Blog

WINTER IN HUBEI (Pandemic Series, # 1) Original__ January 2020__ Oil on Canvas__

40 in. x 30 in.

 

(Excerpt from 01/22/2023 entry)

I use surgical gloves when I paint with oils. It makes 'clean up' easy. All I have to do is take the gloves off and discard them. I also no longer use a palette. I love the feel of the oils - they are so tactile - and I use my left (gloved) hand as my palette. You may be wondering what on Earth this has to do with the painting, Winter in Hubei. Everything.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I used to volunteer at German Shepherd Rescue, before they relocated up to Temecula. I'd go in at 5 in the morning on Saturdays and Sundays to give baths to 20 or more dogs. (Nobody coming to adopt a rescue wants to look at a smelly dog - ??Duh. . . ) Not only is a good bath conducive to getting the dogs adopted, but from a practical point of view, I could do a relatively complete physical on each of them. Checking for lumps and bumps. . . Bites and wounds. . . Hernias, parasites, and a whole host of other problems. . . And an added plus of bathing - it relaxes the dogs. It puts them in a good mood and helps calm them given the excitement of the meet and greet, an otherwise anxiety-provoking event for many. They realize it may be their chance to get out. . . Find a forever home. Forget about the adoptive 'parents' for a second if you would. It's a stressful situation from the dog's point of view. Yes, there were many reasons to do what I did. But the truth is more than anything I just loved it. I'd pull on my tall black water-slogging boots and a pair of old ripped and thrice-patched blue jeans and a short-sleeved t- and get in there and get good and dirty. I'd get as wet as the dogs and didn't care. I'd rub them all over and massage them into a trance. This relaxed them, and they were happy. And for just a little while, I was able to forget or at least not think about what had been done to Sim, my black labrador retriever. Caring for those shepherds - Van Gogh/Snuggles, Magic, Lady, Wilson, Hero, Lissette, King, Rocky, Angel and the others was exactly what the doctor ordered! I loved it and I loved them, and I wanted them each to know that someone cared. That they were loved. That they were not alone. And I began to pick up on slight nuances of their behavior, their likes their dislikes their quirks. Rocky was motivated by playing ball. Lady loved to have her head rubbed. Magic was fearful and hand-shy (he must have been beaten by someone so you had to be especially careful in how you acted around him ~ so as not to exacerbate the issue - or get injured). I knew what each dog was thinking, how he or she would react, and what things set him/her off. Because of this, I could help direct them to the 'perfect home' -- the one where not only the adoptive person would be happy, but equally important -- where the dog would be happy. After all, things hadn't worked out before for them or they wouldn't be here. Wasn't it imperative that we got it right this time around? (The saying is, 'Happy Wife, happy life' - but it also applies to dogs!)

One thing I noticed was that minutes before the gates opened on any given Saturday/Sunday morning and people started to stream in, the mood among the dogs would abruptly change back in the kennels. Seconds before gates were unlocked, while I was in the back up to my neck in bubbles and bathing, preparing them all for their momentary spotlight - hoping that they'd each get adopted - they would turn their huge ears in unison and point them in the direction of the front gate. They were like little antennas with a switch that transmitted to a receiver a radar pulse - incoming. They would record and process the information and act on it. First silently. Just the ears. Then the heads would turn in unison. There was more than one entrance, and I could always tell exactly which gate was being opened by watching the ears. And the heads turning. But it was more than that - you could also tell WHO was coming. Because certain rescuers engendered a more highly anticipated response than others. There were a handful that they were especially excited about. Like Lori. And Caroline. And Linda and Dennis. And I began to be able to read their body language. It's amazing all the things they say - if only people would pay better attention. Maybe it's instinct for them. Or maybe they just pay closer attention to the signs better than we do. But if you stop. . . if you care…. If you listen. . . . . and pay careful attention . . . . you can learn a lot.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 

i had just returned from an international showing of my work at the National Art Center Tokyo. It was a beautiful show in an exquisite venue. My work, Belonging (In Memory of Sam), which I was loathe to leave behind, was on its way from Japan to China, where it would become part of the President’s Permanent Collection. To me that means the work will survive - forever. Long after I am gone, people will be able to see and appreciate it - and for this particular piece - know how much a dog named Sam was loved. The painting would live on and therefore, so would Sam. About that - I was ecstatic. And too, as often happens after seeing beautiful work from around the World, I was inspired to escape the business side of the art world and return to what I love the most -- the tranquility of being alone, in my space, able to do what I love! I ordered a whole bunch of gloves. And I waited. . . . . . . and waited . . . . and waited. . . .

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Amazon usually delivers the day before you order anything. Really. You just hit SUBMIT and go sit by your front door. The doorbell is already ringing. It's Amazon Delivery! Here's your Prussian Blue, your Violet de Quinacridone Sennelier Oils and the Gamvar Gloss you ordered (2 seconds ago), Miss! Hit SUBMIT again, and Callisi is standing by the front door, barking. It's the Amazon Delivery guy -- Here are your Peanut Butter Dog Treats, Young Lady! Dear Reader, You get the picture. . . So tell me, what on Earth is taking so darned long with my surgical gloves? I continued to wait. A week passed. Then two. And all the while the News raged on about some new virus in Wuhan. And a dark thought entered my consciousness, and I just couldn't shake it. I knew something BAD was about to happen. I just didn’t know what. . . And when I checked, I learned that ALL of the surgical glove suppliers that Amazon uses are based overseas. In China. And not one of them was delivering on gloves. The delay wasn't a problem shipping to the West Coast, say from New Jersey. Surely executives at Amazon -surely Bezos himself - must know what's going on here. I wonder what other products are being impacted. Suddenly I felt a lot like the dogs at German Shepherd Rescue. My ears went up and turned in one direction.

