HAPPY NEW YEAR TO FRIENDS, TO FAMILY, TO THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD

Evelyn from Nebraska, part 3

Evelyn from Nebraska had so much energy in our photo shoot, that I could spend a long long time just painting her. I can't, of course, and for now the curtain comes down. Evelyn and I, I believe, share one more favorite picture, and I'll come back to that once my pulse slows down. There's an energy that I've discovered in painting, in art, of any kind, I suppose. It's a surge of ideas, a few hours awake before dawn, when I have finally given up on sleep and gone disheveled into my art room, which I dearly love. There's nothing quite like the calm that settles in when I slosh a brush of paint across a new sheet of watercolor paper. It's not high art. It's not for anyone but me. If I accidentally make a few people happy, then I'm thrilled. Why has it taken me so long to discover this? I can't answer that, but I'm grateful for a little time to continue.

Evelyn from Nebraska, part 2

Those of you addicted to expressionist art, as I am, know that portraits rarely show people as they appear--more as the artist feels about them. Irony is a strong component in expressionist art, and that's why attractive models, like Evelyn from Nebraska, are such a challenge. I feel a tinge of guilt about distorting and discoloring them. Still, Evelyn has proven to be a good sport, so here's Part 2 of my Evelyn studies (more distortion in studies to come):

Evelyn from Nebraska

Some of you may vaguely remember, if you happened to be reading my Facebook page, that a woman from Nebraska, named Evelyn, wanted me to do a portrait of her. Last week or was it two weeks ago, she drove with her family to Salt Lake City with the express purpose of doing a photo shoot from which I would extract one or several paintings. Needless to say, I felt the pressure. I didn't know Evelyn, and she didn't know me, but I soon discovered that she was one funny woman. There are more portraits to come, but I thought this one of Evelyn busting a gut, might be a good way to start. I discovered in the course of the shoot that sometimes her smiles had a slightly demonic grin, so I included that in this painting.

High Tea with Masks

I've been intrigued with the idea that we all wear masks, whether we're aware of it or not. We shift our language depending on whether we're talking to a kid next door or to the president of the United States. We dress up for some occasions, down for others. Make-up, after-shave, and a host of perfumes are eager to change our appearance, even our smells. One might ask if we peeled all the masks away anything would be left.

Sometimes a gift just walks through the door

I posted a painting recently, and Cheri Pray Earl then suggested that I paint a picture that draws on T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." At first the line, "I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled," came to mind. But on re-reading the poem, I decided to go with the line, "Do I dare to eat a peach?" It is so overladen with meaning and innuendo that I must constrain myself. Curious readers may revisit he poem. After at least a dozen versions, I have settled on this painting. Thank you, Cheri. I dedicate this to you.

Photo shoots: going with the flow

Photo shoot on Saturday. Good model, a lot of fun. Laughing. Exhausting. How can you plan these things? I don't know, I don't try. Painting is going to be fun.

Here are four of my favs. You can see more on my web site:
http://tomplummerphotography.com/p200217412

Leap of Faith

 

Forty years ago, I read Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling. Kierkegaard expounds on the story of Abraham and Isaac, the commandment of the Lord to Abraham to sacrifice his son. Abraham proceeds to fulfill the commandment but is stopped in the last moment by an angel. Kierkegaard then defines faith as the "leap," knowing that the leap can only end in disaster, but believing that it will somehow, through faith, end otherwise.

Max Factored

Mercedes and Rachel had a suitcase full of tricks when they came to model. I'm calling this one Max Factored. It may be my favorite:

Cheers to Mercedes and Rachel.

Sibling Rivalry

Mercedes and Rachel, sisters with obvious affection, obliged me with a photo shoot. When I asked them if they ever fought as kids, Rachel grabbed Mercedes' hair and yanked it. My camera was running, and that led to this painting. They're still friends.

 

Go into the Arts

Taken from Sherry's Facebook. I like this quote:

"If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” 

Kurt Vonnegut, Man without a Country 

Pastorale

Waiting for Albinoni

The latest piece. I asked Louise last night why some pieces are harder to create than others. She said,
"They're all hard. You just forget."

Rocking the Boat

Louise is the creative, restless one between us. We no sooner get home from vacation, and she's hunting for apartments in New York City. It's not enough to sit and smell the flowers--not for long, anyway. No sitting on our derrieres around here. One life to live, and we're damn well going to live it. Or part company. Have you heard the news? Tom and Louise are splitting.

