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Morgan County Historical Society 

2025 Charity Auction  ~ May 31st

 

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FARM #5  (My Farm, Red Barn Series) 

there are six paintings in this series ~

(Custom Frame) 

IVER,  The Cow

(IVER lives in Uinta. He is adorable - - - and he is also a very friendly cow!)  MOO!

 

 

ABOUT THIS SERIES ~ 

Everything was possible.  

 

I took the train (safely) into Manhattan and changed clothes into something ~ well, . . … let's just say a bit nicer than ripped up - worn-in /worn-out denims,  beat-up running Tretorns,  turtleneck and flannel (‘my usual uniform').  My friend hadn't wanted to tag along that evening for what I had planned, but she gladly lent her apartment as a place to change out of my “safe-to-ride-the-NY-subway” outfit into something more appropriate for a night out in NYC.  We had an opportunity to catch up on what was going on in each of our lives.  I was busy with my medical training, so there wasn't time for much else. . . not a whole lot of time for friends,  no time for many of the things I had loved.   (B.G.:  I was informed by my parents when I entered college,  that playing the piano was not 'a real career.'  It was a hobby.  "You can play on weekends when you have free time!"  

I had had to find a "real career," and so I did.  But my heart was not really there.  hmm . . . My heart was definitely not there.)  

 

(Present. NYC) Now the inevitable query ~ 

 

"So let me get this straight," she said,  looking at me still a bit confused by it all.  "You got a series subscription to the Metropolitan Opera?  WHY on Earth would anyone do THAT?!!”

 

I smiled.  "Because I LOVE it!"

 

"Really?" she responded,  still quite confused.  "What exactly do you love about it?"

 

"It has literally EVERYTHING! Great stories! Great music!  Great costumes!  Great stage sets!  Great voices!" I paused.  And then a bit mischievously,  "and really… really GGG-G-GREAT DRAMA!" I added dramatically, suddenly not sounding shy at all!  (I was very shy) 

We both smiled.  

 

I wiggled out of my denims and into a tailored dark wool sleeve, stood up, put on my stilettos and a large shawl with gold thread running through it, which I draped across my shoulders - of course with great flair - and we both laughed.  Then off I went...

 

 

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[A reminder.  We Are Free!  Did you know that if you stand in just the right spot in front of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City with your back towards the building, you can see the Statue of Liberty?] There are many people who've attended the opera in NYC many times over many years and are to this day not aware of this little known fact.  Many are even New Yorkers!!!  But it's true …

 

 

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Octaves.  Up and back.  Up and back. Up and back!  Watch your fingering! Watch your timing. Listen to the metronome. UP AND BACK! (Rosamunde taught at Juilliard.  But I took lessons in her home. She was a character.  She offered carrot juice to a four year old. I didn't want carrot juice. UGH!!  She was also a relentless drill Sargent.) Faster! FASTER!! Determined.  Focused.  Obsessed.  Up and back.  Up and back down.  I practiced daily for several hours a day.  I was going to NYSSMA and playing at the highest level of the competition.  I was competing against Russian and Chinese children even younger than I and equally focused and determined.  Rosamunde would not settle for me coming in Second Place. (I didn't) UP AND BACK.  Again and again and again.  Definitely a drill Sargent. But I was disciplined, even when she wasn't around.  Siblings complained to my mother that they were unable to practice before their weekly lessons,  because I never left the keyboard.  It was true.  I never did. 

 

 

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“PIANO SOLO?  NO!”

Mr. Arnold wanted me to continue to play violin with the Orchestra.  That was where I had been introduced to the music.  Vivaldi, Haydn, Handel,  Corelli,  others.  There weren't that many of us in the Orchestra as it turned out,  so even the loss of my admittedly very limited skills would have been devastating to a string section of only three.  And in fact,  I did not want to leave.  I loved the music.  But I also had other plans.  So when Arnold told me there was nothing available for a solo pianist,  I took my limited skillset on the strings and my violin,  and my reeds and clarinet,  and hit the road - or more accurately, high-tailed it down the hallway for the Band Room.  They were a significantly larger group and - as it also turned out - way cooler.  They marched at football games!  And what high school student doesn't want to be one of the "cool kids?!" Mr. Norton welcomed me to his growing marching band.  Shortly thereafter,  Mr. Arnold came to me with a proposition.  There was a work by Leroy Anderson,  and he was wondering whether or not I would be interested in the part for a solo pianist?  WAS I EVER! 