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

There he was again. A funny little man. Every time you turned on the news there he was.  Who was this Fauci guy?  Something seemed off.  His credentials?  The way he talked about medical issues?  His wife’s job?  His suggestion that a bat ignored every instinct it had and left its fellow bats to travel hundreds of miles beyond its natural habitat, hit a cramp, fell from the sky, landed in a sea food market in some poor dude’s won ton soup and in so doing kicked off a worldwide pandemic? (NO! Not THAT!  That makes perfect sense!!!!);  Maybe it was his sticking his nose into every conversation about this new virus and commandeering the conversation as if he were an expert on every single aspect of it? His history with H I.V. and AIDS?  His connections to China?  Something wasn’t right about this sniveling know-it-all little man and I couldn’t figure out what it was. . .  

 *****************************

 

Red flowers in China are symbolic for life and longevity. They are also symbolic of compassion. *

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

 

The sky was blue. All seemed peaceful. But what ought to have been an easy day of painting turned suddenly dark. I never know exactly what is going to come out. But I do have colors in my mind that I'd like to see together or at least try to combine. That shade of blue definitely was calling out to cornflower yellow. But that's not what happened. And I don't know why. I have NEVER used that color of deep red, burgundy before. But somehow or other that's what felt right. It's a really dark shade of red. Red is supposed to be passion. To be blood. To be life. But this red was different. I'd never chosen that particular color before. It is the color of deoxygenated blood. At first I wiped the flowers away. I found them unsettling. Now they are all gone. The life that is the sculpted 3-dimensional flowers is gone off of my canvas because I erased them. Not really. The stain of the red is left behind. And I remember thinking - 'They are all gone. Only ghosts remain.' That upset me, so I scribbled the ghostly remains of the flowers back where they would have been - if I hadn't wiped them away. But they kept wanting to populate the canvas. So these dark deoxygenated flowers returned. And I thought of the virus. It was a capsulated virus, this coronavirus. I put some bubbles in. I want them to blend. I don't want them sticking out. Nobody is going to notice them initially. They are in the environment, but nobody sees them. There they are. They are all over the place. And then I start to cry. And the oils are still very wet in one area and my tears mix with the wet, thin areas of paint and drip down onto the canvas. Oh my, I will need to correct that. You can see me crying right onto that canvas so that can not stand. I'll have to come back to this area in the upper left of the canvas and 'fix it.' But oh, wait. Maybe I should leave that be. It feels right. The ghosts, the capsules, the tears. . . up up up they go. And then it is over. And it says everything I wanted to say.

 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I thought of calling it Winter in Wuhan. But the alliteration - bothersome. I changed it. This work is a lament for all of the beautiful Chinese people who suffered so greatly, especially at the beginning of this Pandemic. But it's a lament in general, for all that nCV19 (COVID-19) has wrought upon the World.  (I wondered if it was the American who was responsible - that irritating little man.  Was all this his fault?). I put the piece to one side of my studio and didn't show it to anyone for a long time. Then February came and went. And still no gloves . . ..

 

******************************** 

 

Provenance & Publications:

Art in America, 40th Anniversary Edition, December 2022 - January 2023

 

“Art in the Time of Corona," Exhibition & Catalog (Volume 3), Dab Art Co., Los Angeles, California U.S.A.,  January-December 2022

 

XXth International Japan Exhibition, Chiba City Museum of Art, Tokyo, JAPAN

 

https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/lHcgti_fMjZmzTKa_ISJ8Q https://youtube.com/shorts/vzmaO0XpMYU?feature=share https://www.japan-live-exhibits.com/m_cbcb_ChibaCityMuseumofArt/

 

ARTSY, January-December 2022

 

Art News, August/September 2021

 

Artillery Magazine, July/August 2021

 

Exhibition News: "Art in the Time of Corona," Exhibition & Catalog (Volume 3), Dab Art Co., Los Angeles, California USA

 

* Please note: Beatrice Wood Arts Center handles sales and is a 501c3.

 

This painting took a year+ to complete (conceptually and in terms of the “band detailing,” visible most clearly in the center of the three horizontal sections). I never minded the more tedious moments of the work involved, because I love the color amethyst.  This painting has brought luck. 
(The color amethyst is also about intuition.)

 

Update:   The artist’s work (both originals & prints) are no longer available at this time on this site. Some originals do become available through the secondary market, albeit rarely.  Unfortunately, because of  limited availability of originals in both primary &  secondary markets, the prices on the secondary market are significantly higher. We apologize for this and hope to announce the artist’s return by the end of the year 2025. 

 

 

 

This site will continue to be maintained for individuals to enjoy her work. [All inquiries for originals should be directed to this site’s email. Serious inquiries only.  We will get back to you within approximately 4-6 weeks. This site is no longer monitored daily.  Prints are also no longer available on this site directly.  Small limited editions of 10-25 may become available in 2026]

THE REMAINS OF THE DAY

Original 2022_  Oil__ Canvas__ 20 in  x 60 in 

 

  *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

 

Try to remember when life was so tender
That dreams were kept beside your pillow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That love was an ember about to billow.

 

Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow.
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow.
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow.

 

 

Premonitions.  
Do you remember a silly conversation we had about the strange dreams that wake me up in the middle of the night?  (You told me to turn off the news!)   This painting is because of my premonitions, so titled “The Remains of The Day.”  The quiet after The Final War.  And it speaks to something else, something enduring . . .. 

