Category: Uncategorized

OMG! 
At 4:35 this afternoon the screen on the landline phone flashed,
“Grandpa Ben.”
Again!

So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
MAYBE the misdial last Thursday and my, “I love you!” caused my Daddy to remember that he loves me and he is calling to do our dance of denial and pretend everything is fine.

Last Thursday I wondered if the call was to tell me he was dead.
Turned out it was an accident.  A wrong number.
My daddy called me on accident
and even though he refused to talk to me,
it was so good to hear his voice.
I told I love him, twice, before he hung up on me.

It felt complete.  It felt like the last time I would hear his voice.  The last time he would hear mine.  He had refused to answer my calls or letters ever since my sister called him about her son moving in with my family.

I am thankful for that “wrong number.”

It was not my father on the phone, the voice was his womanfriend.
She told me they were in San Marcos.   San Marcos is where I grew up.

My father and his friend have traveled to San Marcos several times a year for the past twenty years.  NONE of those times did they let me know so I could make any arrangements to see them.  This was the first time they had ever  informed me that they were in Texas.

So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
“OH! They heard my, ‘I love you!”
They are going to visit after these twenty long years.

Once there was a ceremony at Texas State honoring my dad.  My dad told me about it and we discussed my family attending.  He had not met my youngest two children.  He promised to call with the date.  It was extra exciting because my second son, Josiah, was in school at Texas State that year.   Waiting for the phone call, I forgot about it.   I did not realize we missed the ceremony until my nephew told me about it after he moved in with us.  He remembered asking his mom where we were.  She told him we were busy.  He remembered asking where Josiah, who was in school at Texas State, was and she told him Josiah was also too busy to attend.

I wondered if my dad did not want us there or if my sister was supposed to invite us and she did not.  I wonder what she told our father about why we were not there.

In her mind we were in a competition as she believed that our parents “loved me” best.  It became her life’s ambition to be loved more than me.   I did not get to ask him because by the time I found out my sister had told our father about her son living with us and my father cut off all contact.

So many thoughts flashed through my mind.
They are in San Marcos.
But, my father’s womanfriend does not tell me they are coming to visit.
She tells me that my father is dead.
He had a heart attack at the Texas State function and died when they removed life support in the hospital.

The womanfriend tells me that my sister is in charge of cremating him and she said they would spread his ashes in Maine.   She did not say when that would be.  It had only been an hour when she called.

Later I thought I would like some of those ashes so that my family and I can have a ceremony.  I did not think of that, to ask, when I was on the phone.
I was a little numb.  Last Thursday I wondered if he were dead.
Today it did not enter my thought.

I am thankful that my father’s womanfriend called.
One of the last things my sister screamed at me all those years ago was that she would not tell me when either of our parents died.
Yes, I am thankful that my father’s womanfriend called.

I told my father’s womanfriend that I was sorry for her loss.
She said thank you.

No mention of the wrong number four days ago.
No mention of how moved (or unmoved) he was by my declarations of love.  No mention of the years of shunning me.
Just, thank you.
Good-bye.  We hung up.

No drama.  Just the facts.
It was very appropriate.

My father, who I have not seen in over twenty years is dead.
I did not finish the letter telling him how good it was to hear his voice.
BUT
– damn it! –
I got to tell him I love him.
I know he heard me.
I heard his voice
and I spoke my truth before he died.
I love you.
For that, I am thankful.

My father was a hard and cruel man.
In my early twenties I declined illustrating a story my sister wrote.
Because I would not illustrate the story my father swore,
“I will get even with you if it is the last thing I ever do.”

That promise haunts my husband.
David brought it up this afternoon.
He is concerned.

My father did not mellow with age.
Still, I loved him.  I choose to remember happier times.

I tried to convey my love without being sucked into his vortex of bitterness.
I usually failed.  When he cut me off completely after my nephew moved in, I missed him, but I did not miss the drama.

My father did a great many good while he walked this planet.  Sound scientific research and publication that continues to yield results in reservoir management.  He was a brilliant teacher and a life long learner.   He wrote well.  He helped students and random strangers.  He loved investing and the stock market.  He was kind to most of his nieces and nephews.  He adored my sister’s oldest child who was killed by her drunk boyfriend seven years ago.  

I used to tell myself that my father loved me in his own way.
He chose to live his final years treating me cruelly.
In spite of that, I loved him
and last Thursday I was able to tell him one last time.

