5.13.2017

petition

This will be my first Mother’s Day without my mother. There will be no phone call to make or card to send, just this . . .


This collage features a photograph of my mother, aunt and grandmother. Although my mother rarely talked about her mother and sister, I could tell she loved them very much. My aunt died in her mid-thirties, my grandmother at age fifty-five—so young . . .

This week, I was notified that the piece, Petition, was selected for an art show award. I was grateful. It felt as though others were joining me in an acknowledgement of my mother. My work had become my card, my call, to three mothers who loved each other so.

4.30.2017

4.13.2017

in the garden

I planted this rose in the garden, and after doing so, remembered this quote . . .


The rose shadows said they loved the sun, but they also loved the dark, where their roots grew through the lightless mystery of the earth.-  Robin McKinley


These words and images seemed suitable for a sacred holiday sculpted by the dark and the light.

3.25.2017

wherever you go

We’ve had quite a few visitors since we moved into our "new" old house a little over a year ago, and each has mentioned that our present home reminds them of “the farm”, the place I lived for fifteen years, fifteen years ago. It’s an accurate observation; yet, until recently, I never realized how many attributes the two homes shared. As it’s been said, “Wherever you go, there you are.” It’s true. I’m “there” again. And where is there? Home.


I’m happy to be home, except now I know what it means to leave a place you love-- to say goodbye to friends, family and all that you thought you were, but found out you weren’t--to ache for what you once had, what you once knew--to think you’ll never find home again.

But sometimes you do . . . 

At least for a while . . .


3.13.2017

simple wares

When I spied some vintage enamelware abandoned on garage shelf and a contemporary piece displayed in one of my favorite shops, I became intrigued by the simple designs.


Before long, the assorted pieces became coasters, a spoon rest, tray, vase, and mini planters.  I think these little creations could be quite sweet on a bedside table or kitchen windowsill, adding a bit of green to one's day.


2.23.2017

extending the olive branch


A fleeting glance at my garden quickly reveals my interest in topiaries. Last spring, I purchased an olive tree to add to the mix. Its gray green leaves are lovely, and I’ve found them to be the perfect embellishment for gifts, or in this case, a table setting. Here, I’ve used some to accent a simple tablescape that includes a few vintage items- a set of earrings, curtain ring, damask napkin and scalloped white plate.


2.12.2017

pins and needles

When I was a little girl, I would examine the people that occupied my church’s pews, trying to discern their stories from afar. I assumed their lives were much different than mine. Many lived in the Parish community, sharing assorted familial and cultural ties. I, on the other hand, was an outsider of sorts, hailing from another town, the offspring of a Catholic mother and Southern Baptist father. I always felt a sense of isolation in that faith community. But truthfully, I preferred my solitary position, because while I was terribly inquisitive, I was horribly shy.


My interest in “the other” remains today, but now, the strangers that capture my interest are  often those I place amidst paper and text. This piece is a case in point. It features yet another nameless girl. I found her image and the torn book page among some family possessions. Her story is unknown to me, but I strain to hear it as I peer into her face.


Pins & Needles is currently in The Stars of Texas Juried Art Exhibit. Prior to the judging process, I saw a young woman stop and examine it. Then she motioned to a friend, indicating they should look at it as well. I wonder what she thought . . . what she saw. Were her impressions of the girl the same as mine or entirely different? I suspect the latter, because so often we imaginatively shape the stories we hear and intricately weave the stories we tell.