 

  *     *     *     *     *     *     *     * 

 

About the Painting:

This painting began during what I felt to be a tumultuous time.  [He said, ‘The kinetic part of the Final War had not yet begun’] . . .. whatever did he mean by that?  . . .. 

I thought of adding to this piece,  but there is something serene here.  Quiet.  Thoughtful.  Accepting.  Peaceful ~  and that’s exactly what is needed in turbulent and frightening times such as these.  When all we know is gone,  when the United States of America - when ALL of Western Civilization has fallen, what if anything will remain?  Only one thing. . ..

 

 

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     * 

 

My neighbor watched as I brought the canvas outside to dry a bit - and to avoid the smell given off by the still fresh paint.  

 

 

"Oh!  That's interesting.  Not finished, right"

"hmmmm. . ..  I think it might be finished."

"But it's not what you usually do."

"True. . . " 

"It's sort of quiet."

"Yes.  It is, isn't it?  I like it that way.  It is peace."

"I see that."

"Yes,"  (pause. . . ) "There is something to be said for peace." I turned & winked. . .. 

 

And then under my breath, again a second time,  “Yes.  There is much to be said for peace.”

 

(Quiet.  Calm, always now.  Easy (not for everyone,  but for me - YES, easy! I knew what was coming, so there was time to mentally prepare.  I tried to warn you and yet, so many caught off guard. . ..)  . . .   But even a piece as simple as this requires thought.  It is peaceful.  Perhaps not explosive & overflowing with 'happiness colours'- cherry reds, royal blues, majestic purples. . ..  But nonetheless,  bringing a special joy!   It is not as complex as OUAT.  

 

I stood back and stared for a long while at my canvas.   Something unexpected about it.  And I went back when I created it,  tearing up over the painting,  tearing up over all that will be lost not too far in the future- it is coming - and then I added the 'karlami' to it,  so it would come alive again if even for only a fleeting moment!  Ever so slight an injection of color was all it really needed - to give it Life!  LIFE!!
And now those touches of color  - - the sparks of vibrancy that make it what it is!   How could these colors not remind me?  So, it’s the best within its calmness.  A different sort of painting.  A different feeling.  A good feeling.  A happy feeling.  A feeling of peace.  A feeling of PEACE.   I decided not to ruin the piece by trying to turn this painting into something it was not and the softness of the blue -- remarkable really!  I don't think that anything else would have worked quite as well for me!  So I chose to leave it as it was and accept this work of art for its very own special beauty and remembering now for a fleeting moment -- for its own very special show of 'Grace.'  

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     * 

 

Ahhhhhhh . . . . . . ..   I am walking barefoot through an open meadow and sports bikes with bells and reflectors and baskets and their riders in multicolored bandanas eyes fixated shoulders slumped legs pumping rhythmically and runners sweat dripping off foreheads down shirts cooling with evaporation and their feet pounding the asphalt of Center Drive and setting a pace their paths all criss-crossing my own,  with me continuing on and my toes making mush of the wet earth beneath them. I know they are all around me faces without names I can't really see who these riders are for they are all masked even those who seem not to be and their masks do a great job of concealing their identities except of course for Lafayette.  I look around at all of them.  Running.  Running.  Where are they all running?  For the Nitehawk is now closed.  What are they running away from?  They appear frightened. And I've never seen anything like this here ever before.  And then I notice this:  No-one else is with bare feet but there are plenty of worn-out and used up sneakers,  overpriced Nikes screaming this is who I am,  filthy dirty cleats and clogs announcing one's commitments in case nobody noticed and really why does anyone care  . . .  I am different in this regard -- and I am aware of this.  Others look and wonder because their own worlds are filled with people who care about these things - not living life not loving and living but chasing one more dollar one more one more one more it is never enough while the things that matter turn grey and start to rot and then they have to pretend to regain some semblance of what was there before they actually in fact in mind and in deed stopped caring entirely for everything except their own emotional and material need . . . .  and the things that truly mattered were neglected entirely by them,  risking it all,  putting all of it in danger,   such fools!   . . . .. so,  these are the ones that glance down disapprovingly at my feet which touch the Earth and feeling it it is real and I see them all looking,  but I pay no mind.  material.  transient.  unsustainable.  not real.  [Yours: Marching. Shrieking.  Virtue signaling:  Without real virtue.  She Her kind will bring this Country to its knees. How can the blind see?  How can You not see what is actually happening?]  Suddenly,  I just don't care anymore.  I realize that something happened back then and then all of a sudden,  none of it meant anything.  And now?  Hypersonics on combat readiness but they (like yours) sip their wine coolers and check their d-stocks, thinking themselves thinking yourselves immune. Fools! Growing unrest flooding NYC streets.  But you cannot escape. Because of Her and others just like Her,  nowhere is safe. There is nowhere for you to run, so you might as well stay put . . ..  Three large PLA battleships move into place,  while Mr. E  announces his alliance in spite of,  well, . . .. his other alliance.  A woman meanwhile works extra hours so she can afford a second home if she can just convince her husband that having more is the real necessity. WHAT IS GOING ON IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW?   What is causing all of this?  [She caused this. You caused this. The 81 D’s  caused this. Look around you. You have nobody but yourselves to blame. That’s the real reason I went, not you. I wanted to see for myself - Who The Hell are these people who did this to all of Us - including themselves?  So I went. And I saw. And they were,  they are - EXACTLY as I imagined them to be. . ..]
And then,  in my dream,  there is tremendous violence - frightening - tremendous violence in every direction and followed by an eerie 'nothingness.'  It's everything and it's nothing at all.  Hard to explain but the dream,  this particular dream comes over and over and my sleeping is fitful and interrupted nightly. Until I arrived at The Pine Forest! It is just as I remembered it!!  I wake up drenched in sweat back then, before I found my way back home.  And my heart was pounding.  I doubt anyone would understand.  So in this other dream,  hands at my side and my fingertips barely touch the tips of several blades of the tall grass, and all i care about suddenly is legacy as the chaos is rising on either side of me.  What is this feeling overcoming me these past few years and I could not seem to shake it - it is or at least it WAS becoming more intense.  (TURN OFF THE NEWS is what you would tell me,  no longer joking but Dead serious. “You know all of this news 24/7 is upsetting you and the rest of Society so why watch it ~ what's the point?” True.  I don't care what either side is saying across the partisan divide,  not the right and not the left.   Soon it will ALL mean nothing,  as even those who brought this on,  even those in power,  even those with money they feel insulates them from what is about to transpire - - - Every Single One of These People every single one of us . . .. ahh -well  - - - including those who called for it all to end,  perhaps not thinking that they were calling for their own demise -- every single individual throughout the world with American citizenship will feel it,  as the once great bastion of freedom falls in ruins . . .. )  What is it that frightens us?   Is it How it all unfolds.  For now I know,  this was not just a dream.  It is going to happen.  But back in early January of 2020,  it was just a premonition.  Alarming.  And then the dreams.  They were frightening. So much so,  I placed a call to H in early January 2020 before the Pandemic and half fearful to tell him exactly what it was I skirted around relaying half of the nightmares,  half of what I was feeling as a result of it.  And he was quiet and listened and said calmly that if what I was trying to say was what he thought I was trying to say, a complete and utter breakdown of Society,  then the market would be the very last thing I would need to worry about.  And I didn't want to alarm him over a silly really bad dream.  And I didn't want him to think I was falling apart over a silly dream.  So I said, 'Yes.  What a ridiculous bad dream!   The United States collapsing.  The end of the United States of America.  Totally preposterous!  I guess we should just leave all the investments as they are and get out more and try to put really bad dreams into the appropriate perspective,  after all,  it was only a bad dream.'  Well.  He was right about it being the least of our worries.  For now.  So much more.  For Heaven's sake,  WHAT on Earth is going on?  

