Deciding on the next painting is like giving birth to an elephant.  It's Jon's birthday next month and he constantly complains that, while I have hundreds of pictures of him, he has almost none of me.  He says this quite wistfully, picturing me dead and him without a photo.  Okay, okay.  So I trolled through photos and came across this one, which Jon actually took!  I like it partly because I'm smiling at (and for) him but also because the sunglasses are reflecting a wonderful black and white abstract pattern times two. Moreover, I am happy to see a close resemblance to my mother at the same age.  Finally, it's truly me, as the hat is on crooked, as usual.

Having made the commitment,  I finally got down to work on a canvas yesterday.  Getting started is pretty much all work and no play,  even assuming that I have settled on the subject matter.  Choosing the proportions has to be first.  I decided on 1:2 and fooled around with where the portrait would sit on the 12 x 24 vertical.  Done.   Then the canvas had to  be primed;  for me this task must be accomplished on my hands and knees on the basement floor, which is beginning to look like a Pollock canvas.  Inevitably I can't find:  the paint; an old knife to manoeuvre it; the matte medium; a rag;  a large piece of cardboard to catch most of the drip; and so it goes.  The actual priming takes only about five minutes.  

Then the tedious part actually moves up a notch as I laboriously transfer the key proportions onto the canvas;  again, inevitably, I get one major thing out of place;  I can see the problem immediately, an act quite separate from correcting it.   Portraiture is particularly unforgiving if you get the drawing wrong.  Unless you are Picasso, of course.

These tasks I performed yesterday.  Today, finally:  showtime!  Today was dedicated to the value study.  It looks pretty rough, but at least the ship has been launched.  Whether it will float or sink remains to be seen.  Stay tuned.  Tomorrow I will do the first layer of the colour foundation.  I'll post each layer on my website for those of you who are bears for punishment.

 

Tonight we walked past a neighbours' home which was sporting a new garden sculpture - a little girl in a short skirt executing a curtsy.  It struck me for the first time that the habit of holding up the hem with two dainty hands was useful only if you were wearing a long skirt. Little girls, including this one,  tend not to.

I vaguely remember being asked (and taught) to curtsy when I was in Grade Two and someone decided that morning that I should be the one to present a bouquet to a visiting English princess (beats me who;  I was, after all, 7).  I have no memory of the event itself, except that it was in the auditorium/gymnasium and everything in sight was wood.  I did what I was told.  My formal education to that point had not promoted independent thinking.

I might have remembered it better had I been wearing a long skirt.  I have always loved them, even if I had to wait to attend a formal at university in order to acquire one.  My favourite material was peau de soie, which glowed when you moved and we all danced every dance.  I rarely don or even see formal dress any more (we've been married forever), which brings me to the point of this piece.  

One summer Saturday several years ago, Jon and I came across a wedding party on the local footbridge.  As always, the photographer was running the show and these two little girls were waiting for their turn.  They were wearing long dresses!  Where the sun shone through, the tulle glowed white  through its multiple layers;  the shaded areas were an equally lovely cerulean.  The flower girls made an enchanting picture.  I immediately asked one of the adults in the wedding party if I could have permission to take a photo, and I handed her my card.  The little girls charmingly obliged.

 I guess that the day in Grade Two might have been a Big Day for some involved.  I mainly remember what happened afterwards.  When I came home from school that day, my mother asked me, as usual, how my day had gone.  When I told her, I do remember that she went ashen.  After a moment she said:  "What did you do with your hair?"  (my whole life has been a bit of a hair challenge - bald till 3, the milkman called me "Sonny, yearly Toni's, etc.).  I must have anticipated this question, though,  because I proudly replied:  "I combed it with my ruler!"

Addendum:  I titled it "The Big Day" because there would have been months of preparation for them, as well as for the bride.  The only work I did was to paint the result.   I just wish I could thank them with a print, but I have no way of locating their parents.  If you recognize either of these dear souls, I would love it if you could arrange for an adult in the wedding party to contact me.  Thanks.

This time of the year, the countryside is exploding with day lilies.  They line the roads and show up in gardens that have banished them years ago.  Most of us take them completely for granted.  If there ever was an unloved plant, this is it.

Some years ago I hung a print of a watercolour by Doug Hook in the kitchen.  Painted in watercolour far beyond my abilities at the time, it showcased the grace and transparency of the day lily.  Since then, I have had a greater appreciation of this lily and in fact of all lilies.  They are the forgotten marathoners who put up with a poor base, road salt, freeze-and-thaw cycles, and still succeed.  If you've ever tried to eradicate a naturalized lily, you already know that you are likely to fail in the face of their relentless determination to live.  I think this is something for which we should be thankful.  

There is a long descending path near here which must be in full bloom now, all of the flowers competing to lean furthest out.  I take pictures but sometimes forget to stop and really look.   Aisha presented me with a bloom from their yard this week.  A knowledgeable ten, she was nonetheless surprised to hear that the flowers are edible, but still wanted me to have it as a gift.  I was able to look closely at the elegant curved stamens with their deep orange pollen poised near the pistil. The petals themselves have cadmium yellow throats which deepen to peaches and magentas.  Good gift-givers know exactly what to give.

 

Occasionally I am asked to paint a house.  Occasionally I have made the mistake of doing so.  Gradually I have come to understand that they weren't "in my line."

While my linear-sequential left brain thoroughly enjoys kakuru (number crosswords - try one - they're marvellous) and deductive reasoning, when I am in my right mind I choose the curvilinear.  My brushwork instinctively traces out the seashell of an ear, the tangle of vines, or the curl of a wave.  The calligraphy I do from time to time is in cursive italic rather than gothic script.  Even if I choose to paint more abstractly, again the brush resists straight lines.  

