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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 

 

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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)

WINTERTIME 

2022-2023

Oil on Canvas 

48 x 48 in 

(SOLD) 

 

 

I don't recall when I first knew . . ..  

 

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These four weeks especially,  You strike at my heart.  

 

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I think she will cross over today, or perhaps tomorrow.   I feel it.. . strange, because I don't even know her.  And yet,  connection  ~  

 

 * * * * * * * * *  *

 

Ahh . . .. Theodora!  Where are you when I call your name?  The person they see and the person I see are not the same! 

 

* * * * * * * * *  *

 

As I walk on this gentle bed of pine needles  . . crunch,  crunchy crunch crunch so soft beneath my gentle bare feet . . .. I am dreaming about my home up ahead . . . ..  I am alone in this upstate blooming wilderness a stone’s throw from our City where we grew up so close so close . . .  This place with its spectacular view, it is warm, incredibly cozy and ahh so inviting;  it says come in come inside come inside here and stay for awhile.  So I entered and now I can hardly believe we are here because we are never far apart!  SO VERrY HAPPY!  Snowflakes drop from the Heavens and my Schutzhund-trained pack - - - well, . . . .. especially King (you know how he got his name!) . . .. always & all ways reliable,  he jumps they jump and catch these little wonders of nature falling from above and into their open comical waiting mouths with jaws that can generate more pounds per square inch than any other but now with lips curled furiously on their soft soft inviting flakes they look positively silly - such silly will he willy guys all!  You can’t help it can you you AWAA make me smile  - - and now they -my pack - glance up at me utterly bewildered both by my smiling at seemingly nothing in particular and also as the tiny gentle white flakes of perfect organization a perfect organization a geometry disappears as quickly as. . . .  my breath,  a passing white cloud kisses hugs kisses in the air in front of my lips, and it holds for a mere moment crystals and then disappears gently into the air and in spite of everything yet I do not feel this bone chilling cold.  

 

(I came back here longing for something other than the cold . . .. every morning when I awaken I want and every evening before I close my eyes I want & AWAA so many times throughout the lingering hours of the forever day I hunger for something only you only you and I wonder how I will make it through another day, and yet somehow somehow will this waiting ever end and on and on and on it goes and the snowflakes fall and spearmint flavored breaths linger visible in the air and I try not to think I will myself not to I will myself to live another day one more hour like this & King jumps up and places his humongous paws on my two shoulders as if he wants to dance with me he loves to too and Cali is so jealous but she no longer talks like when she used to hear your voice and talk to you but King,  he is so very silly that he actually makes me laugh aloud . . .. )

 

. . .. and I know what you would say what expression you would make if you saw me dancing in the wilderness all alone or swaying stepping moving tapping dancing with this big ol' ofelike beast because I love to dance and I can hear the music even when there isn't any and even when no-one else is dancing and they stand there in the street and watch me move and everyone is smiling and everyone feels good and happiness is spreading all around and all it took was for someone to start to dance!  

 

 

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Aaaahhhh… . . .. Yes! I returned to a place I once escaped to before,  do you remember my telling you about it, The Pine Forest?  Here.  The mountains.  Fresh!  Clean!  Pure!  Whooooshhhh, . . ..  a sparkling stream not yet frozen,  it will be a bit longer. . .  It is filled with lives rushing passed lives rushing past the french doors of my cottage.  I can lose myself in this beauty.  

 

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A piece of paper valued above all. I can not. . ..

 

* * * * * * * * *  * 

 

And an entire community would rally behind to help in ways no man would ever even know about.

I was warned that they were powerful. . .

True 

 

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I felt sad for a boy,  now a man.   Who allowed that to happen to him?  

And the girl?  What things said and unsaid turned her against you?  

And the winter is sometimes bitterly cold . . . 

 

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I never would have allowed that . . .  Never.  

But an avalanche razes everything.  

 

They would both have seen the amazing wondetfull miracle I see.  

Goodness raises everything.

 

. . .  and Christmas is approaching and I remember crying much of last Noël . . .

And the lives rushing past . . .. and the stream coursing over the rocks . . .. 

 

 

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Wildlife, . . ..  eagles gliding by overhead floating on the breath of the wind,  bears lumbering by ROKU ROKI  ROKI GRRRR and mountain lions on the hunt (like the one that shared my bed when I lived in the 'Bu);  and wolves traveling in packs they are a community (except for one who travels in the pack but is all alone in knowledge mastery and skill); and hawks nose-diving and owls peering through the night seeing everything and things others cannot see . . ..   I hear the nighttime howls . . .. what beauty God has created and it stands side by side with darkness  . . ..  I see her as she is . . ..I see through the darkness.  And you see it too.  I know you can see.   Then why?  Because you think you failed?   Because you do not want to fail again?   Yes it is complicated.  And you are amazing.  And you are special. And I have not forgotten.  I think you knew all along I would I could not . . .. 

 

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My God!  Get me as far away as is humanly possible.   I ran I ran to be among nature where I can feel safe.  I do not want to be in the same World with people such as this!  Instead, I will stay here among the stars and the bears, and the lions and wolves and the hawks and the sentinel owls that peer through the night . . ..   

 

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I CAN see through the darkness. 

 

What does it mean - difficult,  unpleasant,  intolerable?

              - - - NO!  

 

Too much? NO

Too complicated? NO

Be less than who you are? NO NEVER! 

 

 

 

Easygoing!  Comfortable!  Loving!  Joyful! 

ABSOLUTELY  EXTRAORDINARY!! 

 

She told me things I knew were all untrue.  How can anyone that close to a person not truly see them?  Well I guess you and I both know the answer to this,  don’t we!   There was that!  Anyway, I heard it all before from ‘Burl Ives’ who said i did not know or understand.  I laughed because it’s they who don’t, and how could they… they are not up to it!  Not even BICO! 
I do understand.   Because I see  ~   EXTRAORDINARY!  

