A Really Big Challenge

Artists have a way of never being quite satisfied with the status quo. We are always pushing ourselves to try new techniques, new products, new subjects, and, in this case, a new challenge to paint a self-portrait larger than life. It's our latest Southern Colours exercise.

Most of the Southern Colours artists have enthusiastically embraced this idea – some more enthusiastically than others, I must admit. Several have never before painted a self portrait, or any portrait for that matter. It's a learning experience extraordinaire.

Here you see me standing beside my 3 foot by 4 foot canvas that I now have to fill with an image of myself. Try this some time if you really want a daunting in-depth self examination.

The first thing I've learned is that I am older than I envision myself. There is no denying it when one has to put those brush strokes on the canvas. Where did all those wrinkles come from? Where did my tiny waist go? Surely I do not really look like this when, in my mind, I am in my mid-thirties. After bemoaning this fact for several weeks and listening to my fellow artists voice the same doubts, I have divorced myself from the image I am painting. Above all, this stranger must be portrayed honestly. Suddenly, the task is a whole lot easier.

My big canvas sits waiting in my studio while I am hard at work on a smaller prototype. There's no way I am going to dive into a painting this big without assuring myself ahead of time that my concept will work. I will make my mistakes on an 18 X 24 inch piece of pastel paper. Stay tuned and wish me luck!

Friends Are Found In The Darndest Places

The Internet makes possible some amazing connections that would never have otherwise happened. My grandparents' generation would never, in their wildest dreams, have imagined such a thing.

I've written before about some of the surprises I got after setting up this blog. I'm going to share another Internet story with you today.

Those who know me well are aware that one of my favorite pastimes is researching my family's history. For me, nothing can match the excitement of finding the identities and activities of those forebears who lived in the 1800s, 1700s, 1600s, and on back through the mists of time. Somehow, cowboys, Indians, and trips across the ocean at a time when a lot of passengers expected to die along the way are more interesting when one's own family was involved.

Both Carl and I come from families who have been in America since the early 1600s and 1700s except for one branch of his family – Gottfried & Beate Ulbrich who arrived in New York aboard the ship Holsatia on May 15, 1873. They had departed from Hamburg, Germany, fleeing the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian War. Given that we knew the name of their village, one might think finding their ancestors and what their lives in Germany were like would be a piece of cake. Not so!

When I first began this quest, the Berlin wall was still standing. Their little village of Hammer in Militsch Kreis was originally in Prussia, then East Germany, and ended up in Poland as a result of World War II. The current Polish name is Milicsz.

Since I don't speak German or Polish, correspondence was difficult to say the least. Letters took a long time and answers took even longer. Germany said the records were in Warsaw while Poland said they were in Berlin. I was at a stalemate. Then along came the Internet.

I eventually found a web site for Milicz along with photographs of their town council. Apologizing profusely for my inability to write in Polish, I told the story of my ancestors and asked if anyone would be willing to take photographs of the area for me. Nothing happened for a long time but, just when I had given up hope, I received an e-mail from a lovely person named Christa. Christa is an American from Pennsylvania who fell in love with a handsome Polish man, married him, and has lived in Poland ever since.

Several years have passed. Meanwhile, I have received wonderful pictures and little bits of information that I would not otherwise have had. When I'm least expecting it, along will come a packet of picture postcards, for instance.

Instead of showing you pictures of buildings and parks, I decided to post pictures of Christa and her husband, Marek, as well as the house they bought. I have now known Christa through a major illness, the births of their two children, and the purchase of their home in the old German section of their city. I commiserated when her husband, Marek, fell through a ceiling and injured his shoulder during renovations. She sent me a picture of her pregnant belly. I haven't asked for her mother-in-law's pierogi recipe...yet. Although we have never met face to face, Christa and I are friends.

Now Christa has set up her own blog. It's a great peek at every day life in Poland. Her comments on communism vs. present day capitalism are an education (see Keeping Up With The Kowalskis). Her description of trying to learn the Polish language while teaching the English language is amusing. Her sense of humor shines through everything she writes.

Go to the right of this page and click on "Visit Christa in Poland" for an interesting trip.

What Happened to Lucky?

It's time to let my blog readers know what finally happened to Lucky. Some might say the story is sad but I choose to consider it a happy ending.

