on watercolor paper in wildflower journal)
tiny art materials
Sample plein air materials from 1991 traipsing–sans H pencil with sheet of sand paper for sharpening

There was another particularly interesting hike I took in the spring of 1991 and that was on Catalina Island. One morning I came upon a more delicate version of a California native Indian Paintbrush. As you can see, I put this little “Paintbrush” in a journal. In fact, that journal marks the beginning of my California traipsing. Funny to read that I wrote about the “flower’s inflorescence”—harkens back to those beginning botanical days. At that time I was taking more photos, so I always had my camera with me. (This was way before the ease of taking photos with a phone.) So, this first journal was mostly photographs. It contains photos and a sketch of a peony I saw in Mendocino the winter of 1992, photos of almond trees in bloom in Paso Robles in early March 1992 and a bunch of photos of wildflowers in the native California plant section of Strybing Arboretum in spring 1992. There are also photos of wild flowers in the Alamo Hills, huge field of lupines and Crow Canyon Garden in San Ramon, lupines in Atascadero, and roses and irises in Aunt Ruth’s yard in Atascadero. There’s even a picture she took of me sitting in her garden painting a particularly lovely rose in bloom. Then in January 1993, I got out my little painting set up again, took along a couple colored pencils and painted a clump of red hot poker as I sat overlooking Monterey Bay. (This was before I had learned that I could easily pack a small sheet of bubble wrap that I could roll out and sit on comfortably.) I remember that whole morning was pretty fun as there were about a half dozen ground squirrels that popped out of the ground every now and then to see what I was doing. If I had been sitting on bubble wrap they probably would have wondered about the occasional popping sound as I shifted around while working. We are all such curious creatures…

So, now I’ve come to the end of this week’s traipsing through time and California, and I wonder about you. Where have you traipsed? Or where would you like to traipse? I feel something new coming on for me. I have set up a place in my garage to do large canvases. I mean these can be at least 5.5 feet by 7 feet. But I’m wondering what I can actually see from my garage. I guess I picture myself having my colors all mixed and running in and out of the garage—looking up at the beautiful hills I live amongst. Then I can quickly run back into the garage to add more color to the canvas. (And oh, acrylics dry really quickly…) That sounds fun for a time I guess. Actually, I have been working on a collapsible frame that I could take along with me and it would allow me to paint something 32 inches by 60 inches. Stay tuned…

 

October 13, 2018

Cayucos Cemetery Trees
Cayucos Cemetery Trees, fall 2016 (watercolor and deep indigo Inktense pencil on narrow watercolor paper)

I painted this as I sat at the top of the Cayucos Cemetery, looking down at this row of trees and on out to the Pacific Ocean. The paper is an odd size and shape, 6 by 12 inches, but I liked that it gave the painting a sense of movement as the railing you see running through the trees separates this property from Highway 1. Highway 1 in southern California is also called PCH, or Pacific Coast Highway. I’ve never heard it called PCH by the people who live in the Central Coast, but whatever it’s called, this little stretch of very busy road connects Morro Bay with the actual town of Cayucos. These trees are pretty big and cover part of a beautiful beach that my son and I frequented when he was little. I like to think that my mom and dad, who are buried high up on this hillside cemetery, face that narrow stretch of beach and ocean view.

This stately row of trees got me thinking about what this view looked like when the trees were first planted and much smaller. Then you could have really seen the beach and ocean, but of course then you could have really seen the cars whizzing by on Highway 1 as well. I think I’m OK with the trees blocking the view of the road, but I would be pretty sad if you couldn’t see the ocean.

When my dad died, a close family friend had a small tree planted (some kind of conifer that will do well in the damp Cayucos beach climate) in my dad’s memory. It’s on the left side of where I was sitting, about half way down the hill. For the longest time I wasn’t sure which tree it was, as the marker that was to go with it had not yet been fixed into the ground. But once I was shown the tree, I was really touched with such a thoughtful and fitting gift to mark a significant moment for our family, sad as it was. Trees do that for us. They can signify important events in our lives. Maybe it’s a kind of immortality as we hope that future generations of visitors, whether they are related to me or not, will come visit the tree and make sure that it is still thriving. And then of course the tree will grow bigger and become something we hope will stick around for a while. Besides, my dad loved trees. He and my mom were always planting them in the various houses we lived in growing up. So, when my brother sent me a recent picture of my dad’s last tree, with my brother standing beside it, I could see that it had already gotten taller. That was wonderful.

