Last Essay for Now

I have decided to stop writing essays for now, although I will continue to post new paintings as I finish them.

In part, I wish to devote more energy to painting. But another reason for not writing is I find myself starting to repeat ideas. I began these essays to help me (and I hoped others) learn to live with illness. In these essays I thought about fear and the necessity of allowing it; about letting go of a need for order; about the scale of little things. In short, through these writings I feel I’ve learned to live fairly well, with a kind of joy although tempered by moments still of anger, frustration or sorrow. But the joy predominates. I don’t need to dwell on these anymore. I’d rather get on with life and its joys. And with painting

Thanks for all your comments and support.

Above: Blossoms on a Branch, triptych on three 8x8 inch canvases. Copyright 2010 ptw.

Other paintings can be viewed at my portfolio site, TichStudio.com

Empty House

This house, a couple miles from here, has been long abandoned. Yet inside there is still furniture; curtains hang at the upstairs windows. The two-story bay window must have been the talk of the county once; an unusually flashy detail for a rural house.

The most intriguing detail to me, however, is the second front door. In the painting it’s hidden, but it’s next to the one visible on the left. The visible door leads into a large living room with fireplace. The invisible one opens on a small parlor. A smaller office-like room sits behind that. I imagine the house belonged to a country lawyer or doctor who practiced in these two rooms. The rest of the house was for family, but I’m sure the squeals of children intruded into that office.

Whatever its story, the house now holds only silence. It’s like a lost friendship, frozen in time. I find myself thinking more and more of people who’ve disappeared from my life—friends, colleagues, loves, acquaintances, even the occasional enemy. In my mind I see them as they last were but like me, they must be aging too. Are they happy? Any regrets? Do they ever think of me?

Memories of them are like the furniture in this empty house, not useful for anything, but evocative nonetheless. Friendships are lost mostly because of our own sloppiness; we misplace each other through carelessness. We didn’t try hard enough, forgive soon enough, or listen enough.

Now we are memories for one another, curtains stirring at a broken window. I think I still love everyone who’s ever been a friend. I forgive them all. I regret any hurts I’ve given. I miss them. My invisible front door is open.

Above: House on Lott’s Ridge, acrylic on canvas, 24x30 inches. Copyright 2010 ptw. Click on image for larger view.

Radio Silence

I rarely listen to radio anymore. Once it was as automatic in the morning to turn on a radio as it was to make coffee. At night, the radio would be the second to last thing I’d turn off, just before the bedside lamp. I needed the noise. The yabber-jabber word play of disc jockeys was as important to me as phone conversation, maybe more. Unlike the recorded “Press one to hear this important message about your credit card,” a DJ’s voice sounded human.

In recent years my media use has dwindled to almost nothing. I cancelled television because the only thing I ever watched was Cartoon Network. To sit by a television felt more and more like doing nothing. People react to this revelation as if I am making some kind of arrogant boast or statement—political, moral, obnoxious, or otherwise. But I’m not. I don’t watch TV because I truly don’t want to.

My losing interest in television was odd enough, I suppose, even to me, but then interest in newspapers, magazines, and now radio have dwindled as well. I dutifully check up on world events through the Internet, but something that once was as routine as breathing is now a chore, like laundry. I have to make myself check the news.

I wasn’t aware of the extent of the change until I attended a music festival yesterday. It’s the first I’d been surrounded by raw manufactured sound in a long time. It was great music, but a relief to get home. As my illness progresses I think I need more and more silence, or at least a different kind of noise. Instead of rock beats, it’s cicadas I need to hear. Instead of DJ’s, I crave goldfinch chatter. Instead of weather reports, I consult the thrum of passing dragonfly wings.

I do not understand the change. I simply need more silence now. My body is declining; I have come to trust the food cravings it sends me. They are accurate for helping me adjust my relentless imbalances. Maybe my craving for silence is the same, a path for righting an imbalance. A raccoon coughs in the night; a coyote yelps; a deer stamps its feet. I hear nature’s music and can sing myself, not with my voice, but with the beating of my heart. 


Above: Dragonfly, acrylic on tile, 12x12 inches. Copyright ptw 2006

Turn About

I call them Chloe and Sparky. As creatures of grace and beauty perhaps better names would have been Cleopatra and Spartacus or at least Clarissa and Spencer, but they’re hummingbirds. Grandiloquent names are just wrong.

Sparky is a male ruby throat who is aggressive to the point of meanness. He fights. Chloe is a long, long, long suffering female who just wants to eat and eat and eat some more. There’s no such thing as a fat hummingbird, but she comes close. She is so well fed she has a hummingbird-sized spare tire, sort of a spare bottle cap.