As Lucky came and went erratically, Carl began calling him Part-Time. When he began spending more time at our house, we began referring to him as Half-Time. We finally began joking that he had graduated to Full-Time because he had obviously decided that 5134 Bowers Brook Drive was the place to call home.

He lost the horrible hair ball/skin flap that had plagued him, his coat was beginning to look better as he began to groom himself, he accepted the bed we made for him, and he was curled up waiting for me every morning when I took my coffee to the downstairs porch where I worked toward making friends.

Since I was the bringer of food and water, he finally tolerated my touching his back briefly while he was eating. He moved closer and closer each day until he finally felt comfortable enough to take a nap under my chair while I finished the morning paper. The picture above was taken on such a morning.

We finally decided to trap Lucky in order to take him to the vet for a check-up and neutering. She called an hour later to say he died a little while after she gave him the shot that would allow her to get him out of the cage and examine him.

An autopsy revealed that Lucky was older than we thought. He had broken teeth, an enlarged spleen, a mass in his abdomen and the same heart condition that killed our Tonkinese cat, Sami. Her diagnosis was that Lucky was only a few weeks away from death when we brought him to her.

Strangely enough, I miss him more than one might think. I had gotten used to spending the first part of my day with him. I was enjoying my early mornings outdoors rather than indoors and I was looking forward to the day when, just maybe, he could move into the basement.

Some might say this is a sad ending. I choose to consider it in a different light. Since nothing could have changed Lucky's fate, I choose to think he truly was a lucky cat. He had great food, plenty of water, a comfortable bed, shelter from the rain, and someone who cared about him – things he obviously had not had for a long time. As for me, that one little stray cat brought his own kind of joy to my life.

Knowing that we have done our best to make life better for another living creature is a good feeling. I recommend it.

Painting Live

When I first began taking art lessons all those years ago in Worthington, Ohio, I never dreamed there would come a day when I would enjoy painting from a live model. In fact, I never dreamed there would come a day when I would enjoy painting outdoors rather than painting from a photograph. I now know these feelings are typical of artists who are just beginning to learn their craft.

Here I am, many years later, with a complete understanding that nothing takes the place of seeing things firsthand.

We had a live model at Southern Colours last Friday. She was a beautiful natural redhead wearing a vintage black velvet dress. Counting 20-minute breaks, we had approximately 2 1/2 hours to attempt to capture her image. That's a challenge in itself, not to mention the difficulties of finding a good view and ignoring everything around her; i.e., other artists painting, tables, chairs, posts, windows, and everything else that one sees when there is no backdrop.

What a great experience it was. We were so focused; there was almost complete silence in the room - a first for Southern Colours. When we finished, we stood all of our paintings in a row and applauded ourselves. The applause was for the very act of attempting such a thing and for what we learned by doing so. It was applause for trying to do something that most of us knew in advance we would not be able to do - capture a true likeness in such a short time.

The comment, "Every portrait is a combination of the model and the artist," was never more true. While none of the paintings look exactly like our model, all of them look somewhat like her. Since we knew she wouldn't be coming back, all of us took pictures for later reference. I looked at my pictures this morning and realized, once again, what a poor substitute they are for the real thing but they will be helpful for finishing those things I didn't get around to.

My effort is at the top of this blog, along with a picture of our model. With a little more practice and a lot more time, I might even be able to make it look more like her.

After all, Michelangelo didn't get there overnight.

Lucky

Those of you who read the Atkins Boys blog have heard about the homeless cat that we fed and assumed would adopt us. We haven't been so sure.

After spending a couple of days at our house, we stopped seeing it. The cat food we left out disappeared when we weren't looking. Then we went on vacation for several days while Scott continued putting out food. He never saw a cat but the food disappeared.

Since leaving cat food outdoors can entice all kinds of undesirable creatures, I decided to discontinue the outdoor banquet until we could determine what was eating it.

More than a week went by but last Sunday the same homeless cat appeared on our driveway, looking even worse than it looked before (see above). After being served a breakfast of dry cat food accompanied by some of Lily Pearl's favorite Fancy Feast Elegant Medleys, it retired to a secluded spot under the lorapetalum bush where it spent the day. Afternoon brought another portion of dry food and a few of Lily's Greenie treats.