So, then I got to thinking of other times and other trees. Most that came to mind were planted right here in California. And it would be fitting to start with some trees my mom and dad planted in the corner yard of their house in Grass Valley when my son was a baby. I’m not really sure why they chose the three liquidambar saplings to commemorate his birth, as it is not really a common tree for that part of northern CA. My mom and dad were mad about sugar maples and had already planted several of them along with 6 or 8 pistachio trees. But the liquidambar were chosen and planted nonetheless. Somewhere in my photos is a wonderful picture I took of my mom and dad holding their first grandchild in front of the three 4 to 5 foot trees. By the time my son graduated from high school and we moved away, those trees had become giants in that corner of the yard. When my mom and dad first moved to that house in the mid 1980s I remember my mom saying that they wanted it to look like a park, and I must say they succeeded. By about 2008 or 9 the trees were so big and beautiful in their yard that there wasn’t much room for other plants that needed more sun. Oh well! But every fall, throughout the years, we watched the sugar maples, pistachio trees and liquid ambers turn stunning shades of yellow, gold, orange, red and pink. (Yes pink!) It was quite a site. And when the first big winds of fall began to blow, the leaves dropped to the ground like so much colorful confetti. It took days to rake that up—mostly because my son and I liked to play in the piles I tried to rake up. I haven’t been back to Grass Valley since my son graduated, so I am assuming the current owners of mom and dad’s house has left my mom and dad’s park alone. I guess I don’t want to find out if any trees have been cut down. I think it would make me feel too sad.

There’s another cool California tree story that took place around the corner and down the hill from my parent’s Grass Valley home. That story actually starts with the end of a giant sugar maple. It had been brought from Gettysburg as a sapling and planted in front of an old farmhouse (pre Civil War) on that street. It was huge and every fall it was covered with huge bright yellow leaves. I think it was 2010 or so that a big winter storm blew off one of the last great branches of the tree. So when it had to be taken down it made the headlines of the local newspaper. But the story doesn’t end there, of course. An old timer who lived in the house next door to the tree, said that a seedling from the Gettysburg tree had planted itself in his yard when he was a young boy. And he said he and his family watched that tree grow, much like the families who watched that first Gettysburg sugar maple. In fact, the old timer himself was something of a marker of time in Grass Valley as his ancestors had been some of the original Cornish tin miners who had come to the area to mine for gold just after the Civil War. He was born, raised, married, had children and died at age 93 in that house—so he saw the first tree in its mighty glory, all the while his family cared for the next generation tree right there in his yard. He was very proud of being part of that tree’s legacy. He was also very proud of his Cornish ancestry as well. Great tree and human story, huh?

That’s what trees do; they mark time and help us remember. I have a final California tree story and it takes place in SoCal. Several weekends ago I went on a house tour of 6 old homes on an historic street in Glendale. Two houses were built in the late 1920s and the other 4 were built in the early to mid 1930s. Each house had a unique story of who built it, it’s overarching style and some of the people who had lived in each house. And of course I was interested in all that, but I was also interested in the huge and majestic rows of palm trees that lined each side of the street. Out in the front yard of one of the houses on the tour were large poster size photos of this same area in the early 30s, when only these few houses had been built. Looking at one particular photo you could clearly see how small the palm trees were when they were first planted 80 years ago. That was really fun to see. Makes me think something like, if these trees could talk, or some other silly thing like that…

But I guess I do have a couple more short stories about trees, but neither take place in CA and for that matter, neither of them actually happened. First, if you would like to enjoy a large, but fictitious tree, in a mini-series, check out “Parade’s End.” The story was written by Ford Madox Ford and adapted into a screenplay by Tom Stoppard. In it there is a magnificent and huge tree that is actually an important character in the story, and it is called the Groby Tree. Check it out. Finally, I will share a picture book with you that a little student I saw yesterday shared with me. The title of the book is “Our Tree Named Steve,” by Alan Zweibel and illustrated by David Catrow. If any of what I have written about today resonates with you, you will love this story, and the illustrations are so clever and wonderful! If you don’t have a little friend to share this book with you, I hope it’s still in print and you can find it.

I miss you dad! (10/12/12) And thanks for you and mom for planting so many trees.

