ENJOYING THE LAKE

It wasn't just swimming - there were many other ways to enjoy Bow Lake.

I was an ardent reader.  From the time my Mother would read aloud to me by flashlight in the darkened cottage to discovering the library, I always had a book or two going.  My preferences were wildly scattered - from existentialism to life on a farm.  So where does the lake come in?

I usually chose a windy day so the boat would roll with the waves.  Book in hand, I would start up my 15 hp Johnson engine and drive to the head of the lake.  It was rough going into the waves.  Having reached the head of the lake I shut off the engine and came to a stop.  Then I unfolded my lawn chair.  Opening up my current book I enjoyed the waves propelling my boat back towards my Water Street mooring.  It was quiet except for the whooshing of the waves.

This was so refreshing and relaxing, drifting along reading my book.  But wait, someone is yelling at me.  "Was I in trouble" they shouted.  "Do you need a tow?"  I waived my book in the air and thanked them for their concern.  An interruption, sure, but better yet, it was the kindness of strangers making sure I was okay.  Floating down the lake while reading was a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

Long time, no see...

This is a test. Is it possible to reacquaint myself with my very own blog? Yes, the print is too small. I probably have lost all my viewers. And I'm not sure this will even attach itself to the rest of my work. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. I have lots of paintings to show and experiences to talk about. So let's try to reenstate this effort. Should their be any viewers left - Wait, wait, I'm not finished yet.

Let's Get in the Car

It might be for a ride to Bow Lake from my Massachusetts home where I marked time until I could go back to NH. It might be to explore Tampa after we had just ridden for 1,200 miles from NH. It might be to buy a dog statue for my mother to place in the garden. Or even a "Deep Woods Adventure" with my mother and brother and, later, with my kids. Motion and possibility. All things are possible if you will just get in the car.

My Dad drove at a maximum speed of 48 miles an hour. Just right for the curvy switchback roads of early NH. Dad disagreed with other relatives who took the longer way because the roads were straight and flat. He felt speeding wasn't the answer. Although I do remember sailing through the pines, zipping around corners to make sure we arrived before that other relative. Soon we would come to the white stones which someone had placed along the road - it was our sign that Bow Lake was very close.

When the dog days of summer pressed down on us here on Water Street, we got into the car and took to the woods. It was cool and shady, although my brother threatened to throw up if we didn't get him some ice cream soon. I was 16 and mostly drove barefoot. My leather hard soles were beaten into toughness from years of barefoot summers. It did present some problems as driving barefoot was illegal. At the time I wore a size 6 1/2 shoe. My mother wore a size 8. She would place her shoes on the hump on the floor in between us. The theory being that, should we be stopped, I could quickly slide into her shoes. Heaven only knows what would have happened if I had been asked to step out of the car in her "boats"!

Most of the driving on our "Deep Woods Adventures" was all on dirt roads. Some times we would take a woods path and discover it to be an old logging road. Grass in the middle of the road was a sign to stay in first gear. I'd never heard of 4 wheel drive back then. Occasionally we would come to an old wooden bridge. My method of assessment was to get out and jump up and down on the bridge to test its safety. In hindsight I wonder why it never occurred to me that my 103 pounds might not be an accurate test for a 2000 pound car. But we always made it. We also drove into fields following the tractor paths. Exploration of fields was always problematic due to hidden wells. We watched for lilac bushes, a sure sign of an early home with a dug well.

Whatever we had in the refrigerator was not what we wanted to eat. So let's go to Rochester. I remember my father calling to us as we got into the car, "Don't buy the most expensive hot dogs". Gas was cheap so, of course, we would go for a ride. We drove around the lake, drove to the store, drove to get ice cream and, oh yes, we
drove because we could. Dad gave us "egg money". He always liked eggs fresh from the farm stand, preferably extra large or jumbo. But we wanted to have "running money". So while he was back working in Massachusetts we ate tiny pullet eggs and spent the rest of the money on ice cream.

There were responsibilities being the operator of a car. Just like us people, getting clean meant going into the lake. We had no bath tubs or showers in our cottages and certainly no car washes were available. But we did have, as luck would have it, a boat launch ramp right across the street from the cottage. There were also lots of new cleaning products on the market back then. Lestoil was advertised as being the answer to all dirt. So I drove the car down the ramp. Neglecting to read the instructions, I poured the Lestoil into my hand and smeared it all over my 1953 blue Chevy. Since we didn't have a hose either, I rinsed the concoction with a bucket and was pleased with the results. The color looked a little "parched" but it was clean. The weekend came and Dad came up to "straighten us out". It seems that our neighbor's water line ran right up from the boat ramp and I had provided him with Lestoil scented water. It wasn't pretty!

