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HEMINGWAY'S 

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


Additional Background, Hemingway's:

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

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

They were wanted.

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

 

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

 

All of them are wanted. . . . . 

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

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


Saving Molly Brown _ Silk


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

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


Molly Brown On The Lamb _ Silk


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

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

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

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

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


The Rocket _ Silk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Unique _ Silk

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

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HEMINGWAY'S

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

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


Inside the bag was a dead cat.


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

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

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

"Human cadavers are way too expensive."

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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


"Is there a problem here?"

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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



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

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


Hemingway's (Detail) _ Silk

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


Hemingway's (Detail) _ Silk

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

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

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

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   * 

 

 

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)

About the painting,  Hemingway's 

Copyright 2021 Janai-Ami.  All Rights Reserved. 

The completion of this silk painting, Hemingway's, ended with a tumultuous BANG! - - - literally!  The kind of BANG that wakes you out of a deep slumber and really captures your attention!  

 

I worked on Hemingway's for many months in Topanga Canyon overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the Malibu coastline from a perch high above the village of Topanga Canyon.  The studio -- that of Master Silk Artist Linda Bolhuis -- provided an extraordinary venue.  Linda's studio is peaceful and gorgeous, with double doors leading out to her gardens and a steep and wild hillside behind her property twice the grade of the one out front.  And for the record,  it's no small hike getting up the hill out front.  It takes grit and a great set of quads.  (I definitely didn't have the quads.) But I used to made that trek regularly every Sunday morning - huffing and puffing - for several years, while waiting for my right arm to heal,  still unable to lift it without a sharp excruciating pain running from my hand all the way up to my rotator cuff.  (Multiple well-known doctors at major medical centers throughout Los Angeles - orthopedic surgeons "at the top of their game" - doctors at UCLA,  Cedars Sinai, Kerlan & Jobe and USC -  sadly all missed a simple and easily treatable diagnosis for over a decade leaving me unable to paint or work and in constant pain. But that, Dear Reader, is another story entirely!)

 

At least silk painting enabled me to continue doing one thing I loved, and that was my escape.  But to do so even for the love of art I'd have to stretch my arms awkwardly out in front and place my elbows far forward to - as comfortably as possible  - rest them on a flat surface.  MollyBrown was with me back then.  And in spite of significant and unremitting physical pain,  that was good enough for me.  Because of MollyBrown's positive energy and uplifting spirit,  such a happy time!  Band if I have not already said it elsewhere,  Best Dog Ever!  (I suppose I say that about ALL of my dogs.  Then again,  they all are!)  

 

 

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

 

I first met MollyBrown at a City shelter. I was on a “run” - pulling German Shepherds out of the shelters for a breed-specific rescue group of which there are many in Southern California.  (It’s important to know that, because if you want a specific breed you can rescue one and don’t need to go to a breeder.  At least not in Southern California.)  So there I was.  I made notes on as many of the non- shepherds as I could - so I could later e-mail their respective breed rescues hopefully getting them pulled out of there as well.  It was nearly closing time.  An announcement came across the speaker.  And as I turned and headed past the last row of kennels toward the exit, this little dog (by little I mean anything under eighty-five pounds) - this mass of matted dirty fur with wide-eyes greeted me.  She shook her tail furiously trying to capture my attention. She wanted out of there,  and she wanted it DESPERATELY.  (Maybe she knew something that I didn’t know.)  It was a day or two before Christmas. Though I left without her, I couldn’t shake the thought of her that entire evening.  She was so “small” (under 85 pounds, but not by much) - so she couldn’t possibly take up much room in anyone's home!  Why then was she an 'Owner Surrender'?  I couldn’t sleep that night.  I had to go back for her and the next morning I was up before dawn to do just that. (Details of this story, elsewhere, Dear Reader). . .  I didn’t even temperament-test her before loading her into my station wagon,  but I didn’t need to.  I knew immediately there would be major separation-anxiety issues.  Those are not easy to deal with.  I would have my hands full (and possibly my home destroyed).  Her records showed she had been bounced around for most of her five years on this Earth.  Not one owner had ever kept the commitment they made to her when she was adopted by them.  Her name had been changed so often that she didn’t respond to any of them -  Pixie being the most current. (I shook my head:  Definitely NOT a "Pixie!")   As she hopped into the front seat of the wagon a new name immediately popped into mind.  “Molly Brown,” I said softly aloud looking at her settling into the passenger seat up front at my side, “‘til death do us part!”  And with that,  we headed out to MollyBrown's sixth - and final - home. 

