Daily meditation

"Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

S.O.S.

Some wonderful person made this for us for Christmas. Er, we are not certain who that person is, but we are certain that he/she is wonderful because everything this spice rub touches ends up tasting exactly like Stovetop Stuffing. As Martha Stewart says, it's a good thing. Trouble is we are already two-thirds of the way through the jar. Please, wonderful person, please we must have the recipe. It's the only way I can trick Robb into eating beans and rice.

Snuggle

I'm becoming more adept at doing things with one hand.

Maaaaaaaaa

Happy Mother's Day!

Paint Snow Hill the long version

Friday was Robb's 40th birthday. Yay! But aging has him in a funk this time around, and he insisted I not make a big deal about it. So I refrained from filling the front yard with cardboard tombstones and removed the black crepe paper from the chandelier. Old guys are no fun at all. Instead I shall give you the full recap of Paint Snow Hill 2012. Pictured above are Momo and the birthday boy at the PSH picnic. Too bad they never smile.



For PSH this year I had to take my entourage: husband, teething toddler, dog, and carpet steamer. Yes, I have a rug doctor in my posse. Don't you? The old abandoned apartment needed a little pre-summer TLC: new curtains and a good scrub. None of that happened during the painting weekend, though, because Maureen is a very busy lady these days. Perpetual motion, that one. Robb played hookey from work Monday so we could finish up our chores.



This year we had 70 artists painting--about half of them squeezing into a photo here--which makes it the biggest PSH to date. I barely saw anyone when I was out painting. That makes sense because I didn't paint in or around town this year. I went out into the countryside around Snow Hill, Newark (MD, not NJ), and Berlin. Generally Ann Coates doesn't care where we paint as long as no one shows up with pictures of ferris wheels and cotton candy.



This is a farmhouse on Basket Switch Road in Newark purchased by artist Laura Wilke.



I backed into a pulloff across from Timmons Road near Snow Hill to paint this field. What caught my eye (and I'm not sure it reads so well in the painting) was the little gap in the center between the two stands of trees. Ann took this one home.



I intended to paint a field of mustard in full bloom (I LOVE fields of wild mustard) when I setup my paints just south of Mystic Harbor (near Assateague), but this woodsline took center stage instead. Funny how paintings sometimes have their own ideas about what's important. Cindy Reed bought it for her friend Apollo's first birthday, to start his art collection.





I can't tell you how many times I've pulled over on the side of Assateague Rd. in Berlin to photograph this old house. It's so weird looking I guess because there it is in the middle of a farm field falling to pieces. They work around it. With each passing year it seems more and more to only be held together by the vines that are consuming it. I finally made a painting of it and named it "Nature Finds a Way." Yes, it's a line from Jeff Goldblum's character in Jurassic Park; John Eiseman busted me. And Lynne Lockhart purchased it because she drives past this house every morning on her way to Assateague.



The weather stayed nice for us during the paintout, but Sunday morning was a real downpour that continued all day. We were worried it would keep the art enthusiasts away from the show. And yes, we replaced the windshield wipers on the Jeep the day after I took this picture of the old one flapping in the breeze.



I finished a fifth painting near the end of Porter's Crossing but neglected to get a good photo of it before Laurel Campbell took it home with her. In the picture above it's the third one down on the left. And I brought along two small paintings from last year to pad my panel a little. I hung up my work and realized belatedly that I had chosen the panel right next to Stewart White's paintings. Like I really want my work compared directly to his. His work is RIDICULOUS. And by "RIDICULOUS" I mean mind-blowingly crazy good. And in watercolor. No surprise when he took this year's Artists' Choice Award.



But the rain did not scare people away from the show. In fact, it washed the crowds right in the door. Overall sales were excellent. And I had a great time mixing and mingling and socializing and schmoozing. And then this happened to me:



Holy red dots, Batman! Color me astonished. And flattered. Let me throw a couple of metrics at you. Four of my paintings went home with other artists. Two of my paintings went home with people who chair plein air painting events. Two of my paintings went home with repeat customers. One painting went home with a college art instructor. Wait a minute, that makes it sound like I sold nine paintings... I sold five and traded one.



Doesn't my new Jess Cross Davis painting look good with the new curtains?!

Some days

"I'd Rather be the Father"
by Faith Shearin

Right from the start, it's easier to be the father: no morning
nausea, no stretch marks. You can wait outside the

delivery room and keep your clothes on. Notice how
closely the word mother resembles smother, notice

how she is either too strict or too lenient: wrong for giving up
everything or not enough. Psychology books blame her

for whatever is the matter with all of us while the father
slips into the next room for a beer. I wanted to be

the rational one, the one who told a joke at dinner.
If I were her father we would throw a ball across

the lawn while the grill fills with smoke. But who
wants to be the mother? Who wants to tell her what

to wear and deliver her to the beauty shop and explain
bras and tampons? Who wants to show her what

a woman still is? I am supposed to teach her how to
wash the dishes and do the laundry only I don't want

her to grow up and be like me. I'd rather be the father
who tells her she is loved; I'd rather take her fishing

and teach her to skip stones across the lake of history;
I'd rather show her how far she can spit.

Paint Snow Hill the short version

Best. Paint Snow Hill. Ever.

I write that every year. But this time I really mean it. We had two perfect painting days. Ann registered 70 artists this year. A record 53 paintings sold in the pouring rain Sunday. And 5 of those sold paintings were mine, which was all of my new paintings. I'll type that one more time while pinching myself: I didn't bring any new work home with me.



The fabulous Jess Cross Davis swapped paintings with me after the sale, so I brought home a brand new oil painting of the canoe rental shop. SCORE! And one of the ladies who purchased a painting from me has since been in contact to purchase several more, so I'm painting like a maniac at home. Photos and detailed blathering to come. Tomorrow is Becca's wedding, so it will probably be after the weekend. Meanwhile we're having major water issues at Fig Point, and I'm in a complete tizzy about our landlord's lack of urgency. But I am determined not to say the words "contaminated drinking water" once tomorrow. Becca's special day does not need to be overshadowed with cholera.