A short drive gives one time to think and challenges the person behind the wheel to control the situation. Maybe I didn't say the right thing, but I am able to control this weighty car. I can play loud music in the style others don't care for. I can change my scenery. Things seem less threatening pulling back into the yard than when I left because I am empowered with the ability to change my scene.

Years have gone by; I'm now a painter in oils on canvas. Although the subject matter of cars and trucks has not always brought good sales, I'm continually fascinated with the next vehicle to place on canvas.

T'was the week before "Christmas in Strafford" and my husband reached into the cupboard for a bowl. Not a creature was stirring until my favorite Crazy Cat Clock was bumped to the floor. His eyes, not so merry, his tail no longer wagging. My spirits were dragging.
The clock was bought specificallly to add dimension, color, humor and, oh yes, the time to my kitchen. This clock was the focal point of the theme expressed by my fuzzy dice hanging by the refrigerator enhanced by the Rt. 66 magnet and, recently, the addition of a Texaco sign. You get the picture I'm sure. The battery still kept time but what would my "Christmas in Strafford" guests think? Sure all my art work was organized. Everything was in place, but what if my guests came into the kitchen for a friendly cup of coffee. Even though my coffee pot was shiny and new, the eyes and tail of my clock were frozen in time. No longer whimsical - my decorating theme ruined.

But I knew of a store up in Maine... So my sister-in-law and I enjoyed a beautiful blue sky day on our way to Kennebunkport, Maine. We let the dog run, collected a stone or two and continued to the clock store. THEY DIDN'T HAVE A BLACK CAT! Sure green was available but not in my kitchen. The only option was white. Well it was sort of cute. A little necklace of pearls and lovely eyelashes on a pretty little GIRL cat. Well not so bad, so I bought it. After all, I had saved the decorating day!
Have you ever done something you knew wasn't right and spent time convincing yourself of the merits regardless? I gave the clock a trial hang on the wall. You could barely see it. The white was insipid. Perhaps I could paint the cupboard the color of my wall. No time, paint smells and that still wouldn't solve my dilemma.

In the mean time my original clock had lost an eye. Have you ever looked into the interior of those clocks? It was complicated. Perhaps I could just glue the eye in place - too big for the socket and it kept falling out. Oh dear. After looking a little closer I discovered that tiny prongs held the eye in place. I could fix it.

Success - sort of. My black clock is back in its special place. I've moved the bowls to prevent any reocurrences. But the clock is a little different now. Evidently life isn't as jolly as before because the tail now wags in a shortened burst with an abbreviated sense of humor. Worse yet my wonderful decorative element moves only one eye in a nervous twitch. Clearly the experience has been traumatic.

The white clock will be returned and I've located a black cat on line but the "Rush to Judgment" has been a lesson learned. I'll let you know how "Christmas in Strafford" works out!

If These Rocks Could Talk

Sneak Peak of "Rockers Interrupted"

Stones, rocks and boulders - that's what NH is made of. Every gardener knows it's our best crop! So we don't take NH for "granite" and, we think, neither will you after Art Esprit's upcoming "rocking" tour.

Remember how we filled the streets of Rochester with huge shoes? Well it's us again bringing a new exhibit to town.

Art Esprit, a non-profit organization of visual and literary artists, will be exhibiting a temporary art installation for a "rocking" tour in downtown Rochester, NH. Twenty rocks on pedestals will be transformed into works of art including poetry with each piece. The event is free to the public and runs from June 4 until October 17, 2010.

An Old Lady in a Little Kid Suit

So how do we dress these days - those of us who are over 65? There used to be rules for this stuff. You know, no white shoes after Labor Day, etc. Clothing for those of us at this age used to be dowdy or dignified, maybe even stately. But today a Mickey Mouse tee shirt is not uncommon and then again there is even wrinkled cleavage. Years ago a friend of mine commented that her daughter came home shocked that she had seen a lady's "Cleveland". I assert that such exposure should be confined to Cleveland! At any rate, what do we wear?


There are those who dazzle in artistic finery. But if I showed up in a short leather skirt, everyone would laugh. Then again laughter is a good thing. So maybe it's the inside that is affecting the outside.

