A Portrait in Time

How do you break a pattern that is so ingrained that the threads of connection still hold their torque even when unravelled. How too, do you overcome the formula of attraction to those patterns, and not spoon up to the next familiar warm spot. I am ready to unravel. I am so ready to move from this space to unspiral from the infliction of adaption over the last 12 years. To accept anything less would be to deny the reality that has.... driven the point home, and then made its point again and again. Knot after knot. Knot after knot he has pulled the looseness of my string and taught me what is his hold on my reigns. Conditioning by the alpha one. Conditioning to my desperate need to keep him. To be needed. To provide a platform that makes up for all my insufficiencies that he is oh so happy to point out. There is no place where we meet where the land is flat. There is always a canyon between the way we understand. From my point of view and reality and truth of his co

On our second year in the Wild West I took a trip without the painter, back to the Sequoia's where we used to live. It was an epic journey, extended by fleeing Los Angeles within 10 hours of getting there. Thus extending my time in the mountains by 4 days. It was prime time for my architipal journey. The solitary mind was flowing script and having visions that were then fulfilled. The swiftest of which was manifesting a bear within an hour of having the day dream while sleeping in a meadow on some unknown hill that beaconed me off the road. Yep it was one of those adventures. A time of independence and fulfillment that was an alixier that I was yearning for. During this trip, among other things I purchased on old postcard from the Louvre of Hans Holbein's portrait of d'Anne de Cleves. A rather osteir portrait of a woman, hands clenched, rings on most fingers, and an indifferent look on her face. I remember flicking through the cards, regarding it, and then

Everybody stops six feet from the edge. For a while I did too. Corralled by the expectations of those around me that were reinforcing my place and lasooing my wild ideas. But the edge was tempting. The idea of a complete alteration from the plateau of my current existance soon became the desired alternative. The first time I saw the Grand Canyon while others gawked mezmerized at the whole panorama, I was the one on my belly head crained over the rocks. There was a deep deep canyon, so vast and barron, and there at the bottom a tiny green vein that runs the whole way through. Like observing from a cloud the world so far removed down below. When I met the painter I started to explore the fringe. We left the world of the mundane, and drove as far away from the city.. That is the place I have dwelled and existed for several decades, and it is the place that I am now, suddenly unteathered by the restraints of a conditioned world. The blueprint has been ripped up. The found

From my astrologers point of view. Mars in my 12th house ( along with Sun, Jupiter, Mars, Mercury ) means all my expression and anger is internalized - hence my love of writing& passionate angry men... and thus The Painter was the expression of much of my internalized forces. .... if you get that kinda thing. I really do. Especially after 12 years of a little Biosphere of my own - of two cosmic forces.. obviously not quite coming together. OR taking 12 years and considering the option... or in his mind.. at this time .. which may not be his mind.. 12 years pretending. Taking our combined charts, it was all forecast. Trouble brewing, powerful planets challenging the status quo. Things that could have stayed subtle and hidden become the catalists for deconstruction. Naturally I grasping on this as reasonable explaination for a change I didnt see comming. Powerless to it all, I watch my beautiful sandcastle wash away. Twelve years of heart matched alli

To be or not to be, what can be fully understood, life is much more complicate. To complicated, the example of oil on canvas can never portray. Oil on canvas is the offering of the static and beautiful the overlooked or unappreciated simplicity of composition and environment. I talk of course from the view of a painters wife. Someone who deals with the day to day issues of life, and the structure and support of a family and business. So life is more complexed for me. Caos is some fluid productive state. So to see the painter return from his day on the hillside all contemplative, without time for dishes or the chop wood carry water necessities of life I can be frustrated and his ungrounded reality. But then I touchdown on his world in the form of solid encapsulations of his meditation in oil. Far reaching from my point of hormonal surfing, but I welcome every glimpse, every smudge of paint. So blooming meaningful sometimes it takes me weeks or months to truly understa

  Here in the wild west we can see trouble approaching. We think because we can see for hundreds of miles that we have it all worked out.   If you cant see the change coming those with barometric sensititives can feel it coming.    Hang around long enough in a small town and all the skills of the tribe become apparent, and sensitivites are often the skill. It takes a village, because a village has a spectrum of influence to offer. In every storm there are those that ride the rapids, and those that seek shelter. I have always been one to provoke the thunder. I watch those clouds loom over our heads with no plans to quench our needs, and taunt them to surrender their burden. Innocent enough until you have been lashed by the strike of fate. So now I wait for the storm clearers, the ones who see where the ruts and grooves funneled the challenge. Their assessment can take days or weeks, but soon enought the true impact will be understood. y