October 6, 2018

Moon on the back door
Moon on my back door, spring 2018 (acrylic on glass)

This week’s post is a piece of art that has meaning to me in a number of ways. First, it’s on the window of my back door, so it’s a companion piece to the Madonna Mountain art I wrote about last week. Second, the two pieces sitting side by side almost look like a mural especially if you run out the door quickly in the morning. Third, the landscape below the moon is a view of mountains that you would see on Highway 46 just before you get to Highway 1 and Cambria. Last, and most important, I put the moon directly in that spot because I actually saw it there (in the sky) when I opened that door early one morning a couple months ago. It was just before 7 am and I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw this glorious sight. I immediately looked for the photo of those beautiful “almost to Cambria” green mountains and added the moon just as you see it. In fact, I saw this same moon view the other morning as I hurried out the door on my way to work. Enchanting, right? But I think I need to slow down…

Not sure if you have ever painted on glass with acrylics, but there are a couple of things you need to keep in mind if you think you’d like to try. First, I used painter’s tape around the edge of the window to keep the paint from getting on the wooden opening that holds the glass. This is an old house and I try not to radically alter anything with my sometimes-crazy ideas. Second, it’s best to do it early in the morning when the glass is cool. When I painted Madonna Mountain on the window next to back door, it was later in the afternoon and the glass was pretty warm. That made it hard to achieve any kind of coverage without really hurrying the process because the paint was drying so quickly. What I found is that when I tried to go over the rapidly drying paint, the brush picked up chunks of pigment and moved it all around in a not so great way. That was really frustrating because even though I mixed the colors I wanted ahead of time, I often like to mix colors on the actual surface of a painting. The mountain itself wasn’t too bad because there were chunks of color that could be added one after another. But the sky was a pain because I was trying like mad to create a smooth and somewhat even shade of blue and it just wasn’t happening. And of course I didn’t want to wait until the sun wasn’t beating down on the window and I just kind of muddled through until I finally got the sky right. It was so much easier to add the paint on the window for the Moon view panel, as the glass was cool at 7 in the morning. But the greatest thing about painting on a window or a random piece of glass is that if you don’t like the way it turned out just scrape it off with a razor blade. You can start again, when it’s cooler or you are inspired to paint an imagined view you would like to see out of your window instead of your neighbor’s car, phone lines or a brick wall.

A Full Moon Story

When my son was young I tried very hard to get stories I had written published. Here is a picture book about a toddler who wakes one night when the bright full moon lights up his crib. It is based on a story my mom told about one of my brothers when he was very little. I guess the light of the full moon woke him up and he was ready to play, even though he was the only one who wanted to be awake at that time of night. Mom said he just stood up in his crib (wearing his jammies with the feet) and babbled and moved with his personal delight while viewing the full moon out the window. (Oh, and Shadow was our family dog…)

When the Moon is Full

What happens when the moon is full?

Daniel wakes up to play. Hey hey

Mama sees his moon dance. Ha cha

Shadow hears the boy sing. Fa la

Sister snoozes away. Zuz suz

Papa sleeps through it all. Ah me

Hamsters spin in their wheel. Whir whir

Shadow circles her bed. Night night

Daniel finally sleeps. All done

A Blue Moon Story

Many years ago a very close friend got married around the time there was something called a blue moon. It became quite the theme of their wedding. And I joined in with the blue moon fervor and painted giant full moons onto blue place mats for my friend as a gift. Not really sure if she was really thinking so literally when it came to her wedding, but I loved the idea. I do remember she got married in an off the shoulder sparkly blue floor length gown. She looked really pretty I must say and I think I remember saying to my then husband down the aisle that a beautiful blue moon with a beautiful smile had just floated past us. Anyway, I’m not sure if she still has that dress or the painted place mats with matching napkins. But no matter, I remember how fun it was to look up into the night sky and paint the moon. What do you see when you look up at a big fat full moon? Some people see a rabbit, some a crab or a lady knitting or reading a book. When I look up there I often see a man smoking a pipe. But if you see a particularly lovely moon one morning or night, don’t hesitate to dance in your crib or paint it on whatever you have handy.

Happy Birthday Blue Moon Friend!

