"Blast From The Past"

The Goofy Stuff

Years ago I took an extension course at the University. It was a three class program in Interior Design. As my readers may know, my personal design theory is eclectic. Actually the first time I heard that word was in Bloomingdale's Furniture Department. One particular design was referred to as "eclectic" but I thought the word was "neglectic". Being a mother of three small children I knew all about that "style". At any rate, I had a great interest in decorating and was thrilled to be taking the classes. One of my instructors shared that she had just received the commission of "doing" a restaurant. Initially I felt sorry that she was stuck decorating a "goofy restaurant". No bedrooms or living rooms, just dining rooms. In my youthful estimation, she belonged doing amazing homes that ended up in magazines. I would soon realize that interior design was also space planning not just paint color and furniture.

So in my own career "restaurants" have fallen into my lap. I rather thought I should be doing grand canvases. Instead began a long list of "goofy" stuff that has served me well.

I started painting on shards of found slate. Many of the old homes in our area had slate roofs, and as they fell into disrepair, were sadly demolished. Friends collected these bits and pieces for me. Each painted piece came with its own easel and I called the collection "Window Sill Art". My first residential commissions were on slate.

A neighbor inquired if I was willing to paint on cement. Come to find out she had an unsightly well tile and so it was up to me to cover it with faux rocks. The first rocks disappeared in the winter snows and, in that way, I learned to prime first! The next year's crop of rocks lasted just fine. I have since painted signs and even a rolling gun card for this same neighbor.

Another friend had a doll house business. I had no idea how complete doll houses had become right down to chandeliers. So, of course, they also needed original art. I started by painting the tiny furniture of a baby's room with bear designs. The wardrobe was my first effort when, suddenly from beneath my brush, emerged a rather dashing bear looking like he was sneaking off to the races. By the time I got to the crib my "bears" had settled into pastoral comfort. I painted a tiny screen to look like a fancy drape, a panoramic hope chest and a "fish" bench in addition to tiny framed paintings. It certainly schooled me in the art of making tiny details.

A former neighbor discovered a painting lying alongside the road that led to the dump. "Could it be valuable from a famous artist?" he asked. Although my knowledge of art history was limited I felt I could safely assure him it wasn't a discarded masterpiece so I offered to restore it. I tenderly cleaned it, enhanced the faded colors, and stuck it in a frame. Unfortunately I discovered that he didn't even like the painting and was just interested in its potential value. Oh well live and learn.

Which brings us to the present. I am currently painting a shoe that is longer than I am tall, heavier than me, and, most definitely, unwearable. Watch for the installation on June 6th in Rochester, NH. This is, for certain, the goofiest thing yet!

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In Search of Chairs

During my artistic career I have painted a number of chairs. "Aunt Mim's Chair" was a sunny gold upholstered chair sitting in the corner of my aunt's home. "Out of the Weather" was a beat up relic left on the front porch of a shack somewhere in Montana. There was my girl friend's chair complete with her antique doll house. There were wicker chairs on the porch of Stoneledge Farm and a red chair for my son to hang in his dorm room. After all how could he get through school without one of my chairs! But never any people. "Why don't you put someone in the chair?" my cousin asked. That just wasn't a part of my artistic vision. The only people I have ever painted were my family, because they are not allowed to complain. Besides how could I have gotten them to pose in Aunt Mim's chair or somewhere in Montana?

But I do have a vested interest in chairs, not only to paint, but for my own use.

After years in a tiny Tampa condo, we moved to Pensacola. A large part of the incentive to move was that I would have my own studio. A whole room with just my stuff - everything but the kitchen sink. I wasn't in Pensacola to make the final purchase decision, but that studio sold me on the whole place sight unseen. I started collecting paint cards because my studio would definitely be decorated. A series of shelves were added to the closet. A drying rack was placed along one wall. I would also have a television and stereo. Time went on, color choices made and I was painting canvases again, not just walls.

But I didn't have an easy chair. This condo was much larger than the last and our furniture didn't stretch as far. So down I went to the local furniture store where they just happened to have a sale. I chose a buff colored tub chair that swiveled. We hauled it home and it fit perfectly.

As fate would have it, we were to move again, this time back to my home in NH. We put on an addition for a larger studio this time. It was and is still a "pinch me" experience. What was an old outside deck area is now a hardwood floor, soaring ceilings, a sky light and plenty of shelves, racks, cupboards and drawers. My Pensacola chair would look just right.

