Funny how one thing leads to another, especially in this era of instant information.  It started with a helpful remark from another artist:  her work was not only lovely but painted in oil, and so we inevitably started to talk art supplies.  Her materials, it turned out, come from Montreal — a company called Kama — and she was enthusiastic about the range of products.

Of course I had to know more.  It is a truth often observed that an artist can never have too many art supplies. Heading to the site the first chance I had, two hours later I was still glued to the monitor, scrolling through hundreds of colours, tantalizingly grouped in new ways (“Organic Pigments” versus “Inorganic Pigments”) and many of them absolutely new to me.  Blinded with feverish excitement, I plunged down the catalogue until I came to a dead stop at  “Da Vinci’s Toe.”   

So of course I googled it.    Don’t tell me you wouldn’t too.  No other paint manufacturer admitted to producing this bizarrely-named colour but I did find an article about Leonardo’s toe.  A researcher in Oregon with too much time on his hands had noticed that the feet in Da Vinci’s works all showed the first toe as longer than the big toe.  I read that and thought, “So what?  Aren’t all feet like that?”   

No, they are not.  (Aren’t you glad you stopped doing something important to read this?)  That long second toe is a thing.  More precisely, a “Greek toe.”   And there was my very own foot, starring in all of his anatomical drawings as well as several paintings.  The writer even advanced the argument that da Vinci must have been drawing his own foot, making this the first “selfie.”  By now, I was feeling pretty chuffed.  Leonardo and I.  Leo et Moi!
​
That Kama colour was still a puzzle, though.  It was a deep fleshy pink.  If that was the colour of Leonardo’s toe, it must have had some rough nights. It would look as though someone dropped a marble statue onto it, for this is not a pretty girlie pink.  One would have to call it angry.

I should have had the brains to stop there.  Instead, I followed the link to “Morton’s Toe”  only to discover that Dr. Dudley Morton was a whole lot less enchanted with Greek feet than Leo and I were.   In fact, he actually renamed our feet  “Morton’s Neuroma” because, if you frequently put them into high heels with pointed toes, as I did, them toes ain’t happy.  Mine certainly are not.  I can’t say what Leo put on his feet, but if he got out stilettos for parties, his too would have turned deep pink with rage.

It gets worse.  Apparently that Morton trouble-maker also called it Metatarsus atavicus — that is, a throw-back to prehuman grasping toes.  That’s code for monkey-foot.  Insult after injury.  I only hope Morton got snubbed at cultural events.

On the other hand, I can honestly say I have a da Vinci. 

Two, actually.

What IS in a name?

Let me begin with “Z’Anne.”  I can”t begin to tell you the problems it has caused.  I know that my father thought it would make a dandy contraction for “Elizabeth Anne” (note royal echoes) but I don’t think he foresaw possible complications.

There is the safety issue.  If you see a bus bearing down on me, please don’t use yell at me using the long form, which I no longer recognize as my name.  Even our doctor and dentist call me Z’Anne.   As does the dog.

This brings us to some basic I.D. snags.  My mother discovered to her surprise that I was twins;  another mother had mentioned that day how different we two were:   Elizabeth was the serious student and pianist.  That crazy Z’Anne was the athlete.   And if anyone checks, E.A. missed Grade 2, but apparently Z dropped out about then, because there are no more official records of her education.

Grade 9.  Oh, yes, Grade 9.  Didn’t the cranky Home Ec teacher insist that we first make a WW1 nurse’s apron (honestly, I saw Sybil wearing it on Downton Abbey), but we had to embroider our names on it to save her the trouble of learning to tell us apart.  So could I use Z’Anne?  Noooo, it had to be Elizabeth Anne.  The other girls had learned to make pie and sew a blouse while I was still bleeding red embroidery thread.  It’s a wonder anyone ever married me.  (My father's favourite discouragement for a pout was to tell me that no-one ever would, if that particular face stuck.  I know.  He loved me in his way.)

Then as an adult, more than once I have disappointed someone who was expecting some exotic beauty and finding me.  And noisy gatherings are a nightmare to try answering "And you are...?"

Enough about my issues.  Andy Warhol had his own.  He changed his last name to mask his connection to a small Eastern European area which apparently existed as a nation for one day only in 1939, but at least one person in his home town has decided to tout the connection through signage and an Andy Warhole museum as a way to attract tourists.  Not everyone in the town is a fan.  The NYT quotes one woman as saying:  "In America, you don't have to be good.  You just have to be different."



