Bird Squares

Essential tremor is a condition which causes one’s hands to shake. I have seen it in many older people and not given it a second thought. Until that thing, that I blamed on too much coffee or perhaps needing to eat something, became real to me last October.

It can be treated with medication on the bad days. And caffeine is no longer a friend to me. But the shock, I wrestled with, was that more than likely it will increase with age. And well, these hands are an extension of my creativity.

Internally, I was embarrassed by my self-pity. This is not a terminal illness or anything very debilitating. But it still felt like such a blow. How will I go through my future days without having the steadiness to hold a brush?

My husband, Charles with direct appropriateness stated, “This just means, we make the most of today.”

So, the Bird Squares pulled me out a creative paralysis of sorts. These small quadrants greeted me in the mornings or the late afternoons of my days.

And in the midst of this, a curious and remarkable thing happened. During a confirmation church service, a clerical man, whom I had not met before, paused while I was at the church alter, and said to me, in a voice I will never forget, “Give me your hands. Anoint them with oil…” (along with a few additional words that I believe are mine alone to treasure.)

Y’all, I cried THE ugliest of cries in front of an entire fancy traditional congregation. A Sunday morning emotional spectacle, if you will. How did this robed stranger man know !?!?

I have asked myself for several months, do I talk about this? Or simply keep it to myself? But recently, after reading thought provoking words, which Mary McLeod Bethune wrote, I came to the conclusion that I think I’d like to let you know; amazing and wondrous mysteries of faith still exist, at least to me. And maybe will meet you where you are and usher in perhaps an ounce of comfort.

The bird squares in their series of 12 continued to carry me through much more these past few months. Let’s just say. “It has been a time.” And I am looking forward to “much less of a time” as 2024 begins to wane.

I hope you enjoy the Bird Squares. I plan to post their individual stories on Instagram in the days ahead.

P.S. Several have already left the nest and are in homes they were meant to find. However, a few are still available for purchase.

All Creatures Great and Small

All creatures great and small, did God make them all?

Charlotte
watercolor
4.5” x 6”

Do the lines from the poem (turned hymn, book title and eventual television series) give us pause, when viewed through the lens of our time?

Do we value all things as bright and beautiful or fear when postmodernity questions them at all?

*Incidentally and of note, lines of the original poem (which are included below) are most often omitted today, especially when considered through the devastation and horrors of the Irish potato famine of the mid 1850s in which they were written. That in itself is a form of commentary to me.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

by Cecil Frances Alexander, 1848

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them high and lowly,
And ordered their estate.*

The purple headed mountain,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning,
That brightens up the sky;−

The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,−
He made them every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
We gather every day;−

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who hath made all things well.

Matriarch

To the woman I nicknamed with my uncle Wilde Rose, after one of her dish sets. But never dared tell her.

Dishes which were used to set the tables throughout an entire house (Küche, Wohnzimmer und Wohnstube) for Kaffee und Kuchen if the entire family was to be there. And then were washed and dried by hand.

To the woman who with a movement of her hand would let me know it was time to clear the table.

To the woman who taught me a guest should always be offered something to drink and their glasses should not sit empty. Yet, who would also tell you who could share a beer and who could not.

To the woman who put me in a stroller when I was an infant and cleaned classrooms as a janitor while my mother completed her contract with Lufthansa.

To the woman who turned off the water in an entire house while my sister was showering because she was wasting water.

To the woman who wouldn’t set a place at the lunch table for you if you slept past 11.

To the woman who pitted cherries, harvested and canned food. (I rarely ate produce from a grocery shelf during my childhood summer months.)

To the woman who would take a 20-30 minute nap on die Eckbank after cooking and completing the lunch dishes.

To the woman who once upon a time ran a small school supply shop out of an annex of her home.

To the woman who quietly told the stories of Germany over small boxes of photographs and albums.

To the woman who knew how to prepare a meal of game. And feed a large crowd off of the simplest of ingredients.

To the woman who would insist on playing another round of Skipbo or Rummikub until victory was hers. And watched you like a hawk, lest you make a false move.

To the woman who made pour over coffee since the beginning of time.

To the woman who told me my husband was ein guter Mann.

To the woman who expressed delight in how a cheeseburger had everything of the food groups in one. Alles ist dabei.

To the woman who would create a Klingelstorm of great magnitude on the mornings a flight back to the US would leave. Ringing her own home’s doorbell to make sure all were up and moving at 4:30 am to make it to the Frankfurter Flughafen on time because alarm clocks were not efficient enough.

To the woman who cared for my grandfather as diabetes took a toe and eventually a leg and knew what changes in sugar levels can do to a person.

To the woman who was her mother’s caregiver.

To the woman who kept her granddaughters while their mother flew home to bury their father.

To the woman who sat with me in the room and softly told stories as we watched my own mother leave the earth.

To the woman who watched Americans surround a household during a time of grief and finally understood why her daughter chose the States.

To the woman who had 3 girls of the 1980s and 90s visit each summer for 3 months every year with very American ways.

To the woman who kept us in check.

A New Song

This painting will be part of the 2022 SPARK Invitational Exhibit in the West Gallery of Public Works Arts Center in Summerville, South Carolina September 23 - November 5, 2022.

It is a visual and personal reflection; representing all 2020 until this moment has held for me.

I want to describe all the minutia. The cracks and the solid ground. Grief and joy juxtaposed.

My observation of an approaching crescendo began on March 13, 2020. The word of the day in my German classroom was Hamsterkauf, describing the global hoarding of toilet paper which was underway.

