June 9, 2010: Strawberries

For the last two weeks, every time I go grocery shopping, I find myself holding up box after box of strawberries, looking for the best assortment.  Finally, impatient with my quest for perfection, I realize they are all about the same, and I just stick one in the cart.   Pushing on with the rest of my shopping, I wonder what I was really searching for among all those identical boxes of berries. And then the door of memory opens, and I am back  among the endless rows of berry plants.  I jump as mosquitoes swarm, and my mother warns, "Be careful not to step on the plants!" I am new to berry picking, and ask repeatedly, "Is this one ripe enough?" Sometimes I just stand and watch the other pickers. Some women crouch, but most bend over. Every so often, one woman stands and arches her back, sighs, and then quickly grabs more wooden quart baskets and begins picking again. "Berries are sweeter this year than last," Aunt Doris remarks while she and my mother have a quick coffee and cookie break. "Yes, the smaller ones are the best," my mother says. "Remember when Lu put rocks in the bottom of the basket?" Mom asks. Aunt Doris laughs and says, "And when those city folks stopped at our stand, they asked her if they were all berries, and she said yes!"  My mother rolls her eyes and shrugs.   Finally we have our twelve quarts. My mother puts them in the trunk, we pay the farmer, and head home. She spends the rest of the afternoon making strawberry jam, and my first experience with chemistry is waiting to hear the "pop" when the jar lids seal.   So, if you will excuse me, I'm going to have a few strawberries before I return to my art studio. Their sweet juiciness takes me back to the fields of stored memories that I cultivate for fresh inspiration.

Lilacs from the bridge: Memorial Day Weekend, 2010

"Why doesn't Linda just walk with Lee and Paul in the Memorial Day Parade?" Aunt Doris asked her sister Marge. Thinking it over, my mother finally nodded her head and said, "OK, I guess it would be all right if you think you could walk that far, Linda."  Yes, of course I could, expecially since I would be walking right in the middle of streets where I was never allowed. My teacher had even described how the children in the parade threw flowers over the bridge's railing into the Seneca River in memory of soldiers. I wanted to do that, too.   "I'm going to walk in the Memorial Day Parade!" I boasted to Mrs. V,, my kindergarten teacher during recess. "Oh, I should think NOT," she replied, "Only first graders and older are allowed." She pursed her lips and gave me her severest look. I swallowed hard and blinked fast to hold back the tears.   Racing off the school bus, I reported to my mother what Mrs. V. had said. "Just walk with Lee and Paul, and it will be OK," she replied. (Why, I wondered, did my normally mild-mannered mother look a bit defiant?) Over the next few days, I tried to reassure myself that if Mrs. V. tried to pull me away from the marchers, my six and eight year old cousins could mutter "Tough toenails!", hold my hand tight, and run.   Memorial Day arrived. Early morning clouds disappeared, and my mother cut a bouquet of lilacs for me to carry. A huge cluster of grade school children gathered at the very end of the parade group.  We were behind the veteran's groups, (both world wars), dressed in moth-balled uniforms, firemen riding their shiny trucks, politicians waving in convertibles, Scouts holding flags, a couple of bands booming and tooting, and several  floats decorated with flowers. We stood and stood. Would we ever start marching? My lilacs wilted and my legs already hurt.    Finally, the whole crowd of children was given the signal to move forward. We walked down the hill, under arched treetops, through the Four Corners right under the traffic light, over the canal bridge, and then over the bridge by the dam. "Linda, throw your flowers in NOW!" shouted Lee and Paul. I flung them over the railing, and watched the current carry them swiftly out of sight under the bridge.   Soon we were walking right near my school. Surely Mrs. V. was in the crowd along the sidewalk. I tried to make myself disappear between my cousins. I imagined her angry face,  framed by gray hair pulled back and piled high with hairpins, suddenly spying me. I could almost see her brooch glittering in the sun, and her black shoes clacking on the pavement. She would rush into the swarm of children and yank me from my bodyguards. I might even have to go to the police station.   Somehow, we reached the parade's end in the cemetery, where hordes of onlookers and paraders mingled and gathered for the solemn ceremonies. There was my mother and aunt!  Now Mrs. V. would have to deal with my mother if she wanted to pursue me. Soon I was in the backseat of my aunt's Mercury, chugging up the long hill out of Baldwinsville, speeding down the hills to our family picnic in the backyard.   Every Memorial Day I still feel apprehensive and excited - and comforted by the scent of lilacs.