Jon and I always seem to get pre-named dogs.  We thought “Jewel” too twee until it became obvious that she was.  Wow, she was a real lady.  But “Theodore”?? It seemed far too formal for a trousled, big-headed boy’s boy whose coat is always full of hedge clippings but now we understand now that his moniker goes well beyond simply rhyming with “Je t’adore”;  “Theodore” not only echoes the morose mien of “Eyore” (when he wants to play the “I’ve-been-ignored-for-eight-minutes/bottomless-love-pit” card) but it simultaneously conjures up presidential self-importance.  The Magnificent Schmoozer has gotten to the point where he is sincerely baffled if anyone we meet doesn’t stop and pat him although I will admit that he’s quite gracious when accepting admiration;  another president could pick up some pointers there.

If we were ever to have the opportunity to choose a name, I’m leaning towards “Dyson” for a boy dog.  But my all-time favourite name for a snuggly cat  is “Merkin.”

Look it up.

There’s a delightful story about a man who goes out for dinner only once a year, when he attends the annual dinner of a club he belongs to.  The following night he looks up from their evening meal and exclaims to his wife, “Thank God for a night at home!”   

I wonder if he was a Keele.  The coming of autumn cheers my hobbit heart because it’s time to bring out the carpets and the warm throws, polish the brass, and light the fireplace.  While our friends explore the world, I travel through books and film.  Right now, I am watching alternative history — The Man in the High Castle  time-travels us back to the early sixties, to a  North America which has lost WW2 and is suffering under the occupation of the Japanese in the West and the Germans in the East. The “What If?” premise  has always interested me and this series is particularly well done;  I spent my teenage years reading speculative fiction  although I don’t remember this particular Philip K. Dick story,  The three-season series is so believable that, once you grant several assumptions,  it’s downright scary.

In a present moment which too is becoming getting scarier by the month, the  mesmerizing Kavanagh confirmation was unfortunately non-fiction as we sat agape,  witness to the intemperate rage of someone who feared he at the last hour might be denied his prize --  a permanent position of enormous power and influence.  Jon and I, reeling with dismay,  also watched Frontline’s documentary  on Trump’s record.  That sent me to read Lichtman’s book The Case for Impeachment, which is informative and persuasive.  I also recommend A Higher Purpose, which illustrates that it’s not just James Comey’s  substantial height which places him head and shoulders above the fray.  The world continue to present to us not only with anti-heroes but thankfully those too who live by principle.

So we may be home but we are happily so.  To ice the cake, this Thanksgiving weekend the house was alive with friends and family.   The fridge is full of autumn crops, including my favourite Honey Crisp apples. 
Whenever we had time, our little family headed outside to see the colours (Jon cycling or walking with me while Theodore schmoozed shamelessly).   The parks were full of families of all races and religions walking the trails and exchanging "Happy Thanksgiving" greetings.  So many homes -- our country, our city, our old house.  Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Rilke observed that being an artists means “not reckoning and counting, but ripening like a tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without the fear that after them may come no summer. It does come. But it comes only to the patient….”

Leaving aside the understanding that, as trees go, I am probably post-mature, it is nonetheless reassuring to read about a creative giant who admitted to struggling at times. At the moment, the productive juices are flowing but I also know better than to assume that today’s flow won’t transform itself into tomorrow’s ebb. Carpe-ing the diem, I therefore set aside today to double down on the three good-sized paintings on the go. There were winter reflections on water to tweak, a little girl whose hat and hair needed reworking, and a four by three foot canvas which had fully a third of its surface untouched by final glazes. Jon would have to cook supper, I decided.

Because it’s good to allow oil paintings to harden somewhat along the way, I forced myself to be patient and abandoned the studio this weekend to garden instead. It may be the horticultural equivalent of banker’s hours but it is simply too damned hot and humid to garden during the summer any more. Attacking the jungle on the far side of the house would distract me, I reasoned.. Surrounded by eight-foot bur marigolds, I shortly realized that having become a two-season gardener was going to cost me now. Luckily, a few desirables had survived, in fact thrived, despite total neglect — to whit, the spineless blackberries, English ivy and climbing hydrangeas were all as lush as I had ever seen them although none admitted to ever having previously met me or even seen humans. And even though the creeping Charlie, (which is gargantuan and has buried the path) wants to be addressed as “Striding Charles,” its Achille’s heel is spreading by runner. One steady pull is all it takes!

Appropriately, today it has rained continually and a girl's fancy can turn back to art. Not that today was any less work than having to machete the side garden but again time passes when you are absorbed with work. When I looked away from the easel, six hours had passed and my back felt like a corduroy road. But the fruits of my patient labour now lie in state -- flat on the dining room floor, surrounded by guards in the guise of dining room chairs. The biggest baby is below. It was murder to get a decent look at it today, what with small spaces and a dark day. There will be lots to adjust on Wednesday, when light and space return.

In the meantime, all of us here are counting on the hope that it won't be sporting a footprint or a pawprint by tomorrow morning.

And now I have to say bye-for-now because it seems I'm cooking supper.