May 17, 2016 – In the Eye of the Human Hurricane

“I’m in the eye of the hurricane with this painting – it’s home while I’m away for two weeks! I’ll get back to the flurry of all these hydrangea petals in June.”

[Note: I’m travelling today. I’ll resume recording when I’m back home from vacation – at the latest.]

On Friday I had a long talk with someone who is very special to me, who is living through a very difficult time in her life – one that is asking an enormous amount of her. She said it’s the hardest time she’s ever been through. Part of what we shared, was what comes of living through hard times. It’s a great paradox: we never want to endure hard times, nor wish it for others – anywhere, but it is what makes us us. Or it can be – depending upon how we meet it. Good times are wonderful – falling in love, having great success, visiting beautiful places, being surrounded by wonderful people, enjoying robust health – or just feeling at home in our lives, as things go along. Good times are necessary to bring encouragement, rest and to refuel us. But from what I’ve seen of life, it’s the hard times that forge us – evolve us. They make us stronger, more resilient, more creative – and more human.

It’s a strange setup, that what we want to avoid, is also the thing that sculpts us into who we are and brings out our humanity. My attention is always captured by examples and stories that illustrate this. I heard an interview of a man who lived through WWII in London, the siege, little food, loss of loved ones, loss of a normal life. And he said it was the best of times. People helped each other out, made do with less, celebrated more, took nothing for granted. Joe and I had a trip planned to Italy on September 14, 2001 – just three days after the attacks in New York and Washington. I spoke over the phone to someone who ran a small agritourismo, in a tiny town outside of Florence, asking to cancel our reservation. She was kind and concerned and said, “of course” and refunded all our money without question. This Italian woman and I had no idea who the other was a few days before, but because of the horrible circumstances, we were no longer strangers. My dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2000. Without speaking of it with each other, or planning it, all four of us, my brothers and I, showed up that evening to circle the wagons and be with Mom and Dad. Hardship shows us our love of each other – it connects us.

If you think about it, if we had no hardship, we’d not learn anything new, not appreciate all we have, not have a sense of our own contribution, the difference we make, and we’d not need each other. Though it’s our nature to avoid it, escape it, numb ourselves or just complain, we must meet hardship – we must really live it, for it to have its way with us. And I believe that without some source of love and support, this is just about impossible. My friend shared with me how valuable it is to her, to have people hear her. She needs for someone to simply take in what life is like for her – allow her to share deep, painful feelings and experiences – without trying to fix things or console her – or to show her the “bright side.” What helps the most she said, is to have someone say “oh, how awful this must be – I’m so sorry.” Being witnessed, is a way out of the loneliness of our suffering, and it makes our experience real. It helps us find a way to hold what we are dealing with differently; it has us realize that though we hurt, some part of us is fully whole. My friend said, “this is so hard… and I am fine.”

I know that in my life, the support and witness I’ve had during my seasons of struggle, have helped me see my way through to a new level of capacity and awareness. I have (and have had) lots of people in my life who provide this kind of witness – therapists, coaches, ministers. I’ve heard them say how their own lives, the hardship they have had to endure, has provided them with the experiences necessary to serve others. We can be taught about human behavior patterns and faith traditions, but we can’t get a degree in compassion and connection. If we’ve not ever experienced grief, we can’t be with someone who is currently experiencing it in the same powerful, real way.

Not to make us mechanistic, but it occurs to me that we – specifically our hearts – are sort of like processors of hardship. In goes human experience – human suffering, challenges. When met, when felt, truly, deeply, it transforms – out comes compassion, connection and capacity for perspective – as well as creative solutions to our problems. It thereby leaves us changed, stronger, with greater capacity to respond to difficulty down the road. I wrote a post several weeks ago, where I said those who have the capacity for their own suffering, have fully “digested” their pain. This is what I’m talking about here. It’s like the Buddhist practice called tonglen. I may not have this exactly right, but my understanding of it (from a book I read years ago by Pema Chodron) is that we breathe in suffering and breathe out love, thereby transforming dark into light within our own beings, within our hearts.

