Thiis Artist’s Heart is at one with the Earth

"Sand Crane Dreams" acrylic on canvas

I was a tomboy growing up. I preferred monkey bars or playing cowboys and Indians to playing with dolls. When my mother couldn’t find me, I was usually up a tree, literally. I viewed every tree as a challenge that must be conquered.

My favorites were the mulberry trees that grew near our street. I’d straddle a branch and stuff my face with unwashed mulberries until their semi-tart taste had satisfied my sweet tooth. When someone walked beneath me, unaware of my presence, I felt all knowing and powerful.

From up here, I could see into adjoining yards. I knew who was home and who wasn’t. It was a hiding place where childish secrets could be discovered and shared later when the time was right. It also gave me space and time to ponder the wonders of the world and my place in it.

"Beach Buddies" mixed media on canvas

In those days I often ran around in my underpants, especially on hot summer days. Once while helping my mother with the ironing, I burned an elongated triangle on my mid-section. That was the last time I ironed without being fully clothed.

The next day, dressed in a sun top and a pair of shorts, the burn now covered with a still-wet scab, I climbed a wide-spreading oak tree. By this time my legs were so long it was easy to step from one branch to another and scale to the highest gnarled branches.

In the process of climbing, I scraped my midriff against the rough bark peeling back the scab and revealing a seeping red sore. The pain was excruciating. I scrambled down so fast I turned my ankle when I hit the ground running for comfort and a bandage.

(My daughter, Paula's, poster she created for her art classes)

I once scaled a tree so high I was afraid to come down. My mother’s younger sister scolded me at the foot of the tree and demanded I come down the same way I went up. Although we were close in age, she was my aunt, and she loved to Lord that over me. If I didn’t do what she said, she was sure to tattle to my mother.

I don’t know what happened to the girl I once was? Later in life, I was afraid of heights. I wonder now if the scolding’s and threats I received put a fear in me that I later associated with heights?

At any rate, as a teen I climbed to the top of a water tank and then was afraid to descend the ladder and come down. This was the first time in my life I’d been afraid of heights. Later, I cured my fears by rock climbing, repelling and experiencing a zip line. I discovered that as long as I focused on the cliff (or my goal), I was unafraid.

(The mountains where I grew up)

I continue to love nature in all of its splendor. There’s nothing like the freshness of pine mingled with the smells of frying bacon and potatoes or fresh caught fish on a crisp morning in the mountains. I celebrate still the wonder of God’s glory in every sunrise and sunset. I rejoice as an artist in the finite beauty and detail that I’m privileged to paint.

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

”What’s Love got ta’ do, got ta’ do with it?”

Photo from contact in Uganda

 The words in the title are from Tina Turner’s greatest hit. “What’s love got to do with it?” Why, everything, Tina!

No matter what we give our heart or our time to, if we have the passion and the love, we’re bound to be successful. Why? Because what we love we give our devotion to; we give it our all.

Bert Sugar, prolific author and promoter of life and boxing, loved what he did. But that wasn’t always the case. Sugar started out as an attorney and then worked in various professions before he started doing what he loved: boxing. When he started writing about what he loved, and engaging in the technical aspects of the sport, his success soared. He died a few days ago doing what he loved.

Work in Progress -- Fish Market -- "You Buy?"

Successful artists or professionals have one thing in common: passion. Their love of what they do drives them to produce more and more of what they love. It skyrockets them to success, but not over night. The path to success requires blood, sweat and tears and the willingness to accept criticism, anger, and hatred; especially if your work has a political intent. One artist comes to mind: a Utah artist named Jon McNaughton.

The Los Angeles Times calls McNaughton’s work “junk” because they disagree with his ideas and his politics:

"Titled "One Nation under God," the earlier hack propaganda seems content to pretend that the United States is a Christian nation, with Jesus as the law-giver. (Weirdly, a figure identified as James Madison stands directly behind the Constitution, even though Madison famously rejected any religious sanction for government authority.) A professor of constitutional law who knows that America was instead founded as a secular nation, one where the freedom to practice any religion or no religion is fundamental, would probably blanch if he saw it.”

McNaughton’s response is a quote from Washington:

"I am persuaded, you will permit me to observe that the path of true piety is so plain as to require but little political direction. To this consideration we ought to ascribe the absence of any regulation, respecting religion." (from the Magna-Char ta (constitution) of our country.)

You may or may not agree with McNaughton or with the L.A. Times. But to say that McNaughton wasted paint and canvas and that his work is “junk” is an atrocity in my lowly opinion. He is a superb illustrator who is being “vilified” for differing with the political agenda of “some of the people,” but not all.

It is interesting to note that the L.A. Times and their ilk were fond of the urine soaked painting of Christ that received rave reviews by the "left."

"He Lives!" -- 16x20 mixed media

When you follow your heart and mind, your work and your opinions may not be popular. You may be labeled a “hack” and your product called “junk.” So were the works of Van Gogh and many of his contemporaries who dared to speak out and to create what they felt strongly about.

Do you have the courage to stand up for your beliefs, or will you succumb to popular opinion and the forces of power? Freedom in art and expression must never be suppressed, especially by government or the media that serves that government. The perfect example of this is in Iran, and Russia, and Venezuela, and in Cuba to name a few.

http://youtu.be/4KGlBHyVeYU

"Americana" 16x20 acrylic

America is the world’s last Bastian of freedom. What will you do to preserve and keep it alive?