lost edges

Things are not always black and white.

More often than not I lose myself in the impossibly different shades of gray.

I've been going to a figure drawing class at Studio b. in Alys Beach, Florida and this week our guest instructor was Joan Vienot. She is an amazing artist and we had the opportunity to get some guidance from her and benefit from her skill.  Joan helped me to see that though unseen, the implications of existence are sometime all that matters. 

Suggest the details and engage people. They aren't as dumb as we think.

i don't know why

I don't grasp being envious of someone who is miserable despite being surrounded by friends and family. Who just doesn't know why she is depressed in her home. Who can't explain why she can't just get a job to pay the bills.  Someone who talks about being blessed and excited to see a new place, learn a new language and live a life that so many dream about... because she does realize, she does... but who breaks down in front of her fellow passengers when boarding for the first leg of the trip because it hurts so bad to leave the people that she loves and that love her despite truly knowing her. 
It isn't something I choose, really, this life that happens to me. I would choose, probably, to not work for minimum wage and 30 hours a week. I would opt not to spend money on plane tickets and oil paints. And I would probably get a government job that would pay me to go to the places and do the things I want to do. They would pay me to learn all the languages on my list. It would be much easier that way. And I'd probably have health insurance. And a company car. And a house. No debt. (I know you know what I'm talking about.) 
But I can't just do that.

statement

I find painting to be constant discovery, the combination of knowledge and muscle-memory upon canvas.  From the beginning, my parents enveloped me in opportunity and I benefited from countless art classes and museum visits before receiving a minor in Fine Arts from Western Kentucky University in 2007. My major was Spanish and through my travels I have been exposed to infinitely amazing sources of inspiration.

     The beauty is in the details, the small moments that cause double takes and pauses. In life, it may be a glimpse of the moon while driving down the interstate. In painting, it could be a swath of mint-green paint across a forehead. I enjoy preparing my colors and sometimes spend hours hovered over my mixing board before beginning a new painting. Discovering that there is gold beneath the chin of your best friend is as exciting as finding forgotten money in a coat pocket.

     The intriguing and, some may say, inconsequential happenings in life are why I paint. I am inspired not only by the complete and finished masterpiece but in the creation, as well. The muse that inspired the first stroke, and that carries the artist through the angles and shadows of the process, is crucial; just as the experience that the artist has gathered with each undertaking gives structure and wisdom to the final mark. You must first know and understand the rules before being able to manipulate them into being the perfect catalyst for the images in your head.

downtown

So maybe there is a little leap between reality and Miss Petula's lyrics when considering downtown Columbia, Tennessee.

Not many lights that are brighter there, not many movie shows to make you forget your cares... but something is waiting there behind the For Rent signs.

The energy among the musty historic walls, though only in it's potential stage, is exciting and lacks only that first push to earn the kinetic title and move forward into a bustling and rich spot in the city.

The character is not lackluster but is in need of a little spit-shine and a loving hand to bring it back into the lime light.

There are a few businesses that keep on truckin'... somehow...

A few changes need to be made in order to go from musty store fronts to some little places to go where they never close... but I'm confident it can be done.

The old Helm's building is being used as an art gallery that has created quite a stir among the seekers of wine and snacks on the last Friday of every month.  The more events that are held downtown may open the community's eyes to the opportunities that are in the heart of the city.

skeletons

I do not understand how to overcome the intense sense of sadness and guilt.

How anyone, when cleaning out closets that are chock full of memories past, can justly decide to toss or tether the notes that once skipped across rows of desks behind the teachers back. How to eliminate or illuminate the trigger to that one memory that floods in at first sight, but mostly just sits back and patiently waits in the filing room til the next spring cleaning frenzy.

Do I disregard the names that do not conjure up a countenance or, in the name of posterity, should I tuck them away for a later date when, by chance, that wrinkle in my brain decides to share it's secrets?

The recognition of a person's essence is immediate upon glancing at the handwriting on an envelope; the bittersweet scenes of times past are often too heartbreakingly sweet that I leave the cards in their covers.

Next time, maybe, when I have more to add and more to forget.

my best friend the zombie

This Friday 

in the old Helm's building 

on the corner of 

Columbia, Tennessee's 

historic downtown

(cue drumroll)

Local artists will 

be displaying their works!

(applause)

From 5:00 - 9:00 pm

please join us for a 

casual exhibition and

wine and snacks!

Help us prove that Columbia

does not die at sundown.

flashbacks

Like depicted in movies and on television, tunnel vision and hearing loss set in without warning as I fleetingly relive a moment from my childhood.   I relish these trips down memory lane that are most often triggered by the olfactory glands.
One of the most distinct and frequent memories that I recall is of taking baths at my grandparents' house in Oklahoma.  The undercurrent of well water is lacking, but every time I use Noxema face wash I revert back to that mini-me with my cheeks and chin lathered up just right; Papa's Colgate shaving cream and his old, razor-less Bic poised for action.
There are two perfumes that have the power to spike my senses and send me sniffing around like the best of hounds.  To be honest, though, I have no idea which specific scents they are; I only know my history with the women who wore them.
There are moments when I am back in the house from my McDowell Elementary School days.  The perfume my mom would don before going to a show in Nashville with dad or before her Thursday bunko nights was a spicy floral and I am almost certain it came in a delicate bottle with a tiny golden lid.  The closest I have come to finding a similar scent, that doesn't come in a ninety-nine cent aerosol bottle with a name resembling that of a romance novel, is one from Tokyo Milk.  Of course I don't recall the name of that flavor, either.
Sometimes I stop and look around to make sure my babysitter from preschool days isn't standing next to me. Naturally, she isn't, but once I accidentally smelled a woman onto the next aisle because I wanted to have Miss Tammy around just a little bit longer. Iced, sprinkled, strawberry Pop Tarts and Full House jump into my mind when I smell her perfume.  I think of teddy bears and my first roommate in college, too.
I believe that our lives flash before our very eyes daily.  More often, if we are lucky.  I know my eyes remain open and my motor skills haven't failed me, yet.  When it happens in the car, I keep driving but I confess what I see is not the scene I am passing. What I see is being projected onto that part just behind my eyebrows and forehead. That part of the skull seems to be where I look, as if staring at a movie screen.  Don't judge, everyone has been driving along and then suddenly wondered how they arrived at their destination.
Memory is the trickiest of characters.  I lose my keys within moments of entering the house but, when a waft from back in time drifts up my nose and into my memory files, I am suddenly eleven years and singing, word for word, Juliana Hatfield's Spin the Bottle while wearing my best friend's Flapdoodles.