I really don't feel old. My 80 year old mother used to say that she thought she could still become a ballet dancer. So it's really not a body image, rather how we think. I do chose color for effect. Pink if I hope people will be kind to me, yellow if I am missing the sun and red to be assertive.


I am enjoying this age. I can flirt without censure; express opinions regardless of how goofy, yet still shovel snow and haul wood. It's a pleasure to surprise someone with odd ball knowledge they never suspected I had.


So perhaps we are getting the clothes we actually need. Like jeans, undershirts and fluffy socks. Now that I'm thinking of it, my mother was always chilly in her beautiful polyester blouses.

Shameless Commercialization

Morning Traffic

If you were a member of Artesprit, you could take a turn displaying your art work in the tax office. It's a tiny case with two glass shelves so no furniture need apply. Each year I have the opportunity to "dress" the case and live out my desire to work as a display artist.

Years ago I applied to work in Jordan Marsh's Display Department only to be told I needed a degree. So I was relegated to the sales floor. Mrs. Better Dresses and Maternity were quite a bit to live up to for a sixteen year old. But Maternity had a display case. No one seemed to care that I didn't have a degree, so I happily changed the case frequently.

Fast forward to today. For one month a year I can do whatever I want. To flesh out a painting of an old garage I included some of my Dad's oily parts. I've sprinkled stones and leaves, used grass and an old china shoe to augment various paintings.

So please stop by and check out the toy car. I'm doing a series of toy vehicles in domestic settings.

Travels with George

Long distance driving used to be a part of my life. My mind was free to wander as I drove all across the country. So I picked up George Washington. Although we logged many miles together, it was, unfortunately, a one sided relationship. Perhaps it was his teeth that prevented him from participating fully in the conversation. But I was quite willing to do all the talking. He was so impressed with my driving. Asked me repeatedly how I knew where I was going. As the miles rolled by I explained the interstate system to him. He remarked frequently about the quantity of pavement we drove on. I showed him how I could pump diesel and we often dined at truck stops. I could tell he marveled at my abilities. But what about you George? Again he was hesitant to speak so I kept both sides going.
This relationship lasted for years. The odd part was that he never arrived. As I pulled into my destination, he faded away. Waiting, I guess to be resurrected on another trip.

As many long distance relationships will, the thrill was fading. Why wasn't he more forthcoming? More conversational? Well, what did he think? So I bought a paperback history book about the life and times of George. He rode horseback. Well that was cool but it must have taken him a long time to get anywhere. Didn't he think my way was better? Sailing down the highway at high speed surely beat having your horse go lame half way there. But I noticed he was looking at the farm land because he was, after all, a farmer. Maybe he wasn't so impressed after all. I took a good look at George's face. He was actually said. He didn't like moving so fast. On our last trip together he finally told me he was leaving and would be joining the Amish. They traveled at a pace more to his liking. And he admitted he had always been embarrassed at my clothing. It was a bitter pill.
Years have gone by and I see our relationship with different eyes. George was patiently waiting for me to grow up and see him for who he really was.

Merry Christmas

Yes, I'm still here. That sure was a long "wait,wait" between postings! Thank you for your patience.

The reference for this painting was discovered on a snowy ride to the beach. My sister-in-law and I were headed to do some photography for a possible commission when we passed this old vehicle. It definitely called to us to stop and take some pictures.

Why was it there beside the road? In all sorts of weather? Surely that light would never be sufficient for driving. The image stayed with me and I hurried home to get it on canvas. Then I realized it was a "God" thing. Who is always there - beside the road and wherever I am? In all sorts of weather? It's God. How could I have failed to realize that it's God's light that is guiding this vehicle and us.

May God guide your steps through a wonderful Christmas and into a meaningful and joyous New Year.

Old Is New Again

In an attempt to create a more contemporary treatment of my favorite subject, cars, I started by by skewing the composition. This car was not actually climbing a hill, just posed for take off. Recently I've been drawn to mixed media collages - innumerable layers of brilliant colors signifying something or nothing as the case may be. What would I do for the background? Or more importantly, why was I painting a Nash in the first place? Perhaps both questions could be solved together. So I wrote what this car meant to me. I would paint the words into the background. But then would the words dominate the car? Should they wrap around the car or read like a regular page interrupted by the car? So you can see my dilemma.

I decided that each effort could stand on its own merit - the painting and the remarks. So the background became a loose collection of vibrant marks - which I discovered looked a little like tire tracks. And here are the results.