Sparky dives at Chloe whenever he sees her. Chloe is cagey, able to hide in alternate eateries for hours. My yard is large with a mane of trumpet vine draped over the garage at one end, a bed of rampant monarda at the other and a bottle feeder in the center. I’ve placed a chaise by the feeder so each evening at dusk I can watch another episode of the long running humming bird soap opera, All My Days Flit About. 

Ornithologists would be quick to point out that it is the hummingbird’s nature to try to chase other hummers from a territory. It can’t help its behavior. But I’ve been around animals most of my adult life, goats to ducks, chickens to horses; I’ve known too many animals too well to dismiss all behavior as instinct. Perhaps an animal can’t escape its nature, but it certainly can individualize itself within those limits. A hummingbird can’t be a cat, but it isn’t like other hummingbirds either. Sparky is a unique personality, aggressive, as his instincts require, but also stupid. And Chloe, also unique, can outsmart him.

She’s usually the first to approach the feeder. She hovers, looks me over, shifts position, hovers, and looks me over again to be sure it’s me. It took her about a week to figure out I was part of the food supply system. She made the connection the evening I hung out a fresh bottle so the nectar was still cold from the refrigerator. She took a sip, drew back in surprise, smiled at me and then gorged herself. Ice cold drinks on a hot day, yes. After a twirl or two around to check for Sparky, she usually settles on the feeder to eat. It’s rare to see a hummingbird still.  Most hummers I’ve observed hover rather than perch on a feeder. Not Chloe. Her secret for fattening is sneaking rests along with those sips.

I don’t think Sparky has ever seen me. He’s so intent on drubbing Chloe that he streaks by me practically grazing my ear. He doesn’t stop to eat at the feeder either but keeps after her. Consequently he is scrawny, scruffy and underfed.

Chloe has a way of tilting her head when she’s thinking. She was eyeing the sky, head tilted, an evening or two ago. Sparky was on his belligerent way, but this time she didn’t flee. She had decided her sip and rest strategy had prevailed. She was now bigger than he was. She squawked. I didn’t know hummers could squawk. And then she chased him clear into the neighboring pasture.

I’ve seen Sparky since but he keeps his distance. Patience and a good plan can change the world order, even if physical realities seem to have us trapped. Thank you Chloe. I can use that thinking upon my own realities.


Above: Chloe and Sparky, pencil, 9x12 inches. Copyright ptw 2010.

New Labels

It’s been almost a year since the terrible bleeding incident that upset my world and my world view. Overnight my self-image had to change to encompass illness. In a matter of hours last summer my identity had to shift to include the label, “One Who Is Chronically Ill.”

Parts of who I am were destroyed in those dreadful days too. “Person Who Works at a Job.” Gone. “The One with Boundless Energy.” Very, very gone.

But other labels grew stronger or endured. “Writer.” Stronger. “Gardener.” Less strong, but not gone. “Artist.” Much, much stronger. “Friend and Good Listener.” Definitely stronger. “Someone Who Can Sit and Watch a Moon Rise.” Reborn. “Someone Comfortable with the Silences of Her Mind.” A new and welcome arrival.

So I’ve gained and lost this year. A major shift in self perception such as I experienced last summer doesn’t settle gracefully, however. The oddest part of the journey has been the tools I chose to help me comprehend these gains and losses. Painting was important, obviously, and the one I’ve written about the most this year. But there were other tools.

The silliest to talk about and yet one of the most useful was “The Clean.” I wrote in my last blog that I used ferocious cleaning to delay varnishing paintings. But I’ve been thinking some more about that cleaning frenzy. It was too excessive even for staving off varnishing. I believe I was after something else. I wasn’t just cleaning. I was fighting.

I wrote last time how I cleaned house and garage for weeks, emptying and washing every drawer and shelf, every box and basket. On a surface level I suppose I was fighting for control. Cleaning is a simple way to exert order. But I certainly don’t need to wipe behind paintings or dust several hundred books, one at a time, to feel in control. Routine vacuuming can do that. 

I think the cleaning became a way to say goodbye to the past. It was a form of grieving and also of welcoming the new. I do have a good life.  I’ve become more aware of things around me and more patient with irritations. I laugh more. The cleaning seemed to give me permission to enjoy these things. I celebrated finishing The Clean by making cartoon labels for all the bins and drawers in my studio and utility room. If I also garnered a bit of control in the process, then what’s so bad about that?

Above, label for a drawer of small garden tools. Below labels for a recycle bin, hats, sewing notions, and paints. 