 

 

 

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

 

 

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 outspoken "Dog Park Mafia" that apparently lacked any significant 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 in life.  

 

** Every living being -- every living, breathing, thinking, feeling being on this Earth,  has a heart and a soul.  Molly Brown's heart and soul were in alignment -- finally -- when I introduced her to something she didn't know was missing from her life.  And it changed the course of her life.  And it changed her.  (And seeing it change her, changed me as well.)  At first I found the whole herding thing quite amusing -- because Molly looked so silly with her long wavy 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 intense before, during and after they ran.  Focused and extremely intense.  Not Molly.  She never had that look.  Her look was more of pure joy than extreme intensity.  And Molly was NOT a "gripper" either, so even as I learned more about the activity,  I was still okay with this activity for Molly.  I knew I need not worry about the sheep. They'd be just fine.  And MollyBrown really seemed to enjoy herding.  A sense of calm washed over her,  a dog that understandably suffered from tremendous separation-anxiety - after being adopted and dumped by one owner after another -- in and out of multiple shelters - including some high kill ones like the one up in Lancaster.  Hence the name Molly Brown -- unsinkable!  There was an immediate kinship with this teeny (slightly less than 85-pound) dog who continued to survive one setback after another, and still seemed so full of joy.  The herding brought out another side of her.  She thrived after discovering who she really was -- Molly the incredible herder.  Unequalled.  A non-gripper with extraordinary speed and skill.  The Rocket.  And just like that,  Molly Brown started her journey to becoming the Best Dog Ever. 

 

The first time we showed up at On The Lamb,  a heavy set woman in a too-tight fitting t-shirt for her voluptuous curves,  dusty well-worn jeans in desperate need of patching and even dustier boots  - and what looked like a riding crop  - greeted us.  I was worried.  Admittedly a bit put-off by anything akin to a whip, to say the very least.  And although I had grown up in a semi-rural town actually named after sheep,  I lacked any knowledge whatsoever of this activity which I clearly demonstrated to the woman in-charge  (that'd be the one with the crop) -  from the moment I opened my mouth.  

 

"How will she know what to do?" I queried, sounding like a New Yorker who rides subways never horses, shops in midtown Manhattan not at a local farm stand and has never even seen a sheep or for that matter,  an open field of grass.   In fact, none of that was true.  I was no City Slicker!  But I could have fooled her!! 

 

She put her hands on her broad hips and turned all 387 pounds towards me to stare me down with a look which was a combination of utter disdain and curious 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!"  

 

I hung my head in abject shame for not being more knowledgeable.  And with those words,  she opened the gate to a pen filled with sheep with green stripes down their backs who immediately scattered all around.  And Molly Brown, the dog that had been stirring up trouble at the dog park and gotten the outspoken and aggressive Dog Park Mafia all hot under the collar,  took off like a Rocketship and headed straight toward the sheep,  barking like a son-of-a-bitch the entire time.  Well  . . . .

 

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

 

I had no clue what she was talking about.  Beards?  Was she referring to Molly's coiffure? 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 at this point,  embarrassed,  I was mostly keeping to myself) - and she offered up some explanation for the dumbass City Slicker standing helplessly by the fence looking on as her dog seemingly effortlessly - "instinctively" - corralled the sheep into a tight knit group. 