 

A short while after,  I was standing off stage,  preparing for my debut!  Soloist.  A dream come true.  Yes, I was shy. I was not one of the "cool kids." But once I took the stage and my fingers touched the keys,  I was transformed.  I melted into the music.  The audience melted away.   I was alone on the stage with only the music. That piece was who I was… I felt it in every note. I became lost in the notes. I was grounded.  And at the same time, I was also flying.  It was a simple but lovely piece by Leroy Anderson, and I played it with just the right amount of emotional tenderness warranted.  It required a gentle hand.  I was a gentle hand. It was hauntingly beautiful. It was called  

. . … Forgotten Dreams. 

 

 

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[I was the quandary. . . … Nobody could figure me out. I didn't fit into the boxes.  My brother-in-law's question?:  What sort of man do you see yourself with?  The answer was simple and required little thought. One who loves kids -- lots and lots of them,  because I love kids and want lots and lots of children….. and a man who loves the outdoors and OF COURSE a man who loves animals.  One who can hang out with me on the farm or in the wilderness during the day,  wielding an axe to chop the wood,  working around the farm in our overalls & boots,  hiking through the mountains, herding the animals into a pen,  roughhousing it later on with the children and with the big dogs - YES!! Several big ‘ol dogs!! . . .  So far,  simple enough,  right?  And then that same guy, that very same guy! - putting on a tux and escorting me in the evening to the Opera!  TA DA!  'My brother-in-law looked at me for a second, shook his head,  and replied, “Good luck trying to find THAT!'  He was correct.

 I never did.]   

(I ought to add here, that this description of an “ideal man” really falls flat in areas such as New York, Los Angeles, Chicago . . . … if I had described running away with an alien whose spaceship just landed in our great city - that description would have gained far more traction in NY or LA- - / but a farmer?  Preposterous! To a New Yorker or Angeleno, my description sounded bizarre.  I'm not certain that others around the country really fully understand how the coastal elites actually view them.  In short, they view them as other-worldly. 

 

 

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No sound of laughter in the yard.

 No farm and broken fences needing repairs.
 No sheep or goats to be herded.  

No farm.  No red barn.  

 

The years they came and went, and I don't know where they went.

 

 

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(OjAi, California)

Bert Collins is one of the best pastelists in California if not the country. I was invited to sit in on her class. (I remain one of her very favorite people. And yet, she still to this day, she never gets my name right. She Always calls me ‘Emily.'  (How that came to pass, Dear Reader, is another story!)  But for now,  suffice it to say,  I just sat there looking off into space.  Not knowing what to paint.  Bert sided her wheelchair next to me at the table.  'Just paint something you love.  And then you can do a series.   Do the same thing over and over until it starts to improve.  Until it appears.  Or changes.  You can alter the palette.  You can alter something in the subject.  What do you dream about?'  I stared blankly off into space. I couldn't think of one thing. Not. One! Was it possible that I'd entirely stopped dreaming?  My mind went blank.  I couldn't think of a reply. What do you love?  What do you dream about? 

I had had cancer at an early age.  Children, many children, …. a huge family, a dream which I no longer entertained…  suddenly every other dream had lost its meaning too… my mind searched for an answer but I couldn't think of anything… I hadn't really given it much thought at all until Bert asked me that one question … and I couldn't think of an answer

 

Bert looked at me.  It shouldn't be that difficult.   Just tell me,  if you could paint anything at all,  what would you want to see manifest itself on your canvas board.  Show me, . . . .  What do you love?'  And that's when I remembered my childhood dream - when I grow up, I want to live on a farm… lots of children…. lots of animals…  a big old barn that I was going to fix up….  My Farm ~ and a Red Barn 

MR GREY, ATHENA, CALLIE & HANS 
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Forgotten Dreams ? 
 . . . ahhhhhhh, but the fat lady has not yet sung! 

         

After all,                                                                                            Anything is possible!  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ELEMENTS OF PARADISE,  A NEW PERSPECTIVE  

Original,  2003 _ Oil on Canvas _ 36 in. x 48 in. 

 

Think about it:  If you do not use colors to jump out off of the canvas vs. recede into the background, and you also do not use perspective,  can you still create a sense of depth within a painting,  and do it all within the same part of the electromagnetic spectrum?  The answer to that question is (drumroll . . . )

 

YES!  If you actually create a piece in three-dimensions!  Then you needn't rely on tricking the eye or the 'illusion' of depth, but you would actually be creating it.   How simple would that be?!  That was something that I'd not seen done in Western art, and it intrigued me.  (But the answer to that question was not as simple as it initially seemed . . . )  

So the title for this painting,  The Elements of Paradise, A New Perspective,  actually has two meanings.  One literal, the other historical.  The first I've just explained - a novel way to create a painting with the appearance of three-dimensionality.  

 

But there was a second, historical meaning to this title. I began painting in response to 9/11.  And if any event gave new perspective to what is  (& what is not)  important,  the events of 9/11 did that.  All of a sudden the only things that were truly meaningful (besides our loved ones), were the air we breathe, clean water, and our environment.  That's all.  So those are the elements of paradise I tried to picture in this painting.  I hope I was able to capture that feeling. 

