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A Journey with the Horses

Sometimes things in my world get started in unexpected and unplanned ways. Through several experiences over the years I have learned to trust my instincts and instead of saying, “let me think about it” something deep inside me says, “why not?”
That was the case when, a casual-but-important conversation about things-that-really-matter with friend and neighbor, Aimee Brimhall McCord ( somehow evolved into the invitation to come to Solstice Ranch just “down the road apiece” where Aimee has her own horses and welcomes “horse people” to come and explore and learn how to communicate better with their own horses. Aimee has become well known across the country as a sensitive and gifted teacher in these circles.
I am not one of those “horse people.” I had painted a few horses from photos and had attempted drawing them at a handful of equestrian events in the area over the years. Frank and I had lived with horses as neighbors since moving to the south 25+ years ago. I truly knew little about them other than 4 legs going down and 2 ears headed up but I had never really spent time with them, something you really need to do, if you want to draw them well,
The backdrop of the conversation with Aimee was Frank’s death last fall. In addition to being my soulmate and best friend, he was my biggest fan and supporter over my entire art-filled career. His support for me never wavered from the moment he came to one of my very first exhibits at Schuster Gallery in Erie, PA in the early 80’s. He bought a small painting, came to my studio to pick it up, and the rest, as they say, is history. Losing his physical presence has brought a grief like I have never experienced before. Many of you who read this will know exactly what that is like. There are no words. This writing is not about my grief. It’s about what is helping me get beyond my grief. And it turns out, horses have been a large part of it. When the opportunity came along, the idea of exploring something new seemed just right for moving my heart forward in life-giving directions. It did, but in ways I would never have predicted.
Equipped with a brand new sketchbook, a portable chair, and a variety of my favorite pens and pencils,  I traveled the “long ” distance of a whole half mile to Solstice Ranch where a group of about 10 riders and their horses had arrived for a clinic with Aimee. My plan was to simply sit on the sidelines and observe closely and do gesture drawings as much as I could. A gesture drawing is one done quickly to catch a movement simply, in just a few strokes, in contrast to a contour drawing, done with slow attentiveness to the contours of the subject. I have been drawing both types for a very long time: cats and dogs, fiddlers, banjo pickers and pianists with some success. I quickly realized that drawing a horse is considerably different. All the parts are moving
and even the slightest movement changes the line of the back or the position of a leg rather dramatically. So I drew fast and furious and by the end of that first session I had pretty much filled that sketch book with scribbles that vaguely resemble horses. It was almost as if my hand was searching for a line that said “horse,” My strokes were uncertain and hesitant, but occasionally inside I could feel a gentle shift happening toward awareness, when the vision my eye saw was connecting directly to my heart and from there to my hand and then to the paper I was drawing on. That eye-heart-hand response that bypasses the analytical brain is something I learned over 40 years ago from friend and mentor Frederick Franck, whose books on seeing/drawing as meditation (The Zen of Seeing) have shaped my history as an artist. The only way to learn this is by drawing with mindful awareness. But how was I to learn how to meditate on a horse? to become one with a horse? to see deep inside the horse’s spirit and let that flow through eye, heart, and hand?
Simple answer:”keep doing it.” And for several months of bi-weekly visits, often alone with them, I have drawn and drawn and drawn some more, encouraged by the paraphrased words of Kimon Nicolaides, 19th century artist and author of The Natural Way to Draw, “the sooner you make your first 5000 mistakes, the sooner you can correct them.” I was well on my way! My muscle memory of drawing them gradually got a bit keener, allowing me to get a line down easier, much like your hand remembers how to form the letter of your signature without consciously thinking about how to form each letter.
Some days the horses presented themselves close to the rails out in the pasture or in the barn, as if to say to me, “Do I look good from this angle?” “Don’t I have pretty eyes?” ” I think my legs are quite nice…” They seemed aware that I was really seeing them and they in turn started to watch me with that same attention.

Other days, they would be intent on their grazing and they would stay far out in the pasture and I could only draw them as small parts of the landscape or just draw the landscape itself. Those days, I felt as if they were trying to tell me to see them as part of a whole, to see them in context of their home and environment.

I let them do the “lesson plan” as I continued to draw, each time coming home with a new insight and yet more drawings. After weeks of pencil drawings and ink drawings, I gradually moved into painting with a brush and watercolor. That’s when my art-heart jumped for joy at the feel of not only the line, but the form and dimension of the horse. Somewhere along the line when I wasn’t looking, we started to connect. It happened slowly and inconspicuously. Small steps from me and small steps from the horses. The horse stopped being a horse and became this horse. It wasn’t a progression of steps 1 through 10 or this to that or here to there. It was a progression in what favorite poet Maria Ranier Rilke would describe as “growing circles,” like the ripples that form on a pond when you throw a stone in the still water. Aimee had suggested that a connection might happen, but to be honest, I didn’t think it would. My interactions were remote. There was never a treat involved. I wasn’t riding them, so very little physical contact was made. We were simply seeing each other.

