The words “tribes” and “nations” have had a bad rap in the last century, usually paired with the adjective “warring." For the last few days however I have been prompted to rethink these connotations and reconsider the terms in a more positive light. Yesterday, in an ancient and quickly-abandoned journal of mine, I came across a copied-out (pre-computer) quotation by Henry Beston, who mused: For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move, finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the sense we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth. (Outermost House). So, too, Steve Silberman (in his new book, Neurotribes) celebrates those traits of neuro-organization which loosely group autistic people. The underlying assumption of both writers is that a difference can be understood as something precious, as a form of giftedness. This is even more true when the term is used metaphorically. When someone trumpets “I’ve found my tribe!!” we all recognize "tribe" to mean a group of kindred souls who share a passion.  The word connotes "home."

In that sense, I myself am a bit of tribal slut. One of my beloved tribes is composed of artists. In this tribe, no-one ever has to apologize for exiting the 401 to take pictures of a sunset or a field of sunflowers. No-one thinks it is odd to wear paint instead of nail polish, and “What’s your medium?” is understood to have nothing to do with dress-sizing. My mom was a member of this tribe and I realize now that she initiated me into its deep pleasures, where I have lived happily for my whole life.  Within this tribe are hearth-fire groups;  I am warmed and nourished by the Renaissance glaze oil method, and those who practise it.  We never cease to delight in one another's work.

So, too, I have a Life Membership in the Tribe of Readers and Watchers and Writers; my dad was always a member, while Mom joined in middle-age. All of us RWW’s are made giddy by a new book or by a tip about some great film to look forward to or by the opportunity to write about something which feels important, if only to us. Like artists, these tribal members cast a wide net of curiosity and reach out to one another - occasionally to warn - but more often to beckon and light the way towards buried treasure. In 2014 when I read All the Light You Cannot See it inspired me to order multiple copies to give to RWW friends who, in turn, bought copies for their friends. Just this month, a dear RWW tribal member sent me the exquisite H Is for Hawk, which I have been savouring. Not only the gift but the sentiment touched me: Toby wrote “I started to read this and knew immediately that you would love it.” And I do. When tribe members meet, happy ritual demands that we pull out notebooks and feverishly record recommendations. Like the artists’ tribe, this group may convene in pairs or in large auditoriums, so look for us everywhere, especially in coffee houses.

Lest we neglect our bodies, the Nature Tribe takes us outside not only of our dwellings but of our over-heated brains. While going for a long walk (paddle, cycle, etc.) may summon up solutions to problems of the indoor persuasion, that is usually an unexpected consequence of simply paying attention to where we are. One part of the tribal benefit is a close encounter with another nation — once by the river, we heard an odd call and followed it to a wee sawwhet owl who regarded us calmly from the low branch of a conifer. And I never forget where I first found a particular plant species - like fringed polygala ,which turned out to be teeny-tiny and easily overlooked, I realized. Who knew! When I think back to high points in my life, they frequently involve such a small happy accident and so my paintings are often no more than memories of those magic moments out-of-doors. Winter’s considerable attractions include the record on the snow canvas of all who have passed through on foot. (So far, this winter has been a complete bust in that regard.) And of course there is the issue of light. For our Seasonal Affective Disorders, there’s no better cure in January than to go outside. Nature beckons in all seasons. Two members of the Nature Tribe are weekly walking companions along the river (although we also have mutual interests in other tribes and never run short of conversation when we are not simply drinking in the scenery.)

As you know, I am a practising Dog Tribe member.  Occasionally, after I have familiarly greeted a strange dog being walked by the river, I am astonished when the owner accepts the praise;  I was flirting with the dog.

Sometimes, if we are very lucky, we fall in love with someone who belongs to all of the same tribes. If that happens, marry that person. I did.

I’m deep “In the Gorge”.  The layers of transparent pigments are starting to get interesting, though there are still many decisions to be made about our shape-shifting river.  While sunshine pours through the gin-clear water in the mid-section, it is filtered and obscured by the ancient litter of cedars which have collapsed into it.    I see it through Jon’s eyes:  these mysterious crevices and cast shadows are where the big trout lurk.  However, today (now about five layers in), I am happy to begin re-establishing the cedars’ white bones wherever they emerge from the water.   Jon’s shirt too needs its brightness restored.  Laying in these whites is a joy.  


Building this painting has been meditative. Downed trees morph into an esoteric calligraphy of shapes and lines.  The addition of the thinly- glazed primaries just deepens the revery of fluid motion.  I toggle between hard line and soft wash, between subtle tones and clean whites.  The cedars may be dead, but they are full of life for those who live within their tangled skeletons


Several posts ago, I promised to return to the subject of learning, especially meditative.  Many years ago I was introduced to a hand-held skin-response galvanometer, which was to be marketed as a meditation device;  it ticked loudly if you were tense.  The bio-feedback loop was amazing and it took no time at all to learn to silence it.  It took decades of looking for something similar before I finally found it in the shape of a Muse Headband.  I look like a geographically-challenged Egyptian princess but no matter.  When the ocean roars, I am learning what to do to quiet the surf and make the birds sing.  So perhaps the “Muse” has been truly named.  Whatever the cause, this painting doesn’t feel like work at all.