10/17/18

September 29, 2018

Heart Mountain
Heart Mountain, Paso Robles, October 2006 (watercolor and Prismacolor colored pencil on cold pressed illustration board)

So, when I was thinking about what I would post today, I went looking for something from my artistic past. And as I went through the photos I have taken of my art, past and present, my scrolling finger happened upon this one. This is what I was looking for anyway and I knew it should be posted today for a number of reasons. First, I had mentioned Heart Mountain (before the vineyards were planted) in a previous blog and thought you should see nature’s perfect heart shape made up completely of my beloved oak trees. I am still enchanted with the simplicity and the all too human naming of something that grew naturally into such a shape. (The other day I almost began to weep with joy when I saw a picture on the side of huge grocery truck that showed two hands facing outward heaped with bright red cherry tomatoes in the shape of a giant heart. Not really the same, I guess. But it did take my breath away.) Second, it’s my son’s birthday is tomorrow and he was my sunflower baby. And I love me some sunflowers one by one or in glorious drifts as I saw outside the parking structures of the Stanford Shopping Center when I was pregnant with my son. I should add that there never were such flowers in the foreground of Heart Mountain. The day I ran across the road from Sycamore Farms (July 2003) and took this picture there were lots of weeds in the foreground—mostly thistles.

Finally, I knew I would post this one because of the color palette and texture I had achieved with this landscape. I remember being obsessed with my process of layering in the colors that made up the subtle palette of yellows, golds, soft greens and grays with that beautiful pristine blue sky and emerald green heart-shaped jewel in the center of everything. I knew I would post this one because in the more than 10 years since I scrubbed in the watercolor and colored pencil on the lovely cold pressed illustration board, my art and my approach to it has changed in a rather unexpected way. I had come from a place of oil on canvas landscapes and watercolor and Prismacolor colored pencils on illustration board, where every inch of the surface I was working on was accounted for—no white spaces and nothing left to chance. Now, I find myself looking for places to randomly sketch or paint a view that has caught my attention. (I probably would have painted the heart-shaped hands of cherry tomatoes that was on the side of that truck if I had had the time…) And I have even taken photos of a finished sketch where I have intentionally let the actual light and shadows cast on the paper as I sit on a bench or on my rolled out sheet of bubble wrap on the ground. Those momentary moments make me smile outwardly, giggle inside and “yes” sometimes take my breath away.

Since I started doing looser “on the spot” painting and sketching (the hallmark of a committed urban sketcher) I have really let myself go—but in a good way, I think. Now I work a bit more wet, letting colors bleed together as they do without any encouragement. I intentionally leave white spaces as highlights or negative space that adds interest to an otherwise boring flat 2-D surface. I like to go really dark in some places and try to feather the perimeter of that spot with soft colors for an interesting effect of shrubbery or trees. But I don’t mind the hard edges of one color next to another, which would have made me anxious before. I also try adding a color that I am almost certain won’t work, just to see what will happen. And I really enjoy being in the moment—sitting at a cemetery, garden bench or at my breakfast table looking out my window, instead of sitting inside and working from a photo. (I think I said in a previous post that when my son was young, I didn’t have the time or opportunity to paint plein aire. So, I had to paint from photos that I could take at a moment’s notice and then work on my art at home when I had a free 30 minutes or so…) Now, I don’t regret the time I spent in my studio painting on canvas or a piece of illustration board from photos while listening to Miles or Mozart. (I even had special light bulbs in that room that mimicked sunlight. I think it was called a full spectrum light.) That was heavenly! But I have found a new spot of heaven to dwell in these days and it’s almost always outside now.

As I looked at the picture I took of Heart Mountain the summer 2003, I tried to remember not only the artistic journey I had taken to get this place, but also how my life had changed in the 10 plus years since I’d taken it. In the early 2000s my son and I were living in Paso Robles and I was doing freelance writing/editing for a number of educational publishing companies that were mostly here in California. During that time I also wrote and edited some gardening books for Sunset Gardening—they were in Menlo Park.

Then we moved to Grass Valley the summer of 2003 (there’s that time again…). But I missed my beautiful oaks and vineyards of Paso Robles and I continued to do art from photos of the area. And I was still painting Paso landscapes from photos in Grass Valley in 2006. Crazy huh? Between then and 2015 (when I moved to Southern CA) I continued to paint, but was not so obsessed with painting Paso Robles or San Luis Obispo County for that matter. Soon after I got to SoCal my son and I were walking around Brand Park in Glendale and I saw a bunch of artists sketching and painting like mad in the Whispering Pine Teahouse and Garden. When I asked one of the artists what was going on, she directed me to the woman who was leading the group. And the rest is history. She invited me to come to one of their group outings at the Norton Simon and I was hooked. No more nostalgia for the hills and blue skies of Paso Robles. No more thoughts of painting San Luis Obispo County. It was to be my time of sketching and painting in the moment in the beautiful Southern CA. Right?