Scott & Greg arrived for dinner, with the news that "our" cat was downstairs on the porch. It got another helping of dry food and more fresh water. We were sure it would be waiting by the back door Monday morning. It wasn't. I left out a little dry food all day, just in case it came by when we weren't looking. No cat. Carl and I puzzled over the strange behavior of a cat with no home, obviously starving, that doesn't recognize a good thing when he sees it.

Turns out he does. He was lying by the back door Tuesday morning when I went out to begin my morning weeding chores. He was rewarded once again, with plenty of food, fresh water, and human company whether he wanted it or not. Wednesday brought more of the same.

Now it's Thursday and he seems to have gotten the message. He's beginning to lose his starved look, has worked up enough courage to take a couple of naps on the porch while I sat in the swing and he spent the night on an old quilt I placed there for him. I suppose it's time to give him a name.

Our friend, Norm Perrill, suggested that we name him Lucky because he will be the luckiest cat in the world if he decides to stay at our house.

The other names submitted were Orphan Anne or Orphan Andy, Phantom, Big Foot, Hairball, Orphan or Orphy, Newman (after Paul Newman's blue eyes), Hairy, Beni Gaku (a hydrangea) because Lily is a flower and we can call him Beni, Raleigh (because we liked living there), Wishful, and U.W. (stands for unwanted).

Lucky seems to fit the situation best. What's more, it's gender-neutral and we aren't absolutely certain that Lucky is a boy. Now if I can just figure out what to do about that awful hair mat……………..

Bird Girl Again

Here is the second version of Bird Girl.

The original painting went off to an exhibit as soon as it was framed and, meanwhile, Father Paddy asked to buy it the minute he saw it. Since it is my favorite of the last several paintings I have done, I decided to paint another version for myself.

I didn't attempt to duplicate the first painting. I simply painted the second one with inspiration as I had done the first one. I entered Bird Girl 2 into the Southeastern Pastel Society's annual competition before the first painting came home. It was one of the 65 paintings accepted out of 226 submissions.

Then Bird Girl 1 came back from the gallery. Much to my surprise, Bird Girl 2 is smaller! It is also brighter and the crystal globe is larger. And there are other differences - one is softer in feeling and the other has crisper edges. My artist colleagues in Southern Colours had quite a discussion about which painting is technically better and the conclusion was that they are simply different.

Now Father Paddy has the first Bird Girl, the second one went to Athens for the SPS exhibit as soon as it was framed, and I still haven't had the opportunity to hang either painting on my own wall. If Bird Girl 2 is sold during the exhibit, I think I'll have to wait awhile before painting Bird Girl 3.

Father Paddy kept his promise to tell me what immediately drew him to the bird girl painting. He simply loves the way the crystal is painted. He said he feels like he could reach right into the painting and pick up the objects if he wanted to. He noticed the symbolism after I pointed it out but that wasn't what caught his eye at all. Like anyone else, he loves the painting because he thinks it is dramatic and skillfully painted. He knows what he likes when he sees it. End of story.

A Family Treasure Comes Home

My dad was a wood carver. Actually, he would say he was a whittler but he had progressed way beyond that.

As happens with many prolific artists, their work has a way of flying out the door until, suddenly, when it's too late, the family realizes there isn't enough left to go around.

This was the case with my dad's carvings. They were purchased by major organizations, sold at state fairs, shipped to gift shops, and given to friends and neighbors who stopped by and admired a piece.

My youngest brother was recently notified that a carving would be included in an estate auction in West Virginia. He and my sister-in-law arrived early and spotted the black bear you see above. The auctioneer finally held it up and said, "I understand this was carved by a local artist. I don't happen to know his name but it is marked with the initials H.B. and dated 1971." From the other side of the big tent, a male voice replied, "The artist was Harley Burns." Try as he might, my brother could not see who had made the statement.

Bidding started with four or five people, then fewer and fewer until it reached the $100 mark with just my brother and the unidentified male on the other side of the tent still bidding. The other person dropped out and Dad's black bear was proudly reclaimed by our family.

But that's not the end of the story.

A little later, the man appeared in front of my sister-in-law who was holding the bear on her lap. "Did you happen to know the gentleman who carved that piece?" he asked. "Yes, I did," she replied. "He was my father-in-law and this is his son."

