A Life of Art

Painting in Maine with Tegan about 29 years ago.

Upon becoming a widow, perhaps the most difficult thing is losing that one person who interprets, questions, defines, and loves you no matter what. Secondarily, in losing them, in losing Jim, I lost myself. I lost who I am. Who I was. Without a clue to who I will be. Hard for a "futurist". Hard to "be in the moment' when all one is, is in pain...even while Jim's final years taught me to stay exactly there...in the moment. Numbered days. Shiny time.

A work in process...

In grief, in losing one's spouse, there is a loneliness born out of knowing what it is to be beloved and to love deeply, profoundly, intimately. It takes a long while to acknowledge that one is now a newly single person. It's an entire shifting of one's identity and in some cases, life's aspiration, especially for little girls raised on Disney princesses. I am incredibly thankful that I was raised between the world of Disney princesses and Title 9. 

But I digress. The thing about becoming a single person, perhaps especially true after the isolation of Covid—or perhaps just true for an extravert, is that friends become a sort of Holy Grail. They can provide the insight and sounding board that has gone missing. This is even true of strangers, newly discovered friends in the making, who one finds offer a mirror into the world and oneself.

I've found these people in the last two years even at the same time that folks Jim and I were once close to, slip away. Recently I made the acquaintance of someone who holds an interesting mirror up to me—that of art and meditation and business. We had lunch today and I was asked about my art. Another dear friend had asked me that just a few days before. Perhaps these questions come because of these stunningly clear blue sky fall days,  the new sliver moon, and the ever so crystalline autumn stars. Either way, they have me reflecting on my art and this blog. How it's been a long year since I last painted. How tiny videos, boundless gardens, and miniscule insects have filled that space. How this blog had started as a way to talk about my art and my work. How slowly with time—the loss of pets, my parents, and Jim—my art and what I write about has gained a different quality.

Broken fingers and infected arms hamper but do not seem to stop art.

So I took the time today to go through my art of the past 4 years and update my painting page here. Some of the work was hard to look back upon. It reminded me of my deep loss, of the shiny times before, of the hope I held, and then the pain. And yet they gave me strength too. It reminded me of who I still am. Take a look. I see a story, my story, mirrored back.

My niece (and twin 50 years apart) Josie's portrait of me in my studio 2022.
Grateful to be from a family  of artists.

My Senior Thesis invite from my BFA

What I see in that mirror is how the acts of observing, listening, reflecting, and creating are the mirror of my soul and of my soul's journey in this life. Art is how I process my life and how I share it. My grandfather was a gardener through and through. The year he stopped gardening was the year he died. I saw the same thing with my dad, in his case his garden, his experiments and research, and his swimming. The year he had the pool bulldozed, I knew his time was in short demand. He died later the following year. Jim was an explorer, a musician, a creator—his time was compressed. The hospice nurse was successful at getting him to  play the piano one last time, to fix something one last time. It broke his and my heart. My mother died with grace. She took up painting in rehab the year she died. I think one of my siblings has that last painting. I remember her one day after she broke her hip staring out the window from bed looking into a tiny walled hospital courtyard and into a sky of blue. Mom said to me, "Ann you should paint that". Mom, yes, I know, I will.

My exhibit of Tiny Painting in 2020.

My Sabbatical show at All Souls in Shelburne