By Monday, schools closed and virtual teaching began: as did an onslaught of polarizing opinions, politics, loss, fear, hot tempers, and uncharted waters to navigate through. And I learned, humanity is a fragile thing in a time of sound and fury. Tender in a forest of clanging and discordant words.

How long to sing this song?

Songbirds

Some of us hear them, others sight and name them. Whether it is the colorful plumes, birdsong or the winged flight in motion, their presence compliments a local landscape.

I feel it is the same with those individuals working or supporting the Arts; be it visual, literary or performing. An absence of these artists or advocates would leave a lonesome place.

These small paintings were created for the Florence Regional Arts Awards. It is with much gratitude that I celebrate the hues, song, and movement these individuals create, guide and bring to our community. May their stories continue to take flight and leave Florence a better place.

(A video highlighting the recipients can be found on the Florence Regional Arts Alliance‘s Facebook page.)

Reference Photo Attribution:

Chikadee:© Francis C. Franklin / CC-BY-SA-3.0, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Cardinal:
Mike's Birds from Riverside, CA, US, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Painted Bunting:
Don Faulkner, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Bluebird:William H. Majoros, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Robin:en:User:Mdf, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons

Wren:
Manjith Kainickara, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

from Start to Finish: 2021

2021 was a year of much work; yet it felt there was little to show. As the year wanes, I celebrate hidden processes. Quietly seeing things move from start to finish. Sometimes taking longer than expected but moving forward nonetheless.

This portrait is of local artist Robert Garey. This version is painted on Arches cold pressed watercolor paper. A second unfinished and hidden version, painted on Arches hot pressed watercolor paper, sits in my studio. I chose this subject matter to compare the watercolor surfaces in regards to ability to capture details. The lettering, glasses and ring particularly.

When I look at a finished painting, I see all my personal musings of a time as I worked. These paintings consist of more than pigment to me. For me this one, holds a portion of the fatigue and slowness, I felt moving through 2021. I painted slower, searched for the little details and read more. Some years are for hidden work, others are for the visible.

Selfie of the Artist
watercolor on paper

The quote below I read in September and “tend to your own knitting” was my quiet anchor as I navigated through the waves of 2021. Wishing you all a 2022 that ministers to you. Be your knitting hidden or seen.

“So tend to your knitting. You’ve got your hands full just taking care of your own life before God. Forget about deciding what’s right for each other. Here’s what you need to be concerned about: that you don’t get in the way of someone else, making life more difficult than it already is. ”

— Paul to the people of Rome as found in The Message translation by Eugene Peterson

Living Next Door to Alice

I need to talk about Alice.

The above book was gifted to me. I completed it last week. It chronicles the biography of a female watercolorist who lived independently and earned her keep through watercolor during a time when this wasn’t the norm. She elevated watercolor and, using it, shared with others stories of the time and place in which she lived. Her life story reached into others and left its mark through her mentorship and generosity.

“A shadow is not dull gray. It has reflections of the colours all around and it has light within the shade. Open your eyes to the life in a shadow.”

— Alice Ravenel Huger Smith in a letter to Talulah McInvaill

Following reading the book, I listened to a conversation about it Walter Edgar held with South Carolina artist Jonathon Green. And I want to say, Mr. Green described the creative process and watercolor in a way that I so appreciate. Few know and understand the medium. “It can be unforgiving,” Green states. That is so true and a watercolorist knows the sinking feel when you know you’ve passed the point of no return. Watercolor painting is a delicate timed dance between the paper, the water, and paint. Alice was skilled in this. She painted “what she knew”. A confidence in the artist emerges when they are true to themselves and in my opinion Alice did that.

Her work explores the natural and historical environment in which she grew up. Coincidentally as I was reading this book, I learned more about the Charleston Rice Plantations through Episode 2 of Netflix’s High on the Hog. Smith chronicled the experiences of the enslaved in the Charleston area working these plantations. Some say these paintings are romanticized, others say they hold empathy and dignity. I believe the impression is left to the viewer.

As an artist, she documented her world as she saw and experienced it. In a world of Insta-artists, I am inspired by those who sought to learn mastery in painting as opposed to marketing. While she had her fair share of early work in promoting her paintings. her steadfast commitment to “water-colour” (as she penned it) itself leaves me feeling that there is not enough time to learn all I wish.

An exhibition featuring the work of Alice Smith at the Florence County Museum is on view through December 5, 2021.

I thank Alice for her artistic honesty and generosity.

P.S. Blog Title is a nod to a little song by Smokie that some may recognize from any German fest ever attended. So since I didn’t visit any this summer I though we’d enjoy a little Ohrwurm today. You’re welcome ;-).

Schokolade

Remember that Forest Gump quotation, “...life is like a box of chocolates.”

In my mind I keep thinking... Working in Education this year is that box of chocolates. Each day one never knows what one is gonna get. It has been an unusual year for all involved.

Teachers, Students, Families, Administrators, Custodians, Guidance Counselors, School Districts and Communities. It has been a year, to say the least.

The subject matter took me back to my art minor college days when I studied the work of Wayne Thiebaud. The painting assignment then was to recreate a painting mimicking in the style of the artist. I painted three pastel colored mugs. I’m willing to bet he would love this box of chocolate.

“If you stare at an object, as you do when you paint, there is no point at which you stop learning things from it.”

— Wayne Thiebaud

My mornings begin very early, when it is dark outside. I’ve taken a leaf from my American grandmother’s book and begin with a morning prayer list. The comfort I find here goes a long way if you happen to know her and the source of inspiration she is to our family.

These early morning musings follow me into the studio and often into the paintings and the thoughts behind them.

The real chocolates behind this painting can be found at chocobella in downtown Florence, South Carolina. (And I can tell you each one of these chocolates is AMAZING!)