Madonna Mountain on glass
Madonna Mountain, San Luis Obispo, spring 2018 (acrylic on window glass by my back door)

Oops! I guess One California Girl just couldn’t help herself—still in love after all these years.

Happy Birthday Sweetie!

9/30/18

 

 

September 22, 2018

Descanso 9:15
Descanso Garden, 9/15/18 (mixed media on watercolor paper)

Last Saturday, two of my sketching groups joined forces and decided to sketch at the Descanso Garden. It was meant to be a kind of farewell to summer as fall starts today. And if you have read any of my many posts related to the Descanso Garden, you would know that I love going there. So, I was delighted to hang out with artistic friends at a favorite place. Although I did say to one of my new friends, as we were gathering at the entrance at 10, that it’s kind of funny that we join up at such events, as painting and sketching is actually such a solitary endeavor. The directive for this day was no different from any other group-sketching event. First, we say hello and basically wait for others to arrive—chomping at the bit to go in and start painting. Some couldn’t wait and had already been inside and begun sketching. I always get a little envious that someone had somehow gotten a head start. (Yeah, to a race that doesn’t exist.) Maybe I worry that someone will pick the exact spot I was going to choose, even though I have no idea where that will be at the moment. And of course they will do an amazing piece of art at my yet to be determined perfect spot—somehow stealing my thunder all because of my inferior timing and artwork. Even though such events do not have a beginning or middle, they do have an end. This is where we all finally gather again—this time in full force (with no one dawdling in the garden) to share what we did. For that day it was decided we would come back together at the entrance at 12:30. As usual we got a passerby to take a group picture of all of us holding up our artwork. This group was so large that the photo was a sea of heads with ugly hats and tablets of paper with what appear to be blobs of color and line. Of course I assume we are all smiling, but the hats leave a definite shaded spot to the upper half of our faces—hard to tell. Then it is time to either have lunch with someone you know or time to leave. I needed to start my laundry, so I left soon after the picture was taken.

Back to the Rose Garden

If you have been reading my blog you may remember that I had vowed not to go back to the rose garden, as I have been there so often and had a recent rather rude experience involving a chatty mother of a newborn and a dirty diaper. So, once we were cut loose I found myself circling around the outside of the rose garden, looking for a spot I had never considered before. To distract myself from looking for mom’s with strollers, I thought it would be fun to try to channel Beatrix Potter and come up with a wee patch of garden that some rascally rabbits might choose to run through. (Actually I have actually seen tiny rabbits running through the rose garden in the past.) And of course I found a spot I was sure no one in the group had already sketched and there wasn’t a new mom in sight. It was nestled in front of a tall wall of shady green foliage. From this place I could see two “Potter inspired” views—one with a quaint rooftop with trees and another with drifts of flowers surrounding a random arch made of weathered wood and a curved piece of metal. I chose the random arch.

So I rolled out my bubble wrap, set up my materials and started mixing my pots of watercolor. I never got a B. Potter feeling as I put in my washes and detail, but no matter I painted away with great joy and anticipation of the summer being over. (I did see some of my painter friends skulking around in the background, but none dared to come near…or maybe they just didn’t see me as they too were looking for that perfect spot.)

After I got home, I looked online and at some Beatrix Potter books I have to see if I had actually channeled any of her garden illustrations. Sadly, I had not. But the more I looked at this piece the more I started to wonder if I had actually channeled someone else. I began to wonder if the inspiration for my first day of fall art 2018 had come from me, that same one CA girl. So, I looked back at what I had painted and posted a year ago. Sure enough, there was another ode to the end of summer painted in the rose garden at the Descanso Garden around the same time. And here it is, with the first paragraph I had for that 2017 post.

Descanso 9:9:17From 9/9/2017, but posted on 9/16/17

“I finally got to the Descanso Garden last Sunday to do some long awaited sketching. The end of August and first part of September brought triple digit heat here in Southern California and it has been too uncomfortable to make the effort to sit outside—even for a quick sketch. In fact, that heat caused a substantial fire that I could see from my front porch on the top of some “all too close” mountains across the way. So, Sunday morning I packed my backpack with my paints and bubble wrap, found a favorite shady bench in the rose garden and did this watercolor in about 30 minutes. Sheer bliss!”

