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Balance is an unruly dog forever digging beneath the fence and running away.

Balance is an unruly dog forever digging beneath the fence and running away.

“Balance, get back here. Bad dog, bad, BAD DOG! Go home, Balance, Go home!” (Out of breath, with hands on her hips, she stamps her foot indignantly.) End scene. The work continues.
Life continues.
The work cannot move forward without me.
Life doesn’t hesitate to leave me behind.

Some days I would rather paint than attend to life.
Wrestling beauty from chaos, my painting process,
is very much like living life.

Very much, but not quite

When I am too long in the paint,
the living becomes thin.

Not the good kind of, “oh, I lost three pounds!” thin,
but the thinness of shallowness.

The process of painting 
is the solution of,
the resolution of,
the re-solution of

one problem after another.
The process of art
is the scaling of obstacles
created
by the prior solution.

Problem-solving is addictive.
It is the “solving” that keeps the artist going.

Each painting begs the next.
Before the paint is dry,  

 the next has begun.

If not on canvas then in the heart and mind.
There is never “left-over” paint.

Never. 

In lies the dilemma: never.


The artist must fight to create a pause between works.
To live in the work is easier than living in the world.

A concerted effort is required to stand by and walk out one’s priorities.

Life informs creativity. When this is not true, you can see it in the work. The work reveals technique rather than the heart.


Years and life develop character and art.

The line of separation
between art and life
is a fine line indeed.

Creativity and life are inconvenient. 

It is significantly easier to deal
with pigment and substrate
than to engage
emotions and humanity. Honestly, it is easier to paint than deal with myself.

Artists forget that art flows from the living.

The cart is in front of the horse.
The horse is confused
and we wonder,
“Why we aren’t getting anywhere?”

Art for art’s sake.  
That old trope?

Yes.
And
no.

Art is not either/or.
Art is both/and. 

We (and by we I mean I.)

We
push and push
until there is nothing left to draw from.
There is only technique.

Thinness.  Shallowness.

The work! The work!
It becomes idol

Idols are attractive because of their ease.
No thinking.
No questions.
Dogma.

The work! The work! A calling.

When does one’s calling become one’s idol?

Through social media, I recently reconnected with an elderly artist. Almost seventy years of stellar work. In his late 80s, he continues to create achingly poignant work.

Alone.

Divorced several times (still looking for that “sugar-momma”.)
No children.
“Children are a distraction,” he told me. And yes, all six of my children were and are glorious distractions. They are also inspiration.

Before I had children I “did not have time to paint.” For me, children brought focus. Clarity. And, yes, distraction.

Elderly artist lived a life dedicated to the work. His focus was always first and foremost his art. He was bitter when I met him a dozen years ago and he remains bitter today.

Rattled- I turned to the powers of Facebook- I looked up some of elderly artist’s peers.


I found another artist friend also dedicated to his craft but who just celebrated his 90th birthday and sixty-ninth wedding anniversary with wife, children, grands, and greats. From his LIFE flowed great art and generosity.


Both men painted and taught. One joyous. One bitter. One alone. One surrounded by family. Both made beautiful and significant work. They began in relatively the same place and they have ended up artist peers.

 It is their journeys that diverged.

Sobering. Sobering is a good word because there is an addictive euphoria experienced when the artist is in “the zone.”

You can’t drink from a dry well.
What fills the well?
Values? Priorities?

When how we spend our time does not line up with our stated/believed values and priorities, it is time to ask if those truly ARE our values.

Talk.
Walk.

Saturday I stopped in the middle of “the work” and a tight deadline for a museum festival, coconut ice cream, and artist lecture at the Amon Carter with Jubilee.

I did not want to stop. Jubilee did not want to go. Niggling at the back of my consciousness were two elderly artists. Life called. The work called. For a few hours I chose to allow life to inform the work. And we had fun.

The work is not my life.

The work is an important part of who I am but it is not who I am.

The workflows from living.
Work from work produces technique. Work as an overflow of life produces heart. When I paint I put my heart into the work. I am giving the best of me in that moment. The best of me is less when I am consumed with the work.

(Make no bones about it, being consumed by the work is AWESOME!)

Some weeks play out better than others.
This past weekend I chose wisely.

It takes more discipline than I am usually able to muster to keep first things first. Family. Books. Journaling. Nature.

If these are not in place the art suffers.
My soul suffers
– and yet –
I continually neglect family, friends, reading, horses, all the things that make me who I am.


Thank goodness I am not a weaver or it would be quite the tangled web. I am discovering, gradually, that during those seasons when I am most vigilant to protect my values, those seasons when I diligently stand by my priorities, that I am at peace and the art flows.

Today I know my priorities.
Next week I may forget.
If
I forget,
WHEN
I forget,
will remind me?

Go now,
live and love.
There are no guarantees
that the work,
no matter the work,
is anything but an empty idol.

Never lose perspective…
and when you do lose perspective-
course correct.
Don’t waste time beating yourself up.
There is neither time nor energy for that.
When you recognize the drift, straighten up.
ASAP.

Create a life
from which flows
abundant beauty.

PS I was reading e.e. cummings and how he diddled with fonts and word placement.I have always loved to diddle with the words and after reading about cummings I am giving myself permission to diddle with the words.I do hope you were more entertained than annoyed. Peace out, Gwen


PPS or PSS
I had my hair done today. Laura Valles at Salon District in Fort Worth. Monday they open in a new location at 207 South Main FW. A talented array of creatives. We have worked with Laura for going on 11 years. I had color in my hair back in the day. I HAVE COLOR AGAIN! And it is SWEATER weather today.