My freckled little brother sat between our mother and father. His car seat was held securely in place by two metal arms that curved over the back of the front seat. My brother was blonde just like our Dad, but Dad's hands were dark with grease and oil from his job as a mechanic. He worked long hours yet always had time to help others with their ailing vehicles. Dad had lots of car stories. My brother was too young to understand the finer points of standard transmission repair or installation of those new directional signals. But what my brother could always do was spot a Nash. Regardless of the vintage or model, he would point his finger and shout, "At's a Nash" and he was always right.

Blast from the Past

What? No pictures? This better be good!

Remember, don't be afraid to fail. Something good may come out of it - like a posting.

Many years have passed, so now it can be told. Occasionally I wrote school assignments for my kids. It was a tradition from my own years in school when my mother wrote assignments for me. Once in a while, when my activities loomed larger than my homework, my mother would say, "Dear, don't worry, I'll do it". And then she would wait anxiously for "her" grade.

However my daughter was up against an issue of unfairness. She was driven to high school by her "always late" Dad. Obviously she got into trouble for the constant tardiness. Driven to frustration and trying to make a point, her teacher demanded an essay on the situation. Talk about conflict. So naturally, I said, "Don't worry Honey, I'll do it."

So, from many years ago, here is "her" completed assignment.

"The Lowell's are always late. It's a proud tradition of tardiness passed from generation to generation.

My grandmother was not only always late but could usually be counted on to have a flat tire enroute to her destination. She even had a dog that was late in making it outside and left a disaster in the front hall. My father stepped on a nail before his wedding and was late for the service. As a child I thought all moves began in the middle and breakfasts were supposed to be cold.

Now that I am older, I face a great decision. Whether it is nobler in mind to disregard time in order to fulfill my ancestor's destiny or live my life punctually, thus becoming the black sheep of the family.

The tardy bell has just rung so I'll have to make my decision later."

As luck would have it "I" never received a grade. My daughter's teacher merely said that the paper "cracked him up". Surely that merits a B+ at the very least?

The Goofy Stuff

Years ago I took an extension course at the University. It was a three class program in Interior Design. As my readers may know, my personal design theory is eclectic. Actually the first time I heard that word was in Bloomingdale's Furniture Department. One particular room design was referred to as "eclectic" but I thought the word was "neglectic". Being a mother of three small children I knew all about the "style of neglect". At any rate, I had a great interest in decorating and was thrilled to be taking the classes. One of my instructors shared that she had just received the commission of "doing" a restaurant. Initially I felt sorry that she was stuck decorating a "goofy restaurant". No bedrooms or living rooms, just dining rooms. In my youthful estimation, she belonged doing amazing homes that ended up in magazines. I would soon realize that interior design was also space planning not just paint color and furniture.


So in my own career "goofy restaurants" have fallen into my lap. I thought I should be doing grand canvases. Instead I began a long list of "goofy" stuff that has served me well.


A neighbor inquired if I was willing to paint on cement. Come to find out she had an unsightly well tile and so it was up to me to cover it with faux rocks. The first rocks disappeared in the winter snows and, in that way, I learned to prime first! The next year's crop of rocks lasted just fine. I have since painted signs and even a rolling gun card for this same neighbor.

I started painting on shards of found slate. Many of the old homes in our area had slate roofs, and as they fell into disrepair, were sadly demolished. Friends collected these bits and pieces for me. Each painted piece came with its own easel and I called the collection "Window Sill Art". My first residential commissions were on slate.

Another friend had a doll house business. I had no idea how complete doll houses had become right down to chandeliers. So, of course, they also needed original art. I started by painting the tiny furniture of a baby's room with bear designs. The wardrobe was my first effort when, suddenly from beneath my brush, emerged a rather dashing bear looking like he was sneaking off to the races. By the time I got to the crib my "bears" had settled into pastoral comfort. I also painted a tiny screen to look like a fancy drape, and a panoramic hope chest in addition to tiny framed paintings. It certainly schooled me in the art of making tiny details.

A former neighbor discovered a painting lying along side the road that led to the dump. "Could it be valuable from a famous artist?" he asked. Although my knowledge of art history was limited I felt I could safely assure him it wasn't a discarded masterpiece so I offered to restore it. I tenderly cleaned it, enhanced the faded color, and stuck it in a frame. Unfortunately I discovered that he didn't even like the painting and was just interested in its potential value. Oh well, live and learn.