But my husband didn't have a chair for his downstairs den. The budget was tight and it seemed only right to give him my studio chair. So I just dragged in a kitchen chair when the sun was perfect to sit and read. Prices were so high I just stopped looking.

My girlfriend and her brother were in charge of emptying an aunt's house after she had passed on. There, in the cool aisle of the barn among many yard sale items, sat a unique upholstered chair. It was a soft green, had a modest skirt and four buttons marching along the curving back. It had probably been a boudoir chair but that didn't matter to me. It "sat" good. How much would they want? I set a top price of $50 in my head - no high than that. It was only FIVE Dollars and they offered to deliver! Sold. We trucked it home, hauled it up the stairs and it now sits in my sunny window. I may even paint it someday.

So this is about perseverance and maintaining your artistic vision. In my paintings there will always be space available for you to "sit" down in your imagination. Should you venture to my studio, you are also welcome to sit in my $5 chair.

Art Lessons

Naturally my granddaughters are the very best, brightest and most talented kids! That being said, we can all use some further instructions in life. That's when my role as grandmother/art teacher began.

DOING stuff has always been interesting for me. Having two eager girls to join my adventures has been gratifying. Not being trained as a teacher, I looked for some guidance. Kumon Workbooks, which are available from the bookstore, offered brightly colored pictures to cut, paste and mazes to follow. The material was a great beginning.

It's been fun to see their personalities come out in their work. My six year old spends a great deal of time developing her work. She will also move further into the assignment and initiate experimentation. My four year old is very passionate. One sticker is never enough, rather she favors a pile format, one on top of another. Her color choice is very dramatic - black is her latest favorite.

Of course we are also creating gifts for the family. Their gifts for Dad were paperweights. I shrunk some of the girls' photos down to stamp size and they used mod podge to glue them on to the rocks. The only glitch was that the rocks were quite large. Oh well, it meant more pictures. And, should a hurricane hit their Dad's office, he is well prepared.

They have taught me much in this process as well. Once I was taking my four year old through the steps of creating a sea monster. Each one of the coils rose above the surface of the water giving the impression of a mighty beast. When the last coil was ready to put into place, she calmly informed me that she would rather put it on her balloon and did so. It has been a challenge for me to "not help". Even though I wanted the results to be wonderful, I've learned that is not the point.

Persistence

One of my objectives in doing this blog is to remain true to my "Mission Statement". No wandering off course. Recently I posted "What's with all the cars and trucks?" It took me four tries until it posted. Sooooooo don't give up out there. Although

the layout is nothing to write home about - each successive try looked better.

Persistence will, eventually, get the job done. Case in point: the mural at our local Inn. As a kid I painted five foot daisies on the hall wall - no pressure there! The six inch grass was also a piece of cake. Another time I polka dotted my girl's bedroom walls with round red circles of contact paper. So I have a history of adventuresome decorating. The Inn is a totally different situation. The subject has to be recognizable - additionally it has to be a credit to a beautiful old building being gracefully restored.

The reference material came from our town history book. Years ago Labor Day was celebrated with parades and a band concert. As a former "summer person" turned "year rounder" I wonder if all the excitement was due to the annual departure of the summer residents!

The space is about eight feet wide covering two adjacent walls. It's bordered by a chair rail and well lit. Initially the corner of the composition was the most problematic. Once that was resolved the composition fell into place. Sure there are a few cases of "artistic license" but I'm not recreating the photograph.

The first day of work was very intimidating. I wanted to get something recognizable on the wall immediately. I traced over the design I had done at home with transfer paper. Ooooops, I forgot to gesso the wall first. Losing all that work was unacceptable. So I blocked in each area with tinted gesso. It looked like I knew what I was doing!

I photograph the results after each work session so I have something to study at home. So far the results are encouraging. It appears that, once again, persistence is working.

So what's with all the cars and trucks?

So what's with all the cars and trucks?

It's a Dad thing! My Father was the head mechanic for a transportation/construction company. Every time he saw an old car, it reminded him of an event. He would smile and shake his head then launch into an exhaustive retelling, right down to how many times he had to turn the bolts. From the time he had to make a repair on the Mystic River Bridge before it was attached at both ends to the $300 he earned making two passes with a snow plow, cars were unfailingly interesting in my family.

Dad and I logged many hours in the car together. I used to ride to our cottage with my Dad's narrative for entertainment. He renamed all the roads like "Old Snakeback". Our cars had names as well. He told me that if I didn't name the car, "How was I going to talk to it?" "Nellybell" was the first name I remember.

On our way to NH one spring, we stopped in Haverhill to watch the earth movers prepare a new plant site. Ice cream at Wasmaco's and clams at Merle's were standard stops.