 

   * * * * * * * * *  *

 

They say the windchill is in the double digits today.  Wintertime!  

 

I wonder if she kept it from you or if you knew, but I don't want to I can not believe even now that you could have done something cruel.  I suppose I will never learn what you did and didn't know.  But a part of me still believes in you. You were my closest friend.  We could tell each other anything at all WOW and it was always so easy always AWAA so incredibly easy  . . ..  of course I do miss that ~  

 

I suppose confirmation would be nice -  But I suppose it doesn't really matter.  Ahh. . . well. 

 

    * * * * * * * * *  *

 

Strange,  I was mesmerized by that one episode in GOT,  and I don't even know why.   I think I watched it a dozen times. I even named a painting Arya.  I suppose it is true then!  

 

'Winter is Coming!" 

 

    * * * * * * * * *  *

 

 

  

 

    * * * * * * * * *  *

 

Hmm. . ..  there were others to consider,  risking all that was too much . . .  

 

    * * * * * * * * *  *

 

GOT:   They came disguised as friends.  And just one, a lover.  
Just one.

An incredible lover . . ..

An incredible love . . ..

* * * * * * * * *  *

 

You can not live with a selfish self-absorbed individual for decades-  and not be made less than all you are capable of being . . . 

 

Clay is solid,  not like cotton or silk.  It is hard.  It is tough.  But a body made of clay,  porcelain the finest and most beautiful in its qualities,  it's also quite fragile and if you strike at it it may shatter  . . ..

 

 

  

 * * * * * * * * *  *

 

I slept easily last night here.  And when I awoke it was to the sound of the stream and the sight of a young deer with her fawn drinking quietly just outside my window.  

 

A noticed another small drop of blood on my bed.  

 

It is peaceful here.   I watched from my window for a moment.   I held a tissue, wiped the tears that had fallen on my cheek.  I felt a lump in my throat, and I let out an audible gasp. Breathe.  I tell myself this too shall pass.  Just breathe.  For a moment I am transported back back across decades.  My mother is sitting on the edge of my bed,  and she brushes my long dark hair back from in front of my eyes so I can see.  She tells me not to be afraid.   And then the image disappeared as suddenly as it appeared.  I do not know how much time . . .. 

 

The air is cold,  but a warm fire crackles close by sending embers up through the chimney.  It smells like wonderfull wintertime.  And now I am surrounded. . . ..   trees,  trees,  trees,  birds.  And now I feel it.  Wintertime.  I hear the melodies of the Holidays they make me smile!  (But not you.  You tell me you hate Christmas songs and that is so silly.  Tell me,  why is that?! I mean who doesn't love Christmas songs!)   When we meet again you have only to smile because in that alone it feels like you make love to me a million times and I feel something in your presence that’s impossible to explain and moreso to even describe but it’s real we don’t even need to touch ~  Yes! I am here again in my New York Pine Forest.  YES!  I am home.  

 

 

 

   * * * * * * * * *  *

 

Ahhh. . ..  you ask about Him.   

Who is he you ask?  

 

 * * * * * * * * *  * 

 

Are WE really going to have another 'free association' session! 

What a silly-willy willhe! 

 

   * * * * * * * * *  * 

 

Finally, . . ..  Peace.  He is with me.   And I will create something truly beautiful for him using this gift he gave to me. Like that piece on the strings I had specially made that serves to modulate the sound,  so too this gift he gave to me,

this brush, and  then with these hands this special touch  . . ..   

 

I can't wait to show you what I can REALLY do!  Watch my canvas come alive!   

 

 * * * * * * * * *  * 

 

Harmony . . ..

 

I can hear your music,  you are playing,  and it all is sounding so sweet to me,  perfect really!   It always has been. Your music  fills my heart with such joy!  (But tell me,  think about this,  why here on Earth did it take me for you to be able to see it?)

 

 * * * * * * * * *  *  

 

"Janai,"  (Gift)  "Do not be afraid because of what the ice queen has done.. .. you can not stop the unraveling.  remember only this ,  I gave you a gift."  

 

 * * * * * * * * *  *  

 

Kindness.  

 

Honesty in all things. 

 

Thoughtfullness.

 

Life-affirming.

 

Joy in simple things. 

 

Goodness. 

 

Bringing beauty into the World. 

 

Caring for the animals.

 

Compassion.

 

Integrity.

 

Truth. 

 

Love.

 

Selflessness.  Putting others' needs ahead of your own AWAA

 

Sight.  The most special most remarkable gift of all! 

 

 

 

Do you recall the moment when you were sitting on your couch, SiBu at your side?  It was early 2004. You were staring at your easel and the painting.   Suddenly you realized what was missing. Where do these thoughts come from?  Do you remember writing each of those words onto that canvas, quickly and with bare hands so as not to forget?  It was 2 decades ago.  You painted with an injured arm through pain and throughout the night until it was complete. And then the name,  ONCE UPON A TIME.  It came so easily!  And when you needed help to save Sim, OUAT sold . . ..  Trust what you see."     

 

   * * * * * * * * *  *

 

yes it is cold here but I do not feel it when I think of you and a calmness washes over me, and I begin to paint . . ..   

     

   * * * * * * * * *  *

 

 

INTO THE WOODS 

 (In Memory of Sam) 

Original,  2015-2018,  Oil on Wood Panel,  48 x 24 in. 

 

 

(When I started working on this painting in 2015,  both MollyBrown and Sammy (a.k.a. LeroyBrown)* were still alive,  and the painting was titled Liberté.   It was going to be a red, white and blue floral tribute to American freedom.  But then in 2018, Sam passed away.  Interesting how things change with time . . ..  anyway,  it became one of the eight paintings I would do in Sam's memory -- one for each year he was with me from Christmas 2010 when I rescued him from a life hiding under bushes and behind leafy trees,  from a life on the streets,  until his death in my arms on the evening of my Birthday, in 2018.   It was then that I was finally able to finish it - for my lovable little Sammy!   There wasn't enough room to paint the upper thin edge orange,  but I incorporated that color into the flowers that adorn the tree.)   