Back to 9/22/18

I don’t really have much else much to add here, other than the fact that I hadn’t yet discovered New Gamboge. That would be later in the fall.  But I think last year’s fall art would have benefited from that magical SoCal color. Also, this view is to the north and features the lovely San Gabriel Mountains. Oh, and instead of including a random arch for this one, it was a random lamppost. For the 9/15/18 art in the rose garden I was facing west. In fact, I have placed the two pieces side by side on my easel by the door, as a kind of mural of the Descanso’s rose garden from fall to fall. I started to write about the seemingly random things I do to change up the art and artifacts in my house as a new season starts, but that’s for another time I think.

September 15, 2018

Mountain, view three
Norton Simon, Back garden, Aristide Maillol Mountain, 1937—Speed sketching #1 on September 8, 2018 (ink and graphite on Canson Mixed Media paper)

As promised in last week’s blog, I have posted a couple pieces of art from my “speed sketching” excursion to the Norton Simon on Friday, 9/7/18. This one is the third, and probably final, sketch of the Mountain (at least until spring…when the pair of geese come back to nest near her…). I was so excited to have captured her from three different vantage points, But I think if I tried a 4th twenty minute view of the Mountain just now I might become bored of her. And that would be a crime!

Don’t know if you have ever taken figure drawing, but doing quick sketches of models are very common. (Of course the Mountain is a pretty static model, not striking any other pose than you see here.) I remember such challenges in a number of my figure drawing classes, where we were to quickly sketch our model as she, or he, changed positions. And they would make those changes every 60 seconds or so with all of us in class hurrying to catch the essence or the “line” of their body in that very short time. I seem to remember that one teacher had us do 5 second sketches as well. This same teacher also asked us to look carefully at our model, then we were to close our eyes and “speed sketch” what we had pictured with only our two hands and a grease pencil. (Some used charcoal. That was always such a smeared black mess for me even with my eyes open. I never tried it in the dark.)

Norton Simon4
Speed sketching at the Norton Simon #3 on September 8, 2018 (ink and graphite on Canson Mixed Media paper)

It’s funny, but by the time I got to the last 20-minute “speed sketch” (shown above), it seemed like I had all the time in the world to complete it. Later, I mentioned that to one of the other sketchers and she said the same thing. We decided we were in such a huge hurry that we made sure to capture the essence of our landscape within the first couple minutes. Then we languished a little while adding more details, trying not to over do it or take away from our initial, and important, quick lines and curves.

The sun was pretty low in the sky by this time and some of the lights in the garden were coming on. In fact, my focal point sculpture to the left of the tree was actually disappearing into the fence in the background, even with the bit of golden light that was reflecting off the polished surface. And I have to say that I stopped that sketch way before the 20 minute gong went off (Yes, our leader had a gong sound that came from her phone when time was up…). And I sat in the damp grass, on my sheet of bubble wrap, and enjoyed the amazing, almost-fall pink light that was filling the sky above the trees. It was wonderful.

Norton Simon4+color
Speed sketching at the Norton Simon #3 (mixed media on Canson Mixed Media paper)

Finally, we come to the final piece. It actually started as the sketch above it, only with added watercolor. (I added the color the next day while looking at a photograph I had taken of my chosen vignette.) I didn’t hurry for the painting part of this one. I chose a favorite piece of music (Letters Home by Pat Metheny) and started to mix my pots of color. I must say that I spent more time than I would have liked working with this paper. I had never applied watercolor to it and it kind of allowed unwanted vertical rivers of color to run down the page. So, I had to move the paper up and down and side-to-side, encouraging the pigment to spread out and not make unwanted puddle stripes. I think the paper is too thin for such a wet media. But I discovered that I liked how the vertical stripes ran down through the dark shrub to the right. It so wonderfully mimicked the vertical stripes of the fence behind it. And actually I think that intentional striping of the fence was enhanced with my use of Inktense pencils—not so sloppy and wet. Anyway, my evening of speed sketching came to an end with a finished watercolor the next day. (It took me about 40 minutes to do this one, not counting the time I spent waving the paper around to keep the paint from pooling in an undesired way.)

