Waiting For That Wind

Stripped of bark, the old elm still remains a place of comfort. Squirrels raise young ones in it's hollow trunk,  birds rest on grey slender, leafless branches as the artist finds inspiration within its noble form. Colors reveal themselves to those willing to dream. The wood handle of the paint brush speaks for those limbs that fight the wind of winter and dry heat of the sun. A hundred years of secrets locked in its rings, waiting for the imagination of the artist.  Like old friends, reminiscing through the painting, stories come forth as the elm waits for that wind that will lay it to rest. Some time later the artist bids goodbye and moves onto the next story.  Paintings, like old trees, hold stories and secrets for people willing to look and listen to their hearts. 

Paintings carry two stories, one of the subject, another of the hand of the artist. The tight controlled hand of the painter wishes to release that story of the subject, and then the passionate energetic hand of the artist releases their feelings for the subject with the paints on their palette flying onto the canvas. Colors call, moods listen, and each subject touches the artist in its own way. The artist mixes past with present, through colors, hard edges and lost edges in their language of art. Laying color over color with long graceful strokes, laying side by side with dabs of paint, creating interesting textures and revealing the artist's uncontrolled passion.  

.

I Didn't Measure Up

Dad tinkered in the basement fixing things. Mostly electric motors which he retrieved from trips to the dump. Mom always considered it a good Saturday when Dad returned from the dump empty handed. Trips to the dump were to get rid of the ashes from our coal burning furnace and finding old burnt-out motors was dad's reward.

With a family of seven, washing machines were in use a lot. While dad tinkered in the basement, mom worked at the sewing machine making our clothes. At first it was a foot-powered machine. I remember how tickled mom was to get the new motor-powered Singer. New dresses and shirts were coming every week. I still got hand-me-downs, but with less wear. Had two older brothers who got the new shirts.

An average evening my older sister, Annie, was in the den playing one of the pianos. My younger sister, Cathy, was doing homework in the girl’s room. Oldest brother, Michael, was at the dining room table doing his homework. Francis, my second older brother, was fixing his bike in the basement. Me? I was laying on the living room floor looking at the illustrations in the magazine "Boys Life,” my textbooks laying next to me. Mom would call out asking if every one was doing their homework. The piano playing would stop and I'd close my magazine and only the clatter of the sewing machine would be heard. I'd do just enough homework to get by then copy a drawing from my Walter Foster Art Book, “How to Draw Horses.” Wore that book out copying those drawings.

When summer came, Mom bought me my second Walter Foster Art Book, “How to Draw Dogs,” and Dad bought a baseball glove for me. At first, I wore the glove only - no one to play with. Michael had a paper route and his books, Francis had his paper route and his bike. I  put the glove away and took my sketchbook out. Drew grasshoppers and cicadas and Mr. Koos, our neighbor, napping in his garden. Took it with me when I went with my Granddad, but was too busy hauling water to the tomato plants to get in any drawing.

Got a lot of drawing in during the school year though. During class I hid my drawing behind Tom Erath, who always sat up straight. Of course I never knew where we were in our textbook when it came my turn to read... All my teachers compared me to my older brother Michael, who all through grade school and high school was the perfect student. I didn’t measure up. I just could not get drawing out of my head.