 

"BEARDED COLLIES HAVE THAT PARTICULAR CHARACTERISTIC.  THEY HERD MAINLY THROUGH THEIR VOCALIZATIONS. THAT'S BREED DISTINCTIVE.  100%.  SO SHE MUST BE PART BEARDED COLLIE.  (pause)  THEY CALL 'EM BEARDIES. HMMMRPH! 

 

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 55-pound girl was half-Chihuahua, half Maltese!  Or half- Saint Bernard, other half - Irish Wolfhound!  So ridiculous!!  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 research Beardies back home later that evening. 

 

"A ROCKET!  I'VE NEVER HAD ONE MOVE THAT FAST BEFORE.  WOW! AND NOT A GRIPPER.  HMMRPH!! 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!  That a girl!  Way to go MollyBrown!!  

 

Pretty soon Molly moved up from herding the sheep with the green stripe down their backs to those with the blue stripes.  (For those non-sheepherders out there,  sheep who engage in the sport are pretty similar to ski-slopes.  They're "rated" and color-coded by level of difficulty!  In skiing, the green slopes are Easy-Peasy and for beginners,  blue squares are for intermediate skiers,  and Black Diamond slopes are Dangerous-as-hell wouldn't be caught there dead or alive.)  For herding,  the sheep have stripes painted down their back. Green are easy-to-herd sheep -- for beginner herding dogs.  Then there are the "blue"-sheep.  They are the ones who make a real game of it for the dog by sending a scout sheep out of the group every now and so often to the right or to the left. The herding dog has to run and get the straggler and get him back together with the rest of the group.  Usually the straggler does what he's told.  And then there are the Black Diamond Sheep who like to get into the pen and then all do their own thing and go their own way - herding dog be damned!  It's sheep-gone-wild !!  They are running all over the place in every possible direction at top speed, and every time the dog gets one that was out of line back into line with the remainder of the group,  another two or three try for a break away.  It's exhausting just watching them.  (Molly never tired, but I sure did!)  MollyBrown quickly moved up to the Black Diamond where even the most rambunctious sheep among them was no match for my little Rocket!

 

And slowly but surely, over time, a dog once crippled with severe separation anxiety began to trust that she was safe.  A group of rambunctious sheep and I together were Saving Molly Brown.  One dog alone in a City Shelter awaiting her fate.  Through no fault of her own.  She survived.  A great dog who was previously labelled as "unwanted."   She would never ever be going back to any City Shelter - ever again.  Not on my watch, she wouldn't! 

 

After several weeks of  herding,  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 naturally picture a dog that looked like MollyBrown -- to be baying.  But she did.  Her front paws outstretched and resting on the front dashboard -- neck fully extended - - crying out in the most primitive vocalizations - -- filled with joy and anticipation.  And on occasion (I have to admit) I would join in.  

 

AHHH- -- -- ROO OOOO!   AHHH- - -- ROOOH!    AHHHHH- - -- ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

 

And we'd head down the freeway toward the Angeles National Forest, up up up into the rocky 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. 

 

 

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    * 

 

 

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 and  Saving Molly Brown and Unique were among these.  But I was wanting to get back to my roots of painting florals (no pun intended) and had been thinking about it for awhile.   And then something happened. And Hemingway's came about because as an avid animal lover -- what happened had a significant impact on me.  

 

 

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    * 

 

 

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,  so 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 facility, the lecture hall and finally,  the dissection lab.   A group of sleek silver extra large freezers lined one wall.  The woman orienting me to the facility reached for the handle and pulled open the freezers.  Then she pulled out one drawer.  At first I was confused - because of all the small plastic bags lined up on top of the palette within the stacked drawers lining the freezer. A human cadaver couldn't possibly fit into such 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. 

 

 

In 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 that time,  though in caring for those of a friend several years ago I came to appreciate them quite a bit more - and dare I say -  perhaps even love them too just a wee bit).  But at the time of that meeting I wasn't at all a huge lover of all things feline.  Nonetheless,  it was completely jarring to me because I care about other living creatures.  And because I was teaching human anatomy,  and not feline anatomy.  And something else was bothering me as well . . . 

