Your "Stuff and Nonsense" may turn into a Firebrand

"Fish Market" mixed media on canvas (acrylic underpainting; oil on main images)

I have a file on my computer called “Stuff” where I put down ideas for blogs and articles. I get a one-word idea, and then ramble on with it to see if it has substance. Some of my one or two word ideas really take off; others fizzle out after one or two sentences.

When that happens, I do some research on the subject to see what turns up. If I’m lucky (or blessed), I find a plethora of information. If there’s nothing, or the word has a negative connotation, I go back to square one.

One such word was “firebrand.” I loved the sound of it rolling off my tongue. I had a few ideas on which direction I could take it, but then I actually looked the word up:

Firebrand, “One that creates unrest or strife; urges crowds to riot (I certainly didn’t want that!); progressively promotes a cause – an agitator.” I didn’t like that definition either.

But the more I thought about it, I decided that was exactly the word I wanted to write about. I liked this description: “One that creates unrest or strife.” Artwork is supposed to cause people to think, to push them to analyze and to cause unrest or strife within. Fine art is supposed to change us in some way, either to shake us up and help us see another point of view or to inspire us and motivate us.

"Hey, Coconut, Mon!" mixed media on canvas (acrylic underpainting; oil on main images)

Most people think of art as beauty. I was sitting in a relative’s living room this weekend (relaxing after a wedding celebration and the reason for my late blog!) admiring a painting on the wall. Actually, the watercolor was very bland. The background was tinged light ochre, beige and tan. A dark brown tree spread its naked branches against the yellow cast sky.

I realized that I’m a firebrand kind of person. I want to make a statement. My paintings don’t blend in or stay in the background, they are more conversation pieces. They either draw you or repel you, depending on your point of view. I have difficulty painting fluffy pretty scenes. I’ve had to master this technique and by the time the canvas is finished, I’m eager to move on

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We each have our own style, but there’s one thing that we must all agree upon: without passion and conviction, the final work may look and feel like a puddle of paint. 

The word firebrand also describes the hot iron that burns rancher’s initials on his or her cattle. Artists must create their own firebrand that becomes recognizable; a signature that is unique and represents not only the artist’s name, but a clue as to his or her style. 

"Early Christian logo created from the
Greek word for fish"

I wish I’d created something more unique than just my first initial and last name. I’ve seen some very clever logos that are remembered and admired. If you’re just starting out, I recommend creating something different. Make it simple. Make it memorable. Then when your fans see something of yours, they’ll recognize it in an instant.

(I just threw this one in for fun!)

Use your “firebrand” to create unrest, strife, or simply a tranquil experience that people will buy and treasure for many years to come.

A Teacher’s Influence may Last Forever

Amaryllis in candy cane stripes
(original photo)

You may have read about my grandfather in my biography, but to know the man was to love him. He had more granddaughters than grandsons and he made each one of us feel important.

For decades, he was a sixth grade teacher who had an influence on the entire community and on the cities and towns wherever he taught. When he died, his funeral was crowded with former students and teachers who knew him well and remembered him fondly.

As our grandfather, he made us feel special, and we wanted to please him. He admired his granddaughter's shiny bouncy ringlets. We would quicken our steps when he was nearby so our curls would bob even harder.

Hibiscus Glory - oil on canvas

Grandpa helped us practice perfect posture by placing books on our heads as we walked to keep our spines straight and strong. Even now when I catch a glimpse of myself with shoulders slumped, grandpa whispers in my ear reminding me to pull my shoulders back and stand up straight.

His love of the dance made winter days indoors a fest of delight, at least for most of us. We learned “The Hokey Pokey,” the “Grand Right and Left” and any other music that not only stressed rhythm but self control and coordination. He helped prepare dance festivals for schools and churches that were performed on a nearby football field. “Peter Cotton Tail” was one I remember, and dancing the Maypole with hundreds of dancers and poles scattered across the field with a myriad of bright costumes and multi-colored streamers.

Blending In" -- Acrylic on canvas

Having a male teacher who enjoyed dancing kept the boys in line. Some of them even enjoyed the experience. When it came to biology, grandfather’s first love, the boys witnessed his tough side. He loved spiders and snakes and made them a part of our curriculum. We handled them, learned how vital they were to the ecosystem, and lost our fear as we got to know and understand them better.

Acrylic under painting -- work-in-progress

One Fall we gathered monarch caterpillars from the milkweed plants outside our school yard and placed them in glass canning jars. We fed them and watched each of them form a chrysalis. When Spring arrived, we observed their struggle to break out and dry off their fragile wet wings. Grandfather allowed the butterflies to flutter freely about our classroom, but most of them flew to the windows bouncing against the glass until they grew tired.

Finally, they settled on the window ledge letting us approach them if we wanted to and curiously crawling up our hands and arms with their tickly prickly feet. During recess, we fed them sugar water from jar lids. I’ll never forget the wonder of watching an orange and black butterfly sit on my palm and unroll its long proboscis to drink the life-giving water.

"Moody Blues" -- oil on canvas

When the time came for their release, we opened up the windows and our butterflies flew to freedom. We yearned to bring them back as they fluttered upward tinting the sky with orange. We would never be the same.