Of Cabbages and Kings, of Toilet seats and Things

Springtime in Fort Myers -- an Art Show -- 2013 Bell Tower Shops

Florida living provides me with an endless supply of stories and artistic material for painting. Every day I see a wide variety of birds, animals, plants, and aquatic life.

Take this morning. I wasn’t expecting to see a black racer snake devour one of its own on my front porch, but I did.  And I don’t enjoy cracking the door ever so slightly when I leave the house to prevent a lizard, or whatever else is out there, the slightest chance of sneaking in; but I do.

I’m reminded that living in the tropics brings its own special joys and surprises; like the time I was caught in the buff by a thirsty green frog that was perched on my toilet seat. I don’t mind sharing, but not in this case.

I coaxed my mini-intruder into a glass jar and transported him outside, unharmed. If I can, I prefer to save life, even a frog’s. Lizards are another matter.

When I first moved to Florida, I couldn’t bear to kill anything. But after chasing several lizards through the house and having them hide under sofas and chairs, or behind the bookcase where they die a slow death, I’m willing to exterminate when necessary. At least lizards don’t stink when they decay. Like withered old soldiers, they just fade away, leaving a crusty carcass behind.

Today a pair of pileated woodpeckers landed on our cabbage palm; their arrival a breathtaking flash of blink-bright red and black. Observing their skinny necks and hammer-shaped heads made me think of another time and place, when prehistoric birds of Jurassic Park proportions roamed the earth; ancestors perhaps?

The large 18” birds circled the tree, hammering the shaggy palm bark with heavy silver bills in search of insects and grubs. Both birds used their long black tail feathers for balance, leaning on them like old rocking chairs. Suddenly, one of the pair fluttered to the upper palm fronds exposing white under wing linings, a striking contrast against the black flight feathers.

Someday I will paint the pileated woodpecker. 

 Robin’s are not particularly fussy about where they build their nests. I’ve seen a nest cradled in a wreath on someone’s door, and a nest wedged between a light fixture and the bricks on a friend’s front porch.

My friend watched over the nest like a mother hen; protecting first the blue green eggs that appeared, and then the tiny newborns that followed. Each time he stepped out on his porch, the mother robin swooped over his head and dive-bombed him to protect her nest. Little did she know that he was a staunch ally.

The robins’ precarious nest-building habits are not without risk, and many a nest topples to the ground following a strong windstorm. But when it comes to parenting, robins are seldom outmatched.

My acrylic painting “Robin Hood” was inspired by the apple blossoms in the spring and the sighting of a robin’s nest. 

"Robin Hood" 16 x 20 acrylic on canvas

On my daily walk, I watched a turkey vulture swoop overhead and land on a hot tile roof a few feet away. The buzzard spread its wings to soak up the sun and rest while it digested its morning meal.

A startled mocking bird stopped in mid-flutter to bombard the huge bird, diving at it with angry squawks and stabs of its beak, despite the fact that its enemy was ten times its size.

The indifferent vulture pulled in its neck, tucked its small red head between gangley wing blades, and stubbornly ignored the mocker’s tenacious thrusts.

Not to be outdone, the gutsy mocker continued to swoop and dive, until finally the exasperated vulture lifted its dark wings against the sky and flew off in search of a new perch.

I enjoy the antics of the Florida mocking bird, a slightly browner version than its northern counterpart. Its uproarious songs and saucy attitude inspired my acrylic painting: “Berry picking time.”

"Berry Picking Time" 16 x 20 acryllic on canvas

Giving Yourself Permission to Fly

"Arabesque" 14x18 oil on canvas

Do you notice how often you hold yourself back with negative thinking? “I’m not good enough. I don’t want to make a fool out of myself. Others may think I’m weird. Who am I to compete with the “pros?” And on and on, we tear ourselves down.

When we let ourselves go, when we “let it all hang out,” so to speak, we acknowledge that we trust our own instincts and ideas. We give ourselves permission to try, to experiment, and to create what is uniquely ours. This requires boldness and courage on our part. But there is no other way.

"Anhinga in Paradise" 16x20 watercolor

If we want to excel, to soar, and to release the grandeur that is in us. We must let go of fear, doubt, and dependency. We must stand alone and seek our own place in the sun. We must value our own opinions and ideas at least as much as we value others.

Skill cannot be increased if we decrease the motivation behind it. We add fuel to our dreams when we fan the flames of confidence and hope. Strength comes gradually as we forge ahead in spite of fear. We keep working toward our goal, letting go of the things that weigh us down or hold us back.

"Loggerhead Shrike in Springtime" 16x20 acrylic on panel

The adage “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” may be old, but the concept is still fresh and new. We must pick ourselves up after we fall or fail, and try again. Repeating this behavior over and over again will eventually lead to success.

