My Make-Do Studio

HERE IT IS!

Everything is finished except that I need to redirect the overhead can lights, some of which have color corrected bulbs. I even have space to step back from my easel. That's a basic necessity for me for I simply cannot paint sitting down. And notice that empty shelf space. Ta da! I can set up still life arrangements to my heart's content. At eye level or not, as I choose. I do plan to add a cushion to my Mom and Dad's old captain's chair so I can sit and contemplate the different stages of my paintings. Sometimes I spend as much time contemplating as I spend painting so I need a comfortable chair and it pleases me that a little bit of my parents will be in my studio with me.

Although you don't see them, I have two standing, color-corrected lamps for when I am painting. This ensures that my paintings won't be either too yellow from incandescent light or too blue from fluorescent light. My artist friends already know this but the rest of you need to understand just how much thought goes into creating works of art.

Although I consider myself knowledgeable about most of this stuff, my artist friend, Beth Stallings, gave me a wonderful hint that I didn't have before. One of those standing floor lamps should be directed at my painting and the other one should be directed at my palette to ensure balance. This makes perfect sense but it is not something I've been practicing. Thanks, Beth!

Each week's blog brings several responses. After reading last week's blog, my friend, Ken Crouch, who lives in Arizona and Ohio, wryly observed, "With such close access to Carl's wine supply who knows what great works of art will surface in the future?" Since my alcohol consumption is usually only one glass of wine per sitting, I'm afraid Ken's theory won't be tested any time soon but it's an interesting thought. This is a good place to say that Carl is just pleased that I have finally removed my hanging trash bag from the necks of some of his wine bottles.

The process of cleaning and arranging has taken up all of my spare time this week so I haven't had time to try out my new space. Maybe this weekend.

I can hardly wait.

P.S. Notice my unique hanging system for unframed paintings. Where there's a will, there's a way.

Finding Space For A Studio

Many of my artist friends have wonderful spacious studios with lots of storage and special lighting – both natural and enhanced. They can set up their material, get out their supplies, paint to their heart's content, and leave everything out for the next session. Up until now, I have made do with a cabinet on our sun porch.

Although the lighting is great, this has its limitations. The porch is on the west side of our house. This means that the temperature out there reaches intolerable levels on summer afternoons and a different kind of intolerable level on winter mornings, not to mention the necessity of locking out the cat.

Have you ever tried to concentrate on a painting while listening to a yowling, scratching cat whose only wish is to be out there with you while tramping through all of your art supplies? White cat + oil paint or pastel sticks = disaster (see above). There are days when I lose my motivation after just thinking about the time it will take to get everything out and put it away again.

So. After complaining about my poor, pitiful, plight for more than ten years, it finally occurred to me that I can either spend the next ten years complaining or I can find a way to do something about it.

Those of you who know me, know that I am not fond of basements but, fond or not, it's the only space available.

Carl has already claimed the walls for his wine racks but I've negotiated with him for more of the floor space in the middle. Several years ago, he caught on that a four-foot mat cutter residing on the kitchen counter plus a perpetually disgruntled wife do not exactly contribute to marital bliss so he built a framing table and some shelves for me. Let's just say that, while he was not benevolent about giving up his space, his good nature finally won out and, in the interest of marital harmony, he is willing to share a little bit more of it.

My work has begun. I am clearing every single item off every single shelf and going through every single art bag that I own. Every item now residing in that space has to find a new home if it isn't related to my art. Hello, American Kidney Foundation and thanks for taking those old beach chairs this morning.

Meanwhile, I keep telling myself that I will enjoy painting in the basement with no natural light. I'm kind of like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz except that my mantra is "There's no place like the basement. There's no place like the basement. There's no place like the basement." I'm just positive that I will someday find myself saying, "There's no place like my studio. There's no place like my studio. There's no place like my studio," and I will love it. Someday.

An Uncommon Friend

Saying so-long to one of my Southern Colours artist friends last Friday caused me to stop and think about some of my uncommon friends.

My definition of an uncommon friend is a person whose path crosses mine unexpectedly and, on the surface, doesn't have a lot in common with me and, yet, that person finds a lasting place in my life; for example, a starched and pressed banker with every hair in place who just might give the impression of being more than a wee bit uptight on first impression.