 

 

 

*   Archival Prints Not Currently Available  *  

*   Private Collection of Artist *   

 

 

THE MORNING AFTER  (For Nuit) 

Original,  2007/ Malibu__ Oil on Canvas_ 36 in. x 48 in.  

(SOLD) 

Prints Not Available At This Time 

 

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La Nuit ~  (French)  Darkness or night.   Also the name of one remarkable cat living in the 'Bu. . . 

 

 

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In many of my works,  I view the surface of the canvas as a point in time. When I scribble into the surface (beneath the surface), to me that is another moment of time -- the past.  And when I place things "on top of" the canvas, sculpted in 3-D,  that too represents a moment of time -- the future.  I thought about that quite a bit while working on this painting. 

 

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THE MORNING AFTER  (“the morning after the Malibu Fire” of 2007)  was started while I was living at the top of Busch Drive in Malibu, California. It was one of those pieces where I just 'got stuck'  (I hate when that happens).  It's really tough walking away from the work and returning to it -  for many reasons,  but the main one is this -- the mixed colors can never be exactly duplicated, only approximated,  and for a colorist this is a holy catastrophe.  But that's where I was when I headed off to New York City in 2007 for a short stay.  

 

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Nuit.  Black as night.  Filled with light. . .

I watched the News from the City.  It was not good.  Malibu was on fire.  I wondered if my place was still standing. I watched footage of helicopters overhead dumping their payload over the City.  I could "smell the fire" and imagined the traffic along Pacific Coast Highway (P.C.H.)  And of course, I worried about Nuit and other wild cats in the area.  One in particular that had befriended me. She would sit outside my door in the middle of the night howling until I opened the French doors to allow her inside.  (Generally speaking,  I don't recommend letting in the bobcats.  They are wild animals, of course. And yet I had befriended one. . . .)  . . … it was entirely my own fault.  I left a can of tuna out one night, and I think that that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. She'd cry. I'd let her in.  Sometimes I'd fall asleep.  When I awoke from her cries, there she was.  Other times, she would lie next to me on the bed.  I'd rub her back and belly. . . .  It was usually at 2 or 3 in the morning,  when I had fallen asleep next to the wild thing,  she'd wake up and stand by the door, crying to go back out.  She'd disappear into the night and several nights would go by.  I'd hear nothing from her.  I worried about her, but respected her freedom and never tried to force her to be an “indoor cat!”  WHERE WAS SHE??  

And then she'd reappear,  flinging a dead mouse in the air for me to catch. (I didn't).  She would toss it in my direction. (It was d-i-s-g-u-s-t-i-n-g).  But I knew she wanted me to have it.  It was a gift. And when I didn't take it, she'd throw it repeatedly into the air trying to attract my attention and get me interested. (I wasn't).  Then she would play with it for a very long time.  And soon there wouldn't be much left except for a trail (of guts).  

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Fire raged across the t.v. screen.  I though of Nuit.  And I hoped she had found safe refuge.  

 

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When I returned to Malibu, the house was  - remarkably  - still standing.  Some of the neighbors weren't as lucky.  (WHY HADN'T OUR GOVERNMENT  LEADERS  DONE  WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE TO CLEAR THE  DRY BRUSH?  ON WHAT HAD THEY SPENT ALL OF OUR TAX  DOLLARS?). Devastation in every direction with homes leveled, trees gone, and the earth charred.  People were understandably angry. 

Many people lost everything.  

But over there something caught my eye.  It was a small cluster of flowers that grew from the earth. Ahhh, . . … hope.  I started to work again on the piece.  It became an explosion of fire on the canvas,  the yellow and the oranges and reds,  but mostly the yellows.  But it was quiet all around me and there was no sign of Nuit.  This painting was an impression of what it was like here in this place of beauty after everything disappeared and then new growth started to reappear and take the place of the old.  (And I waited. And I listened. But I heard nothing.)  There is one small cluster of flowers in THE MORNING AFTER that represents life and hope for the land after the fire. 

 

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Night fell.   And in the sunlight,  The Morning After was finally complete.  It was beautiful and deeply meaningful.  There is always hope even after the darkness. Those who survive can always start again.  Yellow as the fire. Yellow as the sun.  I drifted off to sleep alone in the dark in the hills over Malibu. And then in the middle of the night I heard a familiar sound.  And I jumped from my bed and ran to the French doors leading out into the garden. I flung the doors wide and she sauntered inside, aloof and casually as if nothing at all had happened.  And I lay there awake on my bed with her next to me.  And I rubbed her back and her belly. 

