This is the pitcher I've been painting. Over and over.

It's tall, has clean lines, and kind of beat up. It has a reflective textured surface. It sits alone. It's made to be filled and it's made to share its contents.

There is an elegance to it.

More from the conservatory...

After dinner last night, we popped into Everyday Music and I did a little retail therapy and picked up a couple cd's.

Compare and contrast:

From dinner last night at Bleu Bistro which not only included good company and good drinks but also one of their specialities: wasabi grilled cheese sandwich.

Photos from our boating dinner/cruise last Thursday evening. A perfect summer evening. About 20 of us, up on deck, enjoying wine, cheese, figs, grapes...and good company. I didn't get a photo of our host's boat, but it was quite lovely. And a good size. A few state rooms...nice kitchen/living area. It's the home of our host. Before taking off into the bay, we were introduced to the captain and first mate.

Dinner was served after we took off and headed out of the marina. It was a delicious meal of southern cooking with rich (yet not heavy) and at the same time delicate flavors. The cornbread had a hint of coconut. The chicken, not fried but marinated in limes. A large platter of tender pulled pork and probably THE best macaroni and cheese I've ever eaten.


It was a " please take your shoes off" boat...



Not the boat we were on but a beautiful and very large cat moored right next to us.



Shilshole Marina from our boat while still enjoying drinks.



The marina has its own sea creature.



The quintessential sunset photo from the water, a little fuzzy and underexposed.



It was a wonderful, much needed evening... and a very kind and generous gesture on the part of our host.

After more painting, I went to see Rose, her spouse and the six week old wee one who is phenomenally beautiful. Holding babies are a good tonic.

Here are some more from the conservatory. It's not only the positive space but the negative space that also fascinates me.

Yeah...there were a few days of silence.

I've been feeling so lost with the painting. I'm still working still life, painting the same metal pitcher. Over and over. Keeping it simple. There are currently 3 small paintings and one large. By yesterday, I just broke down in the studio and sobbed. My heart hurts too much to paint. Or more accurately, to know how to paint.

I've been grieving for a year now. But it was muddy. In the last 3 weeks, it's transformed into a clean grief. Pure. And with that, I finally know down deep that I'll get through it. Now that it's clear, it will pass. Not sure when...not sure how but it will happen. Thing is, the present is challenging. Even the act of putting brush to canvas hurts. Each mark carries pain.

Although I carry the grief in my daily life, distractions are more readily available. It is in the studio where the grief is stripped bare. In a large room of white walls and big windows, smelling of oils and medium, I can't hide from myself.

Over the summer, after the Rose series, I was at a loss, thrown in a state of no longer trusting myself. Of course, it made sense that my painting would suffer. In the last month, my inner strength has been increasing. I've seen how my intuition has been right on...and so can trust myself. In that, I expected my painting to return. But this new level of grief has shown me a different view. One in which there are no bad guys and yet instead we are all wounded souls. It sees tragic experiences and in that, great melancholy.


I am screaming inside.

I love and it hurts.


In the meantime, I have to figure out how to paint.
The art is a mess.

I have a bunch of images taken at the conservatory a few Fridays ago and slowly am going through them. I'll be posting the shots in spurts.

It seems my head is still in the water. I saw this at the busstop this afternoon.

I've made it down to the studio every day since Sunday even though I haven't always felt like it. Today I bumped into the curator of the 30 paintings in 30 days challenge. So it's official. October is crazy painting month.

I'm still working on the first still life and began a second one today. The colors are more muted. It's interesting. While painting today I was thinking about color, how much softer it is right now, and wondered if it's because I'm slowly regaining my creative spark. I am very curious to see how these paintings evolve.

I love the water. It's something I've written about before. Sitting next to water, immersing in water, and being on top of water are some of my huge, calm centering spaces.

What prompted this entry is anticipation. Thursday night, in what will be a perfect distraction, is a water adventure. One of our longtime donors, who is also a caterer, has offered to serve the staff an amazing meal. That alone is awesomely groovy. But this...this rocks my socks: we will be enjoying this incredibly generous act while sailing on his boat.


When I lived on the coast, my safe space was a certain set of rocks, out on Marginal Way in Ogunquit. The weather was irrelevant.

It may sound cheesy, but the ocean is one place where I feel infinite. Everything is possible. I feel its power and strength, its limitless beauty, the creative and the destructive force that is ocean. When I'm there...I sense it in myself.

Sitting quietly by such vastness, I lose the self-conscious part of me. I'll get to a place where I no longer feel the separation between ocean and self.

A merge.
A fuck.

Yesterday, after painting, Eric came by the studio and we headed for food and then a walk through Olympic Sculpture Park and into Myrtle Edwards. No, it wasn't good for my ankle, but good for the soul. I just needed to be outdoors.

A little slice of Serra...