 

 

*********  

 

I worked on this painting both before & after losing my Cattle Dog/Aussie mix rescue,  Sam.  The circumstances surrounding his death were difficult, and for reasons outside of my control, I didn't get to spend as much time with him as I would have liked.   After he was gone,  finishing this piece was very important to me.  There are gradations of color in it much like ombre when working in silk, and to me it became a metaphor for the many shades that were Sam. There is too much to say here about how much he meant to me. How much I learned from him.  What I had to sacrifice to keep him and work through his many issues.  (You know, Dear Reader  -  little issues,  like threatening to eat the neighbors . . .  that sort of thing  . . .  the kind of thing that gets people angry at you and costs you your own joyful peace!!)   How I became a much better person because of him & because of what he taught me.  Suffice it to say,  with Sam's unpredictable outbursts of aggression initially (not something I was fully prepared to handle at the outset and definitely not something every household could have handled), he was far in a way my most difficult rescue. But in many ways our relationship was also the most rewarding experience - perhaps because it required so much patience, so much work, so much tolerance and so much love.  Rescuing an animal is not always easy. But not giving up - trying to show 'unconditional love' as they do - is true a gift -- not just for the recipient but for the party able to stretch and do that for another living being.  It paid enormous dividends when he finally turned and became the most loving dog,  the most - well - - - everything dog,  in short -  The Best Dog Ever!'   (Yeh, yeh,  I know, I know!  You think I say that about ALL of my dogs!  But I don't think that's true!)   

 

Sweet & gentle Sammy,  with my friend and fellow artist,  Bert Collins

At Bert's home in Ojai, California,  October 2016

 

 *  *  *  *  *  

 

 

When I think of Sam now,  the memory that always strikes at my heart is that of him coming into the bedroom in the morning from wherever in my home he chose to sleep once my eyes were closed --  his jumping softly ever so carefully onto my bed (so as not to wake me?) - -- KERPLOP!  (Little secret --  I was awake!) - - - and his standing over me and then slowly lowering himself onto me and burying his bent head onto my chest and resting it there quietly on my left bosom directly over my heart.  OH! How I loved you, my dear sweet Sam!  

 

 Sam

 

 

 *  *  *  *  *  

 

(Footnote:  As with all of the "memory pieces" i do following the death of one of my boys or girls, I incorporated the color of his lead into each piece in Sam's memory.  His collar and leash were orange. 

 

 *  *  *  *  *  

 

(Footnote:  At no time has my name ever been "Brown," Dear Reader - just in case you were wondering!  So don't ask!  It just started with BusterBrown,  good 'ol lovable Buster - The Best Dog Ever!  And it took off from there!) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IN OUT OF THE WILDERNESS

Original

2018-2020

60 x 20 in

(Custom 24k Gold Floating Frame) 

NFS at this time

 

This is one of several paintings (and among the earliest) I did following Sam's passing.  (The top edge is orange,  for Sam's collar) Sam came to me on Christmas Eve and passed away in my arms a decade later on the evening of my birthday.

   
         
  *. *.   *.   *.   *.  *.   *.  *. *.   *.   *.   *.

 

I found Sam late one Christmas Eve on an online rescue site.  He looked small and frightened in the picture.  He had been red-lined.  He didn't have much time left.   So I went down to the shelter the next morning, met him and brought him home. 

 

*     *     *     *     *    

 

As one can see from the many layers, the strong palette and the wild brush strokes,  Sam's passing was a tremendous loss.  Sam was a powerful force in my life. It is from him that I truly began to understand the meaning of  "unconditional love" - which is a magnificent, truly meaningful and powerful thing!  Sam taught me about this, and for this - among so many other things he brought to my life -  I will eternally be grateful. He is as missed today as he was the morning after my Birthday when I woke up for the first time in over eight years without him gently nuzzling his head into my left breast immediately adjacent to my heart. 

Sam's behavior required patience, a very gentle hand, and above all love.  I don't think many would have kept their commitment to Sam, the commitment one makes when one adopts - it certainly was not easy.  But I knew if I gave up on Sam and returned him to the shelter - what shelters refer to as an “Owner Surrender” - he would not have had any future at all. And he was only a year or so old.  So I hunkered down, bought gates to partition off my home (so he couldn't get to Molly), and invested in heavy duty work gloves that are difficult if not impossible to bite through (in the event of a dog attack). . … and then I prayed for the best!  It was touch-&-go for the better part of two years. But I never gave up on him.  And I learned a lot - not just about Sam's behavior  (his triggers and also what calmed him, . . …  like belly rubs), but also about other human beings - those who claimed to be animal lovers but were quick to tell me to throw him back where I got him and pick a different dog - one without issues - people who were as it turned out were completely oblivious to what the fate of this young one year old would be if I took such advice;  those who were quick to suggest a one year old be euthanized - as if the taking of a life was no big deal (well, perhaps a reflection of a Society that does not value life at all);  those who were in the field of animal care who suggested brutal training methods for a non-alpha dog whose past was unknown but who clearly was suffering from fear aggression. A million and one things said about Sam - none of them good or nice - - -  he never had another in his corner to come to his defense and to love him UNCONDITIONALLY in spite of his flaws. I became that person - and that was definitely not easy.  But in the process I learned a lot about Sam but even more about myself.  And then two years after I adopted him, something unexpected happened- Sam turned around and- and became the Very Best Dog Ever! And when he died,  those who had suggested that I end his life at the outset, those who told me to drop him off and leave him with that brutal trainer up in the Malibu hills (I didn't), those who had told me to switch him out for another “better” dog - all of them had one thing in common. They had all grown to love Sam in spite of his flaws, to see him through my eyes as the best dog. And one after another, when they heard of Sam's passing, in spite of the fact that Sam was not THEIR dog, they shed tears. 

