Eight months ago, I began almost exclusively using my brother’s laptop, a mac book Pro.  I never used it for blogging, and I am not sure why not.  I don’t know the password  .  .  .  haven’t even tried.  Since this computer has a no-longer-supported operating system that I am loathe to change, for the most part I have kept it offline.

still needs some sorting here

mixing split primaries with watercolors

In January I began an online course, now on Day 143 of A Year to Clear What is Holding You Back, and have been emptying out my storage under the house, the crawl space, and the stuff from the shed that we tore down at the exact wrong moment–there were a couple cease and desist and emergency clean-up letters from the landlord’s lawyer, and Paul B, Ann and Art came and helped me clean up the yard–there is now a pile of wood debris that has been settling on the property line since mid-April, with no indication that it will ever be taken away, unless I do it.

mixing watercolor greens

I have a long list of stuff I have gotten rid of–I have made huge changes in my life-.  A lot of big change in what I am now calling the studio- the rat-shit-garage framing shop, much cleaned, and updated.  Art helped rearrange the tables and I brought in my red rug,  gradually moving most of my art supplies from home. I have adjusted my view, spending more time there than when I thought of it as the Frame Shop, and the stink and dust was so bad.

May 2016, more spacious after moving tables

June 2016, a little paint, a rug over the cracked floor

April 2016

I tripped over some big boots in the dark kitchen, and wanted to move them.  But “They’re my fucken boots and I’ll put em where I want”.  Okay, you cook dinner then, ‘cause I can’t get to the sink.  I scrubbed that chrome trolley with a wire brush, so much stuff on the floor I can’t walk, but now there is a new little fridge in the cabin.  Dinner was spectacular.  I can’t quite determine if I am welcome here or not.  Someone else seems to be here in the room, for sure.  A ghost, perhaps.

We took Westy on a trip up to Hayfork to Tom’s, with a big load of heavy machinery and arcane tools. There was snow on the way back. At some point, we traded rings and it gets real.

April in Mojave, suddenly we’re in the desert. Not crowded at Hole In the Wall, and so many flowers—

Then up to Mid Hills, where the weather was stormy. $6 for a campsite? Wow. There had been a fire when I was here last, ten years ago or so, and dead trees still standing. I scattered some ashes here. After a little missing coffee fiasco we had tea and oatmeal. Too rainy for a cookout or a campfire, and a bit cold, so we set off for a porkchop breakfast in Searchlight.  

Passed up a night in Nipton and went on to Las Vegas, for a real room, hot shower and a clean bed.  I didn’t want a “joke” wedding.  So, two nights at Circus Circus? And a helicopter ride over Lake Mead.

Then on to the Valley of Fire.  The weather had cleared. Didn’t get hitched, didn’t talk about it.  Just to make it legal? No no no no no no. Feeling jilted? No cell service but–hey, we’re on vacation. That’s why we went to town, yo. Out here we’re wild and free. I don’t think there is a deadline, okay?

I mixed an amazing green gold out of Cadmium yellow deep hue and brilliant blue. I think acrylics are a little much for a trip like this. If I had a destination, some time, a studio cabin in the wilderness, or even, I dunno, some stability . . . nothing to show for it, for now. Sketchy watercolors are more amenable.

Then on to . . . A little cafe in Rachel, Nevada.  And then we were three.  We inherited a traveler, so we must travel. Heading north, the storm returned, and we awoke at Spencer’s to snow on the roof and covering the windshield, and our guest sleeping on the floor of the van. Seems the trip is over. Darn, I was planning to at least hit Benton Hot Springs, but I am outnumbered. The snow, the rain, lovely, but it’s wearing, and all the steaks, tuna, salmon and sausages I brought have been et. I wrote a poem. Yup.

Came home to another rude letter from the landlord’s lawyer, so now, another frenzy of relocating everything that would have gone into the shed. That project is kaput, I am in shock.

The view from Spencer’s as it was the first time I saw it, looking north toward hiway 50 and the road to Austin Nevada from Spencer’s Hot Springs

Since I lost Steve, sold the shop–and moved my stuff here.  Is that what it’s about?