Claus Oldenburg's piece with an approaching cruise ship and a slight hint of Rainier. I'm a huge fan of Oldenburg's drawings.




And Louise Nevelson's work always relaxes me.

First...back to a daily photo~



I love that book. It's in my studio and I frequently take the time to flip through and read sections. I don't always agree with everything I read but delight in the fact that artists are an opinionated lot and am fascinated by how they each seem to have "the way" to do...it. It's good to read differing points of views.

And yes, I too am highly opinionated.

---------------

To jump into painting again and capture the spark and excitement, I'm returning to my first love...



...still life.

It's comforting, soothing. Partly meditative yet I want to challenge myself with it.

This is the beginning of a piece...not too big - 11x14. Right now, I'm really glad I shot the painting at this stage, because by the time I left the studio, it had died and lost some of its vibrancy. So looking at this will assist with what I'd like to bring back and then push. It's good I have a record of it.

Two Fridays ago I spent the day in the park down the street from my house, showing Bill the water tower, the conservatory and we hit the Asian Art Museum. After not shooting for many days, it was a day that sparked much photography. I'm slowly going through my images. Here are a few from the water tower.

Painting.

It's been an interesting summer regarding painting.

I was on a roll until July. Disciplined. Going into the studio at least 5 days a week. Painting.

July...it slowed down and came to a screeching halt by mid August.

Two trips back east within a month. Dealing with dad's health and all the emotional stuff wrapped in that. Also, there were increased challenges in other areas of my life.

Through this, I kept trying not to feel guilty, but it wasn't working. My energies were going elsewhere yet still nagged by the thought I was failing my practice. My discipline was shot. My creative self felt spent. Even photography became quite sporadic.

Two weeks ago I cut myself some seriously slack and let it be.

Last week it began a slow return. This week, the twisted ankle kept me away from the studio because I'd rather be down for a few days than injure myself more severely and be out for weeks. I wasn't going to attend last night's Art Walk, but changed my mind when a friend contacted me.

While speaking with my studio mates last night the question of whether or not to participate in the 30 paintings in 30 days challenge came up. 'Tis the season. Because I've been so crazily creatively empty, the thought of such a commitment feels like a chore. But if nothing else, it couldn't hurt. Last night I announced that I'd think it through over the weekend.

This afternoon I went in to set up the work space and my studio mate left a note taped to the wall with a message and phone number. It seems that someone saw my work last night, fell in love with what she saw and wants me to call her. The note went on to say that she had purchased a couple of the 30 in 30 from last year and wanted to know if I'd be participating again this year.

Heh.

Two clear messages in less than 24 hours. Gotta listen to the universe...especially when it's insistent.

I'll spend these two weeks slowly getting back into a routine, and then the 30 in 30 challenge begins which hopefully will propel me into a more rigorous discipline.

My practice is really important to me...and necessary. It's tough to return to it but will feel good once I'm back.

Call me Grace.

It happened in the office about 6 am Tuesday morning. I have a habit of tucking one leg under the other while sitting at my desk. I needed to get up, shifted my legs and immediately felt my left foot was deeply snoozing. It always happens and I'll let it wake up and then stand. Except on Tuesday.

It was more asleep than ever before. I was telling myself "M, don't get up yet, don't do it..." and yet, chose to fully ignore myself knowing I was doing something possibly stupid.

I stood and immediately landed on the outer side of my left ankle. The pain was sharp, fierce and quite brutal. Fear that it was broken ripped through me. Luckily, it only seems to be twisted. It's still swollen and sore but I'm relieved that both have decreased substantially since Wednesday.


Ice and Advil have become my friends.

The three flights up to my apartment have not.

One more taken by Bill Pusztai...

(Photography by Bill Pusztai)



This was a weekend of profound healing. Each day offered a new gift, allowing me to become aware and access a phenomenal strength that resides within. One of those gifts was wrapped in boots.

My love of boots is not only a fetish. Honestly, fetish is too mild a term for the effect and importance of boots...boots as metaphor.

It runs deep...a part of my essence.

Service. Service first and foremost to myself, and from there, outward to others. Boots represent not only a particular service but for me, a larger sense of service...one of compassion that will flow into the world, a service in all aspects of my life, not only in kink venues. The greatest service we can offer begins with honesty, first with ourselves...opening...and then with others. Years ago, my mentor taught me how all of life is one ongoing scene. It's not contained in the dungeon, not compartmentalized, yet instead with each inhale and exhales continues to expand.

For about 6 years I've shielded myself from boots because of a loss I experienced at that time. The protection was so thick that I had not only forgotten the smell but the magic that comes with boots.

Yesterday, to my surprise, within the context of a photo shoot, the shell covering the soft rich leather cracked. With that, came memories and then tears...leading to ecstasy and on to peace.