So tonight we made a short list of things we might do to keep ourselves filled with adventure. Nothing scary, mind you. No skydiving, no cliff jumping, no acrobatics in the air. And since I can't swim, no water sports. Here's our list:
Hike to Donut Falls--not to the top, mind you, just to the bottom
Museum of Natural History
Antelope Island
Fishing on Corn Creek and in Fillmore, Chalk Creek
Cabins at Fish Lake
Camper/tent and camping
Drive to Monroe
Sit on a stream
Corn Creek camping

Pretty tame, most of it. No bucket list here. Monotone. Dullsville. But we did come up with one idea we both like. The Larry Miller Motorsports Park, where you can rent these little "go karts" that you drive like hell around an enormous track, "over three times the size of Disneyland," the online blurb says. And then, as if written for Tom and Louise, the caption, "GET YOUR HEART RACING."

That's the ticket. Get our hearts racing. More ideas tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'll start my engine.

So, dear reader, what do YOU do to get your heart racing?

A Pre-Celebration of the 50th Anniversary

With our 50th anniversary looming, Louise and I decided to make a run for the beach. Here is my photographic journal of a fabulous week, with abundant thanks to our friend and host, Mary Ellen and to our new friend, Cy, for escorting us to new foods and sights. How else would we have known about olallieberry pie? Balboa Island, in Newport Beach, California, is a cornucopia of images. Most striking, maybe, are the flowers. A smattering of my favorites:

And the modern art at the Orange County Museum of Art:

And of course the boats in the Thursday afternoon sail boat race:

My favorite part, however was the people. Our friend, Mary Ellen:

Our new friend, Cy:

And, of course, Louise, who has rocked my boat for more than 50 years:

Dreaming of the Old Days and Fred Astaire

A couple of weeks ago, we got our Amazon-ordered CD of Fred Astaire singing his songs. The CD has been running next to Carly Simon in the car ever since. I love them both, but Fred takes me back to an ancient time when he sings "Cheek to Cheek," "The Way You Look Tonight," and "The Continental." And when he swings into "Night and Day," I'm right back in boy's glee at Roosevelt Junior High. And I wonder if Mrs. Baker, who was a lovely but sexless woman, even thought about the lyrics she was teaching the adolescent youth of her class:

Night and day, under the hide of me 

There's an oh such a hungry burning inside of me

And its torment won't be through

Till you let me spend my life makin' love to you

Night and day. 

And to think it didn't even make me horny. I don't know where my head was, but it wasn't where Fred's apparently was. Maybe if we had tried to imitate Fred's intonations we could have caught on.

So I dream of the old days, when Fred Astaire danced with the gorgeous Ginger Rogers and the stunning Rita Hayworth, and I was still trying to figure out my body parts. And now I've been married almost 50 years, and I'm still trying to figure out my body parts.

Anthropodermic Bibliopegy

For all you fans of anthropodermic bibliopegy (ha! my spell checker rejects the terms), Harvard has discovered a book in its collection, "Des destinées d'lame," which was bound in human skin. Today's New York Times reports, "The practice of binding books in human skin, which dates at least to the 16th century, was once somewhat common, according to the Houghton blog. Criminal confessions were occasionally bound in the skin of the convicted, and individuals might request to be memorialized for family or lovers in the form of a book covered in a piece of themselves."

So theoretically, I could have one of my books, say, "Eating Chocolates and Dancing in the Kitchen" bound with my skin after I die, and lines of people would surround the library to visit me/it. Or a discussion at family home evening, perhaps: "Hey, go get my dad's book." Such double entendre I had never imagined.

The possibilities for a creative curtain call just keep stacking up.

Checkers Anyone?

I completed this piece over a period of days. The original photo lent itself to design and angles. The model put her best foot forward, as it were.

Then came a ton of experimenting. Somewhere along the way, I thought of harlequins, and this was the result. My motto: if I'm not having fun, why bother?

Kabarett

A modernized (and slimmer) version of Marlene Dietrich in Der blaue Engel. She seduces a professor, so I tread lightly.

Let the Wooing Resume. Happy 50th, Louise

June 18th is our 50th wedding anniversary. We're leaving town, heading off for a repeat visit to Balboa Island, a place by the sea, a place of charm and beauty and dreams. And I've been thinking about the last trip to Balboa Island, which Louise made alone. Yup left me home. And it brings up memories of a blog I wrote for "The Apron Stage" after she returned home.  My job then was not to travel with Louise. My job was to stay home and not make a mess. But Louise gave me another purpose for living. Here's the story, dated May 13, 2010: 

Last year Louise made a solo drive to Newport Beach. She wanted to prove to herself that she “could still do it.” I had no doubts, but she, being the person she is, was not so sure. Maybe she had early onset Alzheimer’s or some other undiagnosable, incurable ailment. So she drove off, waving a giddy wave as she rounded the corner and into the west. The first night, she called from a $6.00 a night casino on the western Nevada border. “I’m doing it,” she said. “I can still do this. And it’s only costing me $6 a night.”