Then one day as I wrapped up a session of drawing a single horse, something very special happened. I had been sitting under a shade tree between two paddocks and did not realize that I was being watched by a horse behind me until I started to pack my gear. Had she been watching over my shoulder the whole time? I went over to the gate to have a little chat. She came to me willingly, nuzzled a bit as I stroked her chin and then unexpectedly lifted her head and placed it on top of mine. I had been hugged by a horse! To this horse I was obviously not just a person, but this person, someone she was getting to know. This is Truleigh. She has acknowledged me often this way and it is truly a very special experience.

Several months into the process, I took a break from the in-person visits with the horses and spent hours of quiet time with the completed drawings, picking out a few that I thought may work with a little more effort. A single scribbled drawing turned into more hours of re-drawing, simplifying with each attempt, to see how few lines were really necessary to draw a horse. Turns out that it is not all that many. One day I jokingly said to a kindred soul, “I wonder if they will just get simpler and simpler until they become just a single dot on a page?” Later, after spending time with that very thought, I realized that the single dot is not the drawing but it is that still point in my soul where I find the peace where drawing takes me. At this point in the journey I have learned so much about horses, but I have also learned a lot about myself.

The time with them has been healing. When I am drawing them all I think about is horse and “horseness” Amazingly, I feel Frank’s presence there with me in ways that I don’t feel anywhere else. It’s really quite magical. I want to share this story, hoping that maybe it will inspire or help someone else know that there is a path out of grief, not the same path as mine, but one just for you. Maybe it’s music, or gardening, or writing or walking. There are many ways to find one’s still point. And we all need to do that, whether we are grieving or not. But don’t we all grieve for someone/something? a person? an idea? a pet? a healthy future? or the very Earth herself?

I don’t know what’s next and I am ok with that. It may mean pushing through to a new phase of drawing or using a different medium. It may mean drawing a new subject, like the cows in another neighbor’s pasture or the faces of strangers or familiar landscapes. It may be something that hasn’t taken form yet.  I had thought that a part 2 to this post,  an expanded list of lessons learned, would be  a good  follow-up to this post,. I even started a list entitled “lessons learned.” But a good brisk walk on a very hot summer morning told me that such an orderly list  suggested  they could be checked off like a to-do list. It doesn’t work that way. I keep learning the same lessons over and over in “widening circles.” Drawing, writing, composing, relating to a horse or to a person all involves awareness, risk, and trust. Right now as I write, it seems very simple.

I saw Venus rise just this morning. It only happens once in a while, but I happened to look up just at the moment it was bright in a rosy gray sky, a pinprick compared to Sister Sun that was very close behind her. Another moment later she was hardly visible. It reminded me that moments come if you let them, if you are open to them. Lessons that I need to learn are there when I need them, if I have the presence to pay attention. I think that is true in relationships of all kinds, with horse or human, the smallest flower in my garden or the universe itself. I am sure that Aimee’s students are looking for those moments of at-one-ness with their horses when the ride is effortless and beautiful. I experience it when I am drawing or painting and the image seems to appear without effort.

It’s a journey, one without an end, but plenty of interesting stops along the Way. I am confident that there is more that I need to discover and I invite you to join me in the journey. I post frequent updates on my facebook page and instagram and will be adding new images here in the weeks to come. There is a lot of wisdom to share from these beautiful animals I have been privileged to get to know.  Thank you for letting me share it with you.
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.” –from Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot

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A Band of Mothers

In art, as in life, sometimes the journey leads us in unexpected directions.
Such was the case with the twentieth kimono in my series.(you can see the entire series and how it came to be here ) It has been a long and exciting journey with some very unexpected twists and turns and as so often happens the journey has been as important as the destination. Over a year ago (evidenced by scibblings in my journal) I started entertaining a final kimono in my series, commemmorating all the mothers, in my life. I started with the most obvious: my mother, my sister, my aunts, cousins, nieces, teachers, role models, friends …….those who mothered, not only my body, but my spririt, my mind, my soul, my heart, my art. The list kept getting longer and broader until it encompassed Mother Earth herself! Symbols of so many different aspects of these mothers percolated through my thoughts, including needles, garden books , letters, photos, fabrics, even clothespins! The “stuff” increased and the imagery became more and more complicated. The world events of the past two years created a complicated backdrop that included mothers visiting their children through hospital windows during covid; the mothers and grandmothers of Ukraine and the beautiful Polish women who welcomed them into their homes; bluebirds and nuthatches in their springtime nests around our home, the novel I was reading about the women of the Great Plains, young women giving birth, family stories…..all spoke of motherhood to me. Everywhere I turned I seemed to be met by mothers and their strength and beauty.
On an unusually warm early spring day, I sat near a star magnolia in my yard, and drew.That’s usually where my head clears best and my heart can see through the clutter. This magnolia in all its pure white beauty spoke to me of life and motherhood. The branches were twisted and complicated. Some branches bore new buds not yet open right alongside spent brown and withering flowers. Some branches even had greening leaves. “Simplify, simplify, simplify, “the magnolia said. I drew and then started to paint. Then I painted some more. I awakened at night sure I knew what direction to take to move this painting that had no real direction into a kimono, only discovering after another day down another path, that it too was not the right one. I “auditioned” ways to develop the core painting: weaving, piecing, stenciling, quilting, stitching by hand and by machine. I ended up rejecting them all after hours of unsuccessful attempts. The process itself became an integral expression of motherhood. I felt like the birth of this kimono was unlike any I had done before. I was in a very long hard labor, knowing

kimono image and magnolia flowers
For All the Mothers

as mothers do, that even the pain of creating is part of the beauty of motherhood.