I’m up in a plane as I write this – on the way to Kauai – to meet my sweetie, who is already there. As I look down, I see layers of clouds and the blue ocean below them. Fortunately (especially because I’m a bit of scardy-cat flyer) the Pacific Ocean is living up to its name, and we are floating smoothly above the earth. Maybe because I’m suspended in our atmosphere, but the idea of a hurricane has come to me. Gale force winds swiping across the land, in the center is the eye, a place of relative calm. Though this is a rather violent metaphor, I think that when life is tossing us about, we can find ourselves in the center of the storm, where everything doesn’t hit us with such intensity. I wonder if this isn’t where my friend finds herself, when she realizes that, despite all that is swirling around her, tossing her life about, she is still ok.

I almost always have the intention in these posts, to bring what I’m seeing about life to art-making (or visa-versa). Art making certainly isn’t as hard as the greatest hardships in our lives, but the analogy applies, nevertheless. Learning to work with watercolor is hard. Learning to see – really see – what’s there and training your color eye, can be hard too, if you’re not amongst the few, who have been bestowed these abilities from birth. And there isn’t any way to learn, to gain the abilities, these skills without actually doing them. We must sit down, dip the brush in water, in paint and put it to the paper ourselves. In this way, it is a solo endeavor; anyone else’s hand on the brush, and we miss out on the benefit. And the bearing witness part applies too; it is always my aim to minimize the discomfort, by normalizing the struggle and offering pointers along the way.

I so don’t mean to trivialize great suffering, by comparing it to painting. But there is a spectrum, a range of degree of intensity in everything. And fortunately for most of us, our suffering is more frequently small-scale, than hurricane-force. But maybe if we practice finding the eye in the smaller storms, like when we are learning to paint, finding it when the big stuff comes, we’ll be better prepared. Then when the storm passes, and we can rest, we reform our lives from a new place, with a new perspective. This is my great hope anyway.

With my love,

Cara

May 10, 2016 – Holding Space for HOPE

The physical space that holds me while I do most of my painting. My somewhat messy studio!

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My mentor and coach Lissa Boles, shared a link to a blog post with my coaching group, suggesting it was a useful read. The post is written by another coach/writer/speaker, Heather Plett. The topic of her post – which evidently has gone viral, having been translated into several languages – is “holding space,” which she describes, as something we do for others – we hold space for others. Here’s the description from her post: “[Holding space for another] means that we are willing to walk alongside another person in whatever journey they’re on without judging them, making them feel inadequate, trying to fix them, or trying to impact the outcome. When we hold space for other people, we open our hearts, offer unconditional support, and let go of judgement and control.”

The post goes on to provide eight tips on holding space well. As soon as I read this, something clicked for me – this is it! This describes the environment I’m fostering in our watercolor groups! I’ve had the sense, that what’s going on in our groups is much more – it’s richer, deeper and more subtle than just imparting, teaching and practicing watercolor skills, learning to see and learning about color. Our groups are a place, where who we are as artists and who we are becoming as artists – and people – are safely held. We are held in a special “container” that encourages the emergence of our artwork from us, as well as that of our evolving selves. This may sound lofty – but I know it to be true. I believe that when something strikes a chord, as this post has for me, there is truth to it. Like recognizes like. It is the God in us that sees God.

So, what are we holding in this space? It seems to me, that when we need space held for us, it’s mostly when we are experiencing something that is hard, painful, challenging in some way. When I think about what this is in our group sessions, this list came up:

Here’s where my painting is this morning – I’m at last on the hydrangeas.

• When an artist is looking at a complex reference image, or a complex part of it, and is overwhelmed with how in the world am I going to paint that?
• When an artist is really frustrated at how elusive getting it just right is.
• When an artist has painted something that looks terrible to her eye and she fears she’s just ruined her painting.
• When an artist is sick of her painting because it’s taking so long to paint, asking herself will I ever be done with this?
• When a new artist looks at the work of another in the group, who likely has been painting for years and years, and wonders if she’ll ever be able to paint anything like that.
• When an artist feels empty of ideas and unsure about where to go next.
• When an artist is afraid to take on a new project, for fear that she’s not up to it, or because it might not be received as she’d hoped.
• When an artist’s work isn’t accepted in a show.
• And then there’s the rest of our lives: illnesses, injuries, surgeries, deaths, worries about loved ones. There’s room for all aspects of us – because we have no choice, but to bring our whole selves with us when we gather to paint.