Night after night, she checked in. Each time she said how happy she was to have made the trip, how she now wanted to work on the car ferry between Balboa Island and Balboa Peninsula, beginning as the fare collector and moving up to pilot of the boat. 

“I know I could do it,” she said. “I asked the guy collecting money if I could work there,” she said. “He said I should apply in the fall when the student collectors go back to school. I could be a money collector on a ferry.”


And then, on the last night, when I thought I knew where this was all going, that she would return home to trouble-free hugs and kisses from me, she said, “I want you to woo me when I get home.”

“You want me to woo you?” I repeated her words.

“Yes,” she said. “I want you to woo me.”

The words banged around my head like bowling pins. “I want you to WOOOOOOO me when I get home.”

The conversation ended somehow, and I sat staring into the darkness of the room. A deadness spread through my body like an oil spill. I recalled for a moment how Louise had once said that I am predictable. I never surprise her. I could never accuse her of being predictable. The woman rocks my boat. And I fell asleep on the sofa.

I woke up after nightmares of wooing. I had never really wooed anyone. Well, when we got engaged, I wooed her, I guess. But that was then. This was 45 years later. And then, what does it mean to “woo” someone?  Google. Maybe Google had the answer. I Googled “woo.”  “Woo” a Chinese name. “Woo,” etymology from Middle English women. Then again, “Woo: 1) to sue for the affection of and usually marriage with  [a woman]; court [a woman]; 2) to solicit or entreat especially with importunity <woo new customers> 
3) to seek to gain or bring about.” Bring about what? Definitions would not help me. Could not help me.

Next Google search: “How to woo a woman.” A lot of answers popped up for guys trying to seduce a woman. Guys who had not the faintest clue how to go about it. Guys like me. I suddenly felt sorry for all those nerds. Wooing advice came under titles like “Seven ways to woo a woman properly.” “Ten ways to woo a woman.” “Scientific proof: the successful way to woo a woman.” Forget that one. Scientific proof? Give me a break. And “Fifty ways to woo your lover.”


Somewhere in all of that nonsense, I picked up on an idea. Rose petals. Strew rose petals on the bed. That was the advice. Screw that. Strew rose petals all through the house. Strew them all over the place. Yeah. Rose petals for starters.


I called florists. “Do you sell rose petals?”


The first one, a guy, paused. “You mean, like,” he hesitated, “for wooing a woman?”


“Yeah.”


“No. Sorry, Bud. Good luck.”


Several more calls, then pay dirt. “Yes, we have rose petals. We sell them by the bag.”


I tore out of the house and across town to the rose petal seller and bought the biggest bag. I was on a wooing roll now. I’d woo that woman. Then I went to Target. Wandered around the house wares (full blown disaster), the bedding (just as bad) and into the cosmetics section. There were rows of bath salts, smelling massage oils, foot baths. I cleaned off a shelf. I bought a basket. Then into the CDs. Jonny Mathis and Frank Sinatra. "Chances are, 'cause I wear a silly grin, the moment you come into view... la de da da." 

Louise came home to a big sign I’d made up and taped to the door. I no longer recall what it said.  Rose petals strewn from the front door, up the stairs, into the bedroom and onto the bed, all over the bed, where the basket of goodies awaited her, along with chocolates. No wooing Louise without chocolates. We danced to Johnny and Frank crooning love songs and ate chocolates. 

She hugged me, kissed me, thanked me. Said she felt wooed.

Later we went out to get some food. Our grandson and a friend came over to see grandma. When we didn’t answer, they peeked through the window next to the door and saw the rose petals. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Harrison said. “I think they’re having sex.”

The next evening, Sam and Sarah came over to welcome Louise home. They looked at the rose petals, still strewn around the house. Louise raved on about her wonderful wooing.

Sam got a smirk on his face. “Did you have to Google for ideas?” he asked me.

The 50th is coming, Louise. Let the party begin. I love you. 

Beauty and pain

This is my latest painting. I am working to answer the question, what does an artist do with a beautiful model?

