October 26, 2010: "Autumn Allegory"

I was discussing the change of season with my good friend Lauren, and we wondered why fall seems a little bittersweet in all its glorious colors.   I think that autumn waits. This scene in Galena, Ohio, intrigued me with its complete calm. No breeze ruffled the tree tops, and the water's surface was motionless. Drivers roared and rattled in their vehicles behind me, bent on making good time for their next destination. But autumn was winning the race, moving silently forward in the stillness. Splashing russets against sky, this annual show astonishes me yearly as I drive along roads I thought were familiar.   I'm reminded of our son Jeremy, then only a toddler, who asked of autumn's falling leaves: "Does this happen every year at this time?" As an artist, I try to remember that childlike wonder about the nature of time.   "Autumn Allegory", 27 x 39, oil on canvas, is currently part of a group show, "Trees," at Marcia Evans Gallery, 8 East Lincoln St, Short North Arts District, Columbus. 614-298-8847.

August 28, 2010: Journey Back in Time

Last week my husband Paul and I visited lovely Central New York, where we grew up and started our family together. The weather is usually warm and sunny in late August, and we weren't disappointed this year. We drove around the beautiful hilly farmlands of Madison and Onondaga County, and visited a working hops farm. I was able to take some reference photos of several old hops buildings for a painting for an upcoming show of historic farms at The Gallery of CNY in late September.   We dined in the courtyard of iconic Lincklaen House (see my colored pencil drawing "Travelling Light") in the quaint lakeside village of Cazenovia, the home of The Gallery of CNY. The first course was warm popovers hot from the oven. The onion rings were golden brown and lightly crisped. And  of course Paul and I enjoyed our haddock sandwich and cole slaw, which is a Central New York tradition.   Distant sailboats danced on shimmering Cazenovia Lake as we headed back to Syracuse. See "Vantage Point", oil on canvas.

Old House by the Road: August 16, 2010

I recently finished this oil on canvas, "Summer House." As I painted the roof in broad swift strokes, applied thick pigment to the corners, and added some warm dabs of color to the windows, I remembered my love - even as a teen-aged artist - for the simple lines of these New England style farmhouses.   I found them everywhere along the rural roads of Central New York. One autumn weekend, when  I needed a subject to draw in my sketchbook for high school art class, my mother and I took an aimless Sunday drive along narrow roads lined with asters and goldenrod. "Stop here!" I yelled. My mother did as directed, but with a shrug and a look that said, "What do you see in that fallen down old house?" But for the next hour, she patiently read the paper while I sketched and wondered: who planted that rose bush, and why did the front door have no step?   On the way home, we cooled off with the car windows opened all the way. My mother suddenly said, "I always did like our old farmhouse better than the new ranchhouse..."

June 29, 2010: Earthly Connections

On Thursday I gave a gallery talk for "Coffee and Conversations" at the Columbus Cultural Arts Center.  http://culturalartscenteronline.org/linda_wesner  A lively group had gathered, as they do every month, to eat their bag lunches and ask questions of visiting artists. It was my turn to chat and listen to their observations about my current colored pencil solo show "Ohio Landscapes" in the main gallery.   The group asked practical questions, such as  "Do you pull over to the side of the road when taking reference shots? Do landowners ever chase you away?" I responded that the easiest method is akin to a "drive by photo shooting" from the passenger seat while someone else is driving the car. Over the years I have become pretty expert at this. (It helps to be on a smooth road!) The trick is to have your camera at the ready on trips - both short and long - so you don't miss that one unforgettable image.   The group also made thoughtful observations as we moved from one work to the next. I mentioned that my work is calm, but group members added, "Yet there is so much movement in the grasses and sky." I said my work was realistic, but many pointed to abstract qualities. As you can gather, I was on a learning curve, and a positive one, because these observations are the ones I aim to achieve in my work.   We ended up by "Field Trinity," which hangs by the front door to the Cultural Arts Center. I told them the panoramic fields of Ohio inspire me with their unique atmosphere.  I was reminded that my yoga instructor, Kit Spahr, once said in class that the breath is the door between body and mind, and I felt that the three burly trees are the bridge between field and sky.   The hour was up, and so we parted. I hope they felt inspired to create more art. I know I did.

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