PPPS. (or whatever) The images are work in progress shots of a painting I am creating as a storyteller for the Human Rights Initiative 2018 fundraiser. It is not finished yet. The reveal will happen at the Rock Your HeART Out October 27th, 2018.

If you are in, near, or can get to Dallas. It will be worth your time and money to attend. Here is a documentary about one of last year’s clients. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNlpfm_2VYs&featur…

And a final note, PPPP?S? I am planning on learning how to crop my images before the next email, but let us NOT hold our collective breaths. PEACE Y’ALL!

 

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Missing Denial

Dear Ones, Have you noticed how sometimes life is funny? Sometimes it is not.  And sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.  When I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, I just do both. There has been a lot of both as Winter gives way to Spring. Spring tends transition for me. The North Texas winds always stir up something that is best not stepped in.

So, I was remembering when Jubilee was little.  When she was little  EVERYTHING was family.

“Oh, a family of trees.”“Look a family of clouds.” “Yummy, a family of broccoli!” “Awe, cute, a family of rocks.” You name it, if there was more than one, it translated into family.  This ability to transmogrify just about anything was likely the result of being the adored youngest of six siblings.  24/7 there was someone waiting in line to hold Jubilee and we did not set her down for six weeks after her arrival. Thus, she saw the world as family.

Humans love to personify everything.  We give animals, particularly those closest to us: dogs and cats, personalities.  While they DO have personalities, sometimes the motives we assign to their actions and expressions push reason

Does that cat truly hate me or is that just resting cat face?

Inanimate objects garner personhood.  MY PHONE HATES ME!  My car has it out for me.  Heck, there are those in our government who deem corporations people, too!

Denial has been a HUGE part of my life.And you know what?I miss denial.I am not certain if I miss denial as a person or a place.Either way, I miss her.
OH! A person.

Lately, I have been considering, reconsidering, and restructuring my relationship with denial.  Denial was a safe place to visit, but I planted stakes and built a home.
Ah HA!! A place.

Thinking I was doing myself and those I loved a favor, I camped out (place) with her (person) for far too long.The trouble with living in or with denial is that denial is not a real place nor is she a real friend.

Denial is a protective mechanism, but a false defense.  Eventually, the edges fray and it all begins to unravel.  (Wow, a thing!I wonder how many metaphors I can incorporate into this sordid tale?)

A recent Friday resulted in a complete unraveling of my delusion.  No more pretending.  It was interesting because I had already begun gathering my things from Camp Denial.  The first draft of the break-up missive had been composed.I was steeling myself for a new reality when the phone rang.  I usually cannot find my phone.T  his particular Friday it was in dang my pocket.

While I am no longer living in denial, every now and again I remember something and I run back to collect it.  The soundtrack of this breakup is Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence” which begins, “Hello darkness, my old friend…”Paul Simon said, “…we have people unable to touch other people, unable to love other people. This is a song about the inability to communicate.”

“Alexa, play The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel.”  “Alexa, play it again.”  “Alexa…”It reminds me that things are not hunky dory and that the reality of NOT hunky dory is still better than the delusion of denial.

Denial, person, place, or thing, is an inability to communicate clearly with one’s self.  While I miss the pretense of safety and well-being of denial, denial crippled me, estranging me from myself and from people who love me and from people who might love me.

Processing what I miss, I am discovering that what I miss was only a vapor.  I am enjoying discovering me.  I don’t know how this me interacts with the world.  I am nervous about how the after break up me, in a new location, will paint.Like so many artists, there is discovery in the process of painting.

Spring has sprung here in North Texas.  The windows are open.  The birds are singing.  I just saw the largest coyote I have ever seen (my heart claims it was a wolf, but google searches say there are no longer wolves in North Texas).  The family, my family, and a dear friend are meeting for a birthday picnic at the Fort Worth Botanic Gardens.  Maybe I don’t miss denial after all.  HAPPY SPRING, ALL Y’ALL!  Much love, Gwen

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2048 Distractions

Hello, Dear One,
I hope that you have enjoyed the reprieve from gray skies and welcome rains.
(At least the rains were welcome in my neck of the woods.)

I have been SO busy! Two thousand and forty-eight distractions eating away at my time and vitality.

Two thousand and forty-eight.  A rather specific number.  Did you catch the reference?  If you did I am quite sorry because if you did it is also quite possible that you also have 2048 distractions sucking the brains out of your head.

For those of you who have yet to succumb to the addiction- DON’T!  There is a computer “game” called 2048 Tiles.  A small box in the top right-hand corner of the screen tracks your high score.  The high score sits, in the upper right-hand corner, TAUNTING me!

It is insidious.  Was my high score a fluke?  Luck?  Skill?
If it was skill then – surely – I can do it AGAIN.Go ahead, PROVE that it was more than luck.  “Do BETTER and THEN you can quit.”   Each time I fail to achieve or best my “high score” my ego punches me in the gut and snarls, “IDIOT! Can you NOT do BETTER?”  Sometimes there is only the internal, “Grrrrrrrrrrowl.”

It.

Mocks.

Me.

The “game” is not inherently evil, but it is akin to the Amazon Book Addiction Wraith which perpetually asks, “If you like THIS book, surely you will love THAT book.” (Okay, so the exact wording may be a little off, but if you have ever hit that button to look at that next book, well, my sympathies.)

What does this have to do with art?

Everything.

Forrest, my eldest son, was paid $150 for a t-shirt design: I have not yet begun to procrastinate.

Tree.
Apple.

Truthfully, while Forrest can indeed procrastinate with the best procrastinators, he is, more often than not, laser focused.

