A time of reckoning

Some things cut into a painter's time. Some?
Most. I love teaching, and hope to continue for many years, but exam time is a crazy time
for everyone in the school environment. Students are stressed because they have to study, teachers because they have to mark mounds of papers, and because although they want everyone to do
well, some students can't.

Tax time, coming as it does right at the end of term crunch, adds an extra time demand. For now, I'm heading to school to mark and oversee an exam. Soon I'll be painting, and that will be that.
And when I am, I'll miss my students.

Here's one of my favorite paintings, Girl in a Blue Sweater.

Have a mathematically perfect day.

More reflections on character

I've been looking all day
for a photo of Angela. I've
been thinking of her because
I'm reading City of Rains, by
Nirmal Dass. One character
in the novel is a middle-aged
woman in Rouen, and even though
she is French, and Angela was
Italian, a quality about the
experience reminded me of Angela.

The truth is that we don't have photographs because as
intimately connected as we were through daily exposure,
we were not on a photography basis. When her oldest
son got married, we watched the cousins arrive in their
tuxes standing on our own porch, and waved as the limo
pulled away carrying the family. Angela had her hair done,
and in her long, blue dress and special makeup looked
almost pretty. She was so proud of that son. But after
the brain damage she could not cook independently, or
do the household tasks she used to do without help,
and she started to think of herself as an invalid.

After that she directed her family, essentially stopped
moving very much, and her body grew more and
more feeble. It became hard for her to get up and
down stairs. She broke her leg in several places,
and told me ominously that it didn't break by itself.

Around this time she started yelling and crying at
her husband and family every night around midnight.
For years we listened, as people trapped in the knowledge
of an argument do, but we could never understand
enough of the dialect to get what was going on.
At first we thought it was funny -- that she was just
on a rant. But ultimately we had to admit that she
was terribly sad, and every night we'd wait for the
yelling to end, ( it usually went on for just ten or fifteen
minutes) and then sigh with relief when it was
over.

Angela spent less and less time in her garden, which
she loved. She couldn't hang out the laundry. She
supervised the canning of the tomato sauce for the
winter, but the children and their friends did the
work. After her second son got married, she and
her husband and their youngest child, a daughter
about 21 moved away. Six months later Angela
died.

At this time of year I always think of her, because
the tree she planted, will soon come into bloom,
and be radiant with white flowers. Angela could
make a rose bush grow from a single rose stem
she'd received from a floral bouquet. She was
a phenomenal gardener.

We all loved Angela. It didn't even make sense to love
her, we just did. She was noisy and nosy, irritated
and annoying, but every year she'd hand tomato
plants over the fence for Steven to plant. We
existed outside together for most of the spring,
summer and fall -- living and eating as we did
in our backyards, and there was a quiet understanding
of how to treat one another so that we were
all comfortable and had sufficient privacy.

And Angela was funny, pointing to her giant
hanging zucchini plants and saying, "Eh --
do you like my zucchinis?" Then chuckling
with glee and winking at me.

The image is of Fiona and me.

Have a comfortable night.

Giving life character

Photo:
http://www.iho-ohi.org/wp-content/scilla-calabria-italy.jpg
For close to 20 years the same neighbours lived on the other side
of our semi-detached house. One concrete block and, lathing and drywall
barrier away. In places the walls were thinner than others, but we
were lucky that the family spoke Italian (Calabrese) and we knew
only a smattering of words. When we moved in the couple were
sitting on the old front seat of a car on the front porch -- a young
dark haired man, and what looked like a much older woman with
a grumpy expression.

That was Angela. Over the years I grew very fond of Angela,
in the way that loving people do. In the early days she'd offer
me small cups of espresso, and comment lustily on my marriage,
frequently giving me unwanted tips on how to keep a man, then
laughing. She had a dyed red hair, a big nose, thick lips, glasses,
and a squarish body with large breasts. In summer she wore tight
black skirts, bright sleeveless low-cut sweaters, and told us what
to do with our fledgling flower garden over the low chain-link fence.

Everything we grew was stupid. We loved flowers, she grew
massive zucchinis supported on pieces of white cotton, that
guided the huge leaves and vines up and over the tomato
plants. Her beans supported by six foot high poles, created
a shady nook for us on the other side of the fence every other
year. About ten years ago she suffered a brain aneurysm,
and she changed.