A boy and his horse

When I saw a photo of Tom and his horse, I had to paint it.
Thank you, Jacqueline.

Hey Bird Dog

Time to write. 

Time to paint.

Time to raise hell. 

Paint to music. 

Hey Jude. 

Mamma don't let your babies grow up. 

Just screw around. 

Write something. 

Johnny is a joker. 

I met a boy named Frank Mills.

What would John Lennon do?

Requiem. 

You're gonna die. 

Yah yah yah. 

Play play play. 

Coping with Chaos

My friend Sherry sent me this cartoon the other day. It came on the heels of death and disease among friends, catastrophes that struck without warning, confirmations that with the best of plans, nothing is predictable: 

Anyone who has lived for even a short time must agree with Robert Burns that  

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]. 

And so it was that I drove to Ogden on Friday to pick up a couple of works of art that had not sold at a gallery auction. I loaded them into the car, drove away, knowing that my day was already a success. Two blocks later, I ran a stop sign. An innocent woman, driving a new Kia, blew into the left front of my car. Police assured me that it "could have been worse," that no one was hurt.  I knew that, but I also knew my day was going to be different than I had thought. 

When I finally got home with a rental car, I took a Lorazapam to calm my shot nerves and a couple of Hydrocortisone to boost my adrenaline. 

And "So it goes," says Billy Joel in Slaughterhouse Five. Once again I am grateful for boring, uneventful days, when nothing, absolutely nothing happens.

Dust Off Your Camera

Spring photos part 1: 
 My friend Jacqueline took this picture with her cell phone. It is one of many incredible photos she has taken of her boys, because she's had her phone handy. And she knows a great picture when she sees one. There are so many things right about this picture that I could blather on for a long time. Just three things for now.

Timing
First, of course, is the timing. Jacqueline was ready when that horse opened its mouth, showing its gorgeous teeth, and her son, Tom, who knows horses, had his laughing face right next to the horse.  What's that old cliché about a horse laugh?

Camera angle
Then there's the camera angle. Jacqueline was standing at a perfect angle--more to the right, more to the left, a little higher or a little lower, and the shot would simply not have been as powerful. That camera is at Tom's eye level.

Close up
And third, she is right there, right up close to both Tom and the horse. There's barely room for anything else in the frame. Just Tom and that horse. It's a prize winning photo, and Jacqueline was there. Whammo.

Spring photos part 2: 

I took this picture at a family reunion. It does not compare with Jacqueline's photo, but I want to make a couple of points. 

Shoot children at eye level

First, when you are taking a photo of a child, get down to the child's level. I see people all the time taking photos of their kids, standing up and shooting down. The kids eyes are about three or four or five feet below the level of the camera. Get to eye level. Sit on the ground. Lie on your stomach. Get down. Down down down. I don't care if you're in the Hilton or the Bellagio. If you're up and the child is down, you'll wish you had groveled. I was lucky this time. The mother was holding her babe.

Focus on the eyes

Second, if the eyes are in focus, the picture works. Focus on the eyes.The eyes have it.

Get up close

Third, get up close. Don't stand back 10 or twenty feet. Get close and you'll love the picture.

There are exceptions to every rule, including mine, but it's a good idea to have a strategy in mind.

Happy shooting. 

On the Virtues of Loafing

It is 1:08 PM. I am sitting on the bed, unwashed, unshaven, wearing only the clothes I wore to take the dog out to pee a few hours ago. Now the dog lies between Louise and me as we while away our lives, enjoying a slow day of loafing.

Running through my head is an old Mormon hymn, now slightly revised: "Have I Done Any Good?" Text and music by Will L. Johnson (1847-1909). Verse one asks a question: "Have I done any good in the world today?" As if we are not beaten enough with this first line, the Mr. Johnson continues his thrashing:

Have I helped anyone in need? 

Have I cheered up the sad

And made someone feel glad?

If not I have failed indeed. 

It is my belief, without hard evidence, that this single man, Will L. Johnson, with his rotten little verses, has added more depression and neuroses to my religious community than any scripture or sermon could possibly have done. But wait. He wends his way to the last brutal verse, condemning anyone who fails to conform to this nonsense: 

Only he who does something

Is worthy to live, 

The world has no need for a drone.

Well, I'm a loser, Baby, so why don't you kill me? All those artists, writers, composers, who spend half the day sitting in bed dreaming, thinking, stirring up the juices of creativity are not worthy to live? I'm glad Mr. Johnson was not running a camp in Dachau or Matthausen or Auschwitz. 

