Years ago I received a Valentine from a dear friend, who simply wrote why she treasured our friendship; that hand-written letter meant more to me than I can say. Lynne has maintained her beautiful handwriting by using it daily. Sadly, I am reduced to word processing for what should be personalized and on paper. Soul-sisters, you know who you are. This is for you.

My life has been blessed by you, my sisters, no thanks to Mom and Dad. Because she so nearly died giving birth to me, a first-born, My sensible father efused to let my mother have more children; as he put it, “You may survive another birth, but I wouldn’t.” So I have had to go looking for sisters, for you. Let me tell you why I claim each one of you as kin. You gave me many reasons.


One thing which drew me was your ability to love. You inhabit an Eden of empathy. I see your kindnesses daily— to the elderly , to the sick, to children, to neighbours, to the poor, to beasties wild or tame. You live by doing unto others as you would have others do unto you. You make the world better by being your fine unselfish self.

But wow do you know how to laugh! Getting together is fraught with rib-splitting humour, most of it self-deprecating. You are funny-ha-ha, even turning your own funny-peculiars into fodder for laughter. Perhaps laughter comes easily to you because you have cultivated contentment, which is very different from complacency. You celebrate the life you are living rather than the life which might have been.

You are smart in other ways too. You read, you ask questions, and you think. You believe in self-improvement without being full of yourselves or preachy. You never discourage; you simply inspire and leading by example.

So this comes with my love and my thanks, even if it is two days late. Happy Valentine’s, dearhearts! Love you.

I am parked by the studio window with a long lens at the ready. It snowed overnight and the world is swathed in cotton wool. As always, the fresh snow serves as glowing backdrop for the feeder and its visitors. No woodpeckers yet today for the suet but the sunflower feeder is alive with chickadees and goldfinches (dressed in their winter drabs). There are no tracks below it. The squirrels have finally given up on defeating its clever new design and are probably sleeping in. No sign of other tracks either. The deer have left themselves few leaves to munch and the predators also seem to have taken the day off. I came across an old journal recently and was struck about how often the foxes used to drop by, sometimes just to watch the traffic on the next block, but more often on the job. We haven’t seen any foxes here for several years. They’ve been displaced by the coyotes and coywolves who claimed their denning sites, although the perfect den behind us on the ravine seems to have been abandoned completely. Should put up a “For Rent to Anyone with a Beautiful Bushy Red Tail.” You never know. Anyone who had starred in a famous Canadian short story might have learned to read by now.

This painting was born of a winter visit to the euonymus just outside the studio. It was several years ago, before the deer had added evergreen shrubs to their menu. A small flock of robins was finally desperate enough to eat the berries; it took them only a few minutes to strip the bush and they were gone. The starlings who arrived the next year (and in much bigger numbers) put the robins’ pace to shame. I doubt that their commando raid took even a minute and the photos I grabbed were all blurred by their frenzied gobbling. We do try to plant food sources for wildlife so, just as at a dinner party, we are delighted to host appreciative eaters. And we didn’t even have to clean house first.

​This has been a week of extremes. While on Monday it poured rain, this morning Pam and I had to wear multiple layers to brave the intensely cold wind as we did our weekly walk up the river. As usual with these huge pressure changes, I turn into an old dog who wants to curl up in front of the fire. Not even the spirit is willing, I’m afraid. But I have to tackle the housework which got away from me in the last few days so I will have to depend on some great music for inspiration.

​Today’s choice is an old George Harrison collection called All Things Must Pass. I have loved it since its 1970 pressing and, though I may still be sitting to write this, I am dancing in the chair. The guitar twangs and strong rhythms have never ceased to delight me and the lyrics are pure shout-outs to life. If you too boogie your mopping, I recommend it, with a chaser of the Rankins if there’s a big mess.

Now painting demands a totally different vibe. I need quieter, more melodic music to negotiate the endless decisions of glazing in oil. The painters in my circle seem almost unanimous about Josh Groban. Look up Cody Karey if you’re of the same mind; he’s a young Canadian promoted by David Foster (as Groban was) and he has a lovely way with a song. On the other hand, the ticket to a push in the right direction if I’m really struggling with a painting is Rufus Wainwright; like his mother and aunt, the man nails the act of yearning.