As it turned out, the other bidder was the son of a couple who had been longtime friends of our parents. He apologized for running up the bid but said he was determined that a dealer would not gain possession of Dad's carving. He related that, when he was married, our dad carved a heart for him and his new wife with their names and the date on it. It is still one of their treasured possessions. It is exactly the kind of thing Dad would have done.

To her delight, my brother gave Dad's only granddaughter the black bear for her birthday - from our dad, to him, to his daughter. What could be more fitting?

After more than thirty-five years, a family treasure has come home.

My Mother - Cora Lee Burdette Burns

Mothers come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and personalities. Some mothers are soft and fuzzy while others are hard and prickly. And, sadly, some mothers do not deserve the title.

One word best describes my mother: Steadfast. I did not come to this realization until a few short years before she died.

Her mother died when she was a tiny baby. Her father was an alcoholic. She was casually dropped into the homes of various aunts, uncles, neighbors, and acquaintances until her grandparents finally took possession of her at age five. Both of them died by the time she was thirteen. She lived in a terrible situation with a cruel stepmother until she ran away at age sixteen. After that, she was on her own; doing housework and cooking for different families in return for room and board. Raised in poverty, both emotional and physical, she had nothing and no one.

And then she met my father. They were married when she was nineteen years old. Other than her brief time with her grandparents, his was the only love she had ever experienced. She would have walked through fire for him.

I was in my fifties before I began to understand my mother's early life and the impact it had on the person she became. If anyone ever had an excuse to give up and become a failure, it was my mother. Instead, she decided she had one thing that no one could take from her – her self-respect. Her own words were, "I decided I would never give anyone the power to beat me down." Her goals in life were to be a good person, a good wife, and a good mother whose children would always know they were loved and secure.

She decided that her children would be proud of who we were, that we would treat others kindly, that we would respect everyone no matter their color or circumstances, and that we would work hard to get the education she never had. The Holy Bible was her guide. One of the verses she lived by was, "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it."

Through sheer determination and hard work, my mother stuck to her ideals through all kinds of difficult challenges until, one wonderful day, she realized that she had reached her goals. She was a respected member of her community. She was my father's soul mate. She looked at each child and was proud. And she never failed to tell us so.

Not too long ago, I was upset with a situation and venting my feelings to my husband. All of a sudden, I heard my mother's voice say, "Judge not, that ye be not judged, Sallie Anne."

I miss my mother's physical presence every day but she is always with me. She will be there until the day I die. Considering my independent spirit, there are times when I think that she made me what I am in spite of myself. On the other hand, perhaps I have it backwards. Perhaps she is the one who helped create my independent spirit.

Some definitions of steadfast: Faithful. Firm. Unshakable. Determined. Unbendable. Unswerving. Resolute. Loyal. Dependable. Unchanging. Constant.

My mother was steadfast. I am a better person because of her.

Unexpected Diamonds

I have a wonderful friend who is battling brain cancer. She had a second malignant tumor removed last week. She came into my life about six years ago when she moved next door. Since then we've shared a lot – including several years of hour-long walks every morning through our neighborhood and the adjoining ones.

One gets to know a person through and through on walks like this. Her history, her joys, her hopes, her fears. I learned that she had actually developed a list of 100 things she wanted to see and do before she died and she was methodically keeping track of her progress. Although many people talk about such things, almost no one ever does it.

Last fall she bought the dulcimer she has always wanted to play.

Life hasn't been the same this past year as she has struggled valiantly to overcome one of the worst nightmares that anyone will ever face.

I gave up walking when she couldn't walk with me but, this week, I made myself go alone. As I was walking along the sidewalk in the early morning, I suddenly realized I was walking down a path of brilliant diamonds sparkling in the sun. Although they were only tiny sparkles of light and had no monetary value whatsoever, they were as beautiful, or more so, than any diamond gemstone. No matter how fast I walked, there they were – spread out in front of me as far as my eyes could see. It was a vision that could never be captured with a camera or in a painting - sheer beauty in a concrete sidewalk.

I am hoping with all my heart that, one day, my friend will be able to walk with me again. Meanwhile, I have realized that taking one more walk with her along an ordinary sidewalk that the sun has turned to unexpected diamonds would be more precious than anything to me.