Which brings us to the present. I am currently painting a shoe that is longer than I am tall,heavier than me, and most definitely, unwearable. Watch for the installation on June 6th in Rochester, NH. This is, for certain, the goofiest thing yet.

In Search of Chairs

During my artistic career I have painted a number of chairs. "Aunt Mim's Chair" was a sunny gold upholstered chair sitting in the corner of my aunt's home. "Out of the Weather" was a beat up relic left on the front porch of a shack somewhere in Montana. There was my girl friend's chair complete with her antique doll house. There were wicker chairs on the porch of Stoneledge Farm and a red chair for my son to hang in his dorm room. After all how could he get through school without one of my chairs? But never any people. "Why don't you put someone in the chair?" my cousin asked. That just wasn't a part of my artistic vision. The only people I have ever painted were my family, because they are not allowed to complain. Besides how could I have gotten them to pose in Aunt Mim's chair or somewhere in Montana?

But I do have a vested interest in chairs, not only to paint, but for my own use.

After years in a tiny Tampa condo, we moved to Pensacola. A large part of the incentive to move was that I would have my own studio. A whole room with just my stuff - everything but the kitchen sink. I wasn't in Pensacola to make the final purchase decision, but that studio sold me on the whole place sight unseen. I started collecting paint cards because my studio would definitely be decorated. A series of shelves were added to the closet. A drying rack was placed along one wall. I would also have a television and stereo. Time went on, color choices made and I was painting canvases again, not just walls.

But I didn't have an easy chair. This condo was much larger than the last and our furniture just didn't stretch as far. So down I went to the local furniture store where they just happened to have a sale. I chose a buff colored tub chair that swiveled. We hauled it home and it fit perfectly.

As fate would have it, we were to move again, this time back to my home in NH. We put on an addition for a larger studio this time. It was and still is a "pinch me" experience. What was an old outside deck area is now a hardwood floor, soaring ceilings, a sky light and plenty of shelves, racks, cupboards and drawers. My Pensacola chair would look just right.

But my husband didn't have a chair for his downstairs den. The budget was tight and it seemed only right to give him my studio chair. So I just dragged in a kitchen chair when the sun was perfect to sit and read. Prices were so high I just stopped looking.

My girlfriend and her brother were in charge of emptying an aunt's house after she had passed on. There, in the cool aisle of the barn among many yard sale items, sat a unique upholstered chair. It was a soft green, had a modest skirt and four buttons marching along the curving back. It had probably been a boudoir chair but it didn't matter to me. It "sat" good. How much would they want? I set a top price of $50. in my head - no higher than that. It was only FIVE DOLLARS and they offered to deliver! Sold. We trucked it home, hauled it up the stairs and it now sits in my sunny window. I may even paint it someday.

So this is about perseverance and maintaining your artistic vision. In my paintings there will always be space available for you to "sit" down in your imagination. Should you venture to my studio, you are also welcome to sit in my $5 chair.

Really Bad Blue

It was after my mother had died that I decided to strip off the kitchen wallpaper. My husband had returned to his job in another state so I had plenty of time to work. Originally I had hung the wallpaper. It was a small vinyl print with little green flowers on a white background - so very 1980's. I pushed the furniture into the center of the room. It was good therapy, peeling the old covering, then washing off the glue. It didn't matter if there were piles of paper on the floor. Although the removal was therapeutic, it obviously comes to an end.

Color. Rich, glorious, in your face color. I love it. So it was time to spread my wings and shape up the old cottage. I decided to do an accent wall. Just a little bit of space behind the counter - sort of a poor mans back splash! It would be blue. Deep, vibrant blue.

Getting a new can of paint is like a gift. It's an opportunity to change perceptions of any given space. It was time for a statement. Not waiting to prime, I spread the blue with great gusto. Wait a minute. It's not so great... Why isn't this working? I spent the afternoon trying to make myself enjoy the blue. Sure it needed another 17 coats.... Was I already going to throw in the towel? What would my family think? They would hate it. Sooooooo, at 10pm I was painting over my misbegotten blue. What a mistake. I didn't want anyone to see. But my daughter-in-law called and asked what I was up to. After hedging, I admitted the mistaken color which I was covering up. She said "You have to take a picture". Oh no I don't. She insisted and I did. So here we are almost seven years later. I've started "waitwait" the blog and what could be more appropriate than my mistaken blue.