 

  *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *   

What if?… What if you were forced to give up your home?  and all of your neighbors,  nearly all of  your friends who live nearby, your extended family, the places you go the people you know, . . .your neighborhood, your access to the City. everything that is your current world,. . .. and live out your life with just one person in a remote location  - - - how would they respond to that reality? & most importantly ~ Would you now be okay with giving it all away?  
 

*  * *  * *  * *  * *. * 

 

I am a giant here in this meadow. Will my work transcend?  This is all-at-once  (almost) the only thing I ever wonder about.  This is all I care about, . . .  my work transcending.  It means everything now.  I must paint.  I must.  There is nothing else.  I must fight the rising darkness with more beauty.   Something beautiful to maybe,  if I am at all lucky,  to last.  Something to remember our civilization by, if we do not . . .. if it does not survive.  If nobody survives.  

 

  *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *   

 

I took nearly every dollar and put it into art.  I know art.  And I know the artists.  And I went to the best of the best contemporary artists.  And I purchased their best work.  I am certainly not wealthy.  It should not have been me taking on this project.  But I didn't think anybody else would think that far in advance,  and I needed to do something -- something that I thought was important for someone to be doing.  So I did it.  And then I started to remove the works from their stretch bars.  And to roll them all up and seal them in waterproof airtight fireproof containers.  To preserve our history.  To preserve at least some of what is most beautiful of America - before it all falls,  before it is all destroyed  . . ...  And I gave it all to him. And he placed it into an underground vault in Southern California.  One day, someone will find it all. After the dust settles. And it will be a reminder of the beauty of Freedom and what a Free People are capable of. . .. Great Beauty! 

 

  *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     

 

My Pine Forest is off in the distance just beyond the bend in the dirt and on the other side of a towering row of pines with their needles forming a blanket on top of that dirt road.  It is quiet here in The Forest.  Yes very still.  Did I say it was peaceful here,  on the other side? Yes.  It is.  Here there is peace. A deer stops and stares, then disappears . . .. 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *            

 

Merchant Ivory was different!  REMEMBERED!   

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     * 

You ARE good! I continue to be amazed at just how good you are.  You are SO good at keeping secrets!  But you never kept any secrets from me. Even at the beginning. You told me Everything.  Keeping secrets from everyone else?:  You are really the Best of the Best!   No matter what I said in my pain, I will never forget  . . .. 

 

 

    *     *     *     *          *     *     *     *     *    

 

Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Although you know the snow will follow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Without a hurt the heart is hollow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
The fire of September that made us mellow.
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow.

 

    *     *     *     *          *     *     *     *     *  

 

I know someone somewhere will be searching for the Karlami.  Of course it's there!  It's in the painting. I added it & now it is there,  . . a reminder,  of course!!  And now that I know someone may be looking for it I couldn't possibly leave it out - or could I?  I remember the first time I breathed a word about it.   (Karl of course knows!  He and I - we made it all up!)

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     * 

 

It is five in the morning, and I am awake.  It is warm in here because I am wrapped in my favorite heather blue sweater ~ I take it off and put my father’s oatmeal colored sweater on because it’s warmer and there’s no heat and i crank the hand radio and listen for any news but there’s nothing but silence as tens of millions were slaughtered & the United States has fallen and even those who did this are now gone . . ..  I am floating away I am in Heaven ~   it was just moments ago and I've lost all track of time while working on this painting. . . ..  it is all that matters really . . . ..  and I am at peace . . .  you were correct!  It is the most beautiful thing in the World!!  