Perhaps this strong inclination just reflects my sympathy for the underdog.  Human beings are responsible for most of the perfect right angles on this planet.  Consider the connotations of the word "twisted."  

In all of its complex and crooked loveliness, raw nature needs all the positive publicity it can get and I am one of its committed public relations officers.

"Les Tuiles aux Poires" focuses on a snippet of Rita and John's magnificent pear tree.  It seduced me with its contrast between the fruit's blushing ripeness and the cool dark gloss of the leaves.  Surrendering to the Mediterranean mood it evoked, I even divided the canvas into four "tiles."  It took forever to sort out all of the leaves as well as to coordinate the 8 x 8 tiles;  then poor Jon had to create a backing for them because I had neglected to think about the challenge of hanging them separately.  I am glad that we both went to the trouble, though.  The painting has been hanging in our kitchen ever since.

A friend came here for lunch in April and on the way to her car, she stopped and asked me the name of the beautiful blue flower tucked up against the birdbath.  I said "Dollarama Blue" and she asked me to spell it. The jig was up.

In my defence, we had a particularly long winter here.  And our garden is always late to bloom.  What is a girl to do when nothing will do but some colour?  I put real thought into my fraudulent show, too.  In fact, I have quite the little collection of "additions."  (I think of them as the equivalent of hair extensions or glue-on fingernails)    I put away my lovely ersatz geraniums a little too well last season and I still can't find them,  but I must say that the fake rhodos came in awfully handy this year in particular.

As long as I am in a confessional mood, not all of my phalenopsis orchids are in bloom all of the time.

Which raises the question:  does a fake become real if it has been painted?  I certainly hope so.  This painting began with real fruit and was finished with objets en matiere plastique.  Why?  Because Jon came home from work, walked into the kitchen where I had set up, and ate the subject matter.  Surely I can't be the only painter in the world who must keep a supply of fake fruit for just such emergencies.  And I imagine that I shall go on lurking in the dollar store in late winter, watching for worthy kin of the elusive Dollarama Blue.

You may wonder why anyone would even want to turn a lawn into a meadow.  Think butterflies.

A lawn is pretty much a desert painted green.  It has little to offer wildlife other than robins;  even when it is infested with grubs, the flickers and skunks will only come long enough to eat them all.  Then it resumes its limited function.

Now imagine that space unmowed.  It is studded with tall wildflowers and filled with bright butterflies.  That is the current state of a portion of our lawn.  Suddenly it is full of life - a contributing principality of Planet Earth.  The meadow and I are are taking it one step at a time, but here is the general game plan:

I didn't cut it this spring.  Almost immediately forget-me-nots bloomed, as did coltsfoot (handy if you have a cough).  Before the dandelions could bloom, I dug them out.  Then I waited.  The only real work I did was to move paths and to keep them open.

It's July now and the meadow is in full bloom.  Buttercups, oxeye daisies and white must mallow are standing tall above the wild strawberries, bugleweed and clovers.  Call me arbitrary, even shallow, but the pink daisy fleabane (a perennial) had to be pulled because I have decided to focus on primary colours.  Sweet woodruff made the cut, as did cranesbill geranium because its pink blossoms don't last and it has a lovely clumping habit.  Perhaps I shall also leave the yellow hawkweed (an introduced species) but will have to decide before it seeds; a perennial,  it will be doubly hard to remove later and I haven't seen any butterflies on it.  Cinquefoil flower heads are forming and rudbeckia (black-eyed Susan) is almost ready to open;  both are keepers.  And almost hidden at one side I found jewelweed seedings.  Also called "touch-me-not,"  it's a handy antidote to poison ivy and a natural fungicide.  Hummingbirds love it too.

Again and again, I go outside to enjoy the meadow.  I must find my butterfly book because there are at least six species lapping up nectar and flirting with one another.  Whoever they are, all butterflies love summersweet and monadra, both of which I plan to add to the smorgasbord.

The meadow will be finished blooming in several weeks.  Then I shall mow the spent plants, scattering and nicking their seeds for next year's show, leaving a small group of goldenrods to sound the closing notes of Symphony 2014.

Our Amazon parrot, Gussie, would have loved it.  He relished hanging outside in his cage, and welcomed visitors to it.  Once I caught him contentedly studying a chipmunk who was polishing off the sunflowers in his cup.  A small meadow full of fluttering wings would have been heaven.  I too think it is.

Our house has an open door policy.

To be more accurate, Jon does.

Prairie children are raised with a few simple commandments:  "Don't let the heat out"  (October to May) and "Don't let the mosquitoes in"  (June to September).  My father was equally clear about never slamming car doors.  Resistance was futile.

Judging from my limited experience, however, Southern Ontario offspring must have had an enchanted door-free childhood.  If he thinks of them at all, my spouse views doors as benign spirits which make no demands and hold no fears.  In fact he has doors which miraculously close themselves, an outcome ensured because he had the great good sense to marry a prairie girl.

It is simple operant conditioning.  On hearing the storm door open, my autonomic nervous system goes on high alert.  My radar instantly detects a phalanx of mosquitoes hovering just outside.  Without straining, I can hear the triumphant "Its HIM!" followed by a chorus of tiny giggles.  And so it goes.  Just exactly what choice do I have but to put down my coffee (brush, scalpel, blowtorch, icepick -- your choice) and run to breach the assault?

To spare you what follows, I shall immediately skip to my point, which is that you should not expect to see a painting of mine which figures on an open door.  Even if the building is a deserted sugar shack with broken windows, the door will be gently but firmly shut.

Dad would be so proud.