Windows to the Soul

I recently lost one of my adopted furry friends (I "adopt" them when I paint them).  It is a hazard of my trade and one I never adjust to. Painting pet portraits has many rewards. As an avid animal lover I get to interact with a myriad of dogs and cats. I feel privileged to inhale their canine perfume and stroke the soft down of their feline fur. I am blessed to be able to enjoy their quirks of personality. But most of all I get to gaze deep into their trusting eyes and study the marvel of the light and color that swirls inside their miraculous and revealing orbs. 

The eyes are both the most important and my favorite feature to paint. We have all heard that the soul resides here and I will not counter that. Yet it is beyond even the soul...the life...the personality...the emotions of the moment...the compassion from within...the fire that lights us. Well maybe that is the definition of soul. All I know is the eyes are everything. 

During the painting process I spend a great deal of intimate time examining, decoding, admiring, and portraying their many attributes. I study and look closely. I respond emotionally to the color of the paint, the action of my brush, the value of the light or the rhythm of the stroke. At the risk of sounding too esoteric, I find myself communing with the creature on a level that is unique and difficult to describe. I have a wordless conversation with them.

Because the act of painting is so intimate, for me there is an unusual bond formed during the process. This happens not only with pets, but people as well. Several years back I offered to paint a portrait of a friend's husband. She had recently and all too suddenly lost him to cancer at the same time I was also losing my father to leukemia. You can imagine the emotions. 

Nearing the end of the process I still had work to do with the eyes. Because the eyes are fluid they are reflective. Because they are round and hooded the shadows and strokes must show form. The eyes are where it all comes together.  I was "pushing the paint around", as I sometimes say to myself, and all of a sudden I felt the glimmer of him coming through. I focused more intently...every little dab or stroke in this small area has great impact. Then the moment arrived! Quite suddenly there was Brad looking straight me with his famous sense of humor brimming forth. An emotional force hit me that took me down to the ground. I found myself sitting against the wall sobbing, feeling the injustice of a life cut too short, of the people left to mourn, the things left undone. I figured at this point I must have gotten his eyes right.

Several times in the nearly 20 years I have been painting pets the animal has passed while the canvas of them is still wet upon my easel. And because their lifespans are not like ours I have also lost many after their portraits have hung on their owner's walls. In fact I have return clients contacting me with portrait requests of their newest generation of furry friend. As I mentioned before…it is a hazard of the trade, difficult yes, but one I would not trade for the world. It is a privilege and an honor to memorialize this bond of love and devotion between pets and their people. And I continue to work on the eyes...there is always room for improvement!

Re-Invention

I cannot help myself these days….I keep pulling former paintings out of their frames, stripping the varnish and repainting them. These paintings do not measure up to my standards and it kills me to let them linger in this state of not hitting the mark. I look back at the period in my life these misfits originated from and they mostly stem from what I refer to as “The Summer from H-E-Double Hockey Sticks”…specifically the summer of 2011.

It was a season of upheaval in mine and my husband’s lives. It was the months preceding his massive stroke and the stress levels we lived with were off the charts. We had invited a young woman who we considered a daughter, along with her 3 year old child (with whom we are still active as grandparents) to live with us. It was our house or a homeless shelter and how does one send a child that one has cradled and cared for since birth toward that environment? So we sucked it up and provided them aid.

What we did not know right away was she had become a heroin addict and her child was reacting with angry and confused behavior. I literally moved my art studio out of my home into my mother’s home so I could have some degree of refuge to paint during those months. My retired husband had no such haven and bore the brunt of the drama from a lying, lazy and addiction-protecting woman who left her child unattended and wildly out of bounds; creating a chaotic atmosphere in what should be a sanctuary. Even though his specialists tell me that his stroke was just bad luck….I still harbor resentment that it was the ordeal of living with an addict who stole from us, lied, betrayed and broke our hearts that created the straw that broke the camel’s back.

So I may have had the luxury of driving away each day but the emotions followed like a contrail. It is no wonder the colors I mixed on my palette resonated as garish and high key. The stroke of the brush cut sharp and jagged, the drawing was almost there but had an edge of oddness. I felt like I was living in a Bazaaro world. Which is very apt if you know how much my husband is a fan of Superman!

But painting is not sculpture…it is not carved in stone and it can be rebuilt. Just like we can be….

2 years have passed and so much has changed. One does not go through major events like we have without feeling a sense of re-invention. My conviction has always been strong but it has been re-forged. I will still paint mistakes at times but I feel more confident I can catch them before I release them.

I just looked at the calendar and realized why today, of all days, these thoughts emerged so suddenly. It took 2 years, but the young woman we sheltered, loved, supported and believed in is being sentenced today. The charges are felony of Theft in The First Degree, and Trafficking In Stolen Property In The Second Degree. She was 11 years old when she burst into our lives as a bright spark….15 years later she leaves it with a fizzle. It is not only my chance to re-invent. Her life is in her hands now…I am looking out for my own. 

Photo of a rock outside a woodcarver's home