*. *.  *.  *.  *. *.   . *.  *.  *.  *. *.   . *.  *.  *.  *. *.   

it was hard to let Sam go and perhaps harder still

to paint in his memory, because that was an acknowledgment that he was gone. . … Sam had been lost in a wilderness devoid of love and of a gentle touch,  but one Christmas Eve, after a decision had been made by a city shelter to end his life, I saw his picture on the county's shelter website. He was huddled in a corner obviously in distress, with just 48 hours left before some person would take his life. That is where I found him that Christmas Eve -online.  And I brought him IN OUT OF THE WILDERNESS,  and he taught me everything I needed to know about love. . . …. unconditional.  Sam was a light.   ~ MLMS!,

                          AAAWIMH! 

 

 

ENTER PEACE  

Original_  2020-2021__ Oil on Canvas__ 60 in. x 20 in. x 1.5 in 

 

 

Enter Peace was painted during 2020-2021 at the tail end of the 2020 Pandemic. It is not part of the Pandemic Series, but rather one of three pieces that were a segue for me to attempt to reconnect to some sense of inner peace, calm and joy after being shut in 'solitary confinement' inside a small space for more than two years  - - -  NOT  "2 weeks to slow the spread!"  (Who thought that this was an okay thing to do to people?  It was cruel & inhumane.  Many artists suffered severely.  As a group, many of us are still struggling.) 

 

 

ENTER CALM AND JOY   

 

ACARONAR

Original_  2021__  Mixed Media/Enamel __ 20 in. x 16 in.

Sturt Haaga Gallery, Descanso Gardens,  Canãda Flintridge, California

 

The painting, ACARONAR,  is part of my post-pandemic 'playing phase' - in this case with oil, mixed media and enamel.  Using these different mediums was a joy, and so the painting speaks to having fun and joy in life.  Red is the color of passion which is how I feel about the creative process!!  With that in mind, the title that came to mind was ACARONAR which comes from Catalan and which translated into English means 'to embrace and to caress.'  And THAT is a beautiful thing!  

 

PROVENANCE: 

October 28,  2023-January 28, 2024:

Opening:  October 27th  

SHAPE AND FORM 

Sturt Haaga Gallery at Descanso Gardens,  

La Canãda Flintridge, California  USA

 

August 2023:  

LELA International 44th Annual Peace Exhibition,  

A BRIDGE FOR PEACE

The Makery Gallery

Downtown Los Angeles, California USA 

(from an interview with the artist prior to the December 2007 film shoot)

"November, hmm.  I used to love that time of the year, especially the month of November.  And Thanksgiving.  Simba?  Yes.  It all changed after that. (Artist paused and the Producer and his assistant were quiet). Yes,  of course you want to talk about him.  Simba.  He's probably the most important part of the story. When and why he became part of my life.  The timing of it.  It was crucial. In so many ways. And then what happened.  How it impacted me.  All of it really . . . (pause) I guess I can honestly say that if it weren't for Sim,  I would not be alive today, and then none of these paintings would have ever existed."  https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cx4GmV0PGYM/

 

 

". . .if it weren't for Sim,  I would not be alive today and none of these paintings would have ever existed."

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

SiBu AROUND THIS TABLE

[Pinks and blues . . . .. I never had children, even though I really wanted them.  But somehow or other it was all okay.  Somehow or other . . ..] 

(Malibu,  Christmas 2005 - 2008)   I have what used to be a rather plain forty-two inch round table that sits in my very small one-room apartment inches from where I lay my head at night.  It used to look just like any other table.  There was nothing unusual about it, and if you were in a showroom full of tables,  you no doubt would walk right past it and not even notice it was there.  It blended completely and without any effort whatsoever into the background of other nondescript functional tables . . .a light beige top with two legs supporting it.  There really is no room for it here next to where I close my eyes at night,  it belongs in storage along with all the rest of my things,  but it wasn't yet “complete" when I returned to L.A. There was something I still needed to do to make it whole.  The writing around the edges.  Memories I do not want to lose.  So it is here with me.  I need to get it out of here,  out of the fire zone,  to someplace safe --  but for some reason i just haven't been able to do that yet.  I had it with me when I moved here from back East, one pretty non-descript table . . .  two legs holding up the top....

 

 

(Before 2004)  Simba and Buster used to play around the base, underneath its umbrella-like top.  The table can be extended and a third piece of wood, an extension,  added to the two.  This is an excellent feature for entertaining which I used on occasion, but more often it was used to extend my work space at home where I spent many evenings with my boys,  just the three of us together, me writing or painting and those silly goofballs playing that game, around this very table!  Often on these nights after I finished nine or maybe twelve hours straight of working on a piece,  I'd rent a movie,  pop it into the video player on top of the TV,  and sit down on the couch across the living room to enjoy my dinner.  Simba and Buster would curl up on either side of me,  and I'd rub their ears or bellies and comment when appropriate on all the on-screen action. I loved to see the ‘Bad Guys' get caught and being held to account and I'd vehemently root against them whenever they appeared on screen. My two boys were content to lie there and if I stopped rubbing Simba's belly after he had become particularly comfortable,  he'd take his nose and reach for my hand and shove it firmly until the belly-rubbing action resumed.  Then he'd stop pushing my hand with his nose.  Sometimes I'd stop,  to see how long it would take him to "tell me" --  "Hey!  Keep rubbing!"  Well!, . . . it didn't take very long at all!

 

Sometimes Simba would get hungry and he'd get up and trot over to the kitchen entryway.  He'd turn to look at me to see if I was paying him any attention.  I was.  Once sure that I was watching, he'd face a row of cabinets and make a motion with his head in which his nose dipped slightly then pushed upwards in the general direction of the kitchen.  Then he'd turn to face me full on,  catching my eyes,  then turn and repeat the gesture. 