What A Difference A Day Makes

Not much can match the experience of painting outdoors in the spring if you're an artist. There is one caveat. Painting outdoors is more difficult than it seems because you're tempted to try to paint every leaf, every twig, and every blade of grass. That's where you quickly learn that the best you can do is try to capture an illusion of what you're seeing and feeling. That's where you learn that green isn't just green. You are guaranteed to use up lots of art supplies without anything to show for it at first. Many artists give up. Those who persevere will see color in a different way for the rest of their lives.

Last Friday dawned clear and beautiful. The pine pollen had subsided (somewhat), mosquitoes, gnats, and chiggers hadn't hatched, and the birds were singing their hearts out. It was a day made for painting outdoors – especially after braving the elements the week before and painting in dull, gray, cloudy, gloomy, light.

Given the choice, most of the Southern Colours artists chose to visit the same location where three of us painted the prior week. There we were, spread out along the pond and the trail with all of our supplies, determined to capture the glorious light of a perfect spring day. This week, I chose to paint the head of the muddy little creek that flows into the pond.

The painting you see above isn't finished. I was working with oil paints and the surface got too wet to go further. But look at the illusion of light compared to last week's painting.

What a difference a day makes!

P.S. After getting it home, I realized that I can turn this painting upside down and still have a painting, depending upon how I choose to finish it. I probably won't do that but I could. Is that exciting or what?

Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

After planning all week to paint outdoors, today's forecast was severe thunder storms with lightning and possible hail. Dawn brought dark foreboding skies and dire warnings from the weather channel. What a disappointment!

Today was to have been an exercise in creating an outdoor painting using favorite artist, Marc Hanson's, basic palette: lemon yellow, permanent red, ultramarine blue, and white. I planned for it all week. The car was packed and ready to go. After all of the anticipation, I couldn't stand the thought of painting indoors. What to do?

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I met two other brave artists, Sally Arnold and Beth Stallings, at the appointed place. We quickly decided that staying near our cars was a good idea, just in case we had to grab everything and go.

That decided, we discovered a lovely view across the pond practically right in front of us. Sally even found a post on which to rest her paints after she discovered she'd left her easel at home. Three hours later, we had each made good progress toward completing passable paintings. Do they look like Marc Hanson's paintings? Nope. Beth's painting looks like Beth, my painting looks like me, and Sally's painting looks sort of like Marc Hanson's.

We learned a lot by creating paintings with only a few colors – colors we wouldn't necessarily have used if left to our own devices. We also learned that it's sometimes better to take a chance than to have regrets. It didn't rain, it didn't thunder, and it didn't hail. Although the little painting above got too wet to finish and will never be a masterpiece, I'm glad I spent my morning outdoors with two good friends while learning something new.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Hannah's First Art Lesson

HANNAH AND HER PAINTING

There aren't many things more satisfying to an artist than being able to pass along one's skills to a willing student. It ranks right up there with selling a painting, as far as I'm concerned.

I've already written about my little friend, Marie, who lives next door and who is so excited about learning to be a real artist. And now I've found another willing student – Greg's friend, Hannah.

One of Hannah's favorite past times is drawing. She draws just about any subject at any time when she has a few moments to spare. She was even caught drawing a picture of Greg's dog, Star, from an image on his cell phone. Believe me, that's a challenge that most artists I know would not want to take on. Many individuals who think they want to become artists begin by declaring vehemently that they hate to draw. Not Miss Hannah. She loves drawing so much that she will draw just about anything that presents itself.

A couple of weeks ago, Hannah and I devoted an afternoon to her first art lesson. I gave her a variety of potential subjects and she immediately chose the most difficult one – a camellia in full bloom with many layers of petals. After looking at the set-up through a viewfinder, Hannah chose a composition that most beginners would have avoided like the plague – an extreme close-up on a relatively large piece of paper. This girl was serious!!!

Within the blink of an eye, Hannah had her drawing finished and was ready to start her painting. With music from "Phantom of the Opera" playing in the background, she was off and running. In three short hours she made the progress you see here. One more session will finish this painting. I can't wait to see the finished product where the leaves take shape and the center of the flower will be her well-placed focal point.

Now I ask you. Is Hannah's painting not wonderful so far? Hannah understands what makes an interesting composition, using lights vs. darks, the value of squinting, painting shapes vs. objects, and how to make round things look round rather than flat. She just jumped right in and tried everything I told her. There was no holding back because she was afraid she'd mess up what she had already done. This girl has no fear!