Just did a big redo of the “Frame Shop”, or whatever it is.   That dog never did hunt.  Just a space, a few blocks from home, that I dedicate to leisure and puttering, but still had been avoiding  .  .  .  .  why?  Barking dogs, confusion and lack of purpose, pesky neighbors, bad raccoon pee stink, dust, funk, a myriad of reasons.  Never mind.  Hunkering like a recluse in my little bed-sit is much more pleasant.

Jude wanted her stuff up near the door, so Art and I moved the big sideboard, and some other heavy things. I have been unconscious of working around two dozen gallon paint cans and milk crates of mysterious old stuff and parts stacked in corners and under the bench in “my” half of the half of a two-car garage.

I have been finding projects and materials that may come together in this little sunny space.  The #1 change is my approach, experiencing and enjoying process instead of judging it, the root of my lack of “output”.  There has been an avoidance of adding more “stuff” to my cluttered life, but in shutting down two storage spaces and giving almost everything away, I have come across enough unfinished panels and canvases, and unused materials, that I could paint for months without adding a molecule to the pile I have already.  The plan is to transform the garage into my Painting Studio.

Green Bird-  acrylic on panel 2003

Having just returned from my deceased brother’s house and environs in Bothell, Washington about 72 hours ago, I am in a state of delayed reaction.  This is the first chance I have had to spend time at home alone for more than a week.  I spent all day today cleaning out old files and clippings.  I recycled a shopping bag-full of paper.  I also had already gone through my Old Magazine Collection, and put out stacks of (1940’s and 50’s) National Geographic, Arizona Highways, and Artist’s magazines I had stacked and shelved and never sorted.

While clearing out all this paper I started seeing all the dross, great ideas and sketches mixed together.  Last Thursday in my hotel room i pictured all my paints, how my art supplies are all nearly hidden, put where I can almost reach them.  and thought about consolidating and bringing them all together, somewhere.  I used to have my painting studio in the kitchen of this small apartment.  It was a pretty good arrangement that I just now realize I lost when Steve died.  His kitchen was for cooking, his front room for eating, visiting, band practice and watching TV.  My area was for sleeping, my quiet space, office, and painting.

Dealing with my grief for my brother has opened up the unhealed wound of Steve’s sudden death and the turmoil of everything that followed.  I am able to delete his out-of-focus digital photographs for the first time in 2 and a half years.

Kind of sad, looking at what I took photos of, and the bare walls–realizing this was during the time I had the shop.  Many of my paintings were there, too.  I think maybe I will move back into my painting kitchen now.

It’s so sad, my baby brother has passed away.  I see now a photograph of him, taken just last fall.  Gaunt, haunted.  I had looked away.  If I had only known the pain, but yes, I did, I lived it.  I couldn’t stay in it with him.  This is me- haunted, but less so.  I am so sorry Dickiebird.

It appears as if I am doing absolutely no drawing or painting, although I am doing a lot of Art.  I am seldom at home, or in front of a computer, so the timeline has broken down somewhat.  Art and I spend a lot of time in Canyon.  He moved out of El Cerrito the day before we left for the festival in Iowa.  There was still some furniture and instruments that he finally got moved by the end of September.  Much of his stuff is still in boxes, rare instruments and treadle machines- one for sewing, one with bellows for accordion tuning- are in my storage space.

A friend gave me an iPhone in August, and my photo collection is mostly there now.   To get an image for posting I must email it to myself.  This weekend I drove to Canyon after work on Friday and came back to Essex before going to work Tuesday.  While there I helped Art dismantle the roof of the wood shed.  It will be leak free and cosy on a rainy afternoon, with maybe alternating clear and brick red corrugated panels.

Art, the big truck, and Good Cat

My brother died unexpectedly on September 21, the Autumnal Equinox, but it is numbing, and affecting how I spend my time.  It hasn’t quite hit me yet.

I haven’t been here blogging in seven months–well, who’s counting?  Just me.  A lot of time spent in Canyon (https://travelswithstevie.wordpress.com/canyon/)  which is all the way over in my Travel blog.  I may have to sort that out, drag it over here with a copy function–which isn’t available there, it appears.

I have begun a practice of drawing or painting–only once, actually, last weekend in Hayfork.  I am still searching for my watercolor sets and Kaweco and other fountain pens.   It doesn’t matter how many boxes and types of art supplies I have if i don’t use them.  It turns out what I really want to do is sit in bed and read.  I used to spend so much time in front of the TV just to be next to Steve, all that time is now my own.