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *   

 

Sometimes I can hear your laughter.  It is the sweetest sound of all . . .. & you raise an eyebrow and you make me laugh!  You are so silly and I love that about you!

* * * 
I turn to you and ask, “Did I make you laugh?” And a smile spreads across your face, and I say, “then my work here is done!” 

 

* * * 

 

There's wind that blows in from the north

And it says that loving takes this course

 

*     *     *     *     *  

 

I know you thought I was being silly with some of the things I said.  I know you wondered where some of these thoughts were coming from!  Yet I never said much about the actual premonitions,  because I knew that would sound strange.  And I myself am at a loss to explain where these thoughts come from.  Because two years ago there was no chance you could see what I was seeing.  Why, even very grounded H was taken aback by my query!   But now it is different.  And I trust that you will see . . ..  See what you see.  Use that incredible brain and release yourself from decades of indoctrination my good friend and try just for a moment try -to See what you see. . .. See what you see. . ..

 

 

  *     *     *      *     *

 

I know you don’t believe in God, but I asked him anyway to watch over you. . .. 

 

    *     *     *     *     *     * 

 

There it is again,  on my canvas, and it is undeniable magic!  Thank you God!  I know I asked you for something entirely different, something I wanted instead.  But you have given me what you feel is most important right here and now,  and I will cherish it,  and I will be ... I am grateful.  Even when I forget to say 'thank you.'   Even when I cry . . . 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *          *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *       

 

In the stars.  The Second Time.  I don’t show up.   I am headed back into my shell where it is safe.   I am overwhelmed  . . ..

 

No I'm not impossible to touch

I have never wanted you so much

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *          *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *            

 

 

POW!  Pow!  POW!  Magic! LOVE!   It's all there, on my canvas.  When I paint LOVE it makes everything else disappear!  SNAP!   No need for  any words.  Check the canvas!  Love, disappointment,  joy,  grief, caring, humanity, kindness, understanding, warmth,  calm,  compassion, confusion, fear, resolution,  humanity, acceptance  - - it's all there.  It's on my canvas.  Electricity.  I want to look away again.  
Perhaps I can slip out a side door.  I ought to be angry,  but i do understand.  And I remember how you asked ME what I wanted you to do. And I sent you away, I sent you back without thinking twice. I did that.  I don’t know why I did that, or how I found the strength to do that- tell you what I thought was the right thing to do, but I did.  And I regretted My Choice. .  You asked me what I feel.  I feel hurt. Yes, it was so very painful ~ And I told you I’d forget, because I knew in my heart if I didn’t do that you wouldn’t stick it out. And that hurt even more. 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *  

 

WHY? Why did you tell me about Jamie?  Were you intentionally trying to hurt me by ensuring it could never work or hedging your bets just in case?  Working with Katie on a backup plan… ?  Or did you actually see something I would not see because of my own naïveté and you were trying to warn me because you love me still?  

 *     *     *     *    

 

[You didn’t show up for Willa?  I do not know this Man that didn’t show up for a woman he loved for over ten years. ]. Ask yourself,  Why? . . .. 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *          *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *            

 

 

Everyone around me is suddenly gone.  The canvas remains.    

 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *    *     *   

 

 

My alarm goes off!  I roll over,  jolted out of a deep wonderfull place of existence.  .   .  .  .. 

And I wonder ~ 

Was I dreaming? .  .  .

 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *          *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *        

 

 

Provenance:  

The Remains of The Day was included in a show at Gallery 825 in 2022 

 

 

 

HEMINGWAY'S 

Original,  2007, Dye on Silk, 54 in. x 40 in.

 ©️ Janai-Ami All Rights Reserved 

 

 

Additional Background About the Making of Hemingway's 

The completion of this silk painting, Hemingway's, ended with a BANG!  - literally.  I had been working on the piece for months in Topanga Canyon overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the Malibu coastline from a perch high above the village.  The studio -- that of Master Silk Artist Linda Bolhuis -- provided the needed venue.  Linda's studio is peaceful with double doors leading out to the gardens. But it's no small hike getting up that hill.  It takes grit and a great set of quads.  (I definitely didn't have the quads.) But I made that trek regularly on Sunday mornings - huffing and puffing - for several years, while hoping and waiting for my right arm to heal,  still unable to lift it without excruciating pain.  At least silk painting enabled me to continue doing one thing I loved,  but to do so with my elbows comfortably resting on a flat surface my arms stretched out in front of me.  MollyBrown was with me back then.  My very special rescue dog.  It was such a happy time!  

 

Molly had had a huge 'break through' first at On The Lamb and later up at Drummond Ranch where Molly got her groove after managing to get us both summarily thrown out of the local Los Angeles dog park by the "Dog Park Mafia" shortly after her adoption.  (They apparently lacked any real appreciation for Molly's incredibly strong herding instincts.) We were going regularly to the Ranch where Molly -- nicknamed "The Rocket" by some of the regulars there -- found her calling.  Before then she was a 'problematic' rescue.  She had been bounced in and out of multiple homes and shelters all over Los Angeles and that had caused her to develop severe separation anxiety which would manifest itself in extremely destructive behavior. I had to get that under control -- and fast.  But it would not be easy.  Saving a dog like MollyBrown would be a challenge. 

 

 

[Every living being -- every living, breathing, thinking, feeling being on this Earth,  has a heart and a soul - and something that feeds that soul in a way nothing else can.  Finding that something is a miracle unto itself that doesn't always happen,  but when it does,  at the moment that discovery takes place, there is nothing short of Magic! Could I help Molly find her Special Something and bring this sort of joy into her heart? Could I heal MollyBrown?]  Enter Magic!