Hard work, blood, sweat and tears are still the only way to achieve anything worthwhile. If you take the easy way out or cheat on the principles, you end up hurting yourself.

A friend of mine had a mentally disabled child.  She started standing and walking before she learned to crawl. There were many things she did “out of order” and her brain had devised alternative patterns that slowed down and impeded her mental development.

Volunteers came in each day to work with the child. They moved her young legs across the floor and taught her how to crawl. They worked with her hands, and played games to provide new patterning for her brain.

"Berry Christmas" 16x20 acrylic on panel

In God’s wisdom, a person must learn to crawl before he can walk. He must learn to read before he can gain knowledge. He must practice before he can play or perform.

These are the same patterns and “models” for success. Developing skill is difficult, but it is essential. Talent is a plus. Love and desire are important components. But practice and hard work are the wings on which we fly.

"Sandhill Cranes at Twilight" 24x30 mixed-med on canvas

Featured Artist
Light & shadow video by Stan Prokopenko

In the beginning --my Father the Fisherman

"Raccoons at Sunrise", 16x20 acrylic canvas

Every now and then, I reprint this article so my new readers and followers may get to know me and better understand why nature is such an integral part of who I am.

I grew up in an emerald green valley ringed on all sides by a craggy strip of mountains known as the Wasatch front. These rugged giants, and the springs, lakes, and rivers that divide them, were the guardians of my youth. From my bedroom window, the mountains rose like giant hands in prayer; casting benevolent shadows on the surrounding neighborhoods and farms.

On clear summer days, the sky filled our valley with morning light long before the sun had reached its crest on the jagged peaks and thrown off its coverlet of shadow cast by aspen, Juniper, and sage. 

A neighbor’s rooster proclaimed the break of day, and sounds of engines starting and cattle lowing struck the chords and the notes that play out in my head even now.

"Americana" 16x20 acrylic on canvas

On the Western side of the valley, the distant mountains completed the circle framing a patchwork of fields and farms that spread out on the valley floor like a farm wife’s quilt. At day’s end, the sun, saving the best for last, celebrated its descent in triumphant tones of amber and rose before snuggling deep into mountain shadow.

On evenings such as this, time stood still as I watched my father practice the art of fly tying. Like a true artist, he adjusted clamp and vice to secure the hook while he twisted and wrapped the tiny feathers into place. Although each fly was unique, he duplicated one lusty specimen many times over for its ability to snag rainbow trout and German browns.

"Wasatch Mountains" 11x14 watercolor

 With the same skill he used to cast his fishing line in a timeless dance over canyon waters, he cast his children out to experience life. If we encountered rough waters or found ourselves in over our heads, he would reel us back in for further instruction.

Sometimes his reprimands were harsh. At those times, his words cut through our disobedience with the sharp edge of truth. Then he would cast us out again, giving us more line from time to time, until we got it right.

"Berry Picking Time" 16x20 acrylic 

 Because of my father’s skill as an angler, I grew up with a man-sized appetite for pan-fried trout. Father cleaned them. Mother cooked them -- dusted in flour and fried in butter, without the cholesterol guilt or fat gram shame. We dined on fish two or three times a week. The extra fish were frozen for winter meals and to keep my father’s dreams alive for the next fishing season.

Sometimes the family went with him on his fishing expeditions, wandering the byways and dirt roads of Southern Idaho, Wyoming, and Northern Utah in search of the best fishing holes. He waded up to his armpits in the rivers and dams along the Wasatch front; the winding Snake River, the wide Green River, and the brilliant blue Bear Lake.

When my father could no longer fish, he shared the woven intricacies of fly tying with his grandchildren, leaving them an inheritance that would continue on like an echo in the same canyons and mountain streams.

"Blending In" 16x20 acrylic canvas

The Mocking Bird

“The heavens declare the glory of God. The skies proclaim the works of his hands.” (Psalm 19)

On my daily walk, I watched a turkey vulture swoop overhead and land on a hot tile roof a few feet away. The buzzard spread its wings to soak up the sun and rest while it digested its morning meal.

A startled mocking bird stopped in mid-flutter
to bombard the huge bird, diving at it with angry squawks and stabs of its beak, despite the fact that its enemy was ten times its size. The indifferent vulture pulled in its neck, tucked its small red head between gangly wing blades, and stubbornly ignored the mocker’s tenacious thrusts.

Not to be outdone, the gutsy mocker continued to swoop and dive, until finally the exasperated vulture lifted its dark wings against the sky and flew off in search of a new perch.

I enjoy the antics of the Florida mocking bird, a slightly browner version than its northern counterpart. Its uproarious songs and saucy attitude inspired my acrylic painting: “Berry picking time.”

Painting is available with barnwood frame; acrylic on panel; $325 plus shipping. Contact the artist if you are interested. For purchase of giclees, cards or prints, go to the following link: http://carol-allen-anfinsen.fineartamerica.com