I first saw this image of my cousin's daughter years ago, and it haunted to me until this week when the time was finally right to put brush to panel.

I have said before that the most important line in Hamlet is “Readiness is all….”  Many images inhabit my brain for a decade or more.  Sometimes even a painting which is 90% completed suffers that same postponement.  For whatever reason, I know enough to leave well enough alone when my instincts tell me to step back and wait;  the corollary trick is to act when that mood to finish strikes!  Once or twice I have even gotten out of bed to correct a misstep or to solve a colour problem.  I do not recommend this. 

The good news is that this week was finally the time to begin “Nimbus.”  One of the reasons I loved the photo is that Erin is not posing.  Her ash-blonde hair glowing, even reflecting the warmth of her cheek, the wee girl is rapt in contemplation.     Although it is partly shadowed by that glorious hair,  her sweet face is relaxed, so completely focused is she on what will forever remain a mystery.

Of course, the other reason I wanted to paint her was that gorgeous mane of hair.  Anyone who paints the back of someone’s head is utterly sincere about an enthusiasm for painting hair (see “Rapunzel” in the Portraiture section either by following the link above to my gallery or bookmarking zannekeele.com”).  The title comes, of course, from the 17th century word which has the double meaning of “a luminous cloud” or “halo.”  Both would suit, on this occasion.

She is largely finished.  I am looking forward to the final touches, which include the fine blonde hairs which are so light as to float above her halo.  

Although they were not in the blanket box,  treasured possessions of my father’s have been poking their noses up too.  As we are knee-deep in old house “infrastructure” upgrades, it was the old hammer with the wooden handle that warmed my heart yesterday.

Many of our keepsakes are hand tools which my father inherited from his own father.  Grandpa Keele was a fine woodworker, expert at building anything from cabinets to whole houses.  Having helped him build two houses, Dad too had learned to be a careful and competent carpenter, although his day job was as an aerospace executive.  Thanks to him, we had a garage which perfectly matched the new house, a mahogany-paneled “rec room” and a variety of built-ins which made our lives more comfortable.  (One of the only times I saw my mother mad at him was when Dad left her holding a board and went to have a cigarette.  Jon, a non-smoker, always claims that is where he is going when I am the one holding a board.)

Of the hand tools,  my favourite has always been the Yankee drill which was spring-loaded and could rotate in either direction;  whenever I went to the basement to visit with Dad while he worked on a project, I played with it endlessly.  Honestly, I have absolutely no aptitude for  woodworking but even though the old tools hang beside the workbench and look at me reproachfully,  neither Jon nor I have ever been able to say good-bye to  them.    Beloved hands have valued and used them.  

Though I wouldn’t last long as a survivalist (Jon would, fine woodworking being only one his myriad skills), I still feel some comfort in the presence of all of these hand tools - saws, measures, chisels, screwdrivers, planes, whetstones et al.  It’s always been at the back of my mind to display them but as far as wall space in a small house goes, art tends to trump utility.  Nonetheless, their spare elegance, a beauty born of married form and function, has won the family tools a permanent place in our hearts and in our home.  


**As if to remind us of their value, the hand tools occasionally report for duty just when we need them. In a moment of perfect confluency, Jon is buzzing me from the attic to bring him Grandpa’s keyhole saw.

Seeing as the renovation is in full swing (Don’t ask) and it is snowing out, I have been spending time updating my website and fooling around with the blog.  I am slow on the uptake but finally figured out how to add categories to the four years of writing — they are listed on the right hand side in turquoise, just below the list of dates.  Eureka!

But I am caught out.  The title of  this blog site is misleading in the extreme.  It purports to think lofty thoughts about nature and art.  Not even close. If you start searching by subject category, it turns out that four years of writing essential details the absurdity of my life and my total inability to dominate animals.  Yes, there are nods to art - size/subject matter(portraits, still life) shape and size considerations; a bit of technical advice in alla prime/glaze oil/underpainting/palette — but by far the most blogs show up under “The Human Comedy” or just plain “Animals.” 

I should have titled it “More Bathos than Pathos!”

On the plus side, I have updated the gallery website, which badly needed it.  Far more exciting is having figured out today how to embed YouTubes in the blog.  I had only two but it bugged me that I had to post the url instead of including the video;  now there is a YouTube category.  So if you are feeling rapturous, click on “Murmuring and Gasping” (October, 2014) to find a gazillion starlings flying to Pachelbel.  If, on the other hand, you just want a giggle, choose “Pit-a-Pat” (March 2017).

Do not expect to find any video of me painting.  Nobody has that much patience.

At the very back of the closet, buried under the quilts I needed to move, appeared treasures I had forgotten.

First I found my maternal grandmother’s tiny wedding shoes.  They must have been beautiful — cream kid leather with clear beaded embroidery and grommets for ribbon laces..  Their square heels  a modest inch high, these charming shoes round out my grandparents typical wedding photo - a seated groom with his  bride standing just behind his shoulder.  The shoes did not fare as well as the marriage.  My  mother was allowed to use them for “dress-up” and she went to her death still furious at the older brother who lassoed her and ran her through the cattle yard when she was about six.  Scuffed and tattered through they are from that adventure, these wedding shoes remind me of both dear souls.

This tin-type of Grandma, taken when she was eight, captures her sweet nature.  When she died unexpectedly on the train the night before she was to arrive for a rare visit, my mother wept, the first and only time I saw her do so.

There were two black items in the cedar chest.  One was a calf-length velvet flapper dress.  It must have belonged to my Aunt Anne Keele, who was six feet tall.  It too enjoyed an afterlife for it appeared in many play and Halloween party, reborn as a full-length dress on my shorter frame.  Beside it in the cedar chest was a stiff black silk blouson, in style at least a generation older, which must have been my other grandmother’s.  It has a standing collar, puffed sleeves (Hello, Anne of Green Gables!) and the remains of lace on the cuffs.  I now worry that  both might have been worn at the funeral of 23-year-old Roy Keele, who died of quinsy — an infection which would have been treatable with antibiotics a mere decade later.

The last evocative item of clothing was my favourite hat.  When I was about six my mother made it for me out of felt.  Within its Mary’s blue exterior was a cozy red lining, a colour that repeated in her exquisite hand embroidery and the hat’s silk ribbons.  I wore it for years, only reluctantly giving it up when I could no longer cram my noggin into it.

Old things have a lot to say in their quiet way.