And sometimes we need to hold space for each other’s celebrations too. It may be that there isn’t anyone else in our life, who understands how hard that painting was for us, how faithfully we worked on it. It is not uncommon for well-meaning spouses and other family members, to be critical of our work in ways that aren’t in the realm of “holding space.”

At the end of Heather Plett’s post, are links to follow-on posts that I found worthwhile as well. Two in particular: 1 – we need to hold space for ourselves first. Yes, I know! There have been a few times when I’ve felt stretched too thin, and I’ve been a bit short in what I said – away went my capacity to hold space. I’m not expecting perfection from myself, just noticing the result of not allowing for my own needs and limited capacities. And 2 – sometimes holding space, looks like doing nothing. Just reading the title of this one, was enough to assuage the part of me that seems to always worry, that I should be providing more substance or more something – even this part of me isn’t sure exactly what – to our group sessions.

Art classes and art groups – in my mind – are ideal places to find this kind of holding space – in fact, arts communities are some of the places that Heather Plett wrote, that her post has found its way into. Making art can cause us to feel quite vulnerable; having a safe container can mean a sticking with it or not. But it’s certainly not universal. I’ve not taken all that many art workshops and I have not been part of any on-going groups, other than ours. But I can say that in those I have, by in large, I didn’t feel like the environment particularly held space for my art and me. Mostly it was neutral – which left me feeling out on my own with my inner process. But I also have experienced what it was like, to have whatever the opposite is – where I felt distinctly unsafe and un-held, as a fledgling artist. It’s a world of difference, from when we are.

I’m blessed to have places where I can count on space being held for me – especially in the arena of coaching and counseling. But I also know, that the artists who have been drawn to join our groups, hold space for my emergence as a teacher and guide. Our holding space for each other is quite mutual. Without having the distinction or the capacity to articulate it, I see that (after a few experiences of the opposite early in life) I’ve spent a lot of my life unconsciously seeking out places, where space is held for me. My instinct tells me, this has contributed to my capacity to hold it for others.

Looking at my own experience of being held, as well as that of holding others, holding space for each other seems world-changing. What if we held space for our mates, our children, our parents, our friends, our workmates, allowing them their own journeys – at their own pace and rhythm? I know a lot of this happens already, or we’d not have the cohesiveness in the world that we do, but I’m guessing there’s room for more. In another of the follow-on posts, Heather Plett shares how her daughter found her way through troubling times, by writing on the walls of her room. One of the things she wrote, I’d not seen before: HOPE: Hold On, Pain Ends. This is exactly what we transmit, what we intend, but leave unsaid when we hold space for each other. There’s another unexpected place, Heather Plett’s post has found its way – the US Marine Corps. Knowing there are soldiers who are interested in holding space for each other, gives me hope – which helps me hold space for our world – just as it is.

With my love,

Cara

May 3, 2016 – Seeing with the eyes of love

I’ve decided that trying to get the huge blossom and bee painting done my mid-June is crazy with all else going on, so with the eyes of my heart, I’ve returned to this one. And, I’m very happy to be back with it.

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“Ding!” went my phone Sunday morning. It was a text message from my neighbor and friend Jackie, asking me if I wanted to join her for a hike up the hill. It has been weeks since we’ve seen each other. I texted back “Sure!” I put my shoes on and trotted over, since her house is closer to where we start our hike. When I got there, she took me through to the backyard to share with me, her plans and challenges with re-doing their backyard to make it a fun and beautiful space, she and her family would use. Standing on her deck looking down at the level land, in full morning sun, I was envious. Our house sits between a huge oak tree – the subject of my very first post – and a near-vertical wall of rock,that is quite close to the back of the house. And because this wall of rock is at the bottom of a very big hill on our eastern side, we get zero sun until very late in the morning – not until mid-day in the winter. I would just love to have her full morning sun. Then, we did our hike up the hill with her sweet little dog, Mimi. We were having such a good time catching up, that when we got back to her house, she said she’d head my way so we could keep talking. She ended up walking with me all the way back to our house. She’d not been here before, so I gave her a tour around and through the house and yard.

