It's Clouds illusions I recall, I really don't know clouds at all. - Joni Mitchell.
Last week I was looking at images of cloud formations online, when I came across a site called: The Cloud Appreciation Society. I was amazed!! I was delighted!! Cloud Appreciators had to be my kind of people, by whom I mean folks whose eyes wouldn't narrow or glaze over at a mention of fallstreaks or mackerel skies; people who wouldn't look at me sideways when I told them I was a cloud chaser; people who would actually get excited over the beauty of clouds.
As they say on the Society's website:

"At The Cloud Appreciation Society we love clouds, we’re not ashamed to say it and we’ve had enough of people moaning about them ... see how we are fighting the banality of ‘blue-sky thinking’."

Most people think of weather as a subject to break the ice or as small talk, but I love deep discussions of weather, storms, precipitation - and cloud chasing. Yeah, yeah, I know everyone's heard of storm chasers, those dare-devil types who froth spittle as they careen over the Great Midwestern Plains... But we cloud chasers are perhaps a little more sedate. We're just as happy seeking the rare crescent cloud or a chorus line of mare's tails as a funnel cloud (well, nearly). And though I may zip along the road as quickly as legally possible, I'm not likely to encounter anything more dangerous than the strange looks of motorists or homeowners as I repeatedly speed up and slow down, pull over, turn around or jump from my idling car to sprint for a clear line of sight.






Clouds don't last. They are but transitory phenomena, to be savored by the eye and captured by the lens - and to someday find their way onto my canvases.

I'm excited about joining up for the nominal fee of L4. or $5.68 (US Currency).

I'll be member #14, 401...




Cloud-walls of the morning's gray
Faced with amber column,
Crowned with crimson cupola
From a sunset solemn.
May-mists, for the casements, fetch,
Pale and glimmering,
With a sunbeam hid in each,
And a smell of spring.
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Hearing Voices...
I've managed to keep her mostly silent these past several months. Her angst and fear can drive calm and confidence from the most secure and self-possessed, not to mention me. I'm the best of her - and yet I'm just another of her selves, her voices - the one somewhere in the middle that she returns to - tuning in after a swing to one precipitous edge or another... the even-toned, reassuring voice of optimism.

She heard me this past week, speaking over the others; not drowning them out - for they have their places - but holding them to whispers. She needs me now and she knows I hold her grounded. The others are still there and will return, but I am the way of the future. Even as I think this, she warms to my voice, rejoicing in the new year and the changes it brings.


I've rarely thought of myself as a Political person. I use the capital "p" intentionally, because we are all of us political in some sense; the root word: politic, meaning: skillful, ingenious; shrewd or artful... Political in any sense has come to have mostly negative connotations. Over the past several years, I've found myself increasingly willing, but unable, to ignore the Political world of our governance. Every time I heard someone say "president Bush", I would feel a twist of revulsion - and I would immediately tune out either literally or figuratively. I had to avoid hearing whatever it was to protect my inner core of self or I mightn't be able to function.

Try though I did to hide away from news of wars, terrorism, eco-system destruction, and domestic disputes, I was increasingly unsettled and sickened by the policies of the then administrations. It's not that I was apathetic - in fact, the opposite is true: I cared too much. I didn't realize quite how much all this weighed upon me - even in my carefully constructed art-world cocoon - until Inauguration Day. I felt a great joy and tears of happiness as I watched and listened, but somehow it was a bit unreal... like a long wished for event that, when it finally happens, is more surreal than real. It seemed as if I were in a dream.

Once the day, with its glitz and pageantry were over, I was close to slipping back into my now habitual benumbed state. I hadn't yet assimilated the fact that this country had lived up to its promise.

Then yesterday, as I was driving along, and thinking far-off thoughts, I heard the news announcer say: "President Obama..." Not president-elect or senator, but President. The manner in which it was stated was so casual - and yet, I felt an unfamiliar sensation, something not associated with "the news." I felt a little twist of happiness in my gut. No more instant avoidance, no more cringing at the president's name, no more fear of yet another swipe at the constitution. That voice on the radio? It's the voice of change.

