Review of The Artist’s Eye

Available at Amazon.com

THE ARTIST’S EYE is a magical journey into small town mid-century America as well as an intimate glimpse into the art and life of Vernon Johnson. Its scholarly foreword entice the artist, the loving and skillful story told by the artist’s daughter reward the reader, and the paintings themselves fill the eye and evoke fond memories of the 50s.

This is a beautifully written and illustrated book about Vernon Johnson’s watercolors and how they came to life, why they became so coveted, and why they are celebrated today, almost a half century after they were created. Janis Johnson, the artist’s daughter, masterfully weaves her research, experiences alongside her father’s easel, and her own artful writing to present a visual and written treat for historians, watercolor artists, and anyone who wants to inhale the culture of mid-century America.

There are many quotes from the artist on the technique and challenges of watercolor. “I love color. You make color work in light, light and shadows…In watercolor, it’s pretty hard to improve, revise or change…The quicker you paint the panting, the more successful it is…I love the challenge…” Johnson would frequently work from photographs but visit the site during different times of day to observe color and shadow. Or, he would paint on site and use photographs in his studio for checking detail. When painting Pitkin’s Corner, people saw him perched on an adjacent roof top, easel and brushes ready, waiting for the perfect light.

THE ARTIST’S EYE is also a visual documentary of architecture that ranged from Victorian mansions to mid-century ranch-style. His attention to architectural detail and his ability to capture the soul of a home made his paintings a must-have for many Mount Vernon families. Those paintings now grace the mantels of their children and grandchildren and hang on the walls of banks and museums.

Vernon Johnson’s daughter, Janis, applies her own art of storytelling to make THE ARTIST’S EYE a compelling read. It is a book to have off the bookshelf and onto a table where a person can stop, pause, and take the book in hand for a moment or for an hour. It will be time well spent.

Uncommon Christmas Stories

 

We’ve all read the sugary stories of what Christmas means, seen movies where Santa is guided by angels to know which child needs what, and reminisced about candle lit manger scenes. The photo on the left is one of my favorite Christmas moments when my son Justin used cotton snow bunting to make a Santa beard and his big sister Amy tried to butter up the Jolly Ol’ Man for bigger and better presents. That’s the sweet side of Christmas.

However…our human condition evokes our basic emotional and physical needs that we may try to meet in uncommon or desperate ways. “We are only human” are words people use when  they’ve done something not quite worthy for a spot on NBCs edition of ‘Making a Difference.’   Yes, those baser actions happen during Christmas, too, as evidenced by the song lyrics “I tied a knot in sister’s hair, somebody snitched on me and…I’m gettin’ nuttin’ for Christmas, ’cause I ain’t been nuttin’ but bad.”

Every Christmas, the memories of my own transgressions come tapping on my shoulder to remind me that I, too, took advantage of the season’s opportunities for greed, gluttony, and manipulation–all conducted, of course, when I was a mere child. Let me explain.

When I was about five years old, I lay in bed on Christmas Eve with my eyes wide open and my brain on full alert. The anticipation of the imagined bounty under the tree was just too much to bear, and my heart pounded with chocolate induced wakefulness. I waited an eternity between glances at the clock only to discover that only two minutes (or less) had passed with each hopeful look.  Because my parents gave issue to an exceptionally bright child, I was able to hatch a plan. “If I can turn the clocks ahead,” I told myself, “then Christmas morning will come earlier.” I sneaked into my parents’ bedroom and evaluated the soundness of their sleep. Not a creature was stirring, as they say. I carefully plucked the alarm clock off their night stand and turned the hour hand from the 11 to the 12. Satisfied, I went back to bed only to realize that Christmas morning was still too far away for an anxious child to bear. Two more trips back to the crime scene finally had the hour hand at seven…the allowable time for rushing to the tree.

“Wake up, it’s seven!”  My brother and I took about twelve and a half minutes to tear through our packages. Dad commented on how dark it was outside and Mom said she didn’t understand why she felt so groggy. My father went to the kitchen to make coffee, and he saw the clock, the clock that read 3…AM. I didn’t think to turn all the clocks ahead, and I was busted. My brother denied any participation in the ruse even though I had kept him apprised of my progress throughout the night. I’ll let you imagine the rest of the story.

Another time my cousins and I were at the kids’ table at my grandfather Rudin’s house. The oldest cousin Frank had graduated to the big person’s table, and the rest of us felt quite ignored. While the adults (and Frank) talked quietly midst the soft sounds of forks on porcelain china, we were getting a little rowdy. My cousin John was really getting on my nerves about something minor, I don’t remember the issue, but I do remember feeling that I had heard enough. To shut him up, I slammed one of the table’s decorative Christmas carolers into his ice cream.  John was furious, but speechless, so my attack worked. The downside was that my action didn’t feel as rewarding as I had anticipated. In fact, I felt pretty stupid.  My cousins looked at me with pity; I was never going to get to the big person’s table with that kind of behavior.