​Music to drive to? Assuming you are not driving a convertible, here is your chance to belt it out in private. Italian opera (especially Puccini) is ready in the CD player. Yes, I have no bananas (hum this but substitute “Italian”), but I can basically carry a tune... As an alto, I have to sing along with Pavarotti rather than Frenzi but that still leaves the whole tenor and mezzo repertoire to massacre. I am also a fool for tenor sax jazz and baroque cello solos and try to sing to them as well. Watch for me at a red light near you. My windows will be up and you'll wish yours were too.

Only after a frenzy of musical mopping did I find the time to paint three of the edges of “give me your answer, do.” There are still more layers to go on the image itself too. We painted daisies at a workshop by Michelle van Maurik last week. I always prefer to use my own material and as it luck would have it I had set up just such a shot after Elizabeth Robbins’ demo last year. But is this painting alla prima, Elizabeth's and Michelle's technique of choice?

Nope.

​Tried. Can’t. Won't.

P.S. Many have complained that my comments were closed. Having looked in vain for what I must have turned off accidentally, I finally swallowed my pride today and called Weebly. A helpful teenager reminded me where the settings are. Thanks to all who nagged me.
​

Walking back up the slope with my hands full of moss yesterday was simply an expression of my life-long fascination with panes of glass.     Even as a pre-schooler, I was something of a connoisseur of houses in that I studied each one we walked past in order to decide on my favourite.  Day after day, the outcome was the same:    the winner simply had no competition.  It boasted not only diamond-leaded windows in the living room, but the trump card of a conservatory which dominated one end of the house.  I stared at it longingly each time we walked past and imagined the delights of living there.

I grant you that a four-year-old with a passion for leaded glass is unusual.  But I had already fallen in love with conservatories.    For one thing, I knew from the huge one in the city park that they enclosed all-year-round summer.   And they smelt delicious, especially in January.  A life dream had been launched.

So what’s with the handful of moss?  Our house is about as far from a greenhouse as you can get.  But let me introduce you to the concept of moss gardens.  They survive splendidly indoors if you have the right place for them, a  dwelling place which was invented several centuries ago. When the 19th century brought with it a frenzy of global collecting, British naturalists scoured the world, competing to bring home the most exciting new species of plants.  Realistically, however, even the most successful collecting trip inevitably ended in months of ship travel;  95% of the plants died.  There had to be a way to protect these rare finds and an amateur horticulturist from Sussex named Dr. Nathaniel Ward invented one.  His glassed boxes changed the survival rate of transported exotic plants to 95%, resulting in successes like African violets (which are not violets at all, of course, but hailed from Tanganyika in the 1880's).  The glass boxes, early precursors to terraria,  were a hit at home too.  Although their original use has been displaced,  home-use Wardian cases are still manufactured today, and remain traditionally Victorian in style — little glass houses with peaked roofs and leaded glass. My four-year-old self or what remains of it absolutely adores them.

Having watched for sales of these little gems over decades, I have ended up with a small collection.  They stood empty for years.  Truth was, I had no idea what to put in them.  Not that I hadn’t tried.  There were abysmal failures.  One promising miniature jungle turned into a fungal nightmare. One which I set up outside in the spring boiled its unhappy inhabitants.  Finally I stumbled upon two green things which thrived.  One satisfied tenant is a miniature phalanopsis orchid with the aerial root system exposed (no blooms so far but I live in hope.)  The other workhorse of my Wardian cases is moss.  Many years ago I read an article about a man who lived downtown with a tiny garden that faced north.  Nothing he planted survived until he settled on mosses.   They fit the bill both in terms of size and light requirements., and he  planted every species he could find.  It must have been a beautiful place, for mosses are truly beautiful, not only for their bright emerald greens, but for their multitudinous blooms - hundreds of tiny fruiting bodies standing like tiny palm trees above their miniature landscapes.  I have some in bloom now and every day I lift the lids and marvel, taking in deep breaths of summer. 

​There is much to commend glass houses, despite what that nasty saying implies, and why roll a stone if you want to gather moss?  I heartily recommend living with, rather than in,  at least one;  if you feel the need to throw something at it, throw orchids or moss.  And don’t forget to inhale.