 

“Hungry Sim?"  I'd ask rhetorically and wait to see what he'd do next.  "What do you want?  Show me!"  He'd take several quick steps in my direction then turn and run toward the kitchen,  now fully animated in anticipation that I was paying attention, and,  likely,  going to take action in response to his request.  "Show me!" I repeated.  And he ran towards the one cabinet in which I stored the three-tin popcorn -- buttered,  cheddar cheese and caramel.  The cheddar cheese was his perennial favorite.  He pushed his nose against the wood cabinet door then turned to me exasperated as if to say,  "IN HERE!  IN HERE!"  and I could feel the excitement rising within him as his step and movements quickened in a growing fury of excitement.  "What do you want?"  I asked,  feigning confusion as if I needed some directions spelled out more clearly.  He barked just once in that high pitched voice,  a voice far different from any of his "other voices,"  as if to punctuate his sentence and explain it more fully to me,  poor human with limited comprehension of dog,  a language so simple any idiot ought to be able to learn it,  and he pushed his nose two or three times up against the cabinet door.  "IN HERE!  IN HERE!"  I took out the huge tin of three types of popcorn and headed back to the couch.  He looked eagerly as I opened the tin trying to peer over the top and inside the can.  Buster who loved food perhaps more than he loved me and Simmy,  more than anything else in the world in fact,  also perked up. Buster was far more vocal when it came to anything concerning food.  A high pitched "Woof!"  Translation 'here I am. I'm hungry too!'  "Woof"  'Here I am,  in case you didn't hear me the first time!' "Woof!"  'I love cheddar cheese popcorn.!'  "Woof!"  'It's my favorite!'  I took out a handful of cheddar cheese popcorn and threw one up in the air in Simba's direction.  SNAP!  GOT IT!  Then I threw one toward Buster.  SNAP!  He licked his lips smacking them together.  His upper lip got caught over his teeth and he stood there staring at me with that silly and expectant expression,  his deep brown eyes alert and ever-watchful.  Another one for Simmy.  SNAP!  GOT IT!  His mouth made a particular noise as he caught the popcorn and resumed the position for the next piece.  There were many.  Sometimes Buster couldn't wait his turn and tried to grab Simmy's popcorn,  but Simmy was too quick and never missed a beat,  even when I challenged him by throwing the piece higher into the air or in a slightly different direction.  This was just one of our silly little games.  

 

Often Simba would get bored with a two-hour long film and after he'd had enough massage to satisfy his needs,  he'd get up and wander around my apartment looking for some other form of entertainment.  He'd return with one of Buster's toys.  Buster had several toys that Sim really loved a lot.  One of them was a small stuffed pink teddy bear,  which always made me laugh to see it in Buster's mouth -- so uncharacteristically Buster -- my strong and self-assured one, a retired member of the United States Marine Corps.  Then there was a larger brown teddy bear which over the years had lost his shapeliness to more than one tug-o-war between the two soft muzzles of good friends.  There was a small pink dog with a blue head and yellow eyes whose head was sewn on backwards which I didn't notice for some time after bringing him home but when I did I found him rather frightening.  It didn't seem to bother either of my boys. There was an adorable dog with a white head and green ears stitched in red;  his body, legs and tail long gone following one too many tugs. And that funny purple small stuffed bear with no stuffing left inside of him and a grey stuffed animal missing not just his stuffing but his head too.  His body, legs and tail still well-preserved and intact. A large white stuffed ball with happy pink and purple markings,  which I recall Buster lying in a corner one day in his twilight years when more active games were of declining interest to him and systematically dismembering it one mouthful of soft white cotton stuffing at a time.  A deep purple stuffed faux bone and an assortment of multi-colored braided and partly shredded ropes attached to an assortment of once faces, heads, feet and tails completed the line-up. 

 

Simba returned with one of these toys in his mouth,  marched up to Buster and shook it in his face.  Buster turned and made a half-hearted attempt to wrest it from Simba's mouth but as soon as Buster had his mouth upon what was his toy,  Simba would yank it right back out of Buster's mouth and take a step back.  Buster would often ignore Simmy at this point and go back to doing whatever it was he was doing,  not uncommonly it meant just resting his head back upon the couch - or my lap- and observing Simba watchfully for his next move. Can you believe this?  How annoying can you get? That's my toy and he'd better drop it - soon!   Simba always had a next move.  Though it seemed to me when I first started to observe these games that Simmy was unable to engage Buster right off,  he would move in yet again,  presenting Buster's own toy to him,  and for special effect he'd shake his head with the toy in his mouth violently from side to side three or four times -- just enough to make a statement.  Buster would slowly and purposefully get up off of the couch as Simba would run towards the nondescript kitchen table with the light beige top, his head slightly turned to the side, eyeing Buster to see if - or be sure that - ol' Buster was following closely behind.  

 

Simba would position himself on one side of the table - and Buster would stand staring at him from across the table.  The table's two legs which each fanned out to two more posts, stood as strong, steady pillars and effectively blocked Buster from lunging straight at Simba through the table to grab and recapture what was rightfully his.  Buster would stand there facing Simba.  With his back to me all I could see was Buster's posture,  firm and tall,  his floppy yellow retriever ears standing higher up than normal at their base which I knew indicated that he was at full attention. Buster didn't flinch.  I knew from the occasional times I observed Buster from the other angle 180 degrees away that Buster's eyes were following Simba's every move --  but he didn't move a muscle,  not a tenth of an inch.  I began to understand how incredibly smart Buster was for not lending chase -- after all,  he was fourteen years Simba's senior and in his teens probably could not have sustained a game of chasing Simba around the table for very long. Instead,  he would use the wisdom that comes with age and outwait Simba's youthful impetuousness,  letting Simba run himself ragged into the ground and then,  when Sim least expected it - pounce and retrieve the prize - the toy which after all was rightfully his!  I could see the wheels turning inside Buster's head  - - - and Simba's as well.