I will NOT tell you to reach out
to those from whom you are estranged.
Only you know whether reaching out is safe.
Too many times my heart has been wrenched by the easy answers of another.  It has taken years to create a place of relative safety for my heart to begin to heal.

No, I will not tell you what to do.

I will tell you
what my Grammie Hannan
(my father’s mother)
told me,
“IF they don’t like you, 
it is THEIR LOSS!”  

Grammie Hannan ALWAYS had my back.
She still does.

Peace to you and yours. 
Sincerely, Gwen

It has been years since I have heard from my father.

My sister was visiting and she received a text and then a phone call from her son.   We were sitting in my living room when they got into a tussle over a credit card charge.  It escalated quickly and she told him to get out of her house before she returned home to Austin.  If he was not out, she promised that she would call the police.  My nephew was 17.  A very young 17.  I would not have believed it, except I was there.

My nephew moved out of his home and moved in with his father.  This enraged my sister who had instructed her ex NOT to allow their son to move in with him.  Punishment ensued and her ex and my nephew eventually moved out of state.  The move was not good for my nephew, he had no contact with his mother and his education suffered.  After almost a year he asked if he could move in with us.

Because he was my nephew and because he was vulnerable and hoping for a reconciliation between him and his mom I said yes.
CUE DRAMA,
but the drama is not relevant to the story.
What is relevant is that my sister deftly used the circumstances to turn our father against me.  One phone call from her and he ended all contact with me.  I called.  I wrote letters.  NOTHING.  I do not know if he opened any of the letters.  He also cut all contact with my children.

It seems forever, it seems yesterday, has only been four years?

TODAY THE PHONE RANG.  IT WAS MY FATHER!

I said hello with great enthusiasm.
Maybe too much enthusiasm.

The phone screen lit up, “GRANDPA BEN.”   So much adrenaline.  I was filled with hope and trepidation.   Maybe the womanfriend was calling to tell me he was dead?  Maybe my Daddy was calling to do the dance we have done so many times before.  The dance where we pretend nothing painful has transpired and we begin anew?

When I saw his name I knew that I was gonna dance the dance and be thankful he called.

I answered, “Hi!  How are you?”
He said something I could not quite understand.  He asked for Lou.

It was also a wrong number.  He did not intend to call me.

I said, “This is Gwen.”
He asked for Lou again.
I said, “This is your daughter, Gwen. This is Gwen.  How are you?”

He stopped talking.
Through the phone, I heard his womanfriend say,
“She is still on the phone.  Do you want to talk to her?”

Immediately, I hollered (he is hard of hearing) into the phone,
“I LOVE YOU!  I LOVE YOU!”
My Daddy replied to his womanfriend, “No.” and hung up.

There were at least two “I love you!s” before he hung up.
Maybe three.
I don’t know if my father heard me.   I think HE heard me.
I know the womanfriend heard me.

My 90-year-old father accidentally called me
and before he hung up
I was able to tell him that love him.

So, what does this mean?

It means that, quite possibly, the LAST words my father hears from me before he dies are my enthusiastic I LOVE YOU!s.

It means I am going to write another letter and tell him how good it was to hear his voice.  It means I am opening myself up for rejection.  Again.

I told him I love him.
That is a win!  

As I type this I am spinning between the happy dance because I heard my father’s voice and grief that I allowed my sister to steal so very much from me.   (She was not alone in this.  My father was of sound mind when she called.  He made his own decision.)

This wrong number is such a tremendous gift.
I told my Daddy that I love him.
Surely somewhere deep inside himself, he knows.   And if he forgot maybe this will jog his memory.  Maybe it opens the door for the dance to begin again.

I SPOKE IT OUT LOUD!
To him.
I LOVE YOU!
I am so very very thankful.

This is NOT what I planned to write about today.
I had it all planned out.  Plans be damned!
Thank you for bearing with my emotional soup of gratitude and grief.

Also – not what I planned to write about but relating to the business of art – I am finishing up an electronic press kit.  Just need to find a place to insert the photographs of my work hanging at the Texas White House Bed and Breakfast in Fort Worth, Texas.  (One of the best in Texas!)  When I get it done I will send you and post the link.  You will let me know what you think and maybe you will be inspired to pass it along.

Happy dance.
Tears.
Back to work.
Plan the work.
Work the plan.
Chase rabbits!

