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HEMINGWAY'S 

Original (framed)
2007_ Dye on Silk _ 54 in. x 40 in.
Copyright ©️ Janai-Ami.
All Rights Reserved.


Additional Background, Hemingway's:

The completion of this silk painting, Hemingway's, ended with a BANG! - quite literally. I’d 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 plus a great set of quads. (I 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!

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I found MollyBrown in a City Shelter late one afternoon, less than a week before Christmas. I had gone there to see if there were any German Shepherds for GS Rescue, then run by the amazing octogenarian, Grace Konosky. I walked up and down  the aisles passing so many incredible dogs. These visits to pull dogs from the city shelter to place them into a privately run breed-specific rescue always filled me with tremendous emotion - unbelievable joy mixed with an immense sadness-  the ones I pulled would be”safe,” but I couldn’t take them all.  And I knew well that many of those not selected might not make it out alive. And most of those were young and healthy and just by sheer bad luck wound up there. I’d be overjoyed to watch the ones I pulled first with trepidation begin to trust then slowly begin to blossom. But my heart was broken about leaving the others behind. Their faces haunted me. Most were left behind through no fault of their own - it was the OWNER who was moving or getting divorced or having allergy problems or financial issues. And I’d jot down their shelter I.D. and breed and contact other breed-specific rescues and non-breed specific rescues as well looking for placements for as many as possible of the others.  Many found loving forever homes. . . . . 

They were wanted.

All of the shelter dogs -when a match is made - all of them are wanted.

 

They just need to be given a chance to find the perfect family.  

 

All of them are wanted. . . . . 

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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.

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[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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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
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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.

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