 

Simba would eye Buster cautiously.  Without moving a muscle his eyes would then dart to the right,  as if to suggest to Buster that that was the direction he was intending to run. Sometimes he'd accentuate that fact by moving his head quickly glancing in that direction as if to make certain that the path to his right was free of impediment. He'd stop to see if Buster was going to take a step in that direction.  Buster didn't move.  So Simba would take a quick step to the right, then stop.  Still Buster didn't move. This game of combined speed and strategy could go on for upwards of an hour and it was engaging to say the least,  to watch the two of them strategize,  each one trying to outsmart and outplay the other. Buster strategizing. . .  Simba relying on his youth and speed. Occasionally Simba would run a few steps to the right or a few steps to the left,  tiring himself out all the while Buster would remain a sentinel.  Finally,  Simba would have to leave his position in order to engage Buster.  He'd inch closer then step back quickly into place safely out of Buster's grasp. Buster waited patiently.  Simba would shake Buster's toy at him.  'See!  Here!  I've got your toy!  You want it,  you're going to have to come get it!'  Buster didn't move an inch. Simba would carefully,  cautiously move in ever closer.  Closer still.  'I've got it.  It's right here.  All you have to do is....'  Buster lunged taking Simba off-guard during his ritual of showmanship,  and grasping one end of the toy in his mouth would quickly yank it away from Sim.  But Simba quickly jerked his head around,  re-grasping it with his mouth and  wrenching the toy from out of Buster's grasp by the sheer rapidity and stunning firmness of the movement and then he'd start running in the other direction.  'Catch me!  Catch me!  You can't catch me!  I've got your toy!  I've got it!  I've got it!!'  And off Simba would run, circling the base of this forty-two inch round otherwise non-descript table, Buster giving chase.  Occasionally I would join in the game,  yelling incentives from the couch to rile them even more.  "Run.  Get it Buster!  Run Simmy, run!"  But more often than not, I just enjoyed the game quietly from the sidelines,  content to let the two of them play together.  They loved each other very much.

 

(Providence)   It's early January 2005,  and I am sitting alone in my cold and barren New England apartment. The faucet is open ever so slightly because if it isn't, the pipes ill freeze and burst. I hear the drip, drip, dip like tears they fall and are gone. The movers finally came weeks after my own arrival, and the boxes the left sit there still piled high, untouched.  The only things unpacked are those that I had had with me during the drive cross-country.  Simba's and Buster's toys and a large navy blue cushion with Simba's name embroidered across it in red.  They are there in the quiet in the empty alcove next to my bed.  Several feet of snow falling outside my window, one snowflake at a time I watch them fall silently to the ground and pile high or disappear.   A dead silence lays heavily here,  and I am frozen and all is still.

 

A black vinyl First Aid Kit,  a repurposed hanging cosmetic bag with the words 'First Aid Simba' emblazoned in gold marker in my handwriting across the back is hanging in my bathroom.  Across the upper right hand pocket in gold:  "Benadryl/prednisone prn as needed for allergies, one each;  Ascriptin one daily for hips,  soloxine 0.8 (1/2 in AM  1/2 in PM) for thyroid;  Cosequin DS one DAILY.  I can see the black bag from where I am seated on my bed.  I had packed all of Simmy's meds and anything else I might possibly need for him medically in this bag.  I was prepared for almost any sort of emergency that might arise.  Well, almost any sort of emergency.  A bottle of Skin Formula 3V Caps by DVM For Large & Giant Breeds of Dogs containing 250 capsules;  a concentrated dietary supplement containing Fish Oil, a source of Omega-3 Polyunsaturated fatty acid plus Vitamins A , D & E.  His vet,  A.S.,  recommended it as a great source of Vitamin E.  (I later would wonder,  after reading this vet's 'testimonial' about the product and his article on the DVM website,  what exactly was the relationship was between him and this company.  Did he own stock in it?  Did they help him obtain new clients through this 'expert discusses the product' plug on their website?  Did he get a kickback from the drug company for prescribing x-number of pieces of their product,  perhaps in the form of weekend getaways to the Four Seasons in Santa Barbara or something of the like?  The latter,  I may add,  is an incentive to prescribe which the law banned years ago for medical doctors -- making it illegal for a drug company to influence the prescribing patterns of physicians and surgeons.  Did this sort of incentivizing exist within the veterinary 'profession' between vets and drug companies? - - I was sure it did.)  "Cortizone-10 Plus 10 Moisturizers, maximum strength 1% Hydrocortisone anti-itch Creme.  I would gently rub this between Simba's toes and between the pads on the underside of his feet when they were all beefy-red inflamed.  His allergies were severe during certain times of the year and this afforded him great relief.  The only problem was,  he used to try to lick it off - and I would have to sit with him,  gently holding his head away from his feet to prevent him from removing the medication before it could take effect.  Sometimes I would put it on his toes when he was in a deep sleep,  to avoid this problem entirely.  I trimmed my own nails very short,  so that I wouldn't stick him with them when rubbing the white creme between his pads,  a narrow area made more difficult to reach by the edema or beefy red swelling.  There is a baby-proof container of Soloxine,  0.8 mg,  Quantity 120.    It says "give one half (1/2) tablet  twice daily every 12 hours until gone. "  I gave it at exactly the same time every day, twelve hours apart as indicated,   7 a.m. and 7 p.m. -- or as close to that time as possible. There is a bottle of 65 pills of Prednisone, 5 mg tablets.  It is dated December 4, 2003.  I kept it in case of an emergency -- like a bee sting or something.  There is a second similar container dated October 24, 2003.  Simba was bitten by something,  perhaps a bee,  and went into anaphylactic shock.  I almost lost him.  I came very,  very close. Well, that's another story.  There is an unopened bottle of Ascriptin,  100 tablets,  325 mg apiece.  I kept asking Simba's vet if this wasn't too high a dose.  It really seemed excessive to me and I kept wondering and asking if 81 mg might not be better.  I was told by his vet that 325 mg was exactly the right daily dosage.  The autopsy results included a report of the GI tract,  and when I read it I knew immediately I had been right.  It was my understanding that veterinary medicine and human medicine were not the same and I had trusted Simba's vet implicitly.  He knew how much I loved Simmy and sold me yet another medication, vitamin, pill,  all in the name of Simba's feeling good.  Kaching!  Kaching!  Kaching!  I recognized now too late that I had been wrong to trust the vet,  and right about the dosage.  Simba's gastrointestinal tract was a mess.  My mind was racing through facts and all at once wondering what else he had done or not done to Simba over the years,  and Buster as well,  all in the name of the almighty dollar.  As a result,  Simba must have lived with incredible pain from ulcerative lesions throughout his final days, weeks?, months? ,years?....I burst into tears at the thought. Yes,  I had had my First Aid Kit stocked with all sorts of necessities prescribed all too willingly by Simba and Buster's "caring" vet, and I was prepared for anything to keep them safe.  Or so I thought.....