More later...I'm going to the movies

Have an entertaining night.

Long day's journey into sleep

There's no time tonight to write much.
I did student interviews
all day at school, the good-bye talk
with my psych students.
It was amazing to see what they
had learned in one semester.
Tonight we went to see Christopher
at Fionn McCool's.
All of the kids we've grown to know at the
restaurant are moving on at the same time.
Christopher's going to Korea, Alanna doesn't know
what she's doing, Chad's going out west with his
wife and baby. Things are a bit sombre now
because there's the feeling that something that
used to be fun is ending.

I will miss being able to go in and see my
son every Friday night -- a privilege few
parents get after their children leave
home. Christopher has always been delighted
to see us,
which has been a treat.

Oh well...it is raining torrents and flooding all over
town, it reminds me of driving in Charlottetown P.E.I. and
going through such deep water down by the ocean, that the
engine on my little red Sentra stopped.

This is a portrait of a terrific boy I painted a year ago. I was
very sad when the sittings were over because he was
funny, smart and polite. He wanted to grow up to be
as rich as Richard Branson, so I painted him near Branson's
island, Necker http://www.necker.com/

Goodnight sweet ocean

Have a free flowing day

Inspiration is everywhere

A former colleague of mine at Lever Ponds,Lorraine Roussel, took private art lessons from me a few years
ago. She had been very sick, and painting lifted her spirits. We had a great time as she took my Introduction to Acrylics, and then The Advanced Acrylics course.

She has since been going to a small arts atelier school
that's part of Centennial College. My friend Suzanne and
I went to an opening for the school at the Hang Man
Gallery tonight -- I would absolutely
love to teach art at this school. And Lorraine? Her
work is stunning -- rich, mature, intelligent, masterful,
filled with meaning and insight, and just wonderful.

I was completely blown away. If you're in the area
while the show is on, check it out.

I am going to be at Seneca all day tomorrow
conducting interviews, so these are my thoughts
on art for the day.

Crocuses are poking up in gardens all over my
area. Spring seems to be on the gallop, though
there is still snow on the crests of some hills, and
tangled in pockets in the wood. But in Toronto
spring will transform into summer -- hot and
heavy before we know it.

Have an expectant day

Craving stillness -- to think and paint

I haven't been able to paint for a few
days, and feel a bit like a race horse
at the gate, or a dog, on a short leash
with the park in sight. Eager
to get going on my next project --
two large paintings for a show.
Like much of the work I do right now,
the works will go together,
and could be hung as one painting,
or sold as two separate works.
I started painting things that "fit"
together after reading a wonderful
book about Larry Rivers.
http://www.amazon.com/Larry-Rivers-Artist-David-Levy/dp/082122798X
I wish the book explained how he
attached foamcore to canvas. He painted
huge paintings and built them up
architecturally with foamcore,
so that some sections were in relief,
and others flat like a standard painting. I've
wanted to have something sculptural
happen with my work since then, but I'm
still painting on good old canvas --
just extending the work -- with another good old canvas.

I have got to mark. It's my last class of the semester tomorrow
-- a bright and eager group -- very chirpy early in the morning,
so I need to be ready for them with suitable mirth. Sleep will be
welcome tonight.

This painting is one section of a two-part painting.
A still life joins into the left side of the work. I
can't find a photo of them joined tonight, but I'll
put one in at another date.

Meanwhile...

Have a connecting day.

Watch for the signs

I remember one year a girlfriend of
mine dated a dull man who kept us
up-to-date on each blade of grass
as it popped up that spring. Behind
his back the rest of us, all university
students, mocked him gleefully,
pretending to analyze the coming
of spring with the same intensity. "Is it the beginning of the middle of spring,
or just the end of the beginning of spring?"

This year I finally get what he was so excited about, and how much he wanted to document it. I'm doing the same thing! He was a young professor, something I never hoped to be. And here I am a college prof, and every bit as pedantic.

So here's my news. The ice cream truck came by today! Little children
wearing T-shirts and jeans
ran up to the truck as it droned out its cheerful, scratchy tune.
Parents rolled their eyes and succumbed. Now that's a good
sign.

The pansy painting is one in a series, and about the size of this image.

Have a delicious day