December Painting & Musings

"I am the product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books." ~ C.S. Lewis

This is a new painting I started last week when outside on an unseasonably warm (over 50 degrees) Saturday afternoon here in the mountains. Yes, I completely missed our small town's local holiday tailgate market. Sometimes the life of an artist diverts and darts down narrow side paths: good intentions turn into other kinds of good intentions. While I'm sure the tailgate market did just fine without me, I missed the socializing and stocking up on cold weather vegetables and goodies. Perhaps when the muse is upon us, we just have to go with it. I keep going, muse or not. Sometimes art itself is the muse, perhaps! Sometimes it's those empty sunlit rooms, solitude, wind under the tiles. And endless books. O, muse, you have many faces.

This month, I'll have informal open studio Saturdays, weather permitting, from 1-3 p.m.; although it's always a wise idea to call ahead. Just in case the muse has called me to the tailgate market. Happy Holidays from River dog and me to you.

November Painting & Thought

Landscape painting (10" x 20"), Bonnie Joy Bardos, 2015

“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost.” ~ Martha Graham

This is the week of Thanksgiving, when families and friends gather and count blessings. November has, like all this year, flown by on feathers of a whisper, all too fast. Cold weather has arrived, but I find a tease of warmth outside in afternoon sun. Here's one of my latest paintings I've worked out on the back deck on. Influenced by Mother Nature herself: colors, breeze, feel, the heart and brush work peacefully together. River dog lies under my feet as we both move with the all-too-quickly moving sun, as she sinks lower and lower daily over the tree line. We watch these things, the lengthening purple of shadows. I don't tend to paint actual scenes like many do, but choose to filter all the places and thoughts into something more metaphysical. It is. It isn't. It is! Inhaling views, trees flashing by on winding back roads, sun flitting down through evening light...I just try to catch the moment, the feel. Then put it to the canvas with all my heart.

Life, Art & Unknown Roads

A delicate gray-scale palette, this painting has been shipped off to Santa Fe, to Patricia Carlise Fine Art, 554 Canyon Road: I've fallen in love with the horizontal format. It's exciting to travel new roads (unless lost on an interstate exit like I was yesterday)! Even bohemian artists may need a GPS or road map, despite their love of the unknown, the uncertain. Life, like a new canvas, is an adventure.

"Where I was born and where and how I have lived is unimportant," wrote Georgia O'Keeffe. "It is what I have done with where I have been that should be of interest."

Last Light at Tybee: New Painting

Winter knocks here in the mountains with chill wind- although today the sun came out, and I worked outside, taking advantage of the brief warmth in the afternoon, until shadows and cold forced River dog and myself back inside. This is a painting I began at Tybee Island and finished up today. Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Oh, yes! There is paint on the hands, on the clothes. There is no such thing as perfection around here, nor is it wanted. What matters is my work, of loving the world, of being astonished. Sometimes magical things transpire in paintings: this one has a fleeting glimpse of the historic Cockspur Lighthouse in it. I did not consciously paint the lighthouse, but it appears.

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished...

excerpt from "Messenger" by Mary Oliver