The Secret to a Good Song

Wow! Where did the summer go? This is my favorite time of year so I’m not complaining, but the last four months have been a blur!

Be sure to mark your calendar for the annual Fall Art Meander (see the newsletter for times). It’s our 5th year and we’re planning to pull out all the stops with painting demonstrations, a $100 gift certificate drawing for a lucky winner, refreshments and a tour of the Pelican loft where Terry and I live. We’ve given tours before but not for a long time now, so don’t miss this one. We’ll have the tours during Meander hours. It’s really a surreal feeling to see this kind of cool living space in Spooner, or so I’m told. If you’d seen it nine years ago you wouldn’t believe it’s the same place. I look forward to welcoming you into my home and the place where I get so much inspiration.

I have been having so much fun with the gallery and my awesome patrons and customers that the thought of the season’s ending and everyone holing up for the winter hasn’t even entered my mind, but it’s coming and I love the slow pace and contemplative time to write and paint and finish restorations that have been patiently waiting for a loving and much needed renovation. The gallery hours will be reduced from seven days to six and except for the Meander weekend I’ll be closed now on Sundays until next spring. Hours are Monday ~ Saturday 10:00 to 5:00.

I received a call a while back from a guy who said he had a painting on velvet that needed help and of course my first thought was ‘Oh boy, a tacky old Elvis on velvet’, but I could tell from the loving way he spoke about it that it meant a lot to him so I agreed to look. When he arrived with the piece I was delighted to find a wonderful, old, very well done painting of the Three Kings. The velvet is flimsy and there are a few tears and issues but I’ve taken on the project with relish. I recently found the silk velvet I need to do the repair so I’ll start the work this month. That’s just one of a dozen really great old restoration projects ahead for this autumn season. I’m ready to rock.

I’ll be adding mirrors to my Anna Banana line and have started the artwork for the first prototype. I’m pretty pumped about the work because I’ve been envisioning this for literally years. I just couldn’t figure out how to get the mirrors done fast enough for wholesale orders to other galleries (no elves here) but I think I have the answer. Stay tuned to see how it works out.

Got a new girl for Mondays. Susan Braun is her name. You’re going to like her. I do. She’s a retired architect and a beauty to boot. Tall, silver haired and soft spoken with a lot of soul in her eyes. Come meet her some Monday or at least on Meander weekend. Make her feel welcome.

Kris Kristofferson once said; “The secret to a good song is three chords and the truth.” Now that’s profound. I learn daily how truly simple it is to live creatively and yet how impossibly complicated I tend to make it. I try not to overthink things but, seriously, it’s really hard not to fall in love with the idea that creating is mystical. It’s not, trust me. There is something to be said for just showing up and trusting ‘three chords and the truth’.

Still writing a couple poetry pieces a week. I’ve attached one I think deserves a look. I write several before I feel I have one that is worth the read. I hope you enjoy this one. If you don’t understand it, that’s okay…it’s a poem. You’re not really supposed to get it.

The Sexes or Let’s Dance

In a dance at the wedding of friends
my husband of twenty-six years at the time
tried to teach me how to cut a rug smoothly so as not
to leave any ragged edges—the mark of his generation,
one hand lightly on my hip—the other cupping my hand,

whirling me—dipping me down ‘til my blue dress
brushed the floor and my yellow hair caressed his
cheek as he pulled me to himself—reading my moves—
looking me in the eyes and in one fluid movement
beautifully swaying and spinning his love into our steps.

As sexes we ‘the created’ are a contradiction,
at once fierce for individualism, and yet hopeful
for oneness, groping for the human essence
that makes us more than animals, a little
lower than the angels—divine and divined.

A desert born of drought
the surface of our gendered lives is so parched
we are become waterproof
so that rain might even do us harm
causing dangerous flash floods.

Desperate, we send for the water witch.
As she shakes a rattle at the sky, her stick
is pulled like a magnet to the sustenance of life
drawn down to the deep source of springs.
“Dig here!” she cries.

Shovels become extensions of arms
as we frantically dig like wiener dogs,
maniacally snorting—plowing—furrowing,
the object of our need unreachable but sensed.
How did we become so bereft?

Suddenly I see my Hullabaloo past like a misty dream.
Hip huggers—go-go boots—the twist—the swim—the skate.
I see a verdant landscape that slowly becomes a wasteland, and
though I know it’s not the cause of all missteps as lovers and friends,
I mourn the day we stopped touching when we dance.

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