It's going to take some getting used to, but what a profound pleasure. I finally feel as if it's "my turn."


She's aware again of the cadences of living. Movement and currents cease to toss her thinking from one extreme to the next. She can navigate by the sound of my voice alone as I hold her to me, soothing, persuading, encouraging...

...she emerges from the cocoon...

The more faithfully you listen to the voices within you,
the better you will hear what is sounding outside.
~ Dag Hammarskjold .

Barack Obama and Michelle Obama on inauguration day. Photo by Charles Dharapak/Associated Press. Courtesy New York Times.

A proud day for America. I so look forward to the promise of a better world that this day symbolizes for all of us.

The "blue roan" photo... explained

The "blue roan" photo... explained

I photographed that comely steed a few months back, but didn't download the photos until recently. I was quite taken with the blue-black sheen of the horses coat against the red, red, red of the freshly painted tin - and I immediately wanted to capture the image for a future painting.

At the time the photos were taken, I couldn't get very close to the fence or the horse because he was penned adjacent to a bridge reconstruction. Heavy equipment had rendered the road and berm impassable so I took the shots from my vehicle window using the maximum range of a telephoto lens. When I finally looked at the photos on my computer, I was distressed to see the very tight halter that I had failed to notice in my excitement over colors and compositional factors.

A halter should never fit tightly. In this case you can easily tell this horse would have great difficulty chewing his feed as the halter would make it nearly impossible for him to open his jaws! A halter should not be left on a horse in pasture in any case as it can snag on a tree, fence or another horse.

The location is thirty or thirty-five miles from my home - or I'd have driven right there to remove that thing. Instead I called the animal control for that town who referred me to the "livestock agent" for that county who referred me to "the equine guy" who referred me to an Atlanta office! Four phone calls later, I was assured someone would "look into it".

I think I'll take a drive tomorrow...

Reap the wind...

Rhythm is the basis of life, not steady forward progress. The forces of creation, destruction, and preservation have a whirling, dynamic interaction.
- from the Kabbalah

They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, hay-stacks, objects of every kind they shot by, with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let loose..."Faster! Faster!"
- Charles Dickens

Sometimes we are privileged to witness an event or experience something that is so intense, it becomes imprinted in minute detail upon our memory bank. It doesn't matter if the experience is terrible and frightening or wonderfully pleasant and magical. When our senses or emotions are stimulated to such an extent, we can later recall every detail because to remember is to re-experience.

I've been fascinated by tornadoes for most of my life. Like many who grew up or lived in "tornado alley," these violent storms with their dangerous beauty and magnificent terror have a hold on me. I'm conflicted by my attraction to these phenomena; I admit to feeling guilty for what I can only describe as the hypnotic pleasure I derive from watching footage of twisters. They literally and metaphorically draw me toward the vortex, unable to take my eyes away from the sight of that undulating funnel. I understand their power and the devastation they wreak, but I cannot counter my fascination.

There is a eerie shade of green that forecasts menace in a severe thunderstorm. Whenever I see that color, preceding or following a line of brilliant white, I know to take cover. When I was about nine or ten my family lived in a two story house in central Illinois. I remember the sky turning black and green and white as the sirens blared and the wind came up strong. There wasn't time to run to a neighbor's basement, so my mother huddled us beneath the heavy kitchen table in the southwest corner of our two story house. The sound was incredible, a constant deafening roar while everything shook and rattled. Outside was near blackness, everything moving horizontally, and it was that sight - that moment - as the huge funnel cloud passed so near - that sticks in my mind's eye.

Suddenly there was a tremendous crashing, tearing sound, and our mighty maple tree blew over and through the kitchen wall, right on top of our table shelter. We kids scrambled screaming out from under - and it was over. The wind died and everything went quiet except the dripping of rainwater coming through the openings in the roof.