For the past few years, Joe and I have been toying with the idea of finding a new house – largely so we could have some morning sun. I can’t imagine living the rest of my life, without sun streaming in my home until almost lunchtime. Just recently, we’ve decided to take on some projects to make sure our place looks its best – in case we do decide to put it on the market, we’ll be ready. And if not, we’ll enjoy a more usable and beautiful house and yard. As I showed Jackie around our place, I was telling her what we’d planned to do. What I realized I was doing, was telling her what I saw was wrong and ugly. What she saw, was how substantial, well-designed and solid our house is. We have beautiful hardwood floors that come from native tan oak trees. I love these floors and would miss them when we don’t live here anymore. But what I did point out, was one spot where there has been a lot of wear and is in need of re-finishing. Outside, I see the bare dirt where we used to have a struggling lawn and with the drought, we let it completely go. She saw the rose bushes and the really cool looking native rock.

Seeing our house through Jackie’s eyes, opened mine. She’d more recently seen a whole lot of houses, looking for the one they live in. Jackie’s reaction to our house in comparison to so many others, reminded me that we do have a really nice place. We have re-built our house with new everything – windows, doors, trims, siding, roof, bathrooms, kitchen, electrical, plumbing and heating systems – even a whole new clean and finished garage – and none of it is older, than 15 years. All the work we’ve done to this place makes it really solid, really functional and really beautiful. But, I’ve been focusing on the spots on the carpets, the walls needing a coat of paint, the planters that have been without plants – since I gave up on this yard, and started creating a garden in my studio, with watercolor.

I’ve been thinking about how this is. How is it that I can be so blinded by the little things, that I’ve forgotten how great all the big things are? The saying came to mind: familiarity breeds contempt. Though I’d not say I have contempt for our house – (however irrational, sometimes I do have contempt for that huge hill blocking our morning sun!) – but, there’s something to this adage that relates. When we are close to something for a sustained period of time, we can get pretty critical of it, and it can become pretty irritating. I see this in relationships – people who have been married a long time can get cranky with each other. And of course, I see it in how I relate to myself and my art.

There’s nothing I am closer to on a regular basis than myself, and I have to wonder if this is related to my being a relentless self-improver. The current vein of exploration in my path of evolution, is to understand the value of what I bring – specifically as an artist and a teacher. What makes what I offer special, unique to me? Seeing our house through Jackie’s eyes, makes me wonder if I’m having a hard time seeing it, because I’m so familiar with myself. I focus on all the little things that aren’t quite “right”, which keeps me from seeing the big things, that others seem to so appreciate.

My painting Raindance both at the place where it put it down, and all finished.

I see how familiarity breeds contempt, (or at least distaste) in our artwork too. There are paintings of mine that, while working on them, have fallen completely flat – the excitement that I always start a piece with – evaporated when what I’ve done, is really unpleasing to me. Sometimes I’ve pushed through – and by doing so have learned a lot. But there have been a few in recent years that I’ve set aside, because I can hardly stand to look at them – only to come back to them and, when finished, have them be very well received. I’m not alone here. There is hardly a weekly group session that goes by, where I don’t hear someone express something negative about their artwork. But I’ve come to believe that it’s just part of the deal. I’ve said this before: we have the unenviable job, of painting our paintings. Our view is zoomed way in, intimate with each brush stroke and wash. Sometimes what we need to do is put our paintings aside, and sometimes we need – like I did with Jackie and our house – the view from fresh eyes. We provide these fresh eyes to each other in our groups.

Today, I’m wondering if we can’t cultivate these fresh eyes for ourselves, for our artwork, for those closest to us in our lives – those we are most apt to get irritated with. In the poetry of the Sufi mystic, Rumi “the Beloved” is a major theme – the divine one who loves us unconditionally. I’ve not read all that much Rumi poetry, but enough to know, that what I want to cultivate is seeing as the Beloved does – through the eyes of love. I found this line from Rumi this morning: The light which shines in the eye, is really the light of the heart. What I want is to receive what comes through my eyes, not just in my mind – where criticism lives – but in my heart, where honor and appreciation live.