Randy Eidson is moving to Rome, Georgia, and it is a distance too great to travel for our weekly painting sessions. I met Randy at an opening reception. Since I am a person who circulates and introduces myself to everyone who will pause and talk, I struck up a conversation with Randy and his wife, Sylvia. Sylvia mentioned that Randy had recently retired and had done a couple of little paintings. Since Southern Colours had no male members at the time, I invited him to come and paint with us. I also invited him to join the Southeastern Pastel Society. His response was, "Right! I can just see myself trying to paint with the president of the Southeastern Pastel Society!" Nevertheless, he choked back his reservations and began showing up.

Yes, he was a beginner. Yes, he had a lot to learn. And, yes, he was timid. One of his more memorable Southern Colours moments is the day I picked up an almost black pastel, added it to his painting, and said, "THAT'S what I mean when I say dark." He began referring to me as his Queen of Darkness. Another is when, during a critique, I looked at his painting and said, "Well, I don't HATE it."

Randy's drive to create art overcame all of his reservations. He not only soaked up information like a sponge but also found local workshops in which to participate. He practiced and questioned and was willing to try whatever was suggested. Most of all he listened. And that, my friends, is the biggest secret of all. Today, Randy is an accomplished artist whose work holds its own with the best.

He recently told the group what Southern Colours has meant to him: "I am excited about our move to Rome in every respect except one. I am distressed over losing Southern Colours. You all have been wonderful people to know and whatever progress I have made in my painting is due at least as much to the mentoring and critiques of Southern Colours as it is to my teacher. I'll miss the companionship and the encouragement because, no matter what I find in Rome, nothing will fill the gap left by Southern Colours. Those of you who are long-time members know this already. But for the newer members, my advice is treasure what you have in this group. You won’t find it easily again." I wholeheartedly agree with Randy's assessment.

Our love of art brought our lives together when Randy and I had little else in common. Our differences came to the surface again last week when Randy was willing to come for one last lunch IF I didn't mind that he wore jeans or cargo pants. My response was that I was absolutely certain his jeans would be starched and pressed. He was about to reply to my e-mail with a snide remark when he realized that, indeed, all of his jeans are starched and pressed. So here's to Randy, my uncommon friend. He's already planning periodic trips to paint with us and we're already planning to visit his new studio in Rome. Can't wait. One can never say goodbye to an uncommon friend.

The Aspen Family by Randy Eidson

New Year Celebrations

Our New Year's Eve celebrations are very tame these days – quite unlike those of days gone by when we hired a baby sitter, got dressed up, and prepared to see in the New Year at a big party. Entertainment was spontaneous and sometimes depended upon what toys our host's children received for Christmas. Can you imagine thinking adults playing Twister in evening clothes? I was wearing the beaded top shown here and a white mini-skirt the year I learned to do the twist to the latest Chubby Checkers hit record. Can you imagine Carl doing the twist? You're right. He didn't.

For the past several years, we've practiced spending New Year's Eve at home with our close friends, Brenda and Tom Flood. It's Christmas and New Year rolled into one since they always spend Christmas out of town. Although our gathering is small, we dine in a style equal to the finest restaurant. Our menu this year: Caesar salad, chateaubriand, red cabbage, asparagus, and sautéed white sweet potatoes followed by coffee and tiramisu.

Rather than dancing the night away, our guests usually manage to make it all the way to about 9:15 when they wish us a happy new year and go home. We still have the bottle of champagne we bought several years ago to celebrate with them because they never stay long enough to help drink it. Carl and I usually manage to stay awake in front of the TV long enough to watch the ball drop in New York and the peach drop in Atlanta.

Speaking of the peach drop, going downtown to see it in person is the closest we ever came to being in a genuine mob. Things were fine until it was time to leave. The crowd was so dense and shoving that one woman panicked and started screaming that her feet were no longer on the ground. We could only go where the crowd was going. We were packed so tight that no one could fall. That was a good thing because there is no doubt in my mind that a fall would have meant being trampled to death. It became truly frightening when we realized we could only go forward due to the relentless push from behind. There was no way out.

About the time we thought we were sure to be crushed against a chain link fence, we managed to squeeze through the opening to the MARTA station. Breathing a sigh of relief, we boarded the train and found a seat, only to be treated to a totally drunk, mostly passed out woman being supported at her waist by her male companion. Her upper body was hanging over Carl while she periodically moaned, "Oooh, I don't feel so good. Ooooh, I think I might throw up." Much to our relief, they finally got off the train without a mishap.

That's when we decided there's something much nicer about celebrating each new year with a quiet evening at home and wonderful friends. Happy New Year everyone. May 2009 bring you health, happiness, and quiet evenings with friends and family.