Throughout my life I have drawn and painted tornadoes, amassed a collection of photographs of funnel clouds, and purchased those Weather Channel videos of "Nature's Fury." Of course I own and love The Wizard of Oz, and Twisters I and II. I have photographs of a sculpture installation at Artpark in Lewiston, NY taken from both the inside and outside of a thirty foot tall interactive "tornado" that took my breath away; I so wished I had built it. It would seem I cannot get enough of twister imagery.

Yesterday was another beautiful 60+ cloudless day. It was breezy, but not windy and the air was cool, the sun very warm as the horses munched their afternoon feed. I was filling the horses water troughs when I became aware of a rushing, crackling sound like wind rattling through dry leaves. I glanced down the slope toward the treeline and was delighted to see a small whirlwind stirring itself into a little frenzy of leaves and debris.

As I watched, mesmerized, the tiny cyclone grew, spiraling to a height of thirty or forty feet as it swept up the hill right toward me. I've experienced small whirlwinds passing over and seemingly through me a time or two, and I anticipated this one with delight and excitement. When it was no more than twenty feet away, I realized this one was still growing in intensity, and I experienced a tiny thrill of fear, but stood my ground. And then the twister cut sharply away from me toward where Jessie, the pinto gelding, was concentrating on his dinner. He suddenly became aware that something was after him and I swear he jumped straight up in the air as the cyclone surrounded and passed over him. He stood trembling and snorting with all four legs extended, watching the little twister dance across the driveway and dissipate. If he could speak, he'd have said: "What the hell was that?!!" I have the effrontery to envy him - though were our positions reversed, I'm quite certain he would not feel the same.

The whole thing took less than a minute, an amazing, magical, entirely captivating few moments, yet it is perfectly imprinted upon my mind's eye. I can't stop thinking about it and I know it will emerge as a painting in the near future.

Hosea 8:7
For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind...

Superpowers...

“Ninety-nine percent of who you are is invisible and untouchable.”

Richard Buckminster Fuller

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

It's happening more and more often. It just comes over me and there's nothing I can do to prevent it. Sometimes it happens as I am standing in line at the bank or paying for groceries. (It almost always happens at public events or in public spaces.) At first I thought it was my imagination - just a trick of the mind; a mistake, perhaps a misunderstanding - after all, things like this don't happen to ordinary people.

Wait a minute... who's ordinary???

Funny how we see our selves, isn't it ? I, myself, am a mass of contradictions! I am funny but very serious - and not to be taken lightly... I have a few very rigid viewpoints, but I nearly always give one the benefit of the doubt. I like socializing and I am interested in people and curious about how others think - yet I spend a great deal of time alone, by choice. I think of myself as a "good" person who looks for the best in others, and yet has little faith in humanity... Normal ? ...I suppose... Sane ? ...certainly... But I've never thought of myself as ordinary. So why should it surprise me that I have developed superpowers...???

Yep. It's true. I know how to become invisible.

Actually - I first became invisible and then I learned how to do it. The first time I was sitting in traffic, waiting to pull onto the main road. Vehicles moved past, sometimes stopping right in front of me, but no one let me merge. No one smiled and waved me in as had always happened in the past. They didn't notice me... they couldn't see me... I had disappeared. The next time it was a shopping trip to Quality Foods. I stood waiting to pay for my groceries as the cashier and bagger conversed and joked and rang up my order. I smiled at one, and then the other; I held out my check - but neither even looked at me. Without acknowledging my presence in any way, they waved me out to the parking lot with my cart full of heavy grocery bags. I was invisible.

My most recent disappearance was at my bank branch, located for my convenience in the grocery store lobby. There were two tellers at their stations but one was on the phone, so a line had formed sort of halfway between the two as customers observed "next person waiting etiquette". When the teller finished her phone conversation, she looked right through me to the store employee behind me and motioned for him to step up for service. Wow. Invisible again!!