I say not “just in my mind” deliberately. We need our minds to help us determine, whether we are on track – with our art, with our relationships, even with ourselves. But if the comparing, critical eye is all we have, we miss so much. We can’t see the soul that emanates from whatever it is we are seeing. Apart from during the glow of newness, seeing with our hearts can sometimes be a challenge. We can refresh our vision, by either taking a break or seeing through the fresh eyes of another. And sometimes we can just by the virtue of grace.

I’m all about connection. And seeing only with a critical eye is disconnecting. To stay engaged with all aspects of our lives – our creations, other people and ourselves, we need to see with both our evaluating minds, and our appreciating hearts. All the reminder I need, to is simply recall being on the receiving end of that kind of heart-seeing – being regarded with the eyes of love. Regardless of what’s being said to me, I know I’m held. This is who I want to be – for my home, for my husband and family, for my artwork, and for those who come paint with me.

Seeing you with the eyes of love,

Cara

April 26, 2016 – Why paint?

The new painting and the image I’m painting from

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I’ve just started a new big painting. When my coaching sister Susan, gave Happy a home up in the wild grasslands of Canada last year, we decided it was easier to ship it unframed. So, for almost a year, there’s been a beautiful frame for a 40” square painting, sitting up in my hubby’s workshop. It’s been begging for a new painting, so that it can be out of potential harm’s way – and up on a wall somewhere. I’ve spent a lot of time figuring out what that might be. Not every image calls to be made into a painting this big.

What has come up, is another with blossoms and blue sky – following in Happy’s vein. The trip to Filoli with Sue and Lenore, gave me the images to draw from. This one is a combination of two branches, one of which had a bee on it. But it needed more. So I’m doing something I’ve not really done before – I’m “faking it”, by bringing in two other bees from other images I took. Yes, it would have been amazing if I had been able to capture this whole thing, just like this – the two branches and the three bees. But I didn’t. And I want the painting to really come alive, like I was, when I was there with Sue on that perfect spring day, obsessing about getting the perfect apple blossom pictures to paint from.

When I’m looking through a bunch of images I’ve taken, most of them don’t “work.” I look for a certain something in a composition – the light, the arrangement of the flowers or fruit – whatever the subject is – it has to meet me. There is an instrument in the center of my chest that feels it. It is a “yes” – a spark of energy, that expands when I see the one to paint. Sometimes it’s elusive – I want to paint it, but am not sure. So, then I project it amongst several other images at the size I might paint them. I could get the internal go-ahead at this point. But if there’s something in me that is trying to force it, I compare it in my mind to what I’ve already painted. If it doesn’t hold its own amongst the rest of my work, I keep looking.

Those of you who’ve painted with me know, that I paint the furthest away to the closest up. This means I’d paint the sky and the out of focus background first, then the branches and leaves, before painting the in-focus blossoms. I save the focal point for last – in this one, it’s the bees. I do this for two reasons – one is to keep my motivation going. I paint the part I’m least interested in or I find the hardest first, saving my favorite part for last. The other is, if, when painting the background, I, paint over the main focus by accident, it’s much easier to clean it up before I’ve painted – say, the subtle shading of a white petal. I’d have to fix what I’d already painted.

The actual painting process of this one, is off to a bit of a bumpy start. The blue sky looks blotchy to me – but I’m living with it and am moving on. I’m now into the hardest part – the fuzzy background. There is a lot of it in this one. As much as I’ve been enjoying the actual painting, it’s taking a very long time! Just that little section – roughly 6”x7” or so – has taken me 4 painting sessions (between 1-2 hours each) to paint. I think I’m going to need to shift my process and paint some of the blossom petals – with their larger expanses – or I’ll make myself crazy, painting fuzzy circles for days and days. I was hoping to get this finished by mid-June, to enter in the Marin County Fair. We shall see!