MY DADDY CALLED!   

peace out.  Gwen

PS The photos are from 1994, a quarter century ago.  The children are Ruth and Forrest.  It is how I choose to remember my father.  Happier time.  A time when I knew my father loved me.

SURELY it can NOT be the last day of August.

NOPE! I refuse to believe it.

Jubilee REFUSED to believe that those guys were REALLY going to drape that snake around her neck, and yet we have photographic proof that it happened.

(She felt slimy for the rest of the day. Prague was TOO crowded! Won’t go back again unless it is WAY out of tourist season.)

Tomorrow I will BELIEVE it is September 1st, BUT I WILL BE INCREDULOUS. Wanna be incredulous together? Do I LOOK incredulous?

 That was what I was going for with my new passport photo (she said sarcastically.) In the actual passport there is NO separation between my white hair and the white background. I look quite the SPECTRE!

Jubilee and I experienced Iceland, England, Poland, Czech Republic, Slovakia, and England. We flew WOW airlines!

Our friend borrowed a PROPANE GAZ car and Jubilee figured out how to fill it up. She grew two inches while we were away!

My round-trip ticket to England was $539! It cost more to fly to Seattle. We flew on the maiden flight of WOW out of DFW. So worth saving for two years. I HIGHLY recommend the trip.

(When this photo was taken Jubilee and I had been awake for 29 hours.)

We were in Iceland for three days and it was not nearly enough. We rode Icelandic horses along a canyon to Gull Foss waterfalls. I am already saving for the return trip. AND THERE IS NEW ART inspired by the trip!

We returned home with a SPLASH as swim season started without us and there were laps to conquer and strokes to perfect.

It was my youngest son’s last year to swim YMCA. He was also a coach. SO MANY SUNBURNS!

TODAY is the LAST day of AUGUST, we have been back to school for two weeks and I swear…I’ve been swearing more than I ought lately – dang it, now I can’t remember where I was going.

I need a nap, but that ain’t gonna happen! Not until November. I just finished one commission (JEWELR!) and I am working on a painting commission. I want tell you all about it but I signed a confidentiality agreement so I can’t – not YET! Soon. Maybe, I hope. We will see. And that is the point, I want you to SEE!

I am chasing down dreams. And I CAUGHT ONE.

(Yes, yes it was very pokey and it hurt to pick her up, and, no, I did NOT tell customs about my adventure in the Polish woods catching hedgehogs..

Well, I caught an HEDGEHOG in Poland. She was crossing the road, my friend pulled over and hollered,

“Catch it!”
WHAT?SERIOUSLY?

I hopped out of the car

AND

I

CAUGHT

IT!

WHY? It seemed like the right thing to do under that big bright full moon.

Jubilee was mortified, as only a 13-year old can be mortified, but she eventually joined me.

My dreams were not big enough to include Icelandic horses or hedgehogs.

I wonder what I will catch NEXT!

Keep your eyes open, your heart tender and wear shoes you can move quickly in.

You never know what might stroll across your path.

PEACE OUT! Gwen

PS:THIS IS THE ORGANIZATION I AM WORKING WITH ON THE COMMISSION.IF YOU ARE IN THE DALLAS AREA MAYBE YOU CAN JOIN US?

http://www.rockyourheartout.org/

PPS! I just looked at the calendar. TOMORROW IS NOT SEPTEMBER 1st!

August has 31 days! AN EXTRA DAY!

I AM HAPPY DANCING for having GAINED AN EXTRA DAY!

What kind of magic is this to garner an extra day! HAPPY EXTRA DAY! Gwen

Hello Dear Ones, 
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.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 mommy, home school, 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!

Last Sunday was the closing reception and artist panel discussion for Centering Abstraction at Gallery 414 in Fort Worth, Texas.The panel discussion took a turn and our fearless leaders, John Hartley and Barbara Koerble laid down some serious wisdom.It was 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

Hey, Y’all!
I HAVE NEWS!
I am so excited and stressed and excited and generally discombobulated.
I received an email today telling me an interview had been published with Voyage Dallas.  It is an online magazine exploring creatives and entrepreneurs in the DFW Metroplex area.  The editor saw an Instagram post he liked and contacted me.

Of course, I FORGOT he contacted me and the email was lost- for a season.   NOT a strong first impression.  I FOUND the email, THEN I FOLLOWED ALL the instructions.  I am guessing a lot of artists DON’T follow the instructions so he forgave my delay in returning his first contact.  WHEW!