Posting here a photo of less than half of a 4×5 foot canvas that is stored next to my bed, a painting that I call Dark into Light, sort of a self-portrait of me (off-camera) embracing the darkness–which is another post

3.2.15

So much drama!  People threatening to quit the band if we go onstage.  Demanding I have an opinion, and it better be the same as theirs.  Well, what to do?  I love the stage.  I wouldn’t mind either way.  It’s not an emotional issue, and besides, isn’t it up to the venue?  Aren’t we putting on a show?  Maybe not.  

It was threatening to rain all weekend, but why threaten?  I am ready and waiting.  Maybe some fruit trees will get their blossoms knocked off.  It’s not up to me.  My big thrill today, one white onion, 22 cents.  

I banged my head in the bathroom at rehearsal.  Banged my knee on a tool box I had forgotten to put away.  No one can take a joke, least of all me.  I am so caught up in other peoples opinions and activities I don’t know where my extremities are.  I think it is another chapter of grief, just to be absent and let people lead me around on a leash, but it does get dreary.  

Yes, maybe I don’t hear what you say, maybe that’s okay, maybe I have a right to tune out, rest, ponder, exhibit indifference, wait for rain not to fall.  If you have a great idea, write it down.  Sketch it out.  Make a list.  We can check it, or chuck it later. That’s what I’d do.  I’m sure I have a blank piece of paper in the recycling, or a watercolor block, or some nice Bristol board.  Don’t get invested. I’m an artist, yo.

What happened to Veteran’s Day?  Well, I’ve already had a 4-day weekend, so I am going back to work tomorrow.  Blasphemy!  But I’ll post a shot of my dad with his war injury – motorcycle accident at basic training in Texas.  Smiling, he almost lost his left foot – but not going to war.  

Big change here, though, hope it worked.  We moved the Furniture today, as per the drawing below–in the Oct 7 post– a little snug over here with 2 printers, but maybe that means more room on the other side of the studio.  i am pretty exhausted.  But also happy I am finding things I didn’t know I was looking for.  Consolidating the sewing stuff in the acorn dresser.  Didn’t move that, though.  It’s crowded enough here without moving it, and leaves room in the far south west corner for guitars.

My Friday client called to say the painters are almost done, and I sussed it that it was better if I don’t come and stir up dust and leaves near the fresh, new, wet paint.  Mr A. has gone to a guy’s-party-induction-afternoon in the canyon.  I suppose it entails drinking expensive whiskey.  Very great! that he is spending quality time with his neighbors.  He has been doing a lot of work on the foundation of the building that will be his home, and someday, maybe, my studio, in a remote pocket of wilderness over the hill.

I decided to stay home and untie some of the knots that are keeping me in a state of confusion.  I repaired the extension cord to the hall closet and moved the clamp lamp, rearranging clothes onto one-rod-only, which has opened up a clear space in the back.  I have been very slowly sorting and rearranging things, which often results in an increased level of clutter for a good while.   I can never seem to find an optimum arrangement for paints and things.

The proximity of urban neighbors impinges on my sense of free access to outbuildings and what I have in each of my many hidey-holes.  I wish for a better arrangement, although I know that nothing external will make a difference in my personal behaviour.  I like to be reclusive, secretive, I hide myself from myself.  There is an incredibly long arc of creative intent.  I repainted the red leg of my turquoise stool a lupine blue–very satisfying and calmer–but to do so I  opened up the cupboard where I keep tubes of paint in a suitcase, begatting  a wild reshuffling of magazines and calligraphy notebooks between armoire and book case.

I have many collected boxes for art supplies that often replicate each other.  Pens dry out, blades corrode from neglect.   There are five open receptacles on the round table now, none of which have a clear purpose, except to be lovely useful objects in their own right.  Last week after smoking some weed I found myself in the kitchen working over a sketchbook like in the old days when this was my studio and we cooked in the kitchen in Steve’s apartment next door.  I suddenly decided it would be perfect if I moved the calligraphy toolbox into the cupboard where the tool-toolbox was, but now that seems a futile exercise.  Have I DRAWN anything in ever so long?  I can’t despair, though.  I always make some headway, somehow.