“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.” 
― T.H. White, The Once and Future King


I agree with White.  We rise and fall on the state of our minds.  This is not to say that it’s possible to learn everything.  As an eight-year-old, I had a dim hope of doing that only because I had no sense of how much there was.  My memory palace was situated in our elementary school library, which posed no difficulty in size or complexity.  Even so, I was on the right track, if White is to be trusted.  

So what’s worth learning?  Languages, for certain.  While I am at home in English, my French is shaky (my husband accuses me of feeling bilingual when I’ve had a glass of wine).  Here is the one joke I remember in French:  “Qu’est-ce que c’est un bilangue?” "Ca c’est facile!  C’est quelqu’un qui parle deux langues!”  “Bon.  Qu’est-ce que c’est un unilangue?”  “Plus facile!  C’est un maudit anglais!”  I intend to crown this mediocre achievement with elementary Spanish.  As Jon knows, I am somewhat addicted to Spanish soap operas (thanks, Netflix).  So far I can either claim to be happy, tired, hungry, thirsty or attractive or accuse you of the same.  In two genders!  Although none of these phrases have shown up yet, I live in hope.  (And why does "yo" mean "I" rather than "you??")

It is also worth learning about our minds themselves.  If I can remember, that's coming in the next post.

​

​

This is a ridiculous time of the year to be painting an iris but there you have it. Irises are on my mind in June AND November.

In the spring, enamoured by their ruffled faces, I wait impatiently for them to bloom, hoping to photograph their luscious fragility before either wind or rain batters them. But because spring is so busy with gardening and art shows, I store these images away like Christmas cakes, to be rediscovered as winter approaches. And just like Christmas cake (I’m thinking of one now, in its tin in our larder), they take up residence in my head; the only relief from iris obsession is just to break down and paint a bunch. To spend two or three solid hours and actually finish a small painting is a welcome counterpoint to the marathon a large painting represents. This week I’ve done four wee portraits.

That said, I shall spend this evening looking through my “To Paint Flowers” iMac folder; there are more than a thousand shots to choose from, so it is lots of fun to mosey through them. And then I’m heading straight for the basement where a certain Christmas cake is calling my name.

Mick Herron’s delightfully funny take on British spies is titled Slow Horses;  you find out pretty quickly in the novel that the term refers to less-than-stellar spies who can’t be allowed out and must be somehow stabled so that they cannot harm themselves or the nation.  

I am a Slow Painter in a that and another sense.  Jon has given up asking me what I painted each day.  The answer is inevitably along the lines of “so-and-so’s eyes” or “that tree on the far right.”  Today, if I am diligent,  it may be “the value study for In the Gorge” #3.  I even did the focal point yesterday;  today brought the endless blur of dead cedars partially or fully emerged in the river.  Darned it there aren’t quite a few more than I noticed at the time.

I took the reference shot from a bridge above a lovely section of the gorge on a clear summer’s day.  Jon had been instructed to fish as usual.  No trouble selling that assignment.  I leaned out and took forty or fifty shots, of which several were worth using.   But there they sat.  The famous story I’ve told before about Winston Churchill bears repeating here.  A Sunday painter, he sat gazing at his blank canvas one week;  his friend grabbed a brush and made a dark swipe across the expanse of white:  “The enemy is vanquished.”  

It took the pressure of three upcoming shows to summon the courage to vanquish my own enemy.   This is not unusual.  And, as usual, a slow horse I remain.  Last night when I broke down and asked Jon to come see what I’d accomplished, his first comment was “Oh, I wouldn’t have chosen that one.”  And only then did he tell me that his left arm was on an awkward angle because he was trying to keep his prized Hardy bag out of the water.  Normally he would not carry it while wading deep, but the prospect of being immortalized must have inspired his inner fashionista. Dang.  Hadn’t noticed that the arm was in a funny place until he mentioned it.  Note that once I'm painting, it is no longer Jon's arm.  MINE!  But I decided he was right anyway. So today’s first act of regret was to tuck the forearm in front where it belonged.  The rest of today has been spent rendering the complex calligraphy of the downed trees in white and burnt umber.  It's 5, I’m cross-eyed and my arches collapsed several hours ago.    Both I and the light are failing. 

Once in a while, some well-meaning soul suggests that I enter an Art Battle, which is essentially a speed test.  

​Fat chance.

Shall begin again, this time in TextEdit rather than composing on Weebly, having vaporized two recent blogs by hitting the wrong key. (Note to Self: blind faith in the magical powers of File/Undo Typing is not recommended unless one has perfect memory. One does not.)