The Varnished Truth

Varnishing is the only painting task I hate. Cleaning brushes, sharpening pencils, preparing canvases, all boring but pleasantly so. I don’t mind those tasks. But varnishing is unpleasant. Varnish is smelly, sticky, finicky stuff. I can be very creative at finding ways to put it off.

The paintings have to be thoroughly dry so no moisture gets trapped under the varnish. I use acrylics so my canvases would be cured enough after four days. This time I waited about three months. Best to be safe, right?

The house has to be very clean to minimize any dust landing on a wet canvas. It would probably be enough to dust and vacuum the studio, but this time I cleaned the whole house: inside cupboards, drawers and closets, the tops of cabinets, behind paintings, the undersides of chairs. I washed all blankets and afghans. Aired area rugs and cushions. Sorted the junk drawer. Cleaned the refrigerator. It took six weeks. I had to clean the house again after cleaning the house because by the time I finished the odd places, the ordinary places needed vacuuming and dusting again. But it delayed the varnishing quite effectively.

The varnish must be mixed in a precise ratio of gloss to matte and I needed a glass container with an airtight lid to mix and store it. I’d tried plastic containers before but the harsh varnish chemicals softens them. So I was determined to find suitable glass. That took four weeks, most of which was spent forgetting that I was looking. Found the perfect jar at Big Lots where it had probably sat waiting for me for months.

The day has to be perfect. Not rainy or cold, so windows can be open. Not windy, so little dust comes in the open windows. Not humid, so the varnish will dry. Not too hot, so the varnish won’t dry too fast.

Yesterday was perfect. I had the glass container. And the house was clean. I could think of no other reason to delay. Plus a client was waiting for one of the paintings. I mixed the chemicals, brushed them on, smoothed and blotted drips. And waited. Five minutes, four minutes, three minutes, yes, there it was, right on cue. A dog hair.

As usual, one had stuck to the surface and, as usual, to remove it would ruin the careful brushing of the varnish. This is why I hate varnishing. No matter how hard I try, it’s never perfect.

Varnishing is necessary partly to boost the colors. The mixture gives a snap, a glow to the colors without making them shiny. But the real purpose is to preserve the painting for posterity, for centuries. This may be the true reason I’m uncomfortable with varnishing. Everything else about painting is enjoying the now. I freeze a moment of beauty and keep it safe. It is a moment of my life now. But varnishing requires that I believe the moment will outlive me. That means assuming others will cherish the moment too. I have trouble believing this. Varnishing is facing the immortal. I’m not yet brave enough to enjoy that much truth.

Above: Queen Anne's Lace, acrylic on canvas, 48x36 inches. Freshly varnished. Copyright 2010 ptw.

Hope

I’m feeling an emotion I haven’t felt in almost a year. Hope. I’d forgotten what it feels like. A soaring sense of possibility begins to color reality, distorting it perhaps, but so pleasant, so very pleasant. Wisdom counsels that hope is illusion, but wisdom has no chance against the shoutings of hope.

On the surface not much has happened. I have made three trips to the Cleveland Clinic, two in May and one last week. Prognosis: unchanged. That’s good actually, but the reality is still my liver is failing and my days or years—who can say—are numbered.

There’s nothing they can do.

However, the doctor was concerned about my shortness of breath and ordered some heart tests. That was the second trip. The third trip was to see a cardiologist about those tests. The cardiologist thought my tiredness and shortness of breath might not be due to the liver, but perhaps to a sleeping disorder. In other words my grogginess may be unrelated to the liver disease.

There may be something they can do.

I have to go through tests and the end result may be some nasty facts that dash my hopes, but at the moment I’m hoping they can treat the grogginess and I will feel better. It wouldn’t change my fate; it will not change the path of my disease. But we’re fated from the day we’re born for only one end. I can handle that destiny. It’s feeling bad all the time that weakens the spirit. To have no hope of feeling better has been hard work this year. When the body is grumpy, living with joy is not easy. Living with joy seems to me the point of life, but this past year has put the philosophy to the test.

Now a dash of hope has been added to the mental stew that is my reality and everything has changed even though I do not (yet?) feel better. No wonder people invest in false hopes. Rushing into doomed marriages, taking debilitating jobs, ignoring chest pains, I think I understand why people do foolish things to keep hope alive even when reality is dreadful. Hope feels good.

I have been without hope for so many months. This small burst of hope is pure delight. It’s like a returning summer; the window opens to a pale sweet green. It is morning. And there’s much to do.

Above: Hope, photo illustration. Copyright ptw 2010.