A different perspective comes from an article by Tom Hodgkinson titled "The Virtue of Idleness" in the British newspaper, The Guardian: "For all modern society's promises of leisure, liberty and doing what you want, most of us are still slaves to a schedule we did not choose."

Mr. Hodgkinson goes on to cite a long list of creative spirits, historians, philosophers, scientists who managed to break the rule of early to bed, early to rise and change the world for the better. I think my favorite is Walt Whitman, who arrived at the office of the newspaper where he worked at 11:30, went to lunch at 12 for a two-hour break, worked another hour and then "hit the town."

Pity, some might say. He might have written more than just The Leaves of Grass. Good riddance, Walt, you weren't worthy to live.

It is now 1:44 PM. Feeling sleepy. 

On Creativity

Painting by Nellie Mae Rowe

This is the second of several blogs on creativity. If you think you are a dullard, an uncreative person, a drone, think again. Stay tuned.

Yesterday Galen left a comment on this blog. "You might find this article interesting," he wrote. Galen then offered this link:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/04/creativity-habits_n_4859769.html

The link is to an article by Carolyn Gregoire in the Huffington Post: "18 Things Highly Creative People Do Differently." I'm going to provide a Reader's Digest version of this article, although I strongly recommend reading it in its entirety. Before my encapsulated version, however, I want to make a statement: Creativity is not a talent. It is a way of thinking, a way of doing things. You may not be a Mozart, I will never be a Shakespeare, but we everyone can all learn to be more creative. So without further stupid blathering, here are the 18 things. Some of these will not make sense. READ THE ARTICLE. 

They daydream.

They observe everything.

They work the hours that work for them.

They take time for solitude.

They turn life's obstacles around.

They seek out new experiences.

They "fail up."

They ask the big questions.

They people-watch.

They take risks.

They view all of life as an opportunity for self-expression.

They follow their true passions.

They get out of their own heads.

They lose track of the time.

They surround themselves with beauty.

They connect the dots.

They constantly shake things up.

They make time for mindfulness.

"I want to write a book someday."

Take your pick: "I want to write a book someday," or "I want to be a painter someday," or "I want to be a dancer someday."

Someday is the loser word. If you want to write a book, paint a picture, dance in Swan Lake, now is the time. Here are the excuses I've heard:
"Oh, I need to spend time with my kids right now."
"I'm so busy at work I just come home and sit."
"I know I'll never be any good at it."
"I have no ambition."
"I'm old."
"I'm losing my mind."
"I want to finish watching House of Cards first.
"I'm constipated."

I'm here to tell you a secret. You can do anything (except maybe dance Swan Lake) at any age. Yes you can. I am not some young punk telling you this. I am 74 years old.

Two years ago, Louise dragged my depressed derriere out of the house. "You're going to art class with me," she said. "The people are lovely and the teacher is just great."

"I haven't drawn anything since second grade." I'm yowling even as she takes me out to the car.

In class I meet Marian, the teacher. Her name has come up before in this blog. It will come up again. Marian hands me a piece of yupo. I don't know what yupo is, so she explains. "Yupo is watercolor paper with a glossy finish. You can wipe off anything you don't like. See?" she says, swishing on some paint and wiping it off. "You can change anything you want on yupo."

Marian points to a rooster that she has painted. It is about 5 feet by 20 feet. At least it feels that way. It has different colors than this one, which she also painted, but you get my drift. It is a damn good rooster.

Well poop. I open up my box of watercolors that Louise bought for me this afternoon and begin. My worst fears are confirmed. I can't draw for squat. After two hours of work, my rooster is done. It doesn't look much like Marian's:

Marian swoops down. "I love that coxcomb. Don't change that coxcomb."

"It looks like a miscarriage," I say.

"Don't change that coxcomb." She pauses. "You might be interested in trying collage," Marian says. "You cut things out and paste them together."

That was two years ago. How do I feel about art class? Art class is better than church. Art class is better than the celestial kingdom. Art class is better than sex. Especially at my age.

So what's the secret? What do you have to do to write a book? Learn to dance? Paint a picture?

THIS IS IT FOLKS, THE SIMPLE SOLUTION: TAKE A CLASS OR FIND A TUTOR. YOU'LL THINK YOU'VE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN.

If You're Weird and You Know It, Clap Your Hands

Honorable Mention, Statewide Competition

March 7, 2014

What does it take to write a memoir?

"Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit at your desk 

until blood 

spurts out of your forehead."