However, the cottage was now mine and I wanted to be a good steward. Taupe came next. It was neutral, classic but, eventually, boring. Then it was green for about a day and a half. Why was this so difficult? They say you shouldn't make any decisions after a death in the family, but this was just "color". I poured through my extensive color card library. It was a rainy day - a very rainy day. NH was flooding. Roads were closed. People were evacuated. BUT I found my color!! It was terrarosa. The phone rang, it was my brother. "What are you up to today?" he asked. I told him I was going to Sherwin Williams. "But the roads are closed", he said. It made no difference. From the first brush stroke it was love! Terrarosa is not red or rose or peach, it's a compilation of all those colors depending how the light hits it.

The remainder of my blue paint went to the local theater group. Hopefully they have a night time drama coming up soon.

Sooooo don't give up. The longer the journey, the sweeter the arrival.

Really Bad Blue

Art Lessons

Naturally my granddaughters are the very best, brightest and most talented kids! That being said, we can all use some further instructions in life. That's when my role as grandmother/art teacher began.

DOING stuff has always been interesting for me. Having two eager girls to join my adventures has been gratifying. Not being trained as a teacher, I looked for some guidance. Kumon Workbooks, which are available from the bookstore, offered brightly colored pictures to cut, paste and follow the maze. The material was a great beginning.

It's been fun to see their personalities come out in their work. My six year old spends a great deal of time developing her work. She will do the assignment as well as initiate her own experimentation. My four year old is very passionate. One sticker is never enough, rather she favors a pile format, one on top of another. Her color choice is very dramatic - black is her latest favorite.

Of course we are also creating gifts for the family. Their gifts for Dad were paperweights. I shrunk some of the girls' photos down to stamp size and they used mod podge to glue them onto the rocks. The only glitch was the rocks were quite large. Oh well, it meant more pictures. And should a hurricane hit their Dad's office,he is well prepared.

They have taught me much in this process as well. Once I was taking my four year old through the steps of creating a sea monster. Each one of the coils rose above the surface of the water giving the impression of a mighty beast. When the last coil was ready to put into place, she calmly informed me that she would rather put it on her balloon and did so. It has been a challenge for me to "not help". Even though I wanted the results to be wonderful, I've learned that is not the point.

Persistence

One of my objectives in doing this blog is to remain true to my "Mission Statement". No wandering off course. Recently I posted "What's with all those cars and trucks?" It took me four tries until it posted. Soooooo don't give up out there. Although the layout is nothing to write home about - each successive try looked better.

Persistence will, eventually, get the job done. Case in point: the mural at our local Inn. As a kid I painted five foot daisies on the hall wall - no pressure there! The six inch grass was also a piece of cake. Another time I polka dotted my girls' bedroom walls with round red circles of contact paper. So I have a history of adventuresome decorating. The Inn is a totally different situation. The subject has to be recognizable - additionally it has to be a credit to a beautiful old building being gracefully restored.

The reference material came from our town history book. Years ago Labor Day was celebrated with parades and a band concert. As a former "summer person" turned "year rounder" I wonder if all the excitement was due to the annual departure of the summer residents!

The space is about eight feet wide covering two adjacent walls. It's bordered by a chair rail and well lit. Initially the corner of the composition was the most problematic. Once that was resolved the composition fell into place. Sure there are a few cases of "artistic license" but I'm not recreating the photograph.

The first day of work was very intimidating. I wanted to get something recognizable on the wall immediately. I traced over the design I had done at home with transfer paper. Oooooops, I forgot to gesso the wall first. Losing all that work was unacceptable. So I blocked in each area with tinted gesso. It looked like I knew what i was doing!

I photograph the results after each work session, so I have something to study at home. So far the results are encouraging. It appears that, once again, persistence is working.

So what's with all the cars and trucks?

It's a Dad thing! My Father was the head mechanic for a transportation/ construction company. Every time he saw an old car, it reminded him of an event. He would smile and shake his head and launch into an exhaustive retelling, right down to how many times he had to turn the bolts. From the time he had to repair a truck on the Mystic River Bridge before it was attached at both ends to the $300 he earned making two passes with a snowplow, cars were unfailingly interesting in my family.

Dad and I logged many hours in the car together. I used to ride to our cottage with my Dad's narrative for entertainment. He renamed all the road like "Old Snakeback". Our cars had names as well. He told me that if I didn't name the car, "How could I talk to it?!" "Nellybell was the first name I remember.

