Yesterday’s post highlighted an artwork I painted for my son. The painting – Washington’s Last Cantonment – was created after I’d painted a canvas for his sister.
For the acrylic (above), I used several old reference images – some of the fish – like the large koi – were directly inspired from those images (apologies to the brilliant artists – I’ve been unable to locate their names to properly credit) – a few of the other fish swim in my head – and now – on my daughter’s apartment wall. She’d requested the specific water color…for interior decor ‘matchi-ness’:)
Both paintings are 4′ x 2′ – each a labor of love. As much as I don’t enjoy painting landscapes, water scenes run a close second. I find the most joy in creating cryptids and creatures. I don’t know why or what to think of that. Perhaps, I shouldn’t ponder fangs and claws too deeply. These thoughts might reveal lurking images in the sub-basement brain;)
Looks to be another cold beautiful day here in the Hudson Valley.
Months ago, my son had asked me if I could recreate a painting for him. The particular artwork in question – he’d decided long ago – was his favorite of all time. Since I’d painted a picture of fish for his sister, I told him I’d create art for him too. The painting he wanted had been living as a blurry photo on his phone for quite some time. He’d seen the art – years ago – hanging on the wall of a restaurant.
Neither Max or I were able to locate a decent reference image – my son’s photo was so blurry in fact, I saw nothing but white in the air and dark lumps on the ground. My son’s description from memory was “men on horses and some cabins.” We went as far as returning to the restaurant (under new ownership for several years) and inquiring about the painting that had once hung on their far left wall.
Now I’ll tell you, I don’t like painting landscapes – I never have – meaning – I’ve avoided them my entire life – so my best attempts at recreating any are fake – I muddle my way through in an effort to get something close to the needle of credibility. The painting above is the result – my son – of course – loves it – because his mom made it for him. Any artist looking at this might smile and keep the honest review beneath the tongue.
And, as karma so often intervenes, months after I’d finished the painting, Max and I walked 2 blocks from the house to get coffee. The coffee-bar’s proprietor was a collector of books, art, antiques…and when we showed him the photo of my painting – he immediately knew whose artwork I’d been trying to recreate (in fact – the framed reproduction below was actually in another room of his coffee bar)- dang – was I off.
The Last Cantonment, 1783 – John F. Gould
John Fleming Gould (1906-1996) graduated from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, NY, and later instructed at Pratt for 22 years. He was a prominent illustrator for the Saturday Evening Post for more than 8 years. Many of Mr. Gould’s works hang in private collections. He was partial to historical subjects, especially in the Hudson River Valley from the Statue of Liberty to Albany, NY.
I’ve provided more visual snow for some of you. who don’t really need to see anymore snow. I hope you’re all keeping warm, am:)
Herbie The Lovebug is a Volkswagen with blue and red pinstripes and the number 53 on his chassis. In his movies, Herbie never fails to rescue his owners whenever they need saving. They need saving a lot. Herbie once traveled to Monte Carlo for a race. He goes many other places too. Racing is his passion and he is creative at winning.
A few months ago, Dad brought home a Volkswagen. The little bug sits next to our Grand Squire wagon. But it never appears diminished. Our little red car has no pinstripes or racing number, still I know it is kind and clever. Whenever Dad drives it, he always smiles.
(Each week en route to the gym, I pass by this poor little Volkswagen. I finally remembered to take a picture before driving by. Always, when I see this little car, I travel back to the little car in my childhood driveway — the red bug who had the power of getting my ornery dad to smile.)
Holding My Friend to a Promise (originally posted 12/9/24)
For over thirty years my friend Robert Milby has been reading his poetry throughout the Hudson Valley, NYC, Long Island, NJ, PA, and New England. An engaging speaker, Robert has made 1,500 public appearances and has done hundreds of readings, open mics, lectures, presentations, participated in radio commentary and festivals, and has been spotlighted on independent tv shows. Robert has shared his enthusiasm and poetic talents through reading and writing workshops in schools and culture centers and has been a guest poet at higher educational institutions.
Robert’s numerous works have been included in magazines and anthologies. Add to his stellar resume and his four poetry books, his chapbook, Gothic, Orange was published through the County Historian’s office in 2018. He has been a Kirkus Reviewer, a “Best Poet” winner and a longtime Woodstock Poetry Society member. In 2017, Robert was honored with the title, Poet Laureate of Orange County, NY. His relentless devotion to poetry has never ceased. Until now.
I would have given up reading my work in public, if not for Robert. His dedication and encouragement inspired me to share my own work beyond the written page. A deep-reader and researcher, Robert promised me that he’d share his voluminous knowledge of UFOs over coffee one day. I am holding him to that promise.