Then I forgot about it again.

Today, while I am FRANTICALLY packing and repacking and trying to figure out what to do in Iceland with 90-100% CHANCE OF RAIN, this encouraging announcement came.  YIPPEE!

I promised the rental car lady that I would bring some Texas heat with me.  I sure hope I don’t disappoint her.  I hope that Jubilee and I have a marvelous time.  I am already planning my NEXT trip to Iceland.  Y’all check out WOW airlines.  The prices are crazy awesome.  At least for this offseason when Jubilee and I are going.  May and September are offseason.

After Iceland Jubilee and I meet friends in Poland then head to London for a quick visit.  Jubilee will meet up with her youth group and I will have two more days in Iceland before heading back to DFW.

I AM SO JAZZED.  And frazzled.  I travel well.  I do NOT prepare for travel well.  Every muscle in my body is screaming.  I love traveling.  It will all be water under the bridge ( AND HOPEFULLY FLOATING AN ICEBERG!) soon.

The article is kinda long.  Feel free to skim it (or skip it, just don’t tell me you skipped it!)   If you know someone who would be encouraged, send them to my website to read it or pass this missive along.  I am trying to grow my business via email and blogging.  Can you think of two people who might enjoy my emails?  Please ask them to join us on this bumpy journey.

Peace out! Gwen

MAY 23, 2018 http://voyagedallas.com/interview/art-life-gwen-me…

Art & Life with Gwen Meharg

Today we’d like to introduce you to Gwen Meharg.

Gwen, please kick things off for us by telling us about yourself and your journey so far.
Like so many artists, I have ALWAYS drawn/created. Sometimes it was paper, sometimes it was the fruit in the bowl next to the telephone back in the olden days when phones were attached to the wall by springy cords. Bananas were a favorite medium. My mother disapproved. I figured it was her fault for leaving the pen or pencil next to the phone with no paper.

My parents were of the mind that if I could not paint like Leonardo then it was a waste of my time and their resources. During high school, I watched a PBS documentary on Georgia O’Keefe. I remember sitting on the olive-green shag carpet in the middle of the living room – crying-tears streaming down my face! It was the first time I was aware of seeing art that looked like what I painted in my dreams. I held the newfound revelation in my heart and went on to earn a BBA and MBA in computer information systems and statistics. My protestant work ethic ruled over my heart, besides, I wanted to wear spiffy power suits and drive a sports car. I wore the power suits, but never got around to the sports car! Beginning my family allowed me to work my way back to art. We modified budget and expectations so that I could quit my job and incorporate art and childrearing into our lives.

I made art and babies. I took classes, read books, and painted like crazy. We made art together, the children and me. Whether they were sitting on my lap or standing by my side, when we made art together we were equal. I was SHOCKED, after twenty-five years, to come out of the mom/artist fog/bliss to discover there was a BUSINESS SIDE TO BEING AN ARTIST! WHO KNEW? Everybody but me, apparently. The last few years I have been studying the business side of being an artist. IT IS TERRIFYING. Terrifying but necessary and now that I feel “armed” with knowledge, this year, 2018, I am beginning to apply what I have learned. Did I mention that it is terrifying? During the learning process, I am continuing my artistic journey, exploring how hope manifests on the canvas (or paper.)

Can you give our readers some background on your art?
I have been using abstraction as a voice of hope for since 2005.

Beginning in the late 1990s I did performance paintings as part of worship services. After five years a church elder saw BREAST and another saw TEAR in a painting that had neither. THAT was about THEIR hearts NOT about my art. Preacher-boy said, “Your gifts were no longer welcome here.” WHOAH!
Truth sets captives free.

Free from the constraints of telling other’s story, I turned to abstraction. I really thought I was telling a new story, but I am not. I am telling a story of journey and hope. I often start with a state of chaos and fight my way back to a place of order and beauty. TO me this is the journey of life that none of us escapes. Chaos always-always-always enters the picture. If someone tells you they do not deal with trying circumstances, they are either liars, clueless, or the other shoe just has not yet dropped.
But circumstances do not have to rule over us. Sometimes life stinks. But I am painting the hope that beauty is always possible. I utilize layers to tell the story. The layers capture moments in time and suspends them in space. Sometimes an early mark will remain visible through to the end of the painting. Sometimes a layer will be completely obscured. Each later influence, but no single layer controls the outcome. That is my hope for my life and for the lives of others. That we learn from what has transpired along our journey, but the journey circumstances will not control our choices. Influence, but not control. Hope that the choices we make will resolve into something beautiful.