So, all this speediness got me thinking about other things in our lives we do with great speed. And that got me thinking about the things we do with great speed that really should be slowed down and not done too quickly at all. I made an anecdotal list of things that should never be done too quickly and/or too slowly. Once you see where I’m going with this, you may have your own “top ten” list of things that should not be sped up or slowed down. Here goes:

10. As I commute to work every day on a major freeway in Los Angeles, I see many people driving way too fast—way past the speed limit. I listen to the radio as I am on the look out for such speedy drivers. And it seems that each morning and afternoon I hear traffic reports that have at least 1 or 2 crashes, and it often relates to the carpool lane. I once got a ticket for incorrectly merging into the carpool lane and I learned why there are so many crashes. One, people are going way to fast. Two, they don’t use their turn signal when changing lanes. I don’t know about you, but I never travel with my crystal ball. So I cannot predict who is going to be moving into a lane of speeding cars at the exact moment as someone else. And every now and then I see someone looking in their rear view mirror applying lip liner or mascara as they are heading down the road. That is definitely something that should not be put on with great speed as you are speeding down the freeway.

9. Sitting in a dentist chair has never been a favorite for me. So, I am happiest if she or he is quick. My dad used to talk about his favorite dentist because he said his hands were in his mouth for a very short time. He liked that.

8. I guess you want to take off a band aid pretty quickly. Grabbing it and slowly tugging at can be excruciating.

7. Oh, and be sure to pick the paint color for your bedroom carefully. Choosing something like that on a whim and trying to live with a bad color choice would give me.

6. This is a funny one, and really a personal choice I guess. I have never been a fan of wearing much make up. But I have known women who take upwards of an hour to do their hair and put on make up every day of the week. That’s just way too much time for me. I mean, what if you spend all that time, walk out the door and get hit by a bus. You don’t know when your time will be up–don’t waste it putting on gobs of lip-liner or mascara.

5. Speaking of massages, facials and tattoos…I think all of these should be done slowly.

4. Not quite sure why my list has so many personal grooming items on it, but I’ll keep going. I don’t want to take a speedy bath, but a quick shower is OK.

3. I guess I’m all in favor of quick meal preparations, but food should not be consumed at a break neck pace. When I lived in San Francisco I had a boyfriend who loved cherry pie. I once made him such a pie. When I placed a large slice in front of him he smiled, picked up his fork and began eating. He did not look at me, or speak to me, but instead he shoveled huge piece after huge piece into his mouth. I don’t remember if he chewed it, and it seemed to just slide down his throat like an anaconda eating one mouse after another. And when he was finished, having almost licked the plate clean, he was panting. Yes, I don’t think he took a single breath throughout this 40-second event. I was horrified. Slow down! If your girlfriend spent the better part of an afternoon making you a pie, at least have a conversation while eating it. I never made him a pie again. He seemed confused when I told him that was his first and last one from me. He reminded me that he did say thank-you. He had forgotten that he had said thank you as he produced a huge belch.

2. Oh, and when I’m reading for pleasure; I rarely want a quick read. If I am really enjoying my book then I don’t want it to end. I have been known to stop mid sentence and put the book away for the day. This is so I have to reread parts, when I pick it up again the next day. I want that to last and last.

1. Finally, I call this one the melancholy of finishing a dish of coffee ice cream. Never gobble down two scoops of coffee ice cream. Aside from getting a major brain freeze from eating something cold too fast, you must savor each bite. My dad used to talk of the “melancholy nature” of eating such a bowl of ice cream. He described it this way–You take your time to let in melt a little. Don’t mux it. That means you are not to stir it with your spoon. (Actually my dad was wrong about this one. I turns out your taste buds can’t really register flavors at low temperatures. So, you should mux it so it will warm up to a proper temperature that you can really taste and appreciate. This is another way to slow the actual eating process before it melts completely and you are left with liquid cream, milk, sugar and coffee in the bowl.) Take small bites, eating each dollop slowly. And when it comes to the penultimate bite, it is really quite a sad moment as you scrape and scrape the last little bit of this amazing melted confection at the bottom of the bowl, trying to make it last just a little longer…

So, what’s on your list?

 

 

September 8, 2018

statue
Norton Simon, Back garden, Aristide Maillol Mountain, 1937—View 1, August, 3, 2018 (ink and graphite on multimedia paper)

I did both of these sketches the other afternoon at the Norton Simon Museum. I think I have mentioned in previous posts that this Pasadena museum is free the first Friday of the month from 5 pm to 8 (closing). One of my sketching groups takes advantage of this “Friday Freeness” and we meet there regularly once a month. And as I have said before, I usually head straight for the back garden and look for a spot to roll out my bubble wrap. For that evening of sketching I first sat on some grass and discovered this lovely lady. I must say that I am often inspired to draw the sculptures next to the Monet inspired pond and it was a pleasure to get to know her up close a personal next to a calm pond dotted with lily pads and ducks. I must also say, that when drawing such sculptures I often impose a slightly different face with a decidedly animated expression. And that is definitely the case with “Ms Mountain.”