Apple.
Tree.

I, too, am capable of both.  World class procrastination and laser focus.  When I had six small children at home there was no time for procrastination.  Twenty hours a week painting and the rest of the time was mommying, homeschool, horses, the occasional friend, and the sacred nap.

Thinking is harder than doing.  With so many precious ones underfoot, all I could do was DO.  There was no time for second-guessing.

Now with only a single middle school daughter at home and there is time to think.  There is time for second-guessing.  Oh, and second-guessing is brutal.  Brutal and paralyzing.

Rather than deal with self-doubt and second-guessing, I self-medicate.  Enter 2048 Tiles.  There are myriad of self-medicating procrastinations available to us all.  The only question is, “Which poison?”

Preparing for Centering Abstraction on the heels of the holidays kept me focused.
Preparing for the DTS show in Dallas kept me focused.

Then I sat down to catch my breath.  Catching one’s breath is a good thing.
Picking up the computer mouse is not a bad thing.
Playing a couple games on the computer is not a bad thing.
Playing more than a couple games…
a.
bad.
thing.

So I stalled out for a few days.  Spun in the breeze like a wind-sock on the end of a pole.  At the end of the pole, spinning in one of our infamous North Texas thunderstorms, I saw the heart of my particular form of procrastination.  Fear.  Fear of “what if?”

What if my parents are right?
I will never amount to anything.  No one will love me.  I will never be good enough.
What if my sister is right?
I am a talentless c#%+.

THIS TIME I was armed.  This time I had answers to the question, “What if….?”
The answer is, “It was never about me.”

This past week I pushed through some procrastinations.  I reworked my artist statement for two different venues.  I applied for a scholarship and asked for a job.  I have not heard about the job – yet- but I did get a magazine cover and the check is in the mail!  There were successes that I pooh-poohed because I “could have…”

I caught myself and I took time to sit back and see that, while I flitting away too much time on the computer, I had actually spent six to eight hours a day painting and writing and following through with responsibilities and possibilities.  I also made it to bed before 1 a.m.   FOUR TIMES this past week- just call me Susie Sunshine!

The last Sunday of the Gallery 414 show included a closing reception and an artist panel discussion about artist journeys and creating the Centering Abstraction exhibition.  The panel discussion took a turn and our fearless leaders, John Hartley and Barbara Koerble, laid down some serious wisdom.  It was the insight that I sincerely needed to hear.   Insight made tangible because I was standing in a gallery space with my work hanging with the other three artists.  So, what if my degrees are in computers and statistics.  I have put in the time and I have studied with master artists.  I am qualified.  I felt something shift.

This week self-doubt wiggled in but armed with a new understanding of where I am in my art journey I wiggled free.  I have plans for next week, but I am holding them loosely.

Art is so weird  Artists are so weird.  What is art?  What makes a person an artist?

Like the proverbial Facebook status: It is complicated.

I will not attempt to answer either question EXCEPT that one knows it when one sees it.  If the art tugs at your heartstrings, it is art.  If it calls to you might need to take it home.  Art in an investment in your soul.

May your heart find joy this week.
Joy in art.
Joy in nature.
Joy in the smile of a stranger.
Joy.

Peace out, Gwen

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Parties and Faulty Computers

I have a new HP computer.  A RED laptop with a large screen.  (Color was the same prices as regular silver! )  IT IS BEAUTIFUL!  Things are in different places than I am accustomed to seeing them.  I did not realize how well trained I am to a particular screen size.  My neck swivels with this screen!

I have used my new computer for three weeks.  Last night the plugin for the power cord stopped working!  It works- IF I jiggle the cord.  It is too soon to be jiggling things to get them to work.

So instead of writing the pithy and clever email tI intended, I am spent just shy of an hour online with support. (It was SO HARD not to put support inside of quotes- unironically of course.)  Palash helped me.  I do not know if Palash is a woman or a man.  I think I will google it.  Hang on a minute.  I will be right back.

THANK YOU FOR WAITING. 

Here is what I found.  Flowery Tree.  So I think female.  Nope.
Palash means Green or blossom of the tree Butea Frondosa (Sanskrit: किंशुक, Hindi: पलाश). It is a species of Butea native to tropical and sub-tropical parts of the Indian Subcontinent and Southeast Asia. The flowers are used to prepare traditional Holi color. It is said that the tree is a form of Agnidev, God of Fire.   Names are awesome.  I should have googled it while I was waiting to see if Palash knew how google interpreted his name.  Next time. (OH! I HOPE THERE IS NO NEXT TIME!)

  Back to my first world tale of woe.

I live in Benbrook, which is a suburb of Fort Worth, which when lumped together with Dallas and Arlington and a few other close neighbors is the FOURTH LARGEST metropolitan in the United States.  HP is charging $25 for one way shipping because they do not have any other options “in my area.”  MY AREA!  That time the quotes indicated my snarky verbalization of “in my area.”  There, I did it again.

So I type into the chat that I am not happy about paying the $25 since it is a brand new machine and the machine is faulty.  Eventually, Palash offers a $15 option that takes longer to get to me.  Well, I NEED my computer this week to get ready for the reception on Saturday so waiting two more days for the box allows me to work and jiggling is not that difficult.

OH, DO COME IF YOU CAN!  
To the RECEPTION ON SATURDAY!
January 27, 2018, 6 – 9 Gallery 414
414 Tempelton, FW, TX. 