 

 Saving Molly Brown  _ Silk

 

 

Molly Brown's heart and soul were in alignment finally, when I introduced her to something she didn't even know was missing from her life. I got her a job! Turned out it was something she both enjoyed and was exceptionally good at!  And that made all the difference in the world. It changed the course of her life, and it changed her.  

 

At first I found the whole herding thing quite amusing -- because Molly looked so silly with her long blond hair flying in all directions as she took off after the sheep. This was an entirely different look from that of the Border Collies who were focused and intense before, during and after they ran.  And Molly was NOT a "gripper" either, so i was okay with this activity that she really seemed to enjoy.  And a sense of calm washed over her,  a dog that understandably suffered from tremendous separation-anxiety after being adopted and then summarily dumped by one owner after another -- in and out of multiple shelters - including some high kill ones like the one up in Lancaster. She was unsinkable!!  Being in this different environment at the Ranch where she was free to express her true self unencumbered allowed Molly to shine.  The herding brought out another side of her.  And she started her journey to becoming the Best Dog Ever. 

 

Molly Brown On The Lamb _ Silk 

 

 

The first time we showed up at On The Lamb,  a heavy set woman in dusty well-worn jeans, even dustier boots and what looked like a riding crop greeted us.  I was worried.  (And admittedly a wee bit put-off by the crop, to say the very least.)  And although I had grown up in a semi-rural town actually named after sheep - mutton in particular -- I lacked any knowledge whatsoever of this activity which I clearly demonstrated to the woman with the crop the moment I opened my mouth.  

 

"How will she know what to do?" I queried, like the kind of New Yorker who only rides the subways, shops in midtown Manhattan, and has never even seen a sheep or an open field of grass.  (None of these descriptions actually applied to me, but likely that was how she viewed me) 

 

She put her hands on her hips and turned to look at me with a combination of disdain and bewilderment on how someone could exist in this World and NOT know the answer to the question I'd just asked of her.  

 

"THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT INSTINCT,  LADY!"

 

And with those words,  she opened the gate to a pen filled with sheep that immediately scattered all about,  and Molly Brown, the dog that had been stirring up trouble at the dog park and gotten the Dog Park Mafia all hot under the collar,  took off like a Rocketship headed straight toward the sheep,  barking like a son-of-a-bitch the entire time.  Well. . . .

 

The Rocket _ Silk 

 

 

"UH-HUH.  WHAT DO YOU KNOW!  THAT MUTT OF YOURS IS PART BEARDIE!"

 

I had no clue what she was talking about.  I must have had a puzzled look on my face,  but apparently quite pleased with Molly's performance,  she put up with my inane line of questioning  - (which by this point,  embarrassed,  I was mostly keeping to myself) - and she offered up some explanation. 

 

"BEARDED COLLIES HAVE THAT PARTICULAR CHARACTERISTIC.  THEY HEARD A LOT THROUGH THEIR VOCALIZATIONS. THAT'S DISTINCTIVE. SO SHE MUST BE PART BEARDED COLLIE.  THEY CALL 'EM BEARDIES."  

 

Up until then I hadn't a clue as to what kind of dog Molly was,  and I certainly wasn't going to waste my money on a genetics study only to find out that my 45 pound girl was half-Chihuahua, half Maltese!  Or worse,  half Saint Bernard, other half Irish Wolfhound!  But I had assumed based strictly on appearances that she was part Wheaten,  and all of a sudden that was seemingly not true. I made a mental note to start researching Beardies later that day  (&  I guess that that's the New Yorker in me!) 

 

"A ROCKET!  I'VE NEVER HAD ONE MOVE THAT FAST BEFORE.  WOW! AND NOT A GRIPPER.  SHE'S FANTASTIC!"  

 

Well. . . . I kind of figured out the "Gripper" part,  and I suddenly felt very proud of my girl.  That's MY Girl!!  I puffed my chest out and stood there basking in the glow of how good my girl was.  NOT a gripper!  Way to go Molly Brown!!  

 

After several weeks of  this,  Molly would know as we headed north up the 101 Freeway when we were en route to Drummond.  She would crane her neck out the window and start to bay.  It was the strangest thing,  because you wouldn't think of a dog that looked like Molly Brown -- to be baying.  But she did.  She had found her Magic! Life was as life should be, filled with every possibility, everything we are meant to be, and the resulting pure joy! Her front paws outstretched and resting on the front dashboard -- neck fully extended - - crying out in the most primitive vocalizations - -- filled with a lightness of spirit,  filled with anticipation.  And on occasion (I am not ashamed to admit) I would join in too.  

 

AHHH- -- -- ROO OOOO!   AHHHHH- - -- ROOOOH!

 

And we'd head down the freeway toward the Angeles National Forest, up up up into the mountains north of Los Angeles, where the road comes to an abrupt end and a pitted bumpy gullied dirt road is the final stretch up to the ranch.  There we were greeted by the sheep. 

 

Unique _ Silk 

 

        --- --   ----   -----  --           --- --   ----   -----  --            --- --   ----   -----  --             --- --   ----   -----  --            

 

Linda encouraged me to do an entire series based on Molly Brown.   After all,  she proffered,  there are really no series out there of sheep herding focusing on just the dogs.  So yes,  I did several.  The Rocket,  Unique, Molly Brown On The Lamb and  Saving Molly Brown were among these.  But I was wanting to get back to my roots of florals and had been thinking about it for awhile.   And then something happened. And the painting Hemingway's came about because as an avid animal lover and someone working in animal rescue  -- what happened had a huge emotional impact on me.  