statue and ducks
Norton Simon, Back garden, Aristide Maillol Mountain, 1937—View 2, August, 3, 2018 (ink and graphite on multimedia paper)

Around 6:30 we usually meet inside the museum, just inside the garden, and share what we did the first hour. (Some don’t actually get to the museum until then as they are getting off work and dealing with awful Friday afternoon LA traffic. I have to admit that sometimes LA traffic is just too awful to even imagine, let alone be part of it.) That evening, our group leader didn’t really have an idea of what we could do together, so she sent us off to draw, paint or sketch what was pleasing to our eye. What you see here is my second hour sketch. And guess what? I walked around the pond to the other side of the “Mountain” and discovered another view that seemed to be calling me. I rolled out my bubble wrap and sketched her from another point of view. And as I was thinking of what I wanted to write about this week, I imagined something kind of glib, like “If a picture is worth a 1000 words, then two pictures much surely be worth 2000.” And then I would just end the blog abruptly, like there just wasn’t anything else to say. (You may have realized that one California girl is never lacking with things to say and I gave up on that idea right away.) So, then I got inspired with the idea that I had drawn the same sculpture from two very different vantage points and the theme could be something like, “it depends on how you look at it.” I further egged myself on with the notion of “it depends on how you look at it” when I included the man across the pond in the first sketch. I decided he might be a voyeur, of the nice variety of course. Maybe he was looking at the “Mountain” or maybe he was looking at me looking at the “Mountain.” I guess “it depends on how you look at.” Either way, I decided that the next time I was in this garden I would do a sketch of her from his side of the pond, from his point of view. (He was wearing sunglasses and it was hard to tell where he was looking. I also think he was looking at his phone most of the time, so I guess that’s my answer…)

So, last night we went to the Norton Simon again. Our fearless leader’s directions for the evening’s sketching was some “speed sketching” in the back garden. Together we walked to a part of the garden and had 20 minutes to sketch a vignette from that location. Our leader suggested that we make the sketch as thought we were going to add watercolor later. It was a worthy challenge for all of us. Maybe it was serendipity, maybe not. But the first area she led us to looked out in the direction of Ms. “Mountain,” but from my “voyeur’s” point of view. So, I was immediately and happily drawing her again, and could see what my maybe he saw, or not. Then when the timer went off, we moved to another part of the garden and sketched again for 20 minutes. (A strolling garden voyeur watched me sketch in this second location for a while and asked me if doing this kind of “speed sketching” was anything like “speed dating.” I told him it was similar, except I didn’t get indigestion after I finished a quick sketch.) Then we moved to a third location and our leader set the timer again. I was in heaven—it was a beautiful southern California evening and I was in a favorite place.

I will post the sketch I did of last night’s “Mountain} in my next blog, along my last sketch of the evening. (I hope to have time to add some watercolor…)

So, until next time…

More about “it depends on how you look at it:”

When my son was young we read a number of wonderful children’s books together. And a very favorite series we devoured as each one was published, was Lemony Snicket’s “A Series of Unfortunate Events.” If you have children, I hope you think to share any, or all, of these books with them. But even if you don’t have children, I recommend ALL of them for your reading pleasure. I have recently been re-reading the last in the series—The End, and the phrase “it depends on how you look at it,” appears frequently in it. Lemony Snicket, aka Daniel Handler, uses words and repeated phrases in his books to great affect. He even frequently defines words for the reader for emphasis when the main characters Violet, Klaus and Sunny are faced with their many difficult situations and people—with their most notable difficult person named Count Olaf. So, for this final “Unfortunate Event,” Mr. Snicket has many castaways (including Violet, Klaus and Sunny) who have washed up on a distant coastal shelf, repeating this apt phrase. There are too many examples of his use of this phrase to describe here, but I will leave you with one that I think very apt. When asked by the “facilitator” of the island (Ishmael, “Call me Ish”) they found themselves on, the children are told that kindness above all else is important to everyone there. So, when asked if there was a “story” they would like to tell him about their adventures prior to being washed up on the sand, Violet had to reflect on what her answer might be. She thought of all their intentions to be good and kind, but reminded herself that they had done some rather awful things in the name of trying to be good and kind. So, her final answer to his question was, “it depends on how you look at it.”