So I take the lesser option and ask for a way to complain about no pickup options in the fourth largest metropolitan area in the entire United States of America.  What Palash offers is a discounted extended warranty that will include shipping for this time.  This reduces the price and we take the two years extended warranty.  David did point out that the laptop only cost $400.  Well, now it cost $475.  The last laptop lasted 7 or 8 years.  Jubilee is using it for her school.  If this one lasts five years that averages out to $95 a year.  That prorates to $7.95 a month for the computer.  I get $8 of use out of it each month.  Cost less than Netflix or Hulu.

A longtime friend died last Tuesday.  She had a rare bile duct cancer and lived only eight months after diagnosis.  She was a good woman.  Her daughters, 28 and 26 are good women.  Her husband is a good man.  My computer requires that I jiggle the power cord to get it to work.
Perspective.
Perspective is sobering.
Sherry’s funeral starts four and a half hours before I need to be at Gallery 414 to set up for the reception.

Sometimes we fuss over jiggling cords to take a break from real life.

When I stop jiggling the cord and I stop jiggling with Palash who was so kind on HP tech support the other emotions roll in.  Sherry was miserable and in a great deal of pain.  It was hard to tell which was worse, cancer or complications from treatments.  She fought the good fight and now she is at rest and at peace.  I cry for all that Sherry will miss as her daughters come into their full humanity.  Maybe there will be spouses, possibly children, certainly adventures.  I cry for the young women who will be there for each other but will desperately miss their mother.  I cry for Mitch who will be fine- eventually.  Normal will never be again.  Only a new normal.  A normal forever with a piece missing.

The emotions come with clarity.  Clarity that death brings concerning the illusion of control.   Control is all mirrors and vapers.

So, I gripe about my computer which I will put in a box that the Fed Ex person will collect from me while standing on my front porch.  Seven to nine days later the box will magically reappear on my front porch and my computer will be fixed.  By that time the reception will be over and I will have gotten a great deal of painting done because I can’t work without my computer.

First world problems and parties.

If you can not make it to the reception, I sincerely hope you will take a few extra moments to see something beautiful.
Maybe in a museum.
Maybe tea in a beautiful cup.
Maybe in an independent gallery or alternative creative space.
Wherever you are and whatever beauty you are beholding, remember me.  Just a nod.
Remember control is an illusion and embrace the moment, open your heart, and receive the beauty offered.
In sharing my art, I am also sharing my heart.  When you receive beauty, in that moment your heart is open to more.
May, this week, your heart be touched ever so gently.
May you receive and exude beauty.

peace out, Gwen

 

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But, WHERE AM I IN THE BOOK?

 

Art is not created in a vacuum.   The solitary artist is influenced by living.
The line drawn between art and artist is not often a straight line, but a culmination of what has been, what is, and what might be.
Creating is a hopeful act.   The creator hopes or the creator would not create.  Some days I am bold enough to say that without hope, creation is not possible.
I paint hope.
Hope that the mess of living will ultimately resolve into beauty.
Hope is the faith component of my work. Hope is the human component of my work.   Hope qualifies my work as a contemporary artist because I paint in response to now.   Hope, while addressing what has been and what might be,  deals directly with the here and now-today.
Awareness of past mixed and with consideration for the future empowers and enables now.
The balance is delicate.
My faith tradition is one of happy endings.
To leave unacknowledged the struggle and pain of living is disingenuous.  No life is without struggle or pain, no path is without obstacle.
This summer as a church we are reading through the book of Genesis.   I find these stories painful, partly because of how they have been preached in the past.  These are ancient and difficult stories.  So what do we do with these hard stories?  We cast them aside as fodder for the children’s programs.

Unexplored since childhood there are surprises for the adult heart.

Most of us who grew up in church heard sermons by males who failed to present a full spectrum of characters in the stories.

There are always women in the stories.
Women who are seldom considered.
Women who are dismissed, glossed over or present with bias. The female characters are presented as NOT-QUITE-HUMAN.  
(Did Michaelangelo never see a nude woman? )  The image of women is not only distorted by the greats in art but by the greats in theology, today and throughout history.

One of the joys of attending Trinity Episcopal is the consideration of the women in the stories. These women are invited to come forward, to step out from behind the wall and share their stories.    Women who have been treated as aside are treated with respect.  The women’s stories are not just included, but celebrated.
Agency is returned to the women of the Bible stories.
WHAT does this have to do with art?
Is it even remotely related?
Painting is my voice.  Visual art is my avenue to be heard.  Art gives me agency.
This past Sunday Amy Haynie, one of our priests,  shone a light on an oft-maligned or even ignored character:  Hagar.   The sermon is not yet up on the podcasts and I am so sorry for that.  I don’t know when it will go up.  I will let you know.

Here is an excerpt from the Monday morning email, this one sent by Mother Amy Haynie concerning her sermon on Hagar, “In studying the two stories of Hagar we get in Genesis, we find a remarkable woman to whom God speaks to twice. She is much more than a “slave woman.” Phyllis Trible, in Texts of Terror, wrote of Hagar,

“Most especially, all sorts of rejected women find their stories in her. She is the faithful maid exploited, the black woman used by the male and abused by the female of the ruling class, the surrogate mother, the resident alien without legal recourse, the other woman, the runaway youth, the religious fleeing from affliction, the pregnant young woman alone, the expelled wife, the divorced mother with child, the shopping bag woman carrying bread and water, the homeless woman, the indigent relying upon handouts from the power structures, the welfare mother, and self-effacing female whose own identity shrinks in service to others.” “
This is a painting of the sacrament of Holy Communion. The Eucharist. Lords Supper. 45 x 75 inches acrylic on paper by Gwen Meharg
The word Gospel means “good news.”  In today’s world, what is presented as gospel is too often wielded as a weapon of destruction.
Sunday, the third Sunday in Ordinary Time, Amy offered extraordinarily good news.