 

"It's a cat.  For the dissection,"  she responded, clinically, 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." 

 

"O- kay. (pause)  But they now have virtual experiences for anatomy on-line if you can't afford to buy the cadavers.  But let's forget about THAT for a second.   Why on Earth 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," she explained.  "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.  It was a really huge issue.  And the more she said,  the larger and larger the issue became. Especially for someone like me. . . .

 

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. Once living, breathing, thinking, feeling beings - now all dead. For WHAT?  

I was actually stunned.  And I stood there silently.  Staring.  But that wouldn't last very long.  I played her words over and over in my mind.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but I definitely couldn't believe what I was hearing.  What exactly was the point of a dissection of another species -- just to have fun?  Just to have "an experience"?

 

"Where did these cats come from?"  I asked quietly,  trying hard to contain myself.  [My insides were churning and I could feel something building inside of me. I didn't know what that feeling was initially but then I recognized it as a sickening feeling that I had experienced years before -- shortly after graduating from Harvard.  I was working at a major University Hospital in New York City.  It was a feeling a young person gets when they think they are trapped.  It's the feeling of a war within -- between being polite and deferential -- and speaking up.  I had been here before observing something equally horrific at a major University Hospital where nobody else seemed to give a rat's ass about what they were actually doing.  But that's an entirely different story,  Dear Reader.  Now, here I was again.  Would I could I dare I keep silent a second time?] 

 

"Where did these cats come from?" I asked  a second time, slightly less deferentially than my previous response.  And get this - - now she was becoming visibly annoyed with me for having the gall to ask such questions!!  (Bad move on her part.  A make-no-mistake-about-it, really -  incredibly  - bad move . . .) 

 

"They're just shelter cats. Nobody wanted them anyway.  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 all of the Universities and Hospitals all over Los Angeles that need them. It's a very profitable business!" she exclaimed with delight.   I didn't respond immediately.  When I finally did after a deadly silence,  my words were measured and chosen (relatively) carefully. 

 

"You said they were unwanted.  But 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,  their bodies piled up in garbage bags in drawers at the University of California - - the representative from the University of California staring at me, annoyed.   I felt her cold glare and the ice in her veins. And something welled up inside of me.  Her tone had changed.  My back straightened, my spine stiffened, and my tone changed too.  The fear of angering her -- gone.  It was a major turning point for me, and I think I felt that "instinctively" too as it was unfolding. 

 

"Is there a problem here?"

 

"Well,  yeah.  This is actually a huge problem,"  I responded with quiet restraint.

 

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

 

"There's actually a huge difference here that you appear to be ignoring.  Frankly, I'm surprised that YOU don't see it." 

 

"Really.  And what's THAT? " her words took aim stab stab stab at me.  Who the hell do you think you are, she was saying. 

 

"The difference is - - (pause and then with equal emphasis and indignation)  - - the human being 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.  Not one of these cats agreed to this.   They didn't say -- end my life now so you can have fun ripping my body apart.  'You said nobody wanted them' and therefore their lives were of no value.  But their lives were of value to them.  So who the hell are you to end their lives -- especially for someone's pleasure or enjoyment.  Are you KIDDING me?"

 

She was stunned but to her credit regrouped without missing a beat.  "How do you think humanity moves forward if not for vivisection?  These labs are important for the advancement of mankind."

 

"Give me a break!  THAT is an oxymoron  -- emphasis on the word MORON -- if ever I heard one!  If man-KIND  (. . . .  I added a huge amount of sarcasm on the "kind" for greater effect . . . . )  - -  needs to get ahead through cruelty to other species,  then YES,  that is a huge problem.  And I for one don't want any part of this. And since when does dissecting a cat or dog or pig or any other animal teach anyone anything about HUMAN anatomy.  It doesn't.  And you know it doesn't."  Neither of us was going to budge an inch.  And she knew it. 

 

"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."