Sometimes we forget that pretty and beauty are not the same. My paintings are beautiful, but not all of them are pretty. Consider the face of an ancient woman, wrinkled, maybe without teeth. She is NOT pretty, but she is beautiful as her journey is evident in the creases of her face. The joys and the hardships.
I hope that my viewers can see their own journeys in the paintings. It is asking a lot, but it is what I am asking of the art.

How do you think about success, as an artist, and what do quality do you feel is most helpful?
DANG!!! I thought the questions would get easier!

Success is SO HARD! The FIRST question an artist is asked is “Do you sell your work? How much money do you make? Are you a REAL artist?”

It is vital that each artist define self for themselves. I have friends who have taken themselves OUT of the marketing side of art so they can focus on creating. They keep day jobs so that they are free to create their heart’s desire without being influenced by bread and butter money. I have friends who live frugally so they can live from the sales of their art. I have friends who live well off of their art and their gallery networks.

Success. My art keeps evolving and growing stronger. That is success. My network of creative friends has grown by leaps and bounds the past two years. That is success. I have shown more work in more venues in the last two years than in the prior twenty. That is success. IF one’s success as an artist is limited to financial sales, it is limiting. Success as an artist is such a fickle friend. Most of us have to battle with the definition of success on a daily basis. Some of us can cycle through FEELING successful and failure multiple times during a single day. During a single painting session!

For me, I need to continue to grow and I need to sell art. To speak for others is beyond my pay grade.

What’s the best way for someone to check out your work and provide support?
I have a beautiful website, www.GwenMeharg.com.
And a blog. The blog dallies with life and art. They are the same thing for me. Each informs the other. Sometimes it is funny. I am not shy on paper and I prefer writing to small talk. I don’t write often, but when I do I put my who heart into it and I don’t think anyone would be sorry. And unsubscribing is super easy. OH! I would be thrilled to have people join my blog: http://www.blog.gwenmeharg.com/
Social media includes:

FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/gwenmehargart/?ref=br_rs
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/gwenmeharg/

How can people support my work?
Well, I am looking for ways to share my art and to move it out into the world. At 57 the entrepreneur learning curve has been steep but I am softening to the idea that I am a business woman AND being a business woman is just PART of being an artist. I am embracing the disciplines of entrepreneur and learning how to make them my own. If you know someone who has a space that is looking for transformation, send them to my website. Anyone longing to create a space for dreams to manifest, for stories to unfold, for hope to be ignited, I can help. Art transforms a space, art creates a sacred place for beauty to speak truth and hope. And if my art is not the ticket, I may be able to point them in a different direction. The artist community in the Metroplex is growing closer and, for the most part, we are supportive of each other. By working as a community, we are all stronger. Life is short. Too short to invest only in the practical. Sometimes we need to invest in the essential, in beauty, in our hearts.

Art is a tool for heart investment.

Contact Info:

• Address: Gwen Meharg
  521 Grace Cozby Dr,
  Fort Worth, TX 76126
• Website: www.GwenMeharg.com
• Phone: 18178326952
• Email: Gwen@GwenMeharg.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/gwenmeharg/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/gwenmehargart/?ref=br_rs

  

Image Credit:

Portraits by Ruth Cathering Meharg

Getting in touch: VoyageDallas is built on recommendations from the community; it’s how we uncover hidden gems, so if you know someone who deserves recognition please let us know here.

Today Roy David Meharg is 21.

The morning Roy was born, the eggs in the cardinal nest in the hanging fern on the back porch hatched.   Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.  Cardinals have a very distinctive chirp.

Ever since, when I hear a cardinal chirp and I think of Roy.

Roy was born with Cheeto dust-colored red hair.  He was so quiet.  He has remained, generally, quiet these past 21 years.  He was exceedingly shy until we took a six-month field trip to Poland during which he turned seven.

In Poland, the children are free to roam, to go places and do things around town- ALONE!  It was hard, but part of the reason we went to Poland was to explore new ways of doing and being.  Roy, Josiah, and Peter made their way to the grocery stores, bakeries, and to the market by themselves. 