Two Choices by Gwen Meharg 30 x 22″ watercolor on paper

Amy held out evidence from the Good Book that God sees women.   And not just neat and tidy women.  Women rode hard and put up wet.   Women who have thrown under and driven over by the proverbial bus.

And the proverbial bus?
It is real.
So very, very real.
The driver of that bus looks like the invented, man-made, created God revered by generations of empowered men.  Men who have failed to use their power to

Gwen Meharg in front of Transition painting.

empower, particularly failing to empower women.

The first recorded name of God is assigned by Hagar, “God Who Sees Me.”
Another commonly used name for God is God Almighty.  El Shaddai. The Breasted One.
The Breasted One is NOT driving the bus.
Giving voice to the women in the Bible takes nothing away from men.
Giving voice to women in society today takes nothing away from men.
This is my baby, Jubilee.  She is empowered by her four older brothers and big sister.  She is empowered by El Shaddai, God Almighty, the Breasted One.   Jubilee doesn’t know the bus driver and our prayer is that she never meet him.  Our prayer is that she continues as a walking, breathing, living image of God.
Hope in Bluegreen and Silver bronze
And so I paint.  I paint hope.  I paint to give voice to stories old and I paint to make old stories new.  There may be nothing new under the sun, but that does not mean there is not something new for you and me to see.
I hope you have an enlightening week.  I hope you are seen.  I hope you are heard.  I hope that your heart and mind find peace.   Sincerely, Gwen
PS  A plethora of names for God are scattered throughout the old and new testaments.  El Shaddai, the breasted one, God Almighty is in there.
NONE of the names of God is “The Penised One.”
JUST SAYING!
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Rats Scurry. People Ought Not.

14947789_1325730707479339_9033128899126711905_nI am writing from Holly Colorado.   I am sitting on the second floor (corner room) with a lovely window that rounds what would typically be a square corner.   Since I am working that makes this a CORNER OFFICE!  I. Have. Arrived.

Looking out I see other buildings, like mine from the mid 1800s and all the inner corners facing the cross streets are rounded.  It is quite lovely.

 

It was also disorienting during the night trying to find the bed  in a room with five walls instead of four.    I was the thing that went bump in the night.

This morning I am brewing PG Tips tea in a clear water bottle sitting on my corner window ledge.  It won’t be ready until this afternoon, but today I am not participating in the rat race.

Today I will not scurry.  Rats scurry.  People, while more than a few are rat-like, ought not to scurry.  Nothing good comes from the scurry.
For the past month I have been scurrying.  Yes, I finished three paintings, but the scurry did not get them done.  Actually, IF I had avoided the scurry I am certain that at least one more would be complete and possibly one or two more.  Scurry shuts down the brain’s ability to truly prioritize.

The urgent obliterates the important.

I KNOW this and yet….dsc_0126

Today I am on my way to Denver to spend time at the Denver Art Museum (DAM) and the Stills Museum next door.  Maybe some Red Rock hiking.  We will see.  We will see.   Instead of scurrying out and speed (not speeding!) towards Denver I decided to sit down. I am sitting in my simple corner room and watching my tea begin its slow brew.

It is quiet except for the occasional passing pick up truck.  The sunshine is nice.  Breathing is nice.
(Wow, that last pick up had a muffler!)
Carley Hughes, our priest at Trinity Episcopal Church in Fort Worth, challenged us to take 30 seconds- just THIRTY SECONDS- five times a day and be still.  I wanted to do it.  I was certain I could do it.

I have not done it yet.

It has been two weeks.  TODAY I am taking my 2 1/2 minutes to just be still.  Maybe I’ll talk to God.  Maybe I will just listen.  Maybe I will just be.

My art comes from connecting with the world around me.  From readi
ng.  From journaling.  From connecting disparate ideas and concepts.   I can’t do that scurrying.   I have to be still.  In my mad dash to “get it all done,” to “do it right,” TO JUSTIFY MAKING ART I have cut myself off from the joy of what I do and who I was created to be.

Scurrying is not good for anyone.  dsc_0102
It is not good for me.
It is not good for my family.
It is not good for my art.
It is not good for my community.

I wager that it is not good for you.

Give Carley’s challenge a go this week.
Thirty seconds, morning, meals, bedtime.
Find two and a half minutes to connect with yourself and your greater purpose.

A purpose beyond politics.

Time to check out.  (Literally, it is check-out time at the inn.)

PEACE!

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YOU PEOPLE!

Last week I was YOU Peopled!

Can You Hear Them? 22 x 30 watercolor on paper
Can You Hear Them?
22 x 30 watercolor on paper by Gwen Meharg

in the Park Cities Presbyterian Church parking lot.

A woman 10 years older than myself with salon blond hair and an old wine-skin mind-set felt obliged to YOU PEOPLE me as I was leaving the parking lot after delivering art.

I use the old wine-skin metaphor for two reasons.  She looked like she had spent a goodly amount of time poolside and/ or in a tanning bed.  Secondly, her old-time religious ideas were so firmly set in stone that she felt obligated, or justified, in voicing her disdain for me.

Her designer clothes, jewelry, and very expensive car all said money, money, money. 

I am more than okay with people who have money, money, money.  Some of them buy art.  Some of them lavish their earnings on charities.  I hope to join their ranks some day!

Monotype Acrylic on Paper by Gwen Meharg
Monotype Acrylic on Paper by Gwen Meharg

Money is not the problem.
Money is not the root of evil.
Money is a construct that works quite well.

And it is way easier than hauling around chickens, precious metals, and beads.