Because post-Christmas around here is largely dedicated to sugar withdrawal and broad-based lethargy, I have had ample time to read. (By the way, it is a mistake to think of sugar as a stimulant. Any research will assure you that it has a sedative property. I am living proof of this, having devoured my own weight in chocolates, breakfast casseroles with brown sugar bases, apple pies, shortbreads and Christmas cake; I may be fat but I’m docile.)

If you can over-read, I have done that too. Here’s what’s been open, here and there in the house:
just about finished The Secret Chord by Geraldine Brooks; using Nathan the prophet to tell the heroic legend of King David of Israel, the novel reminded me of those great Arthurian trilogies by Jack Whyte and Mary Stewart, both of whom used the psychically-gifted insider to show us the private life of a great warrior- king. Curiously, About Grace (a first novel by Stephen Doerr, who wrote the 2015 Pulitzer-Prize-winning All the Light We Cannot See -- my favourite book of the year) also chooses the agony of pre-cognition to frame the narrative. Last year, it seemed that every book I picked up was on late 19th century Paris; this year I keep running into unwilling prophets.

On a different note, The Invention of Nature recounts the splendid life of Alexander Humboldt, the genius who inspired Prussian aristocracts and Goethe to join him in a life-long immersion —cataloguing the planet, forming the concept of ecological zones, whether vertical or latitudinal. The most famous man of his time, apparently! And I thought he founded a town in Saskatchewan. Someone else who got around was Houdini, the main character in Galloway’s novel, The Confabulist; it is exciting, partly because many of Houdini’s illusions and escapes are deconstructed although I still caught myself trying to hold my breath for long periods.

For more Canadian content, there is Gail Anderson-Dargatz’ A Recipe for Bees, which I admit to having bought largely because of the title and the delightful book jacket which spells it with herbs and honey-bees; as you know, I am a fool for bees and botany, and the novel was full of sweet bits of natural history. For example, I now know how to capture a swarm. You never know when that information will come in handy. Another Canadian book whose jacket completely endears it to me, is Robert Bateman’s recent autobiography. It is bound in a rich red surrounding his utterly superb self-portrait. I am taking my time reading this birthday gift from a dear friend; in the meantime, it is pure eye-candy.

Lest you mourn my left-hemisphere, Jon and I have been listening to Bill Nye on the topic of evolution. The chapters range from cosmology to biology and are wonderfully cogent and fascinating. Yes, my brain hurts sometimes. But, as they say, “in a good way.”

Obviously, re-entering the real world is overdue. I actually felt the urge to dust today. Then again, if I open a book, maybe it will go away. Come to think of it, I sat down to write this post instead.


There should be a copy here of a large watercolour portrait I did of Jon on the first day of summer holidays some years ago. He is on the deck in a large rocker, happily reading. The title obviously had to be “Spare Time.” It is currently residing in The Land of the Missing. When I find it, you shall have it.

Decades ago, I read one of my aunt’s old novels of that title wondering, even as I finished it, what on earth a “brown study” was.  Still ignorant, today I looked it up.  Turns out that the term dates back to the fourteenth century and, while it originally meant a melancholy mood, came to be associated with day-dreaming on a sober topic.  (Today, for example, reading The Globe's business pages immediately summons up a brown study as I contemplate eating Canadian root vegetables rather than imported U.S. greens for the foreseeable future.  On a related note, apparently cauliflowers are $7 now, although no-one told Superstore, because they are 2/$5.  Get yours now and memorize the flavour.)  While dictionaries consider the saying to be archaic, it may enjoy a revival, at least among housewives.

Otherwise, my “study” isn’t the least bit brown, except in the literal sense.  The stone of my studio walls is every shade of neutral (all three primaries combined to create brown) , from cream to umber.  On a high overcast day like today it is rich without being colourful;  when the sun shines, it is both.  Second brown study case in point:  last week the art group had a workshop with Kelly McNeil, the outstanding wildlife painter.  One of the many things I love about Kelly’s work is her use of colour.  Pandas are black and deep, almost orangey, cream;  her tigers have blushes of pink here and there;  golden retrievers, often soaking from a dip, reflect blues.  Looking at her work was the inspiration I needed to get back to mine.

Feeling like painting a cat, I trolled through all of my digitals of the late, lamented Legs until I found a few that could be combined to show him from the back, a pose which highlighted the grace of his curving spine and cascading tiger stripes.  It reminded me of Ingres’ La Grande Baigneuse, in which the model’s gorgeous naked back is the star of the show. I decided to use a wood panel and transparent gesso and to begin with a value study in burnt umber and white.   As happens rather often, I came to a screeching halt, having realized that the sepia-tone could stand on its own.  I once made the mistake of finishing a value study of Jon;  he was horrified, I discovered, but there was no going back four layers.  Lesson learned. Legs will remain a study in brown.  Until I change my mind.