One of these days I will be able to say, "I knew her when……" What fun!

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

You will soon see that, although I had an opportunity to do so, I did not kiss the Blarney Stone. I should have.

Every St. Patrick's Day brings special memories of our trip to Ireland in 1998 with our friends, Camilla and Norm Perrill. It also brings memories of two faux pas that the Perrills and Carl will never let me forget.

We rapidly learned that Irish pubs are the very best places for lunch and they're also great for just hanging out and observing the locals. If you want to talk to the Irish while you're in Ireland, just go to a pub and you'll get all the conversation you can handle.

One thing we didn't know about was the Bank Holidays when it seems that everyone in Ireland has to go somewhere for the weekend. Suddenly the little town where we were staying was packed to the gills and we couldn't eat dinner until 9:00 p.m. Meanwhile, we found an un-busy pub on the outskirts of town to while away the time. We were the only patrons.

Knowing what vast quantities of Guinness the Irish consume, we were, nevertheless, saddened to see that the bartender was already so far gone that he was having difficulty speaking. As the Irish tend to do, after pouring our drinks he joined us by the fire and we began talking. We were stuck discussing the trials of driving on the wrong side of the road, etc., while listening to his slurred speech. The bartender offered that his mother and her friend rented a German car. She was driving on the wrong side of the road and came to a bridge with no guard rails. The bridge was only as wide as the car. His mother's friend turned to her and said, "Now DON'T PANIC!"

Trying to make friendly conversation, I said politely, "So are you German?" whereupon he replied, "NO! I'm Irish! I just have a speech impediment!" Trying to recover with at least a small shred of composure, I said, "Oh. I thought you said your mother rented a German car." "She did!" he replied. "She was on VACATION! In GERMANY!"

So much for jumping to conclusions. As it turned out the bartender had suffered a stroke at an early age and hadn't been drinking Guinness at all. Norman almost had a stroke himself from trying to keep a straight face during this exchange and he vowed to never let me forget it. He hasn't.

Later that evening as we arrived at our car about 10:30 p.m., a man pulled up beside us in an old sputtering car with no headlights, parked, got out, and said, "Air ye enjayin' it?" I thought he said something about jail so I said "No." He was so astonished that we had to sort out the conversation in order for me to explain that I really was enjoying Ireland. Given my track record, I decided to keep my mouth shut for a while and let someone else – anyone else - do the talking.

Two faux pas in one evening were just too much.

Why Are Some Paintings Special?

Artists who paint for the sheer love of creating art paint what we love. We are driven to produce beauty and we always hope that someone will come along who loves our work as much as we love the act of creating it. Whether or not that happens, we keep on painting.

Many of our paintings never find a home while others seem to fly out the door or off the walls of a gallery almost as soon as they are finished. Once in a while, a particular painting becomes a personal favorite. There is something about it that says, "I am special." If asked, we would be hard pressed to say exactly what it is that makes this one painting different from all the others.

My latest painting is both an inspiration and an experiment. It came about one evening while I was preparing for a long telephone chat with my friend, Camilla Perrill, who spends her winters in Florida. Camilla and I share wine time. Wine time in our households begins at 5:00 p.m. - kind of a joke that has evolved as a good time to sit down and enjoy our glass of wine before dinner. Sometimes Camilla calls at wine time and sometimes she doesn't call until wine:thirty or I might call her at wine:forty-five. We like to say that we enjoy having wine together apart. It's our special time.

On this particular evening, I had barely settled into Carl's recliner when an unexpected streak of sunshine came streaming through the window and turned all of the objects on the table beside me into a fantasy of light. I grabbed the camera and took a picture, one-handedly, while talking to Camilla. That was the inspiration for the above painting.

The experimental part came when I began the painting. One tried and tested technique for creating a focal point is to surround it with darker values. Those darker values make the viewer's eye go directly to the lighter part of the painting. I wanted the shadowy figure in the background to be my focal point but it was surrounded by bright, bouncing light. Would the same theory work in reverse? I wasn't so sure. My other challenge was that I have never attempted to paint so many clear, crystal objects – especially while looking at a blurry, out-of-focus photograph. It was a recipe for disaster. Instead, the painting does everything I want it to do. It is one of my favorites.