 

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*   Archival Prints No longer Available   *

*   Original has found a loving home in a Private Collection in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan   * 

 

 

SENECA  (THE FINAL ASCENT) 

Original_ 2023_ Oil on Canvas_ 30 x 40 in

Custom 24k Gold Frame

(Not For Sale at This Time) 

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(August 2023)

 

“You need to stay away from those people. . … You know I'm right. . …” 

Then she let me cry. 

 

”What was the one thing -the only thing- you asked him for repeatedly?”

”Truth.  To always be honest with me.”

”And was he?”

”No.” 

 

We sat quietly for a moment.

 

“ Stay away from those people.”

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2023   Together. Alone. What had the chickens been up to. . … they weren't up to much!  But the rooster was crowing, ‘it's time for breakfast'

The Ojai mountain air was cooler than expected.  We gathered the eggs, and I put a small steel-rimmed pot of coffee on the stove.  No microwave. Duly noted.  To be respectful,  I tiptoed quietly around. Or maybe I was quiet for another reason. . …

 

I just could not get out of my head.   I was only starting to realize how deeply I had been affected. I was an entirely different person. I looked the same - on the outside, but i was lost within a storm churning inside of me for months.  My words and head and heart . . . all disconnected and I wondered  if this would be the same . . … a wall had gone up  . . … Who was this stranger inside of my head? I didn't know her at all ~ 

 

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I suppose it didn't matter.  He was lost deep in his own grief, so I let him be.  Writing would be cathartic as painting was for me.  Give Space. . . …  Heeding the words of Seneca, he was already hard at work.  I wondered if I wasn't there at all would it even make a difference.  Or would he lie and make believe it did - like W had lied,  repeatedly.  

Or maybe not…. . . But at that moment, I just wanted to disappear,  and just like that i was cellophane, invisible - and wanting to remain so.  And then there was the doctor's report.  A forever reminder, lest I try to forget.  Just like Willa ~ 

 

But the man sitting with his back to me working away knew none of this.   He only knew that I had stood for hours on a cold wet December morning by the Brooklyn Library waiting, . . … waiting, . . … with no word at all.   i had already spent hours guiding revisions uncredited and directing his work towards completion . . ..  I was there to support his dreams,  but he left me standing in the cold rain 

 

I was there when he moved Francine into a home,  en route to doctor visits and reviving a project without wings. I was there on the slopes at Christmastime and at the restaurant on New Year's  Eve.  .  . But on that day in December I waited. Not a word.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~   ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~   ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Months later in Ojai I felt “safe.”   M.B. didn't know what I was like before all that, and now thanks to W's carefully calculated admonition about MB, he never would.  

~ ~ ~  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~   ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~   ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Above all,  M.B. was disciplined.  He sat head bowed at a small wooden writing desk facing the wall next to the double doors which led into the entryway. I wondered which chapter he was working on.  He was a good man,  an extraordinary man.  But I was not fully present.  It wasn't his fault. I was “Floating.  On the breath of the Wind.”  And then I sat down at my easel with a small brush, debated heavy-handed browns at the bottom, something I had toyed with for this piece, but lacking courage and the confidence I had had up until six months prior,  I eventually defaulted to a gentler more timid shade of blue.  Me without any self confidence at all.  A hollowed out shell of the woman I had worked and at times struggled to become.  Gone.  I couldn't have started a new painting if I had tried. But there was still some detail work needed on SENECA and SAGAWA too.  It was about all I could handle.  I didn't  decide against anything more bold - I just no longer had it in me.  (It would have been a far better painting).  

 

Slowly, meticulously, my hand shaking,  I added those minute finishing details at the very bottom.  Tears softly quietly down my cheek - not because of MB, back towards me, working out his own deep pain of losing her.   I didn't know it at that time, but some part of me had died,  and I would not paint again . . ….

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I told M.B. that he was brilliant but nobody knew that except for me. He objected.  Everyone in his field knew his writing,  he insisted.  Hmm, a small eclectic group of just how many would that be? Harsh perhaps. “Okay. Maybe some. But not the masses.  The masses need to know you. Otherwise all of this brilliant work may be lost to generations that follow.”  I said it with emphasis - especially the part about all of his work - his great love- his very essence - being LOST to the winds of time - 

“And how do you suggest . . . ?”

”Submit!”

”it's a lot of work. . … ”

”yes. Initially.  I've done it many times. It's distasteful.  But you do it - and then you do it again. It becomes easier. And you keep doing it until you hit that sweet spot. And then they call you. And then . . … then you get to do what you love.”

 

He is the greatest ever at what he does,  M.B.

. . … and so he took my suggestion - begrudgingly- 

and I waited to hear… but I didn't have to wait very long.  And that felt good. //

 

(August 2023)