Seeing Red

Colors represent many things: emotions, organizations, and ideas.

Perhaps, most passionate of these colors may be the color red. In western culture the idiomatic expression, “seeing red” is an expression of anger and rage. Whereas in other countries, the expression could hold an entirely different meaning.

Seeing Red
watercolor
16” x 24”

Consider these cultural and often political dissections. How can we begin to comprehend, let alone see them all?

Are we currently only capable of understanding a fragmented spectrum?

Technical Notes:

I began with a limited palette: perylene red, hansa yellow and a violet.

Eventually, after several layers, the limited palette became more inclusive. I added a few more hues in addition to the original three colors. Having at least one staining color, I learned, was needed.

Then, summer humidity became a major issue. I wanted to address the waves it was causing in the paper. And the significant pulling off the board.

Midway through the painting process, the paper was re-stretched. This meant, taking the paper off the gator board and carefully painting water across the back of the watercolor sheet, soaking it. Then adhering it to the gator board again. I use a staple gun.

Thankfully, it dried flat without any water falling upon or touching the previously painted portion. I considered videoing the process but I was already holding my breath. I didn’t want to add anything else which might distract my focus.

For those of you who are watercolor paper enthusiasts, this piece is painted on 140 lb cold, which means it has a slight texture.pressed Arches watercolor paper.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Where the Wild Things Are

“And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.”
― Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

The book, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak both fascinated and frightened me as a child.

My favorite scenes occur as a forest grows in Max’s room. Then the banks of an ocean appear. Max travels solo in his boat, by night and day for almost a year! Or at least, what feels to be a year! (Some days are just like that.)

As a child, I could hide myself in those spaces and that imaginative solo voyage.

Max finally reaches a far off shore, after his long voyage … only to be confronted by giant terrible Wild Things!

Now looking back upon the story as an adult, I am even more so struck by young Max’s courage to stare down and shout at the Wild Things,

“Be Still!”

I am reminded that there continue to be many things out there that roar at us, no matter what our age.

Sometimes we have the words to face those Wild Things. And sometimes, we have to steadfastly seek them.

Either way, whichever might be true for you . . .

I hope you always have someone who loves you best of all.

Where the Wild Things Are
watercolor
12” x 17”

Ground Control

In this one, I was immediately drawn to the ever-cool banana phone.

And as I painted it, my mind thought of the duct taped banana, titled Comedian by artist Maurizio Cattelan, which has rocked the art world. I don’t think artists can ever look at bananas the same way again. And if we don’t recognize the humor behind that piece and laugh at ourselves, we just might cry.

Some things cannot be captured or kept forever ... no matter how many dollars might be thrown at them.

The value is in recognizing the moments when they occur, be it the cheeky cleverness of an artist in a cultural moment or the fleetingness of childhood imagination and play.

Ground Control
12” x 14”
watercolor on cold pressed paper

Ground Control to Major Tom
Commencing countdown, engines on
Check ignition and may God's love be with you

Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Lift off

This is Ground Control to Major Tom
You've really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare

This is Major Tom to Ground Control
I'm stepping through the door
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today

For here
Am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do

Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles
I'm feeling very still
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Tell my wife I love her very much she knows

Ground Control to Major Tom
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you...

Here am I floating round my tin can
Far above the Moon
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do

-David Bowie

Neujahrsputz

I believe I am more excited about a fresh start and new year this year than in previous years. A proper and thorough Neujahrsputz has already taken place in the studio. (And yes, there is a German word for that deep clean we tend to do after the holidays and a new year approaches or zwischen den Jahren the German phrase for the time between Christmas and the new year.)

For 2025, I have ideas upon ideas alongside art making goals that may be a little upon the ambitious side . . . like making 50 paintings during the year that I will turn 50! But after all that 2024 held for me, I am inspired to take them somewhat seriously. My idea of what success as an artist means is also shifting. The older I get, the more I continue to learn from the other artists I know, meet, and work alongside. I am becoming more and more convinced that success as an artist truly looks different for everyone and is subjective. While there is no one path to it, for those who find it for themselves, those observing can see the objective qualities.

As the new year ushers in, thank you for the creative conversations 2024 held, and thank you to everyone who invited one of my little paintings into your homes.

Often people attempt to live their lives backwards, they try to have more things or more money in order to do more of what they want so that they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are then do what you need to do in order to have what you want.

Margaret Young

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.