 

The table stood in the breakfast area/ living room.  It was stacked with boxes and the floor around the two legs was also stacked high with boxes such that I couldn't see the two legs at all.  I could only see the table top from where I was sitting on my bed,  out the bedroom door and down the hallway.  My breath turned white before disappearing in front of me and I sat and stared at the table at the opposite end of the hallway.  It seemed to be sagging underneath the weight of its burden.  I closed my eyes and tried to picture Simba and Buster running around the base.  But I couldn't and I opened my eyes and sat there staring straight ahead.  The room was freezing cold even with the heat on,  the kind of chill that permeates you right through to the bone.  

 

[A lavender painting that I had been working on in March,  shortly before Buster died on March 16th,  hung over the small alcove beneath a small window in my bedroom to the left of my bed.  I had decided not to finish the painting but to leave it instead in the condition it was in when Buster passed.  It had started out as a beautiful mauve and lavender sky and I was thinking about experimenting with gold leaf for the first time.  I was going to place a few gold stars in the sky and I already had a title for the piece ---  SERENITY.  But when I had tried to work with the gold after reading directions but not really knowing what on earth I was doing,  the gold had literally sucked out of my hands and onto the canvas,  destroying the beautiful and peaceful sky.  I remember jumping up and down at the time and calling out, 'Oh my God!  Oh my God!'  and trying frantically to get the square sheet of gold off of my canvas and out of my beautiful sky,  but to no avail.  Simmy and Buster watched me and no doubt had no idea what to make of my antics.  Whatever was going on,  they knew it couldn't be good.  Finally,  I gave up.  I decided to cover up my error and placed a huge tree right over most of the gold covering it nearly completely.  It was a strong tree.  Bold.  Steady.  Strong.  A few small branches emanated to the left and flowers started to grow at the base.  It would be beautiful.  It was already beautiful.  But then Buster died.  And I knew it would never be complete,  and nothing I could do would make it whole.  So I left it as it was,  and changed the title to "Evening Star."  I looked over at the painting and then down at Simba's bed and at Simba's and Buster's toys placed lovingly in a woven straw basket to its left,  and tears rolled silently down my cheeks.]  

 

The phone started to ring,  and I didn't move.  It rang and rang.  I let it. I didn't move a muscle.  And tears continued to pour down my cheeks silently,  where no one could see them.  And the phone continued to ring.  Alone.  Leave me alone.  I picked up the receiver and was silent.  I dropped it on my bed and ignored it and stared straight ahead at nothingness.  I heard a voice yelling though it seemed very quiet and way off in the distance.  "PICK UP THE PHONE! "  The voice was familiar,  though I rarely - no, never - heard her yell.  It was my friend calling from Los Angeles.    “Hey!  Are you there?  What's going on? Talk to me!”  I didn't respond,  and she kept repeating what she was saying.  I didn't want her to be upset,  but her voice,  it was somewhere very far away and though I heard my name,  it was coming from another world, another place, another time -- one which I was no longer a part of.....She was yelling again,  "What are you doing?"  I burst into tears,  sobbing so loudly that I could barely hear her voice as she made repeated futile attempts to get through to me.  I could barely catch my breath.  In-between the wailing I heard her voice calling out to me desperately trying to get through to me -- and I was nowhere,  floating,  floating through air capsized and unable to feel myself my body letting go and not even trying to reach for anything at all to keep me from floating away - …- - and there was Sim… he was screaming in excruciating pain as his insides blew apart and there he was in front of me his eyes bulging out of his head and me helpless to do anything to save him to take away his pain and i hear the blood-curdling screams and I can't stop hearing them . . …a year later Peter at UC Davis, the world''s leading expert on Sim's disease would tell me he had only once seen a dog with this disease allowed to go without being put to sleep. .  he was appalled at what the Los Angeles vet had done and felt that it bordered on criminality - torture and cruelty,  and he had said he was so sorry that that had been done to any animal, especially one so loved. . .. and I can still hear Simba's cries of pain . . . and where am I now, and, and .. ..  my friends voice was suddenly remarkably calm.  She talked and continued talking even though I didn't respond. 

 

"Have you unpacked your boxes?"

 

I made a noise indicating that I had not but didn't say a word.  I could hear her sweet and always kind and always happy voice.  But nothing would come out of me I struggled in vain I couldn't feel the floor the air gasping gasping…Sim is gasping for air. .  his body was contorting,  all of his major organ systems were shutting down,  the whites of his eyes turned yellow in a flash,  the blood,  the blood, any moment now the blood exploding from every orifice and the blood curdling screams crying for my HELP! . . . and I couldn't do a thing. . . . all of my training. . . . and I couldn't do a thing. . . 

 

"Simba doesn't want you to do this to yourself.  What would Simba do if he saw you like this?"