I have a question for you readers:  Would you benefit from having a writing coach help you with writing your memoir?  If you do, I want to hear from you. My email is tom@tomplummer.com.

I have been coaching several people in writing their memoirs, and from that experience, I can say with some authority that numerous factors go into writing one.

1) Time. Most successful writers, not all, have set aside time, a specified, limited amount of time each day to write. The old complaint, "I plan to write my memoir someday, but I just haven't gotten to it," doesn't wash. A half hour a day, and hour a day writing will kill no one.

2) Even experienced writers are stumped when writing about their lives. Most are confused with what they hope to see as their end product. Most need help in learning to write details, to write in scene, and to balance narrative styles. Some  can do this by taking workshops or classes or by working one-on-one with a trained and seasoned writing coach.  Many find that they are unable to travel or have no idea how to find a writing coach.

3) Courage and training. Many who tackle a memoir have had a rough path in their lives. Teaching memoir for 20 years with Louise at Brigham Young University convinced me that hardships outweigh or certainly balance normal life styles. Writing about family hardships can feel intimidating, embarrassing, shameful, and humiliating. Professional coaching will help. Whether taking a seminar or college class working one-on-one with a writing coach can teach you strategies for writing your stories that are honest and far reaching.

4) Feedback. Most of us need feedback from one person or another about our writing, our style, our grammar, and generally our writing skills. The best feedback will not come from family members, whose memories conflict with yours. A writing coach can help you formulate your memories, not someone else's memories.

I have developed a program for coaching people either locally or long distance. Chat sessions online for an hour each week are proving to help people write with more detail, more confidence, and more purpose for the end result of their efforts.

My question is this. Should I expand my efforts? Do you need help writing your memoir? Would a writing coach help?

If you are interested, you may comment here. Or you may email me at tom@tomplummer.com.  I'll be happy to chat with you about your project and how I might be able to help you get underway.

Do you want a good laugh?

This is it.

Enjoy and pass it on. Compliments of Jonathan.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10152642257355300

Sticking with My Style

I've had a problem. I do not paint realistic pictures, and I when I try, the colors are wrong, the lines are wrong, the shapes are wrong, everything is wrong. I have learned this lesson over and over. Most brutally one evening in art class, when our teacher, Marian, looked over my shoulder as I was trying to paint a straight line or a straight curved line, or something.

And she spoke in a voice that I had only heard when she was arguing with Irwin, another painter. "What are you doing? That's not your style. This is your style." And she took the paintbrush from my hand and splotsched green paint right through the middle of my picture. "That's how you paint," she repeated. I went home and started over. 

And still I struggle. I work from photos, and the photos scream in their squirky voices, "We are photos. We are real." And I fall for those voices every time. The above painting comes from a picture of a young woman whose photo I took in Las Vegas. She was pleasant, charming really, and her face was covered with studs and rings. I liked her from the moment I asked her how she dealt with a cold. She said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I take out the rings and studs." 

So she let me take her picture, and I fell right back into my rut of wanting to paint her in a realistic style. So I was desperate one night before art class and decided I needed to talk with someone who knew something about my messy style. I began a meditation in which I took myself along a colorful path to a dead German expressionist painter, Karl Schmitt-Rottluff.  He was sitting on his porch smoking a pipe. Here's one of his paintings: 

And in my meditating mind, he asked me what I wanted. I said I had a problem. I said I kept trying to paint in a realistic style, and it wasn't working. And he erupted. "Oh, no no no. (He was speaking in German, which would be Ach nein nein nein. It's more brutal than English). You can't paint realistically. You have to screw up the lines and shapes. You have to mess with colors. You have to feel sexy. You have to PAINT SEXY THINGS. What has gotten into you? You have to have fun. Don't go getting all serious."

So I said, "Well, she's a nice young woman, and I don't want to turn her into a nightmare."

And then he said something that astonished me: "Well, then you have to get inside her, you have see the world from her point of view, you have to feel colors like she feels colors. You have to feel the way she feels. You can't just go violate her with your colors."

And that ended the conversation. I knew what I had to do. That night I went to art class and let fly. Most of all, I tried not to use hideous colors. I tried to use softer colors.  I know. I know. She looks grotesque. But I feel kindly toward her, and that's what matters to me. I don't expect you to like it. That's OK. Go ahead and be tasteless. Marian likes it, and that's quite enough for me. I haven't asked Herr Schmitt-Rottluff what he thinks of it. He's dead. Oh, I think I said that.

Who are your mentors, living or dead? Do you have a hard time sticking with your style?