 

I stared back at her for a split second.  Breathe, I told myself.  BREATHE.  And then,  "Really?!  No. Actually, YOU'LL just have to 'deal with it!' And, yeah.  I can leave. And I'm going to do just that.  I am not going to be a party to any of this.  I can leave.  Just watch me."  

 

And with that,  with no other job lined up,  and not even giving equal weight to that aspect of it,  I turned my back on the University of California representative for whom the word Man-Kind held little to no real meaning,  and I walked out the door of that laboratory and never returned.  **

 

**(I did go on to teach medical sciences at the University level for a small private institution of higher learning in California, but I was teaching human not feline anatomy,  human physiology as well as pathophysiology and the language of medicine.  All of which was a tremendous amount of fun for me.  I discovered how much I do love to teach!) 

 

 

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It was an exquisite Sunday morning in Topanga Canyon.  The sun was beating down mercilessly and the threat of fire danger was high in the Canyon, but a slight cool breeze was blowing through the open double doors of Linda's 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 without success to persuade me to keep it small.  I wanted to explore combining the traditional French-Indonesian tjap techniques used with silk painting with a more free-form and therefore truly American esthetic.  I wanted it to be beautiful and life-affirming.  And something inside of me was saying that it had to be huge. I wanted it to make a statement.  I needed that this particular weekend.  I didn't want to think about what I was going to do next.  No longer a cog in the wheel.  No longer a 'planner' as I had been throughout my entire medical training and after.  I don't know what happened to me.  But I was starting to feel somehow different.  Really really different. All the things that I had thought mattered - didn't.  No longer bowing when I felt a bow was neither appropriate or in order.   I didn't need anything so nothing and no-one had a hold over me.  I could hear my own voice perhaps for the very first time - and it was strong, courageous, compassionate and independent -  and I was changing and "becoming."   FREE.  And right then,  more than anything else,  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.  And 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 living their lives playing jumping frolicking all over the place.  Hemingway may have been long dead,  but the place he used to call home was ALIVE  - it was really 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.  But working on it would be healing.  My small, weak heart needed that.  And so the work began. . . 

 

 

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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 actually a real problem. There was indeed a practical reason she had tried to discourage me from going big.  The steamers she had were not big enough to "go big."  They could not accommodate a piece the size of Hemingway's.  She would have to find one and borrow it or go to another's studio in order to complete this silk piece.  She eventually found 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 wished to have a studio some day just like it,  with doors opening out onto a veranda and a cool breeze and rays of sunshine passing through it. And the sound of water and waves crashing somewhere in the distance.  Just a dream.   But for now, . . . .   We wrapped up Hemingway's and loaded it into the steamer which she had positioned in her home -- not the studio - in the middle of her living room.  Then I headed back down to her studio, a separate structure a few hundred yards away,  while Linda finished up closing the steamer and started the process. She turned on her ceiling fan to keep her living room cool while the steamer was working its magic.  It was then that I heard a HUGE BANG!  Well now I'm wide awake! I went running out of the Studio and took the steps two at a time up to Linda's home where the steamer sat steam pouring out of it.   Shattered glass from a window near the room's ceiling was everywhere.   She and her husband were looking aghast at each other.  What the heck happened ?   . . . .

 

The steamer was so tall,  and neither of us had noticed that it was past the height of the ceiling fan.  When the fan was turned on to cool the room down,  one of the fan blades had immediately hit the steamer head-on,  then went flying off -- and through a window.  It was a freak accident.  The arm of the fan was gone and an entire window obliterated.  The steamer remained in one piece and fortuitously hadn't toppled.  Somebody could have easily been killed.  Fortunately nobody was injured. Nobody died needlessly so that I could have some silk painting fun and enjoyment.  But this would be an expensive piece of artwork. 

 

Everytime 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 stating that it benefits others when truth be known it benefited no human being to do this to another living being. (Except perhaps the greed-driven researchers collecting hefty grant dollars from some huge Corporation or Government bureaucracy -?) 

 

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

 

 

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