The first time he left me was our first Valentines day. I had been taking metal working classes and had made a couple of easels. I didnt have great expectations. But too great for the painter man. It was not the first time I had my doubts, that was a week after our marriage, when I would have walked out on any sain man. But I had never been married before. So obligations are different, and maybe, maybe he would change, this was not the real him. The second time he left me was about 9 months later. We had opened our first gallery in Jerome. I cant remember what the trigger was. But madness took over as usual and swift response. The truck, old faithful, loaded to the gills and he took off. I picked up where he left off and threw out all the excess. Not knowing that he would be back before morn. The third time. Well that I barely remember for that was over a decade ago. On reflection it all seems so irrelevent looking back. But then I do not have the tr

The land is swamped with moonlight. A mysterious world revealed in silvery shadows, making the layers of the world more enchanting. When ever there is the need to see the world anew, sitting in the world in the darkness in the middle of the night, has become a nightime habbit. The painter has helped me observe the composition of everything. The same objects rearranged offer a different formular. so too the aspects of light and shadow. Enough shadow offers contrast, too much and the subtle balance is lost. So too in life, essentially light and dark are part of everything, the polarities of the stage of life. In the Highlands where the clouds are thick gloomy towering grey layers, their merkyness is made relevant when the light battles through. Real bright light is an occassional thing, generally observed at a distance; many many miles, as the sheep runs, from the picnic. An architypal vision is the sun blazing throught the clouds, piercing the heavy pillars & p

It was an innocent mistake. Truely. Although yes at some stage I did glance at the invitation, but details, what are details in an impressionistic world. Seen today, forgotten tomorrow. Such details will never, EVER, be overlooked again. Because today one of those landmark moments in mistakes of the meat kind. The painter and I are really not one for parties. We would rather linger with a few friends and talk all night. We do go to out to our dear friends, but in a small town the intimacy and interaction can almost overwhelm. So either you are out all the time or you are selective and choose those rare opportunities to mingle and merge. Tonights motivation were more for the sake of introducing our friends to their neighbours. But Oh what a faux pas, and a disservice to our friends. So what have we learnt from this event. Never EVER take meat to a raw food house..... and may be more so, NEVER EVER take PORK to a Jewish Home. To say we were marched out

Theres a great advantage to being 2 hours away from the nearest big city. The world is very different here. None of the needs and expectations of the metropolis. Cars tend to be older, fashions undefined. High heels, have been unworn and in the closet for almost 10 years, why I keep them I do not know. Around here with all these dirt roads and cobbled streets no one is insured or sensible to where heels. It is always an indicator of ' a newcommer', and often when the fashion conscious do come clip clopping through town they are regarded with curiosity and alienation. For the painter it is all about light and shadow. He is barely aware of the hustle and bustle of the little things. Of more interest is the response of the desert. Here we are in the midst of monsoons, for us its all about the rain, and the break in the relentless heat. For the painter, now intimately with the cycles and subtleties of this arrid zone, he waits for the red dirt to be speckled wi

Monsoon season brings frisky unpredictable weather. Thank god, endless days of sunshine are such a bore. Never thought I would think about rain so much, tempting those clouds to just give us what they got. But 12 years in the desert have parched the Scottish lass, and when I think of what I would like to attract, it is rain. Last night, full moon I sat in the jungle of trees at the back of the garden, and read the sky as clouds flurried past. Powerful moon, linger planets of Saturn and Mars. Nothing simple about that alliance. Bring it on, HA - she says unaware of their unavoidable purpose. The painter has been sitting out the wind and rain in his studio. From there he can appraise the clouds and consider if he has enough time to get outside and set up his easel before the bothersome winds come. Painting in rain is not generally a problem with oils. But the monsoon rain can hit with such a force that the drops can nudge the paint. The only other time hes met su

I thought by now I would be advancing forward with all the pressing responsibilities of a grown up world. Our son just started first grade, and with that a new found freedom was to be mine. Was but not is, as the day he started school I broke my toe. For 6 years my little escort has been my constant companion, and my continued fantasy of alone time, freedom, idle fancy, have been just that, fantasy. Meanwhile the painter has kept up his nomadic lifestyle, wondering off each day into the great outdoors, getting more reclusive as each year goes by. But the translation of his efforts now portray vivid magic. Astonishingly intimate collections of these canyons and corners around the valley that the restless mind would wiz by unnoticed. Mixing with his pallet of red yellow and blue, he brings these landscapes alive on canvas. Heralding the simple association of trees and shrubs, mesa's and trails, life is observed anew from the gift of observation from the gentle man. I m