Happy Birth Day

Oh my gosh, can I tell you how happy I am when I play with paint and all the other magical stuff in my studio?

So happy!

Every day is the birth day—the happy birth day—of something new that never existed before.

Wasn't there …  is there!

Magic.

Happy magic.

I especially enjoyed creating this card for the happy birthday of my friend Ruth.

Can you feel the celebration here for Ruth's spark, sparkle, integrity, energy, generosity, and vibrancy?

There Aren't Any Grown-Ups—Not One, in the Whole Wide World 3x3.75"; acrylic, ink, pencil, and pastels on paper, mounted on card stock abstract 2017 [gift]

Summertime, Summertime, Sum-sum-summertime

Last Thursday was a busy day—multiple pieces to juggle; much to manage; miles on the highway to navigate; an especially tight schedule between when I woke and when my first student knocked at the door.

But it's summertime summertime sum sum summertime ... summerti-i-i-i-ime!, and in the middle of a lively parade of morning minutes, I stepped right out of my busyness into summertime painting, into complete sensory presence.

I love painting in the summer.

The bare feet. The open windows. The soft air breathing on my skin. The trill of a songbird. The tink tink tink of a neighbor's hammer. The whisper of tearing collage pieces. The smooth flow of a brush as it transfers paint to paper. The gentle resistance of an oil pastel stick against surface tooth. The steady appearance of a black line as a grease pencil travels along a straight-edge. The timeless vacation that seamlessly incorporates itself into the fabric of an otherwise hup-to hubba-hubba morning.

Pure magic.

painting start #4,
second layer

Swimming, Swimming

Swimming, swimming
In the swimming hole
Some days are hot
Some days are cold
In the swimming hole …

In my early years at Takodah, swimming lessons for the youngest campers were first thing in the morning. The water was black, my lips were blue, the swimming instructor stood on the dock in her sweatshirt.

During my leader years, when I became a swimming instructor giving lessons all morning, the waterfront director mandated that instructors get in the water with their students. The water was black, my lips were blue, my towel was on the dock.

But now, as a more-than-grown-up family camper, I float in an inner tube on top of Cass Pond each afternoon in a circle with my best friends in the world. The inner tubes are black, the sky is vivid blue, our skin is warmed by bright summer sun—our hearts are full to overflowing.

Swimming, swimming …

painting start #3,
second layer

Leaf Pile!

I have early, early memories of jumping in leaf piles raked up by Daddy in our back yard on Waverly Place in Cranford, NJ.

Crackles. Whispers. Earthy smells. Scratchinesses under my shirt down my back. Laughter. Squeals. Fresh air. Blue sky. Hard ground. Sisters' knees and elbows. Running. Jumping. Dry papery bits stuck to my lips, in my mouth. Browns. Reds. Translucent bright yellows.

painting start #2,
second layer

Ltd.

Two sides of my persona duke it out these days in a little ongoing background tussle that erupts in various corners of my mind as I brush my teeth, drive to the Y, and dice zucchini from our garden.

The argument is about what limited means.

One side says, Here are the limits: 16 postcard starts, two brushes, black paint, white paint, and some scribbling tools. And maybe your Camp Takodah clipboard from 1969 for nostalgia's sake. Should fit in a cloth grocery bag with room for a beach towel and sunscreen.

The other side argues, Limits?What are you talking about? Creativity doesn't know boundaries from foundries. What if I want to paint the negative space blue, or umber, or olive? Or crimson? What if I want to stencil? What if I want to collage? What if I need a roller? A makeup sponge? Palette knives? I'm not leaving the house with anything less than an oversized laundry basket.

painting start #1,
second layer