With all of this evidence,I have to believe it's true. And just like the "ordinary" people on that show: Heroes, I plan to step up to the challenge. Not only will I continue to develop and hone my ability to disappear by wearing inauspicious clothing, very little makeup and a benign expression - but by continuing to masquerade as just another bland, unimportant, unassuming, and innocuous middle aged woman. They'll never see the pretty young woman inside me - the one who is well-read and hip and witty... the one who rescues ladybugs and horses and even tries to dodge butterflies. They won't know how funny I am, or how kind I can be, or how much love I hold inside. They won't suspect that I am anything at all like them.

And little will they know, that I am developing another superpower... telepathic X-ray vision. Though they cannot see me, I can see right through them. As I peer into their self-absorbed and indifferent little minds, I plant little seeds... little thoughts... little bits of self'-doubt and self-realization. I will them to see beyond their biases and assumptions. I implore them to take stock of themselves and to question their perception of the world around them. I champion the cause of fresh vision. I wish upon them the gifts of empathy and sympathy - for one day they too, will start to disappear.

And finally; this: www.stephenrobinsculptor.com

I recently spoke with my first ex-husband, a sculptor, who still lives in Philadelphia. We talk often, but I don't know how much or what parts of each conversation he remembers. He suffers from more than the average (I think) memory loss, and it's difficult to know whether it is a natural part of the aging process or something more. He's a phenomenal artist and a really good person and I will always have a place for him in my heart. He teases me about not posting his website in any of my blogs - so I have decided to oblige him here. He may not remember a lot of what I say (another kind of invisibility?) but what is in print cannot be long forgotten. I hope you'll all visit his website. It's highly worthwhile.

Morning has broken. The break of day. Daybreak. The crack of dawn.

Such noisy and explosive terminology for the beginning of a new day - sounding rather more like the demolition of something than the beginning. I wonder why we speak of mornings in this way? Morning is such a soft time; the light coming on so slowly that at first dawn could be mistaken for nebulous starlight or a fullish moon behind cloud cover that sheds an indirect glow, almost as if the atmosphere itself were the source of light. The soft, tender light of a new day slides over the earth and slips between trees and buildings. By the time the sun itself is visible, most of the world is awake.

I suppose for most of us, morning is a time of greatly increased stress. Many dread another day at a meaningless job, or dealing with kids and too-busy schedules and all of the things they didn't accomplish yesterday that they should have. People say: I'm not a morning person and we know what they mean: they are grumpy, half-conscious, not quite "with it." They usually want to be left alone - needing time to adjust, to shake off that dreamy state of unconsciousness so they can cope with the day to come. And so many are trying to get through the week on too little sleep, only to be jolted awake by all manner of horrific means: obnoxious beeping of electronic devices, the shrill clamoring of a traditional alarm clock, ringing phones or someone yelling at them: get up !! get up!! It's no wonder people dread mornings, and just endure; living for the weekend.

Like most, I spent many, many years having to be somewhere early, following a work day schedule of 9 to 5 or 7 to 4 or even 7 to 7. All the while I worked at these jobs I wanted to be doing something else. I often felt cheated out of my time, my days - in a way - cheated out of my life. I wanted to be making art, not just making a living. To try and make up for my lost time, I would work on art projects and paintings at night, most often staying up too late to catch more than five or six hours of sleep. My candle burned at both ends and I watched my life melting away. I felt entitled to do this, that I must do this, to take and have control of any time not spent on the job. With all those mistaken adages about successful people needing only a few hours sleep, I always assumed I would eventually adjust.

Needless to say, I was not a morning person. Some of the time I felt I was not a person at all, just a zombie, sleepwalking through life...