What one becomes when one has a good amount of money is where the potential problems lay.

I know “salt of the earth” people with lots of money.
I know “salt of the earth” people with very little money.

Money, having or not having, is not the problem. 
The problem resides in the heart. 

On a beautiful sun shiny morning last week this woman spoke from her heart and labeled me – wait for it! – liberal.

Her presence in the church parking led me to believe she was quite possibly a follower of Jesus.  A sister in Christ.
Her mouth and judgmental words and attitude implies otherwise.
The exact words out of her holier-than-thou mouth were,

Kept 6x6" watercolor sketch on paper by Gwen Meharg
Kept 6×6″ watercolor sketch on paper by Gwen Meharg

“YOU PEOPLE SCARE ME!”   

With my eyes popping out in disbelief, I demanded,
“WHO is YOU people?” 

Bottle Blond with her right hand raised to her heart and her fingers fluttering spit an explicative,   “Liberals!”

And she stomped off in a self-righteous huff.  I really wanted to say something ugly but I had been YOU PEOPLEd!
My privileged middle-class white lady position had spared me  until that moment.  It stung.

What set her off? 
My “Black Lives Matter” bumper sticker.

I ordered “Blue Lives Matter” bumper sticker over a month ago and was going to put them side by side.  My “Blue Lives Matter” bumper sticker has not come.  The Blue Lives Matter bumper sticker people stole my money.

Want to know what is WRONG WITH CONSERVATIVES?
I can clear up a great deal of political turmoil toot sweet.
What is wrong with “conservatives” is that I am no longer considered among them.

Watercolor Sketch 5x4" on paper by Gwen Meharg
Watercolor Sketch 5×4″ on paper by Gwen Meharg

How does one get more conservative than me?

I am a 55 year old white woman.  Southern Baptist until Easter 2014.  College educated at BAYLOR, a Baptist University.  Married 35 years to the same guy who I met in the marching band.  Did you catch that?  The MARCHING band!  David and I both played trombone for God’s sake.  Six children.  SIX!!!  Two cats.  Two horses.  One large dog.  A fish pond, a miniature cricket farm, and a cabinet full of tiny tarantulas.   I live in a suburb of a suburb.  I scrub horse buckets every Sunday morning.  Wear spurs in public.  Drive a 21 year old conversion van.  Don’t smoke.  Don’t chew.  Have friends who do.  Seldom drink.  Own a gun.  Get caught with a knife in my purse every time I go to the airport.  Actually READ my bible.  Pray.  Attend church regularly.   Read out loud to ALL my children.  I have serious body issues but am unwilling to give up popcorn or pie.  I home schooled for TWENTY-TWO years!

HOW MUCH MORE CONSERVATIVE CAN YOU GET?!?

The problem is not money.
The problem is not how conservative or how liberal a person is.

The problem is as it always has been, with the heart. 

It is so much easier to go to church than to love.
It is so much easier to label than to listen.

I have written and painted about the lie of the easy answer.
You people-ing is an easy answer that covers a world of lies.

Money is not the problem. 

Watercolor Sketch 4x4" on paper by Gwen Meharg
Watercolor Sketch 4×4″ on paper by Gwen Meharg

Race is not the problem. 

The heart is the problem. 

Now I am gonna toss out a scripture and see if it sticks:
1 Timothy 6:10   For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil…

It is not about conservative versus liberal.
It is not about haves versus have nots.

It is about love.

It has always been about love. 
It will always be about love. 

Who you love.
What you love. 

YOU PEOPLE,
you have a grand week
and may love inspire you
as you pursue  life well-loved and well-lived.

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Its Monday AGAIN

Strength Triptych each section is 40 x 25" acrylic on paper. Framed
Strength Triptych each section is 40 x 25″ acrylic on paper. Framed

It is Monday again.

Monday with all that entails.
The hopes and dreads.
The fresh start and the repetition of again.

Opposites colliding?  Maybe.

Opposites inhabiting a shared time and space?  Definitely.

We don’t live in an either / or world.

More often than not truth is found in both / and.

Black or white is not so black and white.

Gwen Meharg 30 x 22 " acrylic on watercolor paper.
Gwen Meharg 30 x 22 ” acrylic on watercolor paper.

I love painting with black.  A rainbow of hidden colors explode when water is added.
Black paintings are “hard to sell” and that is too bad because a black painting makes a statement.

The statement?  Well, there will be many,
but the statement is always one of defiance.
A refusal to be defined.  A refusal to be limited.   A refusal to be seen one dimensionally.

It is Monday again.

The last Monday with my eldest daughter, artist and author Ruth Meharg, and her husband, artist and men’s fashion illustrator Matthew Sunflowerman Miller.  They leave on their next grand adventure Wednesday.  They begin in Italy.  Then an island off of Africa.  Then who knows.

To say that we will miss them is an incredible understatement.
To say that we are thrilled about their adventure is another understatement.
Opposite emotions residing in a single heart, a single mind.

Easy answers are cheap.  Certainty is cheap.

Detail of work in progress by Gwen Meharg
Detail of work in progress by Gwen Meharg

Faith.  Not knowing.  Hope.  Defying not knowing.

I used to believe in either / or.

I don’t any more.
I am becoming ever more intimate with both / and.

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Kiss My Great Aunt Fanny

Confession.  I do nor did I ever have a Great Aunt Fanny.

Gwen Meharg in front of Transition painting.
Gwen Meharg in front of Transition painting.