Mrs. DeDeo rarely steps away from the classroom. Today she is needed across the hall for a moment. A moment is all Dwayne needs. He leaps to the front of the room body-blocking the chalked letters we’re supposed to copy into our marble notebooks.
With a spoon from his pocket, Dwayne excavates boogers while singing how he likes mowing down squirrels. We don’t believe him. Mrs. DeDeo returns. Dwayne begins mercy yowling. The fear in his voice chains John the Baptist between my ears. Imprisoned in one of Herod’s palace cells, John prays to receive Jesus’ blessing.
The following morning John will lose his head to dawn’s early light.
(I find joy in sharing bits and pieces of my childhood truths here with you. These memories make me smile – even the sad and odd ones. My inner-child lives as a constant reminder of humility and perseverance. Of kindness and compassion.
Each of our childhoods lingers near, our memories like shadows to embrace, to reshape, to share, to delete, to run from, to run toward…)
My flying squirrel was created with Tombow markers and Prisma pencils. I think he’s a few years old now.
Thirteen birthday-attendees ride the little train through the painted tunnel and scream when the tunnel turns oil-black. Afterward, the animated girls leap onto the spring-loaded playground.
I fix eyes on the ponies dusting-up the ring from the perch of a bouncing rooster. After a few minutes, the birthday girl’s mom, Mrs. Bee, leads us over to the ring. I take Parochial-school position for biggest girl — end of the line.
Each time a young handler instructs the next rider how to safely mount, my heart leaps. I bound up the wooden stairs when my turn arrives. Butterbean’s handler wears a cowboy hat. His broad teeth shine like the sun. His slim eyes are eclipsed by his hat brim.
Those darkened eyes look me over. Out the sunlit mouth, a question trots out, “What do you weigh?”
I haven’t yet perfected the art of the lie. The truth sinks me 20 pounds above my classmates.
The cowboy’s teeth vanish behind a cloud of smirking lips, “You’re too big to ride this pony.”
I swallow the screaming. I reverse-off the podium.
My cheeks brighter than the eyes of giggling classmates and the red balloons bubbling beside Sally’s birthday cake, I clod, head down, praying for my early death.
Today, I no longer believe in God.
(Misty of Chincoteague – painted when I was 13 – I remember being quite proud of this acrylic work thinking at the time)
I hope for those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving that you had a beautiful holiday. I had 24 family members in my home, and we had a wonderful day. Today, the little girl who was turned away from a pony ride, is heading to the gym. Later, she will run her three miles when the sun warms the land a tad more. She is always running, trying to stay just ahead of the little sad girl.
Every library Friday, I check or attempt to check-out the illustrated book, Pegasus as retold by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Belephron astride Pegasus, the mighty pair battling the Chimera, the pearl-winged horse nuzzling little children.
Sometimes the school librarian says, “You’re not giving anyone else a chance to read this book. Do you think that’s fair?” And Pegasus is taken from me.
On the days I’m permitted Pegasus, the over-sized book holds steadfast beneath my arm like I imagine Jesus carrying his cross.
One Saturday following a library day that I wasn’t given Pegasus, my little sister’s friend tells me how much she loves horses. I see the pony-love in her eyes. I give her my only two Breyers’ horses because I don’t want them separated.
I love horses more than anyone. And now, I have no horses all over again.
Ah, the memories that long ago made me sad, make me smile today:)
(Black and white drawing of my Breyer’s Paint Pony done when I was 13. The Pegasus book I lived with as a child, I own at 61.)
Too many mornings spent waiting. My Converse forever damp from crossing the neighbor’s lawn. Daily curb squatting since noticing the bony cat. Cereal bowl sloshing in my hands.
Finally on this damp morning the bony cat sidles near, laps up the Fruit Loop milk, then she bites me and sprints away.
I’m tiptoeing home to wash the blood off my thumb and to hug our German Shepherd who’s never bitten anyone except the paperboy but that was the day he tossed a Community Life at her head.
(Pictured here: back row left to right- my wise older sister Virginia, my baby sister Dolores sitting on Uncle Robert’s lap (mom’s brother), Grandma Gulli (mom’s mom), my other wise older sister Grace holding onto Tima, our beloved family dog, front row- my little brother Vito, I’m squatting in center. and our baby brother Robert in bouncy seat)
Beside the bright berries of the mountain ash, the bird’s eyes are dull. His heart — races. Will this be the creature I save? Into its parched mouth, I administer a drop of water. The frail ribs expand up and down like a bullfrog’s throat. The dull eyes go glassy. The breast stops flying.
My small sweating hands wrap the limp bird in tissue. I dig out a hole and bury the tiny thing beside the tree. Tears fall. The ground turns moist. I mutter a child’s prayer for things I don’t understand. The morning sun shifts. The ground has nearly dried.
Should I stand beside this grave for the remainder of my life—
anntogether 