In 1997 I gave my two weeks notice and went out on my own as a freelance artist. It hasn't been easy, but it has been a decade of discovery. One of the things I learned is that I am a morning person! I enjoy the quiet just before sunrise that gradually gives way to the sounds of birds and squirrels and light traffic, the cool temperatures, the mist along the valley, the changing light and the wonderful taste of coffee. (I had apple pie for breakfast this morning!) I love the morning because it is mine. And now I believe that anyone can be a morning person, given the right circumstances: enough sleep (eight hours for me); a bit of preparation the night before (automatic coffeemaker, clothes laid out, tools and equipment ready)... But most important of all it is the knowledge that the day is mine - the whole day, all 24 hours, to arrange and schedule and do what I do best - that makes my mornings so sweet. It's not earthshaking news to most people, but to someone stubborn like me, it was a lesson learned rather late in life that certain aspects of our lives and some of our individual needs are to be accepted. There is just no point in going through life being resentful - or doing battle with ourselves.

If we could all awaken at our leisure, or at least unencumbered by the manacles of civilization and society that are imposed upon us, how would we spend our days? If we could all spend our days living - doing what we loved - how would we awake in the morning?



Bon matin.



Begin at once to live, and count each day as a separate life. - Seneca

Faux finish in a salon/spa.

This was me in 1983. I still feel the same on the inside...

The mystery in the ceiling...
For eight years I lived in western New York; Chautauqua County to be more specific. For a couple of those years I rented a storefront building in Lakewood that had a huge showroom up front and an apartment in the rear. I needed a large studio/workshop so this served better than a "normal" house.

There was also an upstairs apartment rented by a single guy - kind of a party-bachelor but rugged outdoorsy type - who came and went all hours of the day or night. So, when I was first awakened by the strange sounds coming from above, I just assumed it was "Dave" getting in late or stirring about. I didn't think much of it, and the sounds - kind of a bumping and scratching - were intermittent. I remember thinking he must be sitting on the edge of his bed swinging one foot so that it dragged on the floor every so often. And the bumping was explained by his eventually removing his shoes and letting them fall with a soft "ka-bump." For over a month, I heard almost the same sounds, seeming to move about, but not too much, explainable if he were sitting on different sides or the end of a bed. By this time it was more scratching and less bumping and the scratching had moved to a spot directly over my own bed.

You have to understand that up until this point, I only heard the sounds at night, when awakened briefly - perhaps by one loud bump. And this was an old building with one of those commercial dropped ceilings throughout; large square panels which muffled sound, suspended in a metal framework. I would drift right back to sleep...

I was home late one afternoon when I knew "Dave" was not at home. I walked through the bedroom doorway and distinctly heard the scratching noise. It stopped abruptly. I froze and listened;and it started up again - a very distinct: scratch, scratch, bump... scratch, scratch, bump... followed by a crunching sound. Rats! All this time I thought it was Dave, and it was rats! Or bats! Could it be bats? Or very large mice? Something in that ceiling was alive.

Now that I knew this, it drove me nuts. I would jump awake and listen to that sound. How could I have ever mistaken it for shuffling feet? I would listen and listen and try to discern just what it could be... But I was afraid to look... I mean, all I had to do was get a flashlight and a stepladder and push up one of the tiles and... at least I would know - or I might scare it off so I could get some peace.

It took two more weeks to talk myself into it. The scratching that night was right above my head and in a place where the ladder would fit. Steeling myself, I fetched my equipment, and - flashlight ready, I climbed the ladder and stood for a few mpments, gathering my courage while envisioning something large and furry jumping onto my face, or perhaps several bats fluttering out into my bedroom. But I had gotten this far and I had to know what it was. I slowly raised a ceiling tile adjacent to the noise then simultaneously switched on the flashlight and stuck my head up into the void. I saw two red eyes though the rest of the form didn't register at first. And then I realized Good Grief! It's a turtle! A turtle?

It was a box turtle; the kind I used to find in the woods years before when my father would take me mushroom hunting for morels. What was it doing in the ceiling? I reached in and grasped it by the shell anticipating its weight and my hand just floated up. It was as if I had picked up a ball of cardboard. The poor thing weighed almost nothing. Suddenly I was overcome with shame and remorse. Due to my mistaken assumptions, poor detection skills and unreasonable fear, this poor turtle had been crawling around in the barren ceiling, slowly dying of thirst and malnutrition, for at least six weeks. I carried it into the kitchen for closer inspection and to try and save it.