May 2, 2010: Connecting Words with my art

Over the past couple of weeks I had the privilege of listening to 5th and 6th graders from Willis School in Delaware, Ohio, recite poems they had composed after viewing my art. Based on my drawing of a long-demolished schoolhouse (with students names from the old roster imposed on the grasses,) here is an example of one poem:                                                                                              Field Calligraphy                                    By the Chasing Light Writers                                  The smoke from the school's chimney                              Welcomes moving shadows of all sizes                                         Cutting through a field                                         Like a box of crayons                                 Fingers have touched many times                             Their names written in time and space                                     Within a meadow's grasses                                     Leaving footprints in the path                                       As a flag waves goodbye.   It was quite an dizzying experience for me to have this remarkable word imagery created from my visual art - and by such young poets! Teacher Pam Beery deserves much applause for guiding their efforts.   This project was part of the Residency Activities for Central Ohio Symphony's "Chasing Light" with visiting Pulitzer Prize - winning composer, Joseph Schwantner. Sponsored by "Ford Made in America", his composition "Chasing Light" was inspired by a poem he wrote of day breaking at his New Hampshire mountain home.When I mentioned to Warren Hyer, manager of the symphony, that I sometimes write poetry as inspiration for my art, he invited me to provide my artwork as the subject of the students' poems.   To read more of their poems inspired by "Waiting for Gas", "Lost Arches", and "Morning Run on South Old State", "Signs of August", and "Spring Fields", see "Events" at                                www.chasinglightindelaware.org

Cups of Coffee

March 28, 2010: Cups of Coffee   My mother's busy days were measured by cups of coffee. I learned at a young age not to be too chatty with her until she had finished her first china cup of hot "Taster's Choice", lightened with a teaspoon of "Coffeemate" and one tiny white "Saccharine" tablet. Several more cups throughout the day gave her a chance to relax while she scanned the morning paper, read the afternoon mail, and watched the Late Night News on TV.   After Sunday dinners, she and her sisters would congregate with their cups and saucers around the table, looking at ads from the paper. "Anybody want more?" Aunt Doris would ask, coffeepot in hand. "Sure!" Aunt Lu would say, sliding her cup and saucer closer. "You, Margie?" My mother would shrug and "Oh, I guess so." As they sipped coffee together, huddled around the table, I would hear "Here's a letter from our sister Jeannie"... "Edward's" has sheets on sale this week"..." and "Can't wait to get a perm this Thursday"...   One morning when I was about sixteen, my mother sat sipping her first cup of coffee as usual.  Before I could think of what I was saying, I blurted out, "That really smells good to me!" Even though she was only a few sips through her first cup, she looked up at me, and smiled congenially. "Would you like to try a cup?" "Why yes, I think I will," I replied.   She poured steaming water into a china cup, and I nervously stirred the ingredients together and took my first sip. It was delicious! We celebrated my rite of passage into the sisterhood of coffee sippers with a lunch (and of course, a cup of coffee) at Edward's Cherry Valley Room in Downtown Syracuse.   We shared many sips of coffee together in the years ahead. And today, I'm drinking several cups of coffee in memory of you, Mom, on what would have been your 94th birthday.

Undercover Art

March 8, 2010: Undercover Art In my conversations with other artists, we all lament the difficulty of knowing when a work is done. It's hard not to add just one more definitive stroke, or make that one tree a tad lighter. This week I've been working on an acrylic painting that I began last fall, and just hadn't resolved. As you can see in "Summer Breezes", it began as a cool, rather stark rendering of a solitary house against the sky. I had fun being loose with the strokes, and experimenting with some different colors, but the feedback from my circle of critics was not enthusiastic, so...  I went undercover. Going undercover means searching for new direction on a previous work, much like snow melting (as it finally is here in Ohio this week!) to reveal crocus buds in the frozen earth. It was a complex journey to the "final" image of "Spring Welcome", acrylic on canvas. At one point, three tall pine trees loomed on the left side! But for now, I'm sounding the buzzer. It's done! And it speaks of spring's arrival just down that path.

February 18, 2010: Power Lines

February 18, 2010: Power Lines   For well over a year, I've had a drawing idea in the queue, waiting for its turn to become one of my colored pencil drawings. This week I began working on my concept.   It seemed so ordinary, just a reference shot looking down the railroad tracks, taken after a freight train had passed through a nearby crossing. But something about the distant power lines etched and stretched across the opaque February sky kept calling to me. Perhaps it was the memory of the power lines that cut through our family farm in Central New York.    In the distance is a collection of all sorts of power line towers and poles, some wooden, others metal. Each has a different configuration, forming an intricate tracery of scaffolding connecting earth to sky. I love the way the cables cross the sky, carrying stored power of invisible sky sentences on delicately lined writing paper.   The train is far down the tracks now. Everything is still and desolate on this bleak winter day, yet somehow vivid with implication.  I am reminded of a high school speech teacher who demonstrated how a whisper can have more impact than a shout.

February 5, 2010 A Special Day

Today my father, William Arnold, would have celebrated his 88th birthday. Just hours before he made his transition, he wanted us to take pictures of all of us together, and he managed a big smile. This is my favorite image of that smile.   From my earliest memories he recorded the daily events of our lives with his Kodak. He bought one of the first Polaroids. I can still smell the chemicals and feel the magic of watching  the image magically appear on paper from just a few minutes earlier! Dad also recorded holidays and birthdays with his 35 mm movie camera.   He was a fastidious keeper of diaries, and always urged me to write down the day's events. He sent me his weekly entries right up until his last hospitalization. Each day was important, and each life significant.   Thanks to my father, I have a vast archive of imagery to draw upon for inspiration. He would be proud to see the hundreds of photos and pages of journal entries that I use in my drawings and paintings.