On our way to NH one spring we stopped in Haverhill to watch huge earthmovers do site work for a new plant. Ice cream at Wasmaco's and clams at Merle's were standard stops.

Our cars were never new, rather elderly models kept functioning by Dad. One of the first cars I remember had a city horn and a country horn. A most impressive feature. Our cars were from before directional signals were invented - back when you had to stick your arm out the window to signal your intentions.

A broken teenage romance inspired Dad to start my driving lessons at 14. He just couldn't stand any more boo hooing around the house. We went up to the Harold Parker Forest and he pulled over to the side of the road. After I got behind the wheel, he drew the stick shifting pattern in the dust on the dashboard. All the hopping and chugging soon had us both laughing. It was not all smooth sailing until Dad brought home a 1949 clunker. Since we lived on an "unaccepted" street - the term for our dirt road, Dad felt it was okay for me to drive the clunker around the neighborhood. The boy next door used to ride with me while I helped him with his homework. That must have been the beginning of talking through every crisis from behind the wheel. My shifting improved remarkably. Mud was another matter. A classmate of mine who lived further down our road was waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up. I got stuck where her driveway turned off. She was not happy to pick her way through the mud to meet her date.

In time I was legally able to get my license. Since my Mother did not drive, Dad said I didn't have to pay for anything as long as I took my Mother wherever she wanted to go. We went to a lot of ice cream stands! Each summer I would load the boat with all our summer belongings, hitch it behind the car, and drive to the cottage. Dad taught me how to back up the boat trailer. Backing up a trailer has actually become somewhat of a spectator sport around here as we live across the street from a boat launch ramp. Some folks are more successful than others, me included!

In the fall of 1989, we lost Dad. It was hard for all of us. In an effort to stay busy, I took a painting class. A beat up old car sitting in the weeds became my first sale. Later I received a commission to paint a house with the owners Porsche in the driveway. It was more fun to do the car than the house. I had found my niche.

Ties That Bind

We have been experiencing some roadblocks lately. An ice storm has disconnected most everyone in the state. Who knew what life would be like without electricity or water for a week? Not to mention the darkness starting at 4pm. Life revolved around the wood stove, flash lights and flickering candles. Don't let anyone tell you that candle light is flattering - at least not when you've been "showerless" for several days!

My mother used to say it was important "to improve the shining hours". So I used every minute of daylight, not devoted to lugging wood, to read a 723 page book. I could have been painting.

The lack of electricity has given me a new appreciation for those early artists. They accomplished so much with very little. Suddenly I wasn't running a wash, cooking or vacuuming, so why didn't I paint? Because I couldn't charge up my Ipod? It was a challenge to understand how to use the time. I could have used the natural light to paint.

We are currently in the midst of another storm - lots of snow this time. The electricity is still on but we are better prepared if we lose it this time. Tomorrow I WILL paint.

About Me

From the beginning, painting and the decorative arts have always fascinated me. I was the kid who cut out magazine illustrations, pasted them inside a box and then lay on the floor with my head inside the box. All the better to imagine myself inside the pictures. I glued decorative elements all over the mahogany woodwork of my childhood bedroom. What my mother thought was Cheerios in my closet turned out to be worms from a failed terrarium project. From building boat parade entries to painting five foot daisies on the hall wall, I was always creatively busy. During my children's early years, I made posters for every conceivable local event.

In 1974, a horse was responsible for the beginning of my "formal" art career. Due to an unpaid hay bill, I was looking for a job. I was hired at the Rochester Fair to work in the Art Department as a "boy". They usually hired boys to climb ladders and it was agreed that I would be acceptable. It was like Christmas. Between 400 and 500 paintings came in, to be hung, judged and displayed. Suddenly I was on the inside listening to the jurors critiques, learning what was good, what to avoid.

In 1989 I finally started painting. After years of assuming I couldn't paint, suddenly I was competing at the fairs and winning recognition. I took an art course at Hillsborough Community College in Tampa, FL and followed that with a class with Kathi Hobbs of Lutz, FL. In 1991 my husband and I moved into our recreational vehicle and traveled the United States. For four years I further developed my skills at workshops in Santa Fe, NM and Scottsdale, AZ.

I am a juried member of the NH Art Association, Art Superintendent of the Rochester Fair and member of the Manchester Artist Association. My web site is: marilynsbrushwithart.com. My specialties are: residential and automotive portraits.