I took it to our Southern Colours session last Friday where it was pronounced a success. Several of my most talented artist friends announced, without my asking, that their attention goes directly to my shadowy figure in the background. Carl loves it. I love it. But even better, Father Paddy loves it so much he immediately asked to purchase it. I had to tell him that it is already committed to a gallery but, if it doesn't sell there, he will get first dibs.

I named the painting 'Bird Girl' because the shadowy figure is a replica of a famous statue in an old Savannah cemetery. She stands on our fireplace hearth. The original Bird Girl was featured on the cover of the novel, "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" and was in the movie of the same name.

Father Paddy didn't ask the name of the painting – he wants it, no matter what. Now I wonder what would attract a Catholic priest from Ireland to this particular painting? Why would he immediately love it? After looking at it carefully, I think it might be that he sees a lot of symbolism in it. There is the glass of wine, perhaps symbolic of the chalice or the water into wine Bible story. He may be seeing the shadowy figure as symbolic of the Madonna and the globe as representative of the world. Or maybe he just loves it without really knowing why.

I'm going to ask him one of these days. Meanwhile, what do you think?

Equal Time

My vent about one of my pet peeves - family researchers who drop me with no explanation - brought a response from Cousin #2, as I thought it might. I am giving her observations equal time today. This is what she said:

. I need to learn the facts before jumping to my own conclusions.
. My snide remarks are uncalled for.
. I am full of it if I think she doesn't have good records. If her records aren't good, it is because she has been given misinformation.
. Who do I think I am?
. She is sorry that I have my panties in a bind.
. I am barking up the wrong tree.
. I am trying to make a mountain out of a molehill.
. She didn't like the tone of my e-mails. In fact, she was shocked.
. Her cousin had the DNA done and she doesn't know anything about it.
. Her cousin is ill and is hospitalized.

I have responded to her personally and politely concerning her observations. Sadly, if she had given me those last two facts she believes I should have somehow learned, I would not have written last week's blog. Apparently, she didn't like my asking, point blank, why they were reluctant to discuss the DNA subject they had brought up so she stopped writing.

It is really too bad that an opportunity for a good exchange of information has been lost. It happens a lot when one party suddenly stops communicating with no explanation. And, although I did finally get a response as a result of what I wrote last time, I am still puzzled by this entire situation. It would have been much better for all of us if we had simply answered each other's questions in good faith and agreed to disagree, if necessary. We would, undoubtedly, have learned things we didn't know about mutual ancestors. Instead, we ended up in an Internet situation reminiscent of the Hatfields and McCoys, taking pot shots at each other. Maybe it's because we all sprang from West Virginia.

If nothing else comes of it, I hope that at least one person has learned to not leave people hanging on future correspondence that she initiates. I wish her well as she continues her search for her family's history.

Family History Research Has Its Fakers

Those of us who spend hours, days, weeks, months, and years researching our families' histories run across these fakers all too often.

Anyone who truly wants to know his or her family's history does not accept as true any information that cannot be documented. It isn't enough to find glowing reports of famous ancestors on the Internet with entire family trees flung out for all to see and claim them as one's own. Being published in a book does not make anything true unless the author has sources. Information such as this is only a place to start.

The Internet, especially, has made genealogy research much easier. There are records on-line that formerly required lengthy correspondence and visits to county courthouses, history centers, graveyards, libraries, archives, and state capitols. The Internet also makes it possible to compare one's DNA to others who have agreed to such comparisons. Such records are valid and conclusive.

On the other hand, all too many so-called researchers are willing to throw a bunch of names onto a family tree with very little documentation and publish it on the Internet as gospel. These people contact you with statements and then disappear into the woodwork when you confuse them with facts. After you've spent your time responding to them, you never hear from them again. All you have is their e-mail address and every polite inquiry is met with stony silence.

I ran across two cousins who fall into this category a week or so ago. I received an e-mail that stated a male cousin's DNA matches that of my husband and asked what I thought about that. Since Carl's male ancestry has been impossible to prove conclusively due to a loss of records when a courthouse burned in the early 1900s, you can imagine how exciting this was. I immediately sent documentation of what we know and asked some pertinent questions. The response said, "Holy Cow, what a lot of information," but didn't answer any of my questions. I politely inquired again and got another inane reply with no answers. I asked when it would be convenient to call. No answer.

