Celluloid Man

Celluloid Man, acrylic, 30x24
(aka Celluloid Man Meets his Match)

I had primed this canvas but needed a different size for a planned painting. Rather than put the canvas away, I set up a palette with ultramarine, cadmium red, cadmium yellow, and white and began painting without a single thought--started with an oval.

I took a photo of the first day's work, printed it out and toyed with ideas--Self-anointed One and Candle Man. I needed a reason for the melting (other than the heat here in southern Virginia). After a couple of days, a memory surfaced. Aha!

When I was very young (4 or 5) I loved a small celluloid doll that my father bought for me during our trip into town. As I sat with my mother in the front yard under the shade of the trees, she said, "If you strike a match to the doll's feet, she will smile." I did--and was horrified as I watched her melt. I cried for days. My mother had a great sense of humor but it was missing on that particular day--this is one of the few bad memories from my childhood.

Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be artists.

It's a Wonderful Blog

Thinking Cap, photo from Taj Mahal in Atlantic City
(It took six attempts to get my head aligned with the faucet.)

I began following Harry Kent's blog Tachisme because I loved his self-portraits. His post from today--collaborative abstract painting and the accompanying comments--made me don my "thinking cap." Great reading.

Updated Sat., July 17. Wrap-around mirrors always fascinate and confuse me.

Third Thursday in South Boston

Six painted chairs were on display; there was great music; stores were open late, and lots of people showed up--despite the hot weather.

I almost bought my own painted chair. At $60, my left brain kicked in (I use it infrequently) and said "Buy it, take a deduction, and resell it for at least double at the October art show--a better return than the stock market." Bidding picked up and it sold to the lady on the stage. (Now I can legally deduct only the cost of materials--or was that law changed?)

Before the auction I took a walk looking for a breeze and, instead, found a beautiful side street. Celeste was right when she said backs and sides of buildings can be more interesting than fronts.

There was an underlying sadness at the event. The friend who talked me into painting the chair lost her daughter today--there was a car accident last weekend--and her grandson remains in the hospital. There was a silent prayer.

Watermelons and Flies

Saturday Night Watermelons, acrylic

(Seat and back were sanded; gesso was applied to area to be painted; at least two coats of acrylic paint were used; then an isolation coat; finally, three coats of archival satin varnish. All products were manufactured by Golden Acrylics.)

The owner of Sacs So Bo Eclectique asked if I would paint a chair for Third Thursdays. Third Thursdays are held in South Boston VA to raise money for arts. First I said "No;" then I said "Okay." How hard could it be? Answer: Very hard for someone like me, who usually paints without a plan.

A child's golden oak chair was delivered; I waited for it to tell me what it wanted to be. It said "I'm already beautiful and would like to be a footstool."

All my paintings have been on canvas or panels--a chair seat calls for a different perspective. I considered a painting of a robin's nest, or birds looking down at a parking lot (deciding which car to bomb), or a cup of spilled coffee. I wanted the beauty of the wood to show so I chose a napkin with cut-work; I don't have one so I made it up. What to put on the napkin--fruit, but fruit is boring. I saw a watermelon at the produce stand--not a seedless one but one with black seeds--like the ones from childhood.

I remembered summer Saturday nights as a child. Friends gathered at our country store--ten to twelve children. We played hide-and-seek, red rover, and jumped rope. A parent would bring out a home-grown watermelon and a large butcher knife. One well-placed whack of the knife cut three-quarters through the watermelon; then it was broken in half. The same method was used for each slice. We stood and ate our slices, bent over to keep drips off our clothes. I'd look up and see an older boy holding his dripping rind. "I'm gonna wash your face!" I'd run screaming and laughing through the yard; he'd catch me and rub the rind all over my face and hair. To bugs, I was the most attractive being in the Universe.

I don't think the bugs looked like these--I spent a lot of time researching flies. I know that they have large eyes and six legs. I could not determine whether their wings go up and down or back and forth. I guess these are Farber flies.



Working conditions were not ideal; I improvised. The chair fit perfectly over my trash can--just the right height.

Fathers

The Wilkersons in 1942
(I'm the one with the bald head and bare feet)

Some fathers are strong--they lift.

When Dad was 12, his father was killed in an accident. Dad quit school and worked so his siblings could stay in school. I was born in the back of his country store; then Dad (with Mom's help) built our house--obtaining plumber's and electrician's licenses as needed. He dealt in antiques and owned several farms.

At 40, he went to college. At 46, he graduated from Southeastern Theological Seminary in Wake Forest, NC and became a full-time Baptist minister--his dream. I think he was a minister long before he earned his degree.

When he was dying, he said "Tell Estelle (my mother) that it's beautiful." I think he might have been in heaven before his last breath.

He taught us that learning never ends; to stand for what we believe; to carry turtles to the other side of the road; and to act silly at least once a day.

Celeste Inspires

1963, Seen but Not Heard

I visit Celeste Bergin's blog often. She paints every day--landscapes, animals, cowboys, people, flowers--all beautiful. Several weeks ago, she posted a self-portrait that she'd covered with pthalo blue. I spent at least 30 minutes moving the cursor hand around her face. What fun. When the hand covered the mouth, I thought "Seen but Not Heard." I found a photo from 1963 and whipped out a portrait (in only eight days--fast for me). 1963 was a time of black eyeliner, high heels, and high hair. For some women, finding one's voice took a while (I would not go back). I always feel old photos are of some acquaintance--not of me. The blue tint and cursor drawing were added in Corel.