I had an Aunt Mary who was ALL KINDS of magnificent.
Aunt Mary is my Auntie role model.  Everything I know about Auntie-ing I learned from Aunt Mary.
She could balance a tea cup on her massive breats!  She rocked full figure.
I was enamored as a child  and after I grew up we developed a deeper relationship and she was even more awesome.  I saw her cut out a blouse pattern and sew it by HAND in an afternoon.

There was a cousin Franny and there was a Boo bouncing around the family tree, but no Fanny.
But
-honesly-
you DO know what I am saying, dontcha?

This morning I took Wesley on this morning walk before Jubilee left for school.  If I leave before 7: 45 my walk is in the shade.  I love shade.  Not all of it is in the shade.

I was wearing my, “Oh Lord, I am gonna sweat and I hate sweating!” clothes.  They fit close and are supposed to magically wick away puddles of perspiration.  They sorta work.

Freedom From Expectations by Gwen Meharg 30 x 22 " watercolor and collage on watearcolor paper
Freedom From Expectations by Gwen Meharg 30 x 22 ” watercolor and collage on watercolor paper

Passing between shadows the morning sun caught me from behind and there to the left and in front of me, N by NW, was my shadow!  I liked how the low angle of the sun elongated my physique.  From the inside of my head I look like that shadow.  Long and lean.

From the outside I am formerly 5’6”, currently 5’5”, and 175 pounds.  I have been 175 pounds since my bonus baby arrived 11 ½ years ago.  I am reconciled to 175.  I am less reconciled to outweighing my father-in-law by 40 pounds, but such is life!

My shadow melted back into the tree shadows and my mind took a meandering journey.

Carolyn.  Carolyn was one of my best friends.  She died when Peter was four months old.  Peter is 17.  I have lost a great many friends.  Carolyn is the only one who I still reach for the phone to call.

Carolyn was brilliant.  She was talented.  She was kind.  Carolyn could say things and I would hear her.

My shadow reminded me of one time when Carolyn came for a visit.  She would bring her embroidery scissor and snip knots from out Ribbons’, mane.  Ribbons, our black and white long haired cat with the spirit of a dog.  Snip.  Snip.  Snip.  Just a few hairs at a time.  She was so careful and gentle.

Ribbons loved Carolyn, too.

One visit I opened the door and she was so thin.  She looked great!  Just like a magazine model!
Carolyn had been away for treatment and my voluptuous curvy friend came home model thin.

She was sick.  Very sick and she looked magnificent.  We talked about it.  How horrifying that to look like the models, the ideal, one had to be dying.

What is wrong with us when death is our standard of beauty?

Perspective by Gwen Meharg 22 x 20" watercolor on paper
Perspective by Gwen Meharg 22 x 20″ watercolor on paper

Wesley caught scent of a bunny and my mind wandered down its own rabbit trail.  Models.  Magazines.  Clothing.  Thin Within.  Thin Within is a women’s large size clothing catalog that showed up unsolicited in our mailbox.  UGH!

Husband David doesn’t rant or rail often but Thin WIthin set him off.   “Look at the name of this catalog.  Thin WITHIN! It is so offensive.  They are targeting large women and through the title insinuating that they can gain value by embracing their inner thin-girl.  That by wearing cloths offering the illusion of thinness they are okay!”

My misogyny radar is usually tightly tuned but I missed it.  David, deep thinker that he is, did not miss it.

I remember hearing conversations in both Poland and Ukraine that ran along the lines of, “How can she let herself be so fat?  Why doesn’t her husband leave her?”

Maybe she was THIN WITHIN! (She replied snarkily through clenched teeth.)

Jonquel Norwood. Holiday Series 2015 https://www.instagram.com/p/BAz9VckSfMG/
Jonquel Norwood. Holiday Series 2015
https://www.instagram.com/p/BAz9VckSfMG/

Look!  Geese migrating!  Migrating.  Migration.  Jonquel.  Jonquel and Kirkland moved from New Orleans to Atlanta to NYC.  Thriving.  Jonquel’s art is taking off.  Jonquel, her magnificent self and magnificent art.  Isn’t Jonquel the best name ever for an artist!      

Jonquel and her husband are Ruth and Matthew’s dear friends from SCAD Atlanta.  Jubilee and I stayed a couple times with them when we were in Atlanta to see Ruth.  Jonquel came to Ruth’s wedding and fixed Faith’s hair.  Her illustrations are all sorts of wonderful.  She is building her name painting curvy women.

Jonquel is a curvy woman.  Through her art she and others are seeing and embracing the beauty of curves.  I am so proud of my beautiful friend.

Jonquel Norwood Fashion Illustrator.
Jonquel Norwood
Fashion Illustrator.

Death be afraid.

I am learning to embrace myself.  I have a way to go.  I have not worn a swim suit in years.  Before Jubilee was born I swam 3 to five miles a week.  In July for Josiah’s 21st birthday the entire family floated down the San Marcos River together.  Six kids, two spouses, and my spouse, David, the aforementioned feminist hero.  IT WAS AWESOME.

I could not even find my swim suit so  I wore my nifty sweat wicking pants and a long sleeved shirt.  I looked thin within.  SNORT!

I don’t look like my shadow.
Do I have to be a shadow of myself before I am acceptable to myself?
Am I playing into death’s game?

I DID eat a doughnut and a mini-cinnamon roll and almond and ginger cookies for lunch yesterday, but I had company so it doesn’t count.

Squirrel!

I am 55.  I am strong.  Mostly.  I compensate and find ways to work around the inconveniences of aches and pains.  Genetically speaking, I have another 40 years to go.  It is time to love myself and my body.  Within and without.