A friend asked me today about how I create glow on water. I wasn’t sure how to answer. It’s certainly something I aim for, but it’s tricky. For one thing, the surface of a body of water (a placid lake in particular) functions as a huge mirror which captures sunlight and sends most of it, but not quite all, back. So I’ve spent the day thinking about the question and have a few ideas.

For one, I realized that I rarely paint water photographed on a cloudy day, and virtually never paint muddy water even if it is sunlit. I grew up beside two rivers which were full of sediment and wanting to paint them or even photograph them never crossed my mind. What I do remember is studying clear puddles when I was very young because the water brightened and amplified the colour of the pebbles at the bottom. THAT was worth looking at. So the allure, the glow, of water has something to do with transparency. In "The Cradle Endlessly Rocking” #2, I was interested in what I could see of the river bottom and the colour of the deep water, visible on both left and right centres where the river lies in shadow and cannot reflect the sky.

In full sun, on the other hand, the river or lake wears the sky and flaunts its dressed-up self. Above us at the peak of the sky's dome are found the deepest blues, but I also watch for the lighter, more turquoise, blues near the horizon if they haven’t been blocked by trees. There is rarely an opportunity to display the zenith blue directly unless it is a prairie scene. Painters like Dorothy Knowles from Saskatchewan are famous for their extremely low horizon lines; the prairies’ glorious unobstructed sky is the main attraction and needs height to strut itself. Those of us painting in the heavily treed East have to settle for the reflection of that special blue. “The Cradle” has large areas of reflected deep sky blue but only a hint at the very top of light sky itself. My interest was in the water.

The last element of painting water, I think, is paying attention to whatever is floating on top. My waterlily paintings often include the tiny insects that no self-respecting lily is without. Other times small wavelets (n.s.w?) such as those generated by someone standing in a current are critical to reading the river correctly. You will begin to see these in the last painting sessions on “Down in the Gorge”#2. Some artist friends had trouble interpreting what they saw in the early stages, possibly because the photo was taken almost directly above from a high bridge on a sunny day. As a result of the almost 90% angle and strong light, there is no sky reflection and everywhere the sunlight penetrates through to the river bottom. Jon is casting in the main channel, where the strong current has swept away almost all of the duff. To either side of him, however, the current is slower and the river bottom is dark with debris. I am hoping that judicious application of small white high-lights wherever the flow is interrupted will make it clear that he is knee deep and that the entire canvas is a water scene. In “The Cradle,” my last brush strokes added the white flecks on the surface. I am still unsure of what they were; I simply knew they had to be there.

I think I may have just explained to myself why I need a rest-cure after painting a large water scene.

Last summer in the company of a very bright, engaging person who knew a lot about botany, I commented that I wanted to locate a particular wildflower because I couldn't remember its habitat and wanted to paint it in situ. Without a backward glance, she said "Just fake it. That's what art's about."

No.

Let me think about that.

No.

Let me first admit to personal bias.  Looking at  anything generic makes me long for specificity. If I am painting a maple tree, I try to capture its grandly symmetrical shape;  botanists refer to this quality as "opposite rather than alternate".   The pagoda trees  which volunteer on our property with predictable regularity should, on the other hand, look as if they are built on the principle of alternate but equal, like a tai chi stance;  I like them best set against a light backdrop like our neighbours' stucco, where in winter their elegant shapes sing.   I want white pines to be tall and irregular, their longest branches pointing to the south-east (in a pinch, a mature white pine can function as a rough compass if you are lost in the woods).  And tree trunks ALWAYS  have straight parallel edges and never taper up.  Point being, tree species have some things in common but many many differences.  In October you would never confuse a poplar forest with a maple-beech forest.  You would sense something is wrong but perhaps not what is wrong. It just doesn't feel true to your experience.

I propose that Art is about TRUTH of some sort.   So our next job is to think more about what constitutes artistic truth.  Let's begin by agreeing with Gerhard Richter's assertion that "I believe that art has a kind of rightness, as in music, when we hear whether or not a note is false."   The "bright, engaging person" may not have been an artist but I am pretty sure that she would have been vaguely bothered by the painting of a fake plant.

​More on this topic in March.  Good-bye February!!