The final image here was done in memory of the women (and some men) in my life that mothered me each in their own unique way. It is really very simple but has layers that probably will only be recognized by me, or some very perseptive soulmate. It has been an amazing journey as this piece came to life. Every stroke of my brush awakened another precious memory. I am filled with gratitude.
Will it be the last of my kimono series? At this point I am not sure. At one point I thought #10 would be the last. But they kept on coming. I hope to stay open to the possibilities of things to come………

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Land of the Wild Passion Flower

Land of the Wild Passion Flower

Sometimes multiple interests come together in a single painting.  Such was the case with this piece which combines my interest in nature, art, and native American history.  Phew!  All in one little roughly 9×9 watercolor.

butterfly on a passion flower
Depending on Beauty

The image is of a gulf fritillary that has a unique relationship with this flower, commonly referred to as the Passion Flower.  Both are beautiful creations in themselves, but what is so interesting is that this little butterfly MUST lay its eggs on this particular plant because that is all their fussy  little caterpillars will eat!  This is just like the relationship that monarchs have to milkweed.  My practical side says, how inefficient, how unwise to be so dependent on a single food source.  Could it be that these butterflies need beauty in their lives too??

And there is more to this story. The Cherokee who used to inhabit the very land I live on here in southeast TN called the fruit of the Passion Flower “u-wa-ga” and the area around the river where it grew was called “u-wa-go-hi,” which means “where the passion fruits grow.”  To English speaking folks this sounded like “o-co-ee” and so the river became the Ocoee River and the land nearby was called Ocoee, which is where I live.  So I live in the Land of the Passion Flower!  There is so much in this story that I love, so I had to paint it and I finally did. I have painted the flower several times but this is the grist time I have included the fritillary as well.  Purchase information can be found in the Birds, Butterflies, and Beasts gallery or in the Blossoms and Blooms gallery.

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Solar Flare

abstract sunrise or sunsetOn a weekend following a number of days doing relatively non-creative tasks, my insides demanded some play time.  A very energizing exercise for me is to do one of my woven paintings.  To do this, I generally paint two paintings, often on yupo, that have some similar elements in color and/or line.  Yupo is a synthetic material that has a very hard non-absorbent surface that does not act at all like traditional watercolor paper.  It is hard to control but results in very vibrant lively color that I love to work with.  After painting and letting them dry well, I slice the two paintings in opposite directions  and then weave them back together.  The fun part is that I never quite know what the finished piece will look like.  Ok, it’s not always fun but it sure can be interesting…..This is one of those surprises.  It could remind the viewer of a spectacular sunrise or sunset,  thus the title “Solar Flare.”  The image itself is 10×14 and it is matted and framed to 16×19.  You can see more woven watercolors here.

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A poetic inspiration

painting of early dawn
Dawn in the mountains

“In Gentleness and Kindness”

I was introduced to Mary Oliver several years ago and since then have grown to love her poetry and recognize it even before I read the by-line.  Her writing is full of awareness.  The day I painted this I had read her poem “Why I wake up early”    From that poem came the title for the painting.  It just seemed like such a good way to start a day.


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The darkness of the morning news

painting of a dark landscape
Embracing the Darkness

“Embracing the Darkness”

I’ve been working small during these days turned to months of the pandemic.  I work fast too without analyzing or questioning the strokes that find their way to the paper.  Some times it takes days or longer for me to understand what my hand has revealed.  That was the case with this painting.  It came after a particularly dark and depressing morning news.  We have a lot of those lately.  I felt rather down with it all, with thoughts like “why art?”  “why bother?” creeping into my thinking.  This morning I looked at it again and the words of Wendell Berry came to mind….”In the dark of the moon, in flying snow, in the dead of winter, war spreading, families dying, I walk the rocky hillside sowing clover.”  A friend reminded me that clover nourishes the soil.  Ah, yes, I said.  And art nourishes the soul.

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Sycamore treeI decided to give my blog page a little lift with its own name.  I’m calling it Sycamore Notes and some day I will explain where that comes from. (see a more recent post for that) For now, know that it is based on my belief that art can be something that lifts us out of the ordinary and inspires or challenges us.  So here I will  “go out on a limb” and share new works that are being added into this site’s  galleries or tell you about coming events and opportunities, or share techniques I use;  or perhaps I will  share a thought that I feel needs to be shared.  My hope is that this will become interactive and to that end, I invite you to share your thoughts or questions as we proceed.


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