The freedom and responsibility transformed Roy from crippling shyness into a confident person.  Or maybe he turned seven and outgrew it.

Today is Saturday.  Tomorrow Roy gets married.

David and were twenty when we married thirty-six years ago on December 20^th.  I was twenty-one on January 3^rd.  So, basically the same age.  We had no idea how young we truly were.

Regardless, then or now, starting out in life is hard.  Starting out alone is harder.  I am thankful Roy is not going it alone.  But, he was never alone.  Roy has been blessed with a family who loves him.

Happy Birthday, Roy.
You are loved.

Watching the Olympics with the family, I realized how much Olympic ice skating in the 80s and 90s informed my life philosophy.

OH MY!

Do you remember the battle of the Brians?
Do you remember the television commentators TRYING to make it a battle?
Do you remember the Brians refusing to battle each other?
Do you remember that first quad?

One or the other Brian would be asked their strategy for crushing the other Brian.   The Brian being interviewed would AGAIN say, I am a better skater for Brian’s presence.  We push each other, but I am focused on my routine and doing the best I can do in that moment.

The traditional Grannie philosophy of “Mind your own damn business.”

My take away:  Compete WITH not AGAINST!

Surround yourself with excellence.  Strive for excellence.  Do the best you can on any given day.  Somedays you will do less.  Some days you will do more.  Comparison kills the heart and soul.

And yet….. I too often compare.  When I do I cripple my heart and my art.  I am thankful for the Winter Olympics coming round every four years to remind me that I compete WITH not against.

For two weeks I settle in at night and watch the Olympic skaters.  In the words of each and every Grandpa that ever lived or ever will live, “When I was a kid….it was different.”

And it is different.  I don’t care about these athletes.  They are not multi-dimensional as presented to us by NBC.  This is what I hear when I sit watching and knitting preemie beanies, ” Yadda yadda.. sacrifice…desperation…blah, blah, blah…how bad do you feel?  Is your heart broken because you rose to the top of your industry and you ONLY won a silver? Are you DEVASTATED?  You SHOULD be devastated because nothing less than gold matters.  Your life is ruined, right?

Tell us you are completely destroyed because those of us who have never risked want to be assured that the cost of risking is more than you can bear.

I love it when the athlete responds with incredulity and says, I did my best and it was (or was not) good enough today.  I “left it all on the mountain.”

I understand “left it all on the mountain” to be polite winter athlete way of saying, “Give me a break you clueless microphone holder. Peddle your blue journalism elsewhere.”

Ruth thinks pay television has watered down the general enthusiasm and ability to connect with the athletes.  Maybe the good interviews, the ones that lead me to care, are reserved for cable/pay viewers.  Maybe they withhold the interesting interviews.  Maybe the world is a different place.  Maybe competing with has gone the way of equal access television and net neutrality.

This is the final week of Centering Abstraction, a four-person show
at Gallery 414 in Fort Worth curated by Barbara Koerble.

It is a lovely show hung by John Hartley, who along with his wife Adele, have been hanging shows at Gallery 414 for TWENTY-TWO years!  (An Olympian effort- indeed!)

I have no doubt that each of us, Adam, Lael, Sophia, myself, and our brave curator Barbara, are better persons and artists for having worked together.  We put forth our best individual efforts to create a singular show celebrating life, and possibility.

Sunday afternoon, February 25, 2018,
the gallery will open from 12 to 5 p.m. for the closing reception. 

At 2 p.m. John Hartley will lead curator and artists in a panel discussion.   
IN THEORY, it will live stream on Facebook.  

Centering Abstraction may not look like an Olympian effort and that is because it was not.
Sure we have all been bloodied and been bruised creating our art.
Sure we have all sacrificed more lucrative endeavors creating beauty.
Sure we are all passionate about doing something that the majority of the world deems frivolous.
Sure we…..HEY!  This sounds like the Olympians being interviewed!

JOIN US for the CLOSING CEREMONIES of the Olympian efforts that is Centering Abstraction.

See you at 414 Tempelton St. in Fort Worth,
or on FB Live at 2 CST Sunday, February 25th, 2018.

Instead of medals and roses, there will be cookies.
Gwen

This is a strange blog, so I decided to start with a little levity.  This is our family portrait from Christmas 2017.  Happy New Year.

Now, back to business.