Then Cousin #2 responded with a supposed family tree that included a household where Carl's great-grandmother was living in 1850 (although Cousin #2 didn't know this until I told her). I sent more information and politely asked again about the DNA. I got another inane response: "Still trying to figure all this out. It's quite confusing. I'll let you know if I come up with anything." I responded with an offer to share information and point-blank asked why both women are reluctant to discuss the DNA that supposedly caused them to contact me in the first place. I pointed out that DNA is not confusing – it either matches or it doesn't. Silence. I wrote again to Cousin #1. Silence. On Sunday I left a message on the cell phone Cousin #1 supplied early on. No response. Neither person seems the least bit interested in the treasure trove of documented information I have about their so-called family – information that any serious researcher would never let get away.

So here I sit, wondering why in the world anyone would contact me and then decide to not talk to me about the very subject they brought up. Meanwhile, there are no such DNA matches on any of the collaborating Internet sites. I can only conclude that these two people sent out incorrect information and now don't have the common courtesy to say they made a mistake. At best, they are inexcusably rude and their family tree is a fake.

I have done them the favor of sending them the link to this blog in the hope they will learn something about what constitutes both good manners and valid research. I am not holding my breath.

P.S. Above is the back of a postcard sent by my great-uncle, Orlin Burns, during World War I. It documents that he was in the Army, his rank, and where he was on a particular day. I don't know who Mike and Emma were but you can bet I won't be filling in those blanks with guesses.

Little Girls

SUGAR AND SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE,
THAT'S WHAT LITTLE GIRLS ARE MADE OF.

The little girls I know come in all sizes, shapes, and colors but they have one thing in common. This little rhyme applies to all of them.

There is my niece, Laikyn Lovas, who is very grown up for her age. Laikyn will be eleven years old soon. She lives in Ohio and she always takes time to write nice thank-you notes for the Christmas gifts I send to her and her little brother. I have a whole collection of them. I wish I could see her more often.

Then there is Marie Stanford who lives next door. Marie is seven. She and I share a love of art. Marie sends me little cards and letters and she draws pictures for me. She brought me a special Valentine last week. She and I are thinking about when to schedule our next art session.

Maymuna Shawkat lives on the other side of Marie. Maymuna is also seven. She first came to my house when Marie and I were packaging up Marie's secret Christmas gift project. Maymuna appeared at my door a few days later with a book she wrote. I am now the proud owner of "A Day At The Beach" by Maymuna Shawkat, illustrated by Maymuna Shawkat.

These three little girl friends are very special to me. As we say in the South, "Their mamas are raising them right."

I am also blessed to have many big girl friends. I'm sure they started out just like Laikyn, Marie, and Maymuna - sugar and spice and everything nice. They still have it all.

So You Think We've Had Winter In Georgia

While riding to the Southeastern Pastel Society meeting yesterday evening, one of my friends remarked that she can't stand winter and will be glad when it's over. It was 70 degrees outside and the sun was shining. Granted, we'd had a week or two of colder temperatures – in the teens with a cutting wind – but our lows are usually in the 30s with highs in the 40s and 50s. Sixty-plus degree days aren't unusual.

Meanwhile, my brother and his family recently spent three days without electricity or phone service in –0 weather with a wind chill of at least –20 degrees. They had approximately 10 inches of snow followed by several inches of ice. Their generator ran out of gas and they couldn't get out to purchase more. When the roads were finally cleared, they had to drive to the next county to find gas. My beautiful sister-in-law learned the hard way that a generator would not support a hair dryer. Their gas fireplace became their only heat source.

The above photographs came from my Ohio friend, Mary Frances Rauch. Looking at them makes me long for the utter beauty of a Northern winter. Yes, it is colder. Yes, it can be really miserable. It can even be life threatening. But having said all that, there is nothing that can compare to sunlight and moonlight sparkling on newly fallen snow and ice. It's a fairyland that almost makes your heart stop and being marooned with your family can be a really special time.

With no TV, nowhere to go, and nothing else to do, you're suddenly faced with the need to talk to each other more, read, play board games, and improvise to create meals from whatever is on hand. Keeping warm is Job 1. Getting through the emergency becomes a team effort and everyone pitches in. It's a good feeling.

I miss it.

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.