Both of these incidences taught me something, however, as most encounters with our human condition do. 1) If you’re going to stick your neck out, cover all your bases, and 2) Don’t mess with someone’s ice cream–it shows the world what a child you are.

How about you? What uncommon Christmas memories do you have?

 

Embracing the Good

My children’s father lies in a coma, stricken by a stroke in his brain stem.  Although we are no longer tied by marriage, and we are each happily married to other people, our children are like double-sided tape–they bond us in some way forever.  If they are mourning for their father, I am mourning with them, and I assume he would do the same. That’s what parents do.

This I know. Their father loves his children deeply. He thanked me for his daughter when Amy was born. He thanked me for his son Justin. He did his share of diapers (in the day when we washed them, yuck), and both  kids inherited his sense of humor. He gave my kids great aunts, uncles, and cousins that I, and they, still love to this day.

Divorce is never easy, but loving your children prompts us to act like grown-ups, and we worked at helping our children respect both their parents.

Their father and I met when I asked him to sit beside me in Latin class so this really weird guy wouldn’t. What can I say?! He was eager to please.

Our life journeys don’t always take us where we think we should go. In the hospital waiting room last week we talked about the ups and downs of life, divorce, and broken whatevers. In an unusually profound moment for me–jacked up on diet Coke and any chocolate I could find–I said to my kids, “Life is a lot like families. You can’t avoid the bad, but you can embrace the good.”

Their father has given them a lot of good.

Advice From a Saguaro

I have a t-shirt that lists advice from a saguaro. I bet you didn’t know that those giants of the desert could talk. But if you find yourself next to one, in a no traffic, no humanity buzz zone, listen very carefully. There are centuries of wisdom that a saguaro can give you.

1. Stand tall. Now this would seem obvious except we need to remember that it takes mega years for a saguaro to get to 40 feet or more. And you may not know that a saguaro won’t even get an arm bud until it is 60 years of age or more. For decades the poor thing must be muttering, ‘I know I can, I know I can.’

2. Reach for the sky. So…what does the saguaro say to the ground-hugging Mexican poppy or to the fat and short barrel cactus? Oh, wait, ‘sky’ is relative. I get it. You don’t have to be as tall as the saguaro, just keep reaching to the best of your destiny.

3. Be patient through the dry spells. Having lived through my first Arizona monsoon season, I learned that dry spells always end…just not when we expect it. It can be early or late, but it is usually late.

4. Conserve your resources. The saguaro expands during the wet season so it has reserves for the dry season. Looked at your checkbook recently?!

5. Think long term. Remember the first arm bud? All that growing leads to new things.

6. Wait for your time to bloom.The saguaro blooms once a year, then yields wonderful fruits that the Tohono O’Odham people gather with long poles. So you may think you have nothing to give, but in time you will.

7. Stay sharp! I recently learned that saguaros don’t fall over in storms because the spines deflect the wind. So… if we stay sharp, we are able to deflect destructive forces like gossip, low self-esteem, and donuts.

And my addition:

There was a saguaro thief who was killed by the very saguaro he was trying to smuggle out of the desert…it fell on him, really. It must have been like being pinned by a one ton porcupine. It turns out that saguaros have shallow but very wide roots, which wrap around boulders beneath the surface. Be careful about cutting someone’s roots…that’s not our job.

 

 

Nothing Like a Pile of Rocks to Put Us in Our Places

Me, me, me! Sometimes that’s all that matters. I have a headache, I don’t have enough money, I’m too fat, etc. The world seems unfair, the world’s going to hell, the world is a mess.

Then…I go to a canyon.

Canyon de Chelly

This time it was Canyon de Chelly in northeastern Arizona. There are a lot of rocks, boulders, and  cliffs there. It took millions of years to make the rock and another gazillion years for wind and water to carve through all that compressed record of time.

The huge trees of the terrasic period refuse to be forgotten. They are making their way up through the earth with the help of wind and rain also.

Sure put me in my place.

At the same time, each speck of mineral, each crystal, each organic substance make up the layers of the canyon. Each counted…just like the people who used to live there and took the time to record their lives in that moment of an eon.

And we have remnants of their homes, which show they had chores just like we do today! And who knew that Mother Nature created the bar code with dripping minerals before any computer scientist applied bits and bytes to record keeping.

Of course, all the millennia eventually provided the creation of humans and the time for growing our brains and improving our intelligence….applied dubiously, for picking out a place to spend the night….at the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona.

So…being put in place is good. We each have a place…among and within the records of time.