Turtles are pretty wrinkle-y critters when they are healthy, but this one was just about dried out. It was either unafraid, or more likely, just too weak to withdraw its emaciated limbs and neck and close it's shell. But the eyes were bright orange and very much alive. I set the turtle in the big porcelain sink and offered a jar lid of water. That turtle immediately craned its neck about, put beak to water, and began to take small swallows - about one every 3 or 4 seconds. This went on for over 5 minutes until the turtle finally pulled its head up a bit and looked at me as if to say "what now?" I remembered that turtles liked tomatoes so I offered it a slice along with some bread soaked in water and some lettuce. It began to eat the tomato. I was gratified to think it might survive its ordeal.

The local vet said what I had offered was a good start for its diet, and to add tuna as a protein source. At the library I found a book on turtles that told me this was a common box turtle; more specifically: a female carolina carolina terrapina - (female because of the orange eyes), found generally along the Atlantic coast and the Appalachians. New York was a bit far north for one of these, and I began to suspect that my upstairs neighbor might have lost him a turtle. He had recently been on a camping trip to North Carolina. Could he have brought her back with him? But how did she get into the ceiling?

I never found out because I never told 'ol Dave about finding the turtle. I was upset that he might have been responsible for its being lost in the first place, and that he might want her back if that was so. I had already planned her future. I would release her back into the wild in North Carolina on my way to Nag's Head in a few months.

It was November when I found her and by April she weighed over a pound, had many fewer wrinkles and was possibly even rather chubby for a tortoise. As I drove along a backroad in North Carolina looking for a good spot to release her, she munched happily on tuna and tomato. She had never seemed afraid of me and I had grown quite fond of her.

I found a great place, adjacent to a wetland, way, way out in the national forest. I worried a little that she might not re-adjust to the wild, but I felt this was the right thing to do. I put her out onto the mossy ground with the last of the food I had brought for her. She had not been on natural ground since I had found her, and she stretched her neck out to its' full length and looked about. She seemed quite excited. As I was baking away, taking a couple of photographs of her, I heard the strangest sound: a kind of croaking, squeaking sound like nothing I had ever heard before, and it was coming from my turtle! Was she calling to her own kind or to me? Amazed, I listened for several minutes as she repeated these sounds at short intervals. The last I saw of her, she was marching rather purposefully off into the woods; head high; quiet now.

I left her then, and, feeling quite happy and purposeful myself, drove on to my destination. I like to think she was thanking me out loud...

Imagine if you will:

You are driving down the interstate and it's a long monotonous stretch of road - not much scenery, conversation in dribs and drabs as each passenger is reflecting upon all there is to do at home after four days on the beach...

You take note of a truck coming up behind and then moving into the left lane to pass. It's a car carrier, but the trailer appears to be empty and it rattles loudly as he pulls along side and then ahead to pass. As he moves back into the right lane, I can see that his trailer is not empty after all. Lashed securely and painstakingly to the top rear ramp of that huge trailer is a little yellow Tonka truck. And I mean the tie downs were authentic !! We laughed and laughed and wondered - does the driver carries this toy just for amusement ? Is it a gift for a child back home or perhaps even a practical joke perpetrated upon the driver...? No matter. It sure made my day and renewed us for the remainder of the trip.

Wouldn't you want to know the person who thought that up?

This is what I do... I paint.

Mural for Gainesville Bank and Trust. Located in an Hispanic neighborhood, the mural depicts scenes from Mexico to Argentina as it wraps around the far wall behind the counter. I had to bid for this job, and my competition was a Mexican muralist out of Florida. He was cheaper - but when he learned the painting had to be finished in three weeks and mostly done at night (due to all the other tradesmen's schedules), he declined. I had a wonderful time working in that neighborhood, eating delectable Mexican and Ecuadorian foods from places where they did not speak English. And even though I am a strawberry blonde WASP, everyone was gracious about my doing the painting.