Friday morning a voice woke me up.
The voice annunciated, “Your dad died today.”

And, yes, the voice was inside my head.

I am familiar with the voice inside my head that is me.  The one that I argue with.  The one that encourages me some days and disparages me on other days.  I know the voice that is myself and this was not my voice.

The last time I heard this voice concerning my father, I also thought he had died.  He had only had a heart attack.

The first time I heard this voice I was in college.  David and I were studying for finals when I burst into tears.  I told him I thought my middle Sunday School was dead.  David told me to call home and find out.  (Calling home was long distant back in the 80s.)  No, I told him it was finals week and since I could not get out of finals to attend a friend’s funeral I would wait.

After my last test, I stopped by a friend’s apartment.  It was a procrastination move to avoid finding out what I already knew.  I told her the story and she asked my Sunday School teacher’s name.  Claudia.  Yes, she told me, she had died and the funeral was that day.  Erika knew because she was in a bible study with a student from my hometown church.  The funeral was that afternoon.

Another time it was my Grammie Hannan.  I missed it that time.  She did not die for another 12 hours.  But I got to call her on the phone and we had a lovely visit.

I missed it with my Grandaddy Simpson, too.  I was seven months pregnant with Roy when I woke up in the wee hours of the morning crying because Grammie was dead.  I got up and prayed.  Then I cleaned the house. and prayed some more.  When David woke up for work around 6:30 in the morning I told him my fear.  Since he had been with me twice prior he called into work and by 7:00 we had loaded Ruth, Forrest, and Josiah into the van and were headed to Goldthwaite, a two and a half, three-hour drive.

We arrived to find an ambulance in their front yard.  Grammie was fine, but Grandaddy had broken a hip.  If we had stopped to call before we left or even halfway, we would have found them both fine.

The paramedics were wheeling Grandaddy out of the house on the gurney and  as they lifted him into the ambulance he told me, “Gwen, you have the worst timing.”

I knew better.  I had been praying since 3 that morning.  What we learned after they took Grandaddy away (there was no hospital in Goldthwaite so they took him to Brownwood) was that  Grandaddy had been covering for Grammie.  She was further into Alzheimer’s than any of us realized.  She could not hold in her mind what had happened.  We were able to spend the day with Grammie so she was not alone.  I wrote down what happened and where Grandaddy was and we kept it on a pad in her apron pocket.  When she could not remember, she would pull out the pad and read it.  She stayed calm and safe with us until Aunt Jimmie arrived from Midland, Texas.

I beat myself up for years for being “wrong”.

Another time I woke up very early crying over Brenda’s newborn baby, my niece, Chloe.  I was crying because she died.   I tried calling Brenda, but I did not know which hospital they were in.  I knew Austin, but there are a lot of hospitals in Austin.  I started calling them.  I found her in the fourth hospital.  The nurse told me Brenda was awake and asked if I wanted to talk to her.

It was a strange pre-dawn phone call, “Hi, how you doing?  I just was thinking about you so I decided to call (at 4:30 a.m.!)”  We had a nice, slightly awkward chat and hung up.  Brenda turned to her husband, Dave, and said, “Get to the nursery, you know how weird Gwen is.”

David arrived at the nursery and they had just revived Chloe who had stopped breathing.  Brenda kept her in her arms the rest of the hospital stay and now Chloe is a beautiful, VIBRANT teenager oozing with talent and personality.

There is a pattern.  A pattern that does not fit my Southern Baptist tradition.   I don’t know if it fits an Episcopalian tradition we now embrace.  But it fits me.  When I hear this insistent voice I start praying.  Then I clean house to avoid what I know hoping that maybe it will go away.

Sometimes I cut my bangs.  That SELDOM goes well.

Today I started writing.   Tomorrow a friend of 30 years will be buried.  I don’t have time to pretend that the voice is not there.   If it is too much for you, that is okay.

Before I got out of the van in front of Grammie Simpson’s house, David said, “If you ever have a dream about me, don’t tell me.”

If this is too much for you, it is okay.  We can follow my family tradition and pretend it did not happen.

But for me, today, now I wait.
I wait and wonder.  Dead or alive.

Last I heard from my dad  December 2015.  My nephew, Kade, moved in with us in January 2016, just for a season.  My father did not approve of the season so he cut us off.  He did not say we were cut off.  He just ended communication and did not respond to mine.  Me.  David.  Grandkids.  Nothing.  This month marks two years.  My dad has always been that kind of person.  Vengeful.   But he is still my dad and I love him.