 

The weeping intensified dramatically for a few moments and then stopped abruptly.  What would Simmy do?  I toyed with the words my mind repeating them and thinking thinking over and over and over.  What would Simmy do?  Simba was an extremely sensitive being.  Simba couldn't bare to hear me cry.  He couldn't bare to even see me upset.  Buster would run to me if I was upset and comfort me. It was only twice in all the years as I was never one to get that upset, but I recall his response as if it were yesterday. Both times he laid his head on my lap and lie there quietly until he felt the storm had passed.  But not Simba.  Simba would be too upset to see me upset,  that he would do something unique 'for a dog.'  He would run away into another room,  the furthest one away in the apartment from wherever I was at and bury his head underneath a pillow so as not to hear me cry.  He absolutely couldn't bare to hear me cry and he would get as far away from me as possible. I thought suddenly of how my crying would affect Simba and my uncontrollable sobs turned soft and intermittent until they came in short bursts.  I was quiet,  still.

 

She valiantly tried again.  "Have you unpacked any of your art supplies?"

Some sounds again indicating that I had not.

"Even your paints?"

"mm --mm" (No)  

"Do you know where they are?"  And then again more insistently as I continued to sob.  "Do you know where they are?"

"mm -- mm" (yes)

"What about a canvas?  Do you have any out?"

"mm -- mm" (No)  Gasp.  Sobbing.

Quietly.  Firmly.  "Listen to me.  I want you to get them out.  Get out your paints."

“You weren't there!  His head exploded.  You didn't see.  You didn't see what he did to him.  He could have been put to sleep humanely.  He didn't need to suffer like that.  You didn't see.  You didn't see  . . . ”  the sobbing intensified.

"Get out your paints.  Just do it.  Won't you do that for me?  Put the phone down but don't hang up.  Get up and go get your paints.  Just do that for me. "

I put  down the phone and walked into the hallway and among and past the boxes. I could hear the dripping from the bathroom faucet falling like hidden tears in a room where nobody else could hear them . . .  Piled in the kitchen next to Simba's things were other things I'd hauled cross country in the car with us,  other things I valued.  There were several boxes of paints.  I opened one up and stood down staring at the paints.  What I had thought I valued most …..

 

"Is there anything in your apartment that you can paint?  Anything at all?"

I stared out from my bedroom again at the kitchen table with the boxes piled high on it and all around its base.  There was no canvas anywhere.  Finally I spoke.

 

"I could paint the kitchen table,"  I said quietly.  "But that was their table...." my voice trailed off. 

 

"I want you to paint.  I need you to go and paint that table.  Will you do that? Do it for him.  And then I need you to answer the phone.  I'm going to call you back.  You need to pick up the phone.  Do you hear me?"

"Yes."  

 

Something really basic had been missed,  something essential about my understanding of what a man would do for money . . . I don't think I fully understood that depravity, corruption,  greed, self-centeredness,  I don't think I understood any of it,  but I began to, and this new understanding arrived in a deep and visceral way.  Suddenly I understood.  And that understanding changed everything.  Somebody needed to stand up for the most vulnerable among us.  Someone capable and courageous; someone with a powerful voice. Not quiet. Not meek. Not shy. Unafraid. I had to let that go even though it had been such an integral part of who I was - especially as a woman. Two completely different people began to emerge. One incredibly intuitive and so very sensitive, the other stronger and tougher than hell. I didn't know it back then or for years afterwards, but it was in those moments that I became a very, very different person. 

 

I moved robotically down the hallway and into the kitchen area and started to clear the table.  Pink and blue are the color of babies,  the color of our children,  but I chose deeper versions of both the pinks and blues, favorite shades that I truly loved.  And I started to paint.  I scribbled Simba's name repeatedly into the background and I worked all night long and into the next morning.  When I was done,  I put down my brushes and other tools and instruments and stared at the table.  Beautiful flowers burst out over the table and the words "you saved my life yet I let you down," mixed with my tears  "and yet that last night you rolled over and licked my face as if to say 'it's okay' " and on and on,  and the words "eternity" and "Simmy and "my Shmangel Angel” -one of your many nicknames, and “Forgive me . . .”  

 

Simba and Buster... SiBu Around This (very) Table,  where they once played.

 

 

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(Christmastime, RI)  A lady from a local charity came bargain hunting and to haul my stuff away late one evening in December 2005.  I had made a decision to return to southern California and take legal action against the veterinarian to the stars because of what I learned  - what had actually been done to Simmy -  and I needed to unload as many personal possessions as possible in order to make the three thousand mile trip yet again;  my bicycle,  my potted plants,  most of my books,  dishes,  a washer and dryer, an armoire . . . Something caught the eye of the Lady from the charity, and she stared across the room at what was once my kitchen table and then walked over to the once nondescript table to get a better look at it.  

 

"Is this for sale?"  she asked.  "It's really beautiful.  So joyful.  There's something about it that I really love."  She strained to make out the writing.  

 

"No.  Definitely not for sale,"  I responded politely staring across the room at the table for a moment and cringing so painfully at her use of the word 'joyful.'  

 

"Oh!"  she said disappointed.  "Well if you were to sell it," she said still trying to make out the writing, "how much money would you consider taking for it,"  she prodded.  

 

"No amount of money.  It's not for sale."  I hesitated,  then added quietly in a barely audible whisper, "I painted it for my boys after my youngest died."  I didn't bother to mention that my boys were of the four-legged variety.  Few people I knew would,  could understand how much "an animal" meant to a person.  I knew she assumed I was talking about a human child.  And I didn't correct that impression.  He was my child no matter what anyone thought.  

 

"Oh my God.  I'm so sorry.  I didn't know."  She backed away. "It's strange,  it seems so happy I never would have thought...." her voice trailed off.  "How old was he?"

 

"He had just had a birthday.  His birthday was November second," I responded more to remind myself than to answer her question. I was facing off into space staring at nothingness when I turned to face her and said,  "He was eight years old." 

 

"Oh. So young.  That's horrible.  I'm so sorry.  I don't know what I'd even do if I didn't have children. I can't imagine not having them,  or worse still,  losing one.  It's awful to lose a child."

 

"Yes."  I responded.  "Yes.  It is."  

SIBU AROUND THIS TABLE _ 2004-2005 __ Oil on Wooden Tabletop  

 

 

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