oil in Florida

all see in faith

It must have been the storm that woke me, but until I kicked off my flip flops and the wet sand gave way beneath my feet I didn't know it had even rained.

Even before dawn, the thought was waiting for me as I arose from a dream.  I was cocooned warm beneath the blankets of my mother's bed. Only after I had changed and ridden my bicycle across town, only as I descended the stairs and looked upon eternity did I realize I was awake.  

I had heard whisperings in town about the immense ships scouring the surface of the Gulf in the night. Be sure not to tell the tourists. And there, at the thirteenth hour, were two barges in a suspicious rendezvous, their orange, electric light the only indicator of the horizon. Their fabricated watts were notably less ethereal than the clouds which slowly boiled over one another in a tumultuous purple-black. It was impossible, aside from the vessels, to distinguish the ocean from the heavens and the desire to both duck and leap battled in my being. I gave in to each alternately, to be fair.

As the sun rose, the tops of the clouds appeared as tip of icebergs foretelling the magnificence that would grow downward into the shadows of the darkest cerulean sky. My skin glowed a white gray and, as I dropped my head backwards to take it all in, I held my breath knowing I must be under water. I kept spinning around and around as I tried to keep it all in my eyes. I tried to be completely present, consciously present, and then chastised myself for not being able to see the entire sky at once.
The light of the morning appeared over the rooftops formed into beams and rays aiming high as if the sun were hidden behind stage props, so blinding that the clouds as performers seemed to radiate their own spark instead of reflecting that of the source.
As the clandestine ships sailed away from one another trying to appear nonchalant, I could hardly make out their glow in the haze of the milky colors that early morning brings. 

Less alive, I awoke for the day.

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.