I have wondered how I would feel when he died.  I wondered if anyone would tell me when he died.

These two years of not speaking to me are not new.  He did not talk to me for two years after David and I were married.  He was mad about my wedding dress!  He did not talk to me for four years after Peter was born.  He stopped talking to me for various chunks of time my entire adult life.

It is amazing what one grows accustomed to.  I would not be shocked if he called tomorrow and pretended that nothing had transpired.  That is how my birth family rolls.  I always go along with the pretense thinking something is better than nothing,  Something is better than nothing but the yo-yo does tend to numb one’s emotions.  Compartmentalization comes in handy.

I wondered if I had any feelings left.  I wondered if I would receive the news of his death with a shrug of the shoulders, he is quite elderly after all.   I wondered if I would be sad or just relieved that the game was over.

I know now.

My first reaction was,  “Huh.  Interesting.  I have not heard that voice in a while.”

I did pray for my dad and I prayed for those who he still loves/loved.   I sent a relative a note asking to let me know if she heard anything.

My sister told her son that he was not to tell me if she died.   I am fairly certain she will not tell me when either of our parents died.

I will keep googling obituaries.

Roy, one of my sons, was in the kitchen making breakfast.  He greeted me and asked me how I was doing.  I told him about the voice and in the telling my voice became shaky with emotion I was unaware of.

Thirty minutes later, driving to Salon District for Laura Valles to cut and color my hair purple and blue, the tears started flowing and I cried.   I cried and sang an old gospel song,  “Because He Lives.”

The “He” in the title refers to Jesus and it goes on to say that because (Jesus) lives, “I can face tomorrow.  Because he lives, all fear is gone.”  It is a song about the confidence the Christian faith tradition offers in an eternal future.  A future free of sorrow, pain, and fear.  A future, regardless of life’s circumstances, has a beautiful ending.

That faith tradition of hope is foundational in my life and my art.  I endeavor to make beautiful art that honors and acknowledges the harsh reality of the journey.  Beautiful paintings that do not dismiss the hurt, the loss, the pain.

It is a lot to ask of substrate and pigment.  It is a lot to ask of the viewer.  It is a lot to ask of myself, but I ask it.

I wrestle with the paintings until the beauty of hope makes itself present.  (Wrestling is also part of the tradition.)

So.

My father might or might not be alive.
Eventually, I will find out.
Eventually, he will die.
Eventually, I will process emotions that have handily been tucked away.
And eventually, the ending roll the unnecessary pain of the journey into the big picture and beauty will win.

Peace out.  Gwen

Greetings and Happy New Year.

I am participating in an exhibition with three other artists beginning January 27th.  Barbara Koerble saw a similar thread running through our work and brought us together by curating the show at Gallery 414.

Gallery 414 is a non-profit gallery made possible by the generosity of Razz Fiesler.  It is located at, this will shock you, 414 Templeton, Fort Worth, Texas in the museum district.    It is open weekends from 12 to 5 and by appointment. To make an appointment email adele@gallery414.org and we will try to accommodate your viewing pleasure.

Lael.  She gave birth Christmas Eve so she will not be making it to the opening reception, but we are tentatively planning a closing reception on February 25.  Much of Lael’s work for this show was accomplished during her pregnancy.  This is a huge accomplishment as growing a baby takes a great deal of strength and creativity.  I am so proud of Lael Burns.  Here is Lael’s Instagram

Sophia Ceballos and I are sometimes in the same spaces but we have yet to meet.  I do know that at one opening she had MARVELOUS blue hair.  Her work is intimate and intriguing.  I love the way she uses watercolor and drawing to weave together magical places.  Here is Sophia’s Facebook.  

In November Rachel Williams of the Dallas Observer wrote the article:
7 Dallas Artists to Watch in 2018
And here it is!
Adam Palmer’s unbridled Pixy stick of a solo exhibition, breezed through Ro2 last summer. We are thirsty for more. The Fort Worth high school teacher found his inspiration growing up in the dusty map dot Monahans in West Texas. His abstract paintings are kaleidoscopic bursts of color, something we could all use more of next year.

Adam and Lael will also have sculptures in the exhibition.  Adam’s Instagram.

Have fun following the links.  And while you are there, follow my artist collaborators, too.