Our cars were never new, rather elderly models kept functioning by my Dad. One of the first cars I remember had a city horn and a country horn. This was a very impressive feature. Our cars were from before directional signals were invented - back when you had to stick your arm out the window to signal your intentions.

A broken teenage romance inspired Dad to start my driving lessons at 14. He just couldn't stand any more boo hooing around the house. We went up to the Harold Parker Forest and he pulled over to the side of the road. After I got behind the wheel, he drew the stick shifting pattern in the dust on the dashboard. All the hopping and chugging soon had us both laughing. It was not all smooth sailing until Dad brought home a 1949 clunker. Since we lived on an "unaccepted" street - the term for our dirt road, Dad felt it was okay for me to drive the clunker around the neighborhood. The boy next door used to ride with me while I helped him with his homework. That must have been the beginning of talking through every crisis from behind the wheel. My shifting improved remarkably. Mud was another matter. A classmate of mine who lived further down our road was waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up. I got stuck where her driveway turned off. She was not happy to pick her way through the mud to meet her date.

In time I was legally able to get my license. Since my Mother did not drive, Dad said I didn't have to pay for anything as long as I took my Mother wherever she wanted to go. We went to a lot of ice cream stands! Each summer I would load the boat with all our summer belongings, hitch it behind the car, and drive to the cottage. Dad taught me how to back up the boat trailer. Backing up a trailer has actually become somewhat of a spectator sport around here as we live across the street from a boat launch ramp. Some folks are more successful than others, me included!

In the fall of 1989, we lost Dad. It was hard for all of us. In an effort to stay busy, I took a painting class. A beat up old car sitting in the weeds became my first painting sale. Later I received a commission to paint a house with the owners Porsche in the driveway. It was more fun to do the car than the house. I had found my niche.

"Earlier,in Summer"

So what's with all the cars and trucks?

It's a Dad thing! My Father was the head mechanic for a transportation/construction company. Every time he saw an old car, it reminded him of an event. He would smile and shake his head and launch into an exhaustive retelling, right down to how many times he had to turn the bolts. From the time he had to make a repair on the Mystic River Bridge before it was attached at both ends, to the $300 he earned making two passes with a snow plow, cars were unfailingly interesting in my family.

Dad and I logged many hours in the car together. I used to ride to our cottage with my Dad's narrative for entertainment. He renamed all the roads like "Old Snakeback". Our cars had names as well. He told me that if I didn't name the car, "How could I talk to it?" "Nellybell" was the first name I remember.

On our way to NH one spring, we stopped in Haverhill to watch huge earthmovers prepare the site for a new plant. Ice cream at Wasmaco's and clams at Merle's were standard.

Our cars were never new, rather elderly models kept functioning by my Dad. One of the first cars I remember had a city horn and a country horn. I was very impressed with these features. Our cars were from before directional signals were invented - back when you had to stick your arm out the window to signal your intentions.

A broken teenage romance inspired Dad to start my driving lessons at 14. He just couldn't stand any more boo hooing around the house. We went up to the Harold Parker Forest and he pulled over to the side of the road. After I got behind the wheel, he drew the stick shifting pattern in the dust on the dashboard. All the hopping and chugging soon had us both laughing. It was not all smooth sailing until Dad brought home a 1949 clunker. Since we lived on an "unaccepted" street - the term for our dirt road, Dad felt it was okay for me to drive the clunker around the neighborhood. The boy next door used to ride with me while I helped him with his homework. That must have been the beginning of talking through every crisis from behind the wheel. My shifting improved remarkably. Mud was another matter. A classmate of mine who lived further down our road was waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up. I got stuck where her driveway turned off. She was not happy to pick her way through the mud to meet her date.

In time I was legally able to get my license. Since my Mother did not drive, Dad said I didn't have to pay for anything as long as I took my Mother wherever she wanted to go. We went to a lot of ice cream stands! Each summer I would load the boat with all our summer belongings, hitch it behind the car, and drive to the cottage. Dad taught me how to back up the boat trailer. Backing up a trailer has actually become somewhat of a spectator sport around here as we live across the street from a boat launch ramp. Some folks are more successful than others, me included!

In the fall of 1989, we lost Dad. It was hard for all of us. In an effort to stay busy, I took a painting class. A beat up old car sitting in the weeds became my first sale. Several years later I received a commission to paint a house with the owners Porsche in the driveway. It was more fun to do the car than the house. I had found my niche.

Neighborhood Watch