Two Choices by Gwen Meharg 30 x 22" watercolor on paper
Two Choices by Gwen Meharg 30 x 22″ watercolor on paper

A shadow is not a good role model.
I don’t want to be a shadow.
I want to be the whole enchilada.

Hmmm.  Enchiladas.
Didn’t eat breakfast.
Wesley and I walked over a mile this morning.
(Uphill both ways!)

Gotta go.  Eat.

 

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Transition Into Now.

Transition by Gwen Meharg 4 x 5 ' Acrylic on Canvas with Rice Paper Collage
Transition by Gwen Meharg 4 x 5 ‘ Acrylic on Canvas with Rice Paper Collage

Transition
Season
Today
Now
Each word.
A finer point.

Fine points.
Sometimes they hurt.  If they are mishandled.
Fine points.
Sometimes they are just what we need.  If we know how to use them.

My friend Claudia introduced me to felting.
My artist daughter Ruth taught me how.

Paintings March 2014 074
Searching for Home. by Gwen Meharg 22 x 30″ 2014 Acrylic on paper with Hand Carved Linocuts

Long thin notched needles are used to hand felt.
I’ve felted my way through several packages of 50.
Ruth still uses her first felting needle.

Stylistic difference?

Today my bonus baby, Jubilee, waited under a pomegranate tree for the school bus.
I home schooled for 22 years.

For both of us this year will be vastly new.
This year I focus on the marketing side of my art business.
This year Jubilee is going into 6th grade.

Benbrook built a new “middle school” this year and we thought Jubilee would go there.  Nope.
They decided to move the elementary school students into the new building and move the middle school students into the 28 year old elementary school.  (I watched the elementary school being built so to me, it will always be the “new school.”)  The street between the elementary school and the middle/high school was closed off to make one enormous middle school/high school campus.  The middle school students will cross over to the high school for extra curriculars and lunch.

Sixth graders are so tiny.  Twelfth graders are SO BIG!

Paintings March 2014 068
All That Glitters by Gwen Meharg 12 x 10″ Acrylic on Paper

Jubilee has five older siblings.
Jubilee is NOT intimidated by the older kids.
Actually, she is not easily intimidated.

Not easily, but occasionally. 

This morning Wesley, our 70 pound boxer mix, and I walked the half mile to the bus stop with Jubilee.  (Uphill in the rain!) She did not need us there.  She rode her brother Peter’s scooter.  We could not keep up.  Infrequently she deemed to wait for us.  We were thankful.

Jubilee was chill.  Wesley was NOT chill.
He suspected something ominous was about to go down.  It did.  Jubilee pulled her chair out of the neighbor’s bushes and plopped down to wait for the bus.  We left Jubilee at the bus stop.

Wesley and I walked home.
Wesley whimpered.  I groaned about the humidity.

At 8:30, school start time, Wesley and I drove to the bus stop to take Jubile to school.
The bus did not come.
She was chill.  Wesley was ecstatic.
We drove the two miles to school and spied a passel of students in a myriad of sizes trudging up a zig zag wooden pathway to a bottleneck of a door.  They disappeared into the building.

3419b106-0cad-4a1e-befd-4439be107afc
River Glow II by Gwen Meharg 24 x 24 ” Acrylic, Gold Leaf, Acrylic Collage on Canvas. Available at Dahlia Woods Gallery in San Marcos, Texas.

An image of German prisoners marching to the gas chambers flashed before my eyes.  I shook it off.

I pulled our painted van over and told her to follow the crowd.

That is not really what I want her to do.
Follow the crowd.
I want her to make her own way.
And try not to step on others along the way.

This morning,
she followed the crowd.

As an artist the push and pull of the crowd is very real.
Follow the muse.
Keep clients happy.
Consider this year’s Pantone IT colors?
Consider decorator trends?

Does SIZE MATTER?

I want to make paintings that invite stories.  I want my paintings to create ambiance.   I want my paintings that invite contemplation.  ( I read that looking at a painting for three hours can make you smarter.  I want to paint paintings that won’t be boring after three hours. )  I want to make paintings that incite passions.

River Glow I by Gwen Meharg 24 x 24" Acrylic, Gold Leaf and Acrylic collage on Canvas. Available at Dahlia Woods Gallery in San Marcos, Texas
River Glow I by Gwen Meharg 24 x 24″ Acrylic, Gold Leaf and Acrylic collage on Canvas. Available at Dahlia Woods Gallery in San Marcos, Texas

I am prolific.  A jump in with both feet kind of spirit. Juggling children and art has been my passion for 27 years.

Can I even make art without the energy of children in the house?  Can I paint if I am not juggling?  Do I even remember how to focus?

I hope so.

It is 2:15 and I have a business call at 2:30.  I pick Jubilee up at 3:30.  We have an appointment at the barn at 4.  I don’t even know if swim team starts today, later this week, or next week.  The boys were supposed to tell me and we all forgot and watched the closing ceremonies of the 31st Olympics.  My calendar for tomorrow is full.  Next Wednesday my eldest and her husband move to Italy.

It was good to have Ruth and Matthew home today.  I helped with a photo shoot.  I was not lonely.  It was not silent. I don’t remember silent.

Poor Wesley.  He is hanging off his doggie bed, his head under my chair.  Wesley reveled in the early summer hubbub of everyone here.   Eleven human beings.  Family dog heaven.

Harvest Moon mixed media on paper (acrylic, watercolor, collage) 22 x 22
Harvest Moon
mixed media on paper (acrylic, watercolor, collage) 22 x 22

Every once and a while Wesley and I hear thunder.

It is 2:28.
I am glad I have you to keep me company.

Very sincerely, Gwen Meharg