 

 --- --   ----   -----  --           --- --   ----   -----  --            --- --   ----   -----  --             --- --   ----   -----  --            

HEMINGWAY’S

 

I had accepted a job teaching in the medical sciences at the University of California.  There would be a didactic section to the course and there would be a dissection laboratory.  I love teaching and it's something I'm remarkably good at (or so I've been told),  and I was really looking forward to it when I headed off to the Orientation for new professors a week before classes were to start. When I got there I was given a tour of the University, my lecture hall and finally,  the dissection lab.  

 

A group of silver extra large freezers lined one wall.  The woman orienting me to the facility reached for the handle and opened up the freezers.  She pulled out a drawer.  At first I was confused because of all of the small plastic bags lined up on top of the palette within the stacked drawers that lined the freezer. A human cadaver wouldn't fit into a small plastic bag.  Had they already done dissections of a corpse and the students would be dissecting just an arm or just one leg?  She opened the first bag.

 

 

Inside the bag was a dead cat.

 

 

"What's this?" I said,  obviously stunned.  I should say that I was not a huge cat lover at the time,  but nonetheless it was completely jarring to me because I was teaching human anatomy,  and not feline anatomy.  

 

"For the dissection,"  she responded, matter-of-factly. 

 

"But this is human anatomy.  I don't know cat anatomy.  Isn't this a human anatomy course?"

 

"Human cadavers are way too expensive." 

 

"Okay. (pause) But why are the students going to dissect cats?  What does dissecting a cat have to do with learning human anatomy?"

 

"The students want the fun experience of doing their first dissections.  You'll be given the manual to lead them through the dissection. Don't worry about it, it won't be an issue."

 

 

But it was an issue for me.  It was a huge issue. 

 

 

I stood there staring at the cat lying dead in front of me, and the dozens of others in bags -- like pieces of garbage -- splayed out on a palette in a drawer in a freezer -- one of several drawers.  I was stunned.  And I was silent.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  What exactly was the point of a dissection of another species -- just to have fun? Just to have an "experience"?  'You have got to be kidding me,'  I thought to myself exercising what I thought was the utmost in restraint.  My words would need to be measured. 

 

"Where did these cats come from?" I asked very quietly.  [My insides were churning and I could suddenly feel something building up inside of me. I didn't know what that feeling was,  but I realize now it was a sickening feeling that I had experienced years before -- shortly after graduating from Harvard.  I was working at a major Medical Center in New York.  It was a feeling a young person gets when they think they are trapped.  When they know what the right thing to do is and how the expectations of those around them - those with power over them - stand in stark contrast to what they believe is right] 

 

"Where did these cats come from?" I asked  a second time.

 

She was becoming visibly annoyed with me.  And then she went and said it: 

"They're just shelter cats. Nobody wants these shelter cats and dogs anyway otherwise they wouldn't be in a shelter!  There's a company in Los Angeles that goes around to shelters and picks up all of the unwanted dogs and cats and then sells them to the Universities and Hospitals all over Los Angeles that need them.  I think it's probably a very profitable business for them!" she exclaimed with a knowing smile.  I didn't respond. I was shocked.  This time, I chose my words very slowly and (relatively) carefully. 

 

"You said they were unwanted.  Unwanted?  What does that even mean? And they weren't already dead.  They were killed so that some young person in L.A. could "have fun" dissecting them?  I just need to be clear what this is here  . . . ."

 

There was an awkward silence as we both stood there -- me staring at the dead cats,  the representative from the University of California staring in turn at me.  I felt her cold glare and the ice in her veins. And something welled up inside of me.  I think it was something akin to anger.  I don't tend to be an angry person.  And I'm quite shy by nature,  certainly not someone who stands up to others who are in a position of authority. I was feeling out of sorts.   Way way out of my comfort zone. Something needed to change.  Something in me needed to change. Then her tone changed.  And in response, my back straightened and stiffened, and my tone changed too.  The fear of angering someone else -- gone.  It was a major turning point for me, and I think I felt that too in a very real way as it was unfolding. 

 

 

It is a wondrous moment when one finds one's authentic voice.  It is magical when one finds the courage to stand for what they believe in and back that voice - their words -  with actions.  For words without actions are nothing but empty virtue signaling with no import whatsoever.  Anyone can say they believe in something,  but being willing to sacrifice one's livelihood,  one's reputation, something or anything of value to get behind those words,  that is something entirely different.  In that lies the measure of a man or a woman.  I knew in that moment exactly who I was and who I wanted and needed to be.  I was starting to find my voice.  

 

 

"Is there a problem here?" 

 

"Well,  yeah.  This is actually a huge problem."

 

Her words were now sharp and pointed at me like daggers.  She stared me down.  "So you have no problem dissecting a human being,  but you're apparently upset about a dissection involving cats?!" she said incredulously.   I matched her sense of incredulity with my response. 

 

"There's a huge difference here.   I'm surprised that YOU don't see it." 

 

"Really.  And what's THAT? " her words took aim stab stab stab at me. 

 

"The difference is - - (pause and then with equal emphasis)  - - the human being who is being dissected said before their death --- 'WHEN I die,  I volunteer my body to be used for this purpose.'  They were not KILLED in order to use their bodies for this purpose.   They agreed to it.  And they agreed to it occurring AFTER their death from whatever cause.  The cats didn't agree to this.  And they didn't say -- 'end my life now so you can have a little fun ripping my body apart.'  You say 'nobody wanted them' because they were rescues, and therefore their lives were of no value.  Who do you think you are?  Their lives were of value to them.  So who the hell are we to end their lives -- especially for someone's pleasure or enjoyment.  Are you KIDDING me?"  (& then I froze momentarily feeling alone and frightened at the sound of my own voice . . . there was nobody there to back me up or cheer me on. . . . and for a moment I didn't recognize me, that once shy afraid little girl . . .  I was standing up . . . not for myself (yet) but for others who had no voice . . .  )

 

 

"How do you think humanity moves forward if not for vivisection?  These labs are important for the advancement of mankind."