This is the painting, which was troublesome--I originally gave myself a longer neck, large pupils (like after a visit to the ophthalmologist), a too-long chin and a too-short upper lip. I judge this as okay and I might just cover it with pthalo blue--acrylic, 14x11. It has no title yet--maybe "Only my Hair was High."





The photo was taken when I was not quite 21 and living in D.C. The photographer had been trained by the Navy in aerial photography, then assigned to submarine duty. We were co-workers; I married him. He was an offset photographer at the Commerce Department, and retired in 1992 as a Deputy Assistant Secretary of Commerce. (Where is my left shoulder?)

I am surprised by the resemblance in this photo to earlier blogs: "Woman in a Rain Bonnet" (April 26) and "A Leftover Chicken" (Feb. 24).

An update on the local ospreys. They are alive and well, and keeping an eye on the ball.

Folk Stories

He Beat his Mules, acrylic on panel, 20x16

He beat his mules. Lena Lion (who could cast spells) said, "You will know what it's like to have hooves." He dreamed of running on all-fours. When he awoke, his feet and hands were bloody.

Fairy tales were okay; whispered stories about actual neighbors were more interesting. I always looked at his hands. When Lena Lion--a tiny woman--visited, I stayed quiet.

This setting is from imagination--dark quilts, rag rugs, heavy doors, old farm houses. The painting is almost finished--I will probably put these words on the upper portion of the door:

HE
BEAT
HIS
MULES

In the rural area of my childhood, several women had "powers" and creeks had suck-holes. These stories kept us from venturing onto others' property and kept us out of the lithia water of local creeks. The suck-holes were always close to the beautiful large, smooth, round rocks that beckoned. I was 28 when I took swimming lessons--in a pool!

Birds on a Pole

The Nest

Former Home

When I read Merci33's blog about the wildlife in her yard, I thought of our local ospreys and their housing situation.

Here is what I had learned at Tuesday's Council meeting--this year the ospreys chose the local ball field over their normal spot in the lake by the railroad trestle. It's a problem because: The pole is too old to be climbed (how do they change bulbs?); the light pole they chose cannot be turned off individually; having the nest relocated by the appropriate movers is too expensive (the town, like the country, is in debt); and there is concern that the osprey will drop sticks on people below. Do they really drop sticks on passersby? Will the eggs bake? If the chicks hatch, how long till they fly? Should ballgames be moved to a different field? Why did they bypass their usual nesting spot? Lots of questions.

I know some of you are bird watchers and may have suggestions. They probably should be left alone as we hope for the best. What happens next year?

I did get back to painting today but I took the camera with me when I dropped off my aluminum cans--recycling center is at the ball park. Two birds in one short15-minute trip; my timing was perfect.

Away from Art (Almost)

Refrigerator Arrangement, found heads, copper & vases

I've been away from my studio/workshop for a couple of weeks. A new refrigerator meant cleaning out the old one--a dirty job. I found pre-cooked bacon with a use before date of 2005. These three cool guys have always had the spot on top of the refrigerator--from the utility room, they peer around the kitchen doorway and keep an eye on the front door. Their heads bob in rhythm to a heavy wash load or the stereo. They got baths and, while trying to get them in the perfect spot and position, I accidentally leaned against my new water dispenser--I got bathed from the waist down with cold water.

My Town (pop. 1,400)

Guests (relatives) from NJ and MD arrived last week so a boat ride was in order--I had not been on the boat in three years. It's a long walk down the hill to the dock (I had to make a second trip up and down for the key) and an even longer walk up the hill when we return. I sometimes forget just how beautiful it is on Buggs Island Lake and how fortunate we are to live in this beautiful small town.

We did not fish for the 65-pounders but I spotted goldfish clouds.

http://lakecountry-live.com

Mother's Day

Where Should I Put My Head?, oil pastel, 16x12

My mother suffered from Alzheimer's, which began in her late seventies. I brought her to live with us in our small, then vacation, house. (Since remodeling it's now our permanent home.) After Dad's death, Mom never slept in a bed but was comfortable on a sofa. Each night I'd set up the sofa with sheets and pillows; she'd ask, "Where should I put my head?" I'd pat the pillow; she'd lie down the opposite way and complain about the light in her eyes. Then she'd switch ends. She tried so hard to do things the right way--even laid sheets of typing paper down to mark a path to the bathroom; yet she couldn't find it without help. There were times, though, when her humor returned and there was laughter in the house. Restaurants were fun, too, but she insisted that we be in the house when darkness arrived--nighttime porch-sitting was not allowed. No one in the house got much sleep.

This was my first oil pastel (drugstore variety) on drawing paper; done after Mom moved to an assisted living facility--it was completed in one all-night session; it still makes me cry. I tried to make a large painting of this--it was a failure; all the feeling went into this one.

My mother died in a nursing home seven years ago at age 82. I think of her almost every day, not just on Mother's Day.