From One Worrier to Another

We’ve all heard “Do as I say, not as I do.” I’m about to share advice that I find personally difficult to follow.  The advice, carefully written on a handmade bookmark, a Sunday School project by a young boy named Jade, is…Do not worry about your life. Matthew 6:25.

I sure worried when I stepped into my closet the other day and felt moisture, lots of moisture, underneath my foot. A couple of impure words popped into my consciousness, and visions of dollar signs danced in my head. I sure worried when I listened to the news last night about the sinking value of the dollar and my weakening retirement funds. And I really worry when my knee sends messages of pain and “you’re heading for a knee replacement” reminders to my brain. And world peace? Is there such a thing?

I have Jade’s bookmark on my refrigerator so I can see and repeat its message each time I pass by. Today’s worry is about the rapid decline of a magnificent shade tree in front of our new house. More dollar signs do a Hungarian Polka in my faithless cranium.

Perhaps I needed to follow the advice on the bookmark so carefully crafted by a young boy. Not particularly literate in Scripture, I looked up Matthew 6:25. Ah yes, this is the passage about the birds who don’t plant or harvest because the Father feeds them. Worrier that I am, my first thought was, “OK. How about the dead birds frozen by winter’s harsh snow that covers the seed? Huh? If they worried a little, maybe they would have put aside some seed before the snows arrived.”

Oh, wait. Beyond this passage there are these words—“Can  all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not.”And in verses 19 and 32 are these gems of mentally healthy living. Verse 19: “Don’t store up treasures here on earth, where they can be eaten by moths and get rusty, and where thieves break in and steal. Store your treasures in heaven.” Hmmmm. Does that verse refer to my 401K? Verse 32:”…Your heavenly Father already knows all your needs, and he will give you all you need from day to day…” Hmmmm. Caught again in trying to know, better than God, what my needs are.

I still worry and always will, but Jade’s writing on the handmade bookmark slows down the panic and helps me rehearse advice that I need. Hmmmm. Maybe my heavenly Father did provide for me…through Jade.

Saying Goodbye to a House

Remember the round we used to sing around the Girl Scout campfire? Make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other’s gold. Can the same thing be said about houses? I mean, most of us can’t keep all the houses we buy (I’ve tried—but three is just too many, and now I’m an anxious intimate of several realtors). And frankly, we can’t keep all our friends either at the same level of activity as we move down the paths and roads of our life journeys. But, the gold friends are the ones we continually invest in, confide in, and chide ourselves over if we haven’t been as attentive as the friendship deserves. The silver friends turn into the threads that make up the quilt of our life experiences. Quilts are recordings of love. I have a quilt that I made of my children’s clothes as they grew out of them. I can run my finger over the blue flowered square and remember the dress I made my daughter to match the Raggedy Ann doll I also crafted for her. I can gaze at the now-faded square of red, white, and blue cotton that were once the pajamas that covered my soft and sweet smelling son after a warm and playful bath. They are dear memories, just like many valued friends who graced my life.

I have photos of the houses I lived in and they evoke sweet and bittersweet memories. My first home was the one to which we brought our first-born. As we laid her in her crib, we looked at each other and asked, “What do we do with her now?” Another home saw the angst and crippling effects of divorce, another dwelling—the independence building of my new single life, and one—the discovery of new love.

But the smallest of all, the Tucson villa we recently lived in, was the hardest to leave. A little pondering on the new larger patio while looking at the grander view of the mountains gave me the opportunity to dig into my heart to figure out why. The little villa was my tutor and mentor to Southwest living. I needed to transform the interior design from the previous owner’s grandma decor to Patti and Tom retirement years in Arizona. I wanted to immerse myself in this different land. I learned about colors of the desert, what was tasteful Southwest and what was kitschy Southwest (cowboy toilet seats). I had a small canvas onto which I could paint as I willed with the colors that spoke to my soul and upon which I could place furniture that wasn’t Midwest Queen Anne. I don’t mean to sound too grand, but as I looked at what I had created, I… “saw that it was good.” Into that creative nest we brought new and old friends; marveled at the coyotes, bobcats, and birds we saw through its windows; and we realized it was too small.

We bought a larger home that spoke to us, but every time I go to the villa to gather things before the final sale (end of March, yea!), I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a special friend. I’ll always remember how I cut my Southwest teeth on that little nest. The new house is marvelous, bigger but not too big, has a yard for gardening (Tom calls it playing in the gravel), and a kitchen that is the best I’ve ever had. Better yet, it’s not a grandma house because most things have been updated and painted, and I’ve only had to change a few things to call it our own. But my role is different in this house, and I’m not sure what it is. Like new friends, a new home is beginning, fresh with possibilities. I’m up for it.

View from new patio