 

"Well,  THAT is an oxymoron if ever I heard one!  (I put the emphasis firmly on the word MORON).  If man-KIND (I added a huge amount of sarcasm on the "kind" for similar effect)  - -  needs to get ahead through cruelty to other species,  who are we anyway.  And YES,  I do believe that that's a huge problem.  I for one don't want any part of this."

 

"Well!  You are already committed to it.  Your name has already gone out as the Professor for this section and for this course.  The course starts in less than a week.  You can't back out now.  We would never be able to find a replacement in time.  So I guess you'll just have to deal with it.  You can't leave."

 

"Oh really?  Oh,  I can leave alright!  And I'm going to do just that.  Watch me."  

 

 

And with that,  no day job lined up to fund my true passion,  and too upset to even think about that aspect of it,  I turned my back on the University of California representative for whom the word Man-Kind held no real meaning,  and I walked out the door.

 

       --- --   ----   -----  --           --- --   ----   -----  --            --- --   ----   -----  --             --- --   ----   -----  --            

 

It is easy to talk about what you stand for. It's easy to carry a sign and march around with a bunch of your friends while drinking your Arrowhead water or your Carmel Latte Frappuccino from Starbucks.   But it's something entirely different Dear Reader,  and far more difficult to do ~  to ignore the potential personal losses and consequences and actually take a stand. 

 

           --- --   ----   -----  --           --- --   ----   -----  --            --- --   ----   -----  --             --- --   ----   -----  --             

 

It was an exquisite Sunday morning in Topanga Canyon.  The sun was shining, and a slight breeze was blowing through the studio. I could breathe up here.  Finally, I could breathe.   I looked at Linda and said that I wanted to do something HUGE.   She tried to persuade me to keep it small.  But I wanted to explore combining the traditional Indonesian tjap techniques used with silk painting with a more free-form American esthetic.  And I wanted it to be beautiful and life-affirming. I needed life-affirming this particular weekend.  I didn't want to think about what I was going to do next.  I just wanted to paint.  I had a general idea of what I was going to do.  One of my florals, plus perhaps throw in a hummingbird like the ones outside the studio flitting back and forth from flower to flower in Linda's gardens. But most importantly, there had to be cats.  Beautiful, living, breathing,  thinking, feeling cats.  I already had a name in mind -- Hemingway's.  I had gone to see his home in the Florida Keys when I lived down there years earlier, and I'd never seen so many cats playing all over the place.  Hemingway may have been long dead,  but the place he used to call home was ALIVE with generations of his beloved cats.  And so this piece would come to life too.  Working on it wouldn't get the visual out of my head of what I'd seen at the University of California.   Working on it would be healing. And so the work began. . . 

 

 

Hemingway's (Detail) _ Silk 

     --- --   ----   -----  --           --- --   ----   -----  --            --- --   ----   -----  --                  

 

 When Hemingway's was complete,  it had to be steamed.  Linda looked at me and right then for the first time I realized that there was an actual problem. The steamers she had were not big enough.  She would have to find one and borrow it or go to another's studio in order to complete this silk piece.  She got a steamer and I made an extra trip up to her home -- huffing and puffing as I climbed higher and higher towards the Heaven that was her Studio in the sky.  (I dreamed of one day having my own Studio just like it -- would that ever happen?  I pictured one with French doors opening up to a veranda and a garden -- a small studio with a slight Ocean breeze passing through it and the sounds of waves crashing upon the shores not too far away.  But for now, this would have to do . . . . )  

 

We wrapped up Hemingway's and loaded it into the steamer sitting in the middle of her living room.  Then I headed back down to the studio while Linda finished up closing the steamer and started the process.  It was then that I heard a HUGE BANG!  Well now I'm wide awake!! I went running out of the Studio up to Linda's home where the steamer sat in the middle of her living room tipped partially to one side.  She and her husband were looking aghast at each other.  What the heck . . . .

 

Hemingway's (Detail) _ Silk 

 

The steamer was so tall,  and nobody had noticed that it was past the height of the ceiling fan.  When the fan was turned on to keep her place cool while running the steam,  one of the blades had hit the steamer,  snapped and went flying off -- and through a window.  It was a freak accident -- but the arm of the fan was gone as was a window.  There were shards of glass all over the place.   The steamer was still in one piece and fortuitously hadn't toppled over completely.  This would be one very expensive piece of artwork.

 

 Hemingway's (Detail) _ Silk 

 

When I look at Hemingway's I think about those cats.  And a piece of my heart is broken.  Broken for those who each had a life and who died needlessly because no human was kind enough to take them in from a shelter.  Broken because man-kind -- in particular those whose work is supposedly all about healing  -- is so cruel and heartless -  as to think what they do is somehow okay and can be justified by saying it is for the greater good.  Broken because people en masse haven't stood up and just said NO.  Broken for the pain and suffering experienced by each of those lives lost for the supposed sake of 'man-kind.'  

 

But Hemingway's is also hopeful.  Because in it, the cats frolic in the garden.  Because it reminds us.  And the cats hide and play and live their lives -- living, breathing, thinking, feeling.  They are sentient beings all.  

 

       --- --   ----   -----  --           --- --   ----   -----  --            --- --   ----   -----  --   

 

 

PROVENANCE:  

MAY – JULY 2023:  MUSEUM OF ART & HISTORY, Lancaster, California (Award)