Here’s a closer view of the start of the background

While I’ve been painting, I’m continuing to accompany myself, with more Krista Tippett. Over the weekend, I heard “Einstein’s God.” Albert Einstein was an incredible man. Beyond his forwarding and expanding our understanding of the nature of the universe, he had a wise and compassionate heart. I learned he loved music, and took his violin wherever he went. He said something about the place of art in our spiritual lives,that had me go back and re-listen last night, so I could transcribe it for you. He said that his God was not a personal God, but a cosmic God, that gives him a feeling of “nobility and marvelous order which are revealed in nature and in the world of thought. Individual existence strikes [us] as a sort of prison and [we want] to experience the universe as a single, significant whole… In my view it is the most important function of art and science, to awaken this feeling and keep it alive in those who are receptive to it.” [emphasis mine]

I’m a meaning seeker and am always on the lookout, for what is happening beneath the surface of the ordinary activities of our lives. What he says resonates strongly in me. Yes, I paint flowers and fruit (mostly) and there is always a bit of fear that it will be perceived as trifling, as decoration, as simply pretty. But this is what calls to me. I want to recreate – through my unique view, the aliveness I experience in the world. This is the purpose of the instrument at the center of me. It tells me what to paint, how big it should be, what colors to use – all of it. I do this because I am compelled to make manifest, my experience of the “single significant whole”, that Einstein described.

I look at my earlier work and see that this instrument, wasn’t tuned the way it is now. Some of things I painted, I’d not choose to now. Just like playing a musical instrument, with practice, our “voice” comes through more clearly. You see we all have this instrument – at various levels of attunement. In each of us, it is there to receive and transmit something that is special and unique, in all of existence. It’s the thing that Martha Graham refers to in this famous quote: “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 of time, this expression is unique.” She’s a dancer, so she talks about action, but I say, there is also a receiver that is uniquely us.

I’m seeing a thread in these posts in the past weeks, that seems to be around the question of “why paint, why create?” My sense, is that there are many answers for this, differing for each of us. We may start out wanting a new hobby or we may be following a long-held desire, to make art that astonishes us. Regardless, I know that by giving ourselves over to our creative desires, we exercise our instruments, revealing to the world something it has never seen before. And I hold that by doing so, we change the course of our lives. Though it may be in tiny increments, we even change the course of all of life.

I want to close by sharing more words from Albert Einstein. He wrote them in a letter to the Queen of Belgium, who was said to be suffering with profound grief.

“And yet, as always, the springtime sun brings forth new life and we may rejoice because of this new life and contribute to its unfolding. And Mozart remains as beautiful and tender as he always was and always will be. There is, after all, something eternal that lies beyond the hand of fate and all of our human delusions. And such eternals lie closer to an older person than to a younger one – oscillating between fear and hope. For us there remains the privilege of experiencing beauty and truth in their purest forms.”

This, is why I paint.

With my love,

Cara

April 19, 2016 – The stillness in every painting

My latest painting, just about finished – I’m calling this one “Eve” – it is just so feminine.

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The radio in my car is most often tuned to KQED – the NPR station in San Francisco. I really like classical music, but I just can’t listen to it all the time – it can get tedious to me – and the other music stations are so filled with incredibly annoying commercials and too much pop music, that it’s almost as annoying to me.   I’m old and I just can’t relate to it. Plus, I do like to stay engaged with what’s happening in the world. My favorite shows are the interview shows – Forum and Fresh Air. The hosts of these shows, interview guests who are almost always fascinating to me, opening my world. And sometimes what I hear, can touch my heart or even change me.

Many of the interviews are of authors, who are on tour sharing their newly published books. A week ago yesterday, Michael Krasny, the host of Forum, interviewed Krista Tippett, who has a new book out called, “Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living.” Krista Tippett is the host of a radio show called, On Being. She has a wonderful, warm voice that expresses a joyful heart and a sharp mind. I heard just pieces of the interview as I did a few errands on my way to my hubby’s office, and I can’t remember ever resonating with a guest on Forum as much. So I listened to the whole show that evening from the archive, which then had me go to the On Being website to find more.

I have the dim sense that I’ve visited this site before, and listened to one of her interviews – but I’m asking myself how I’ve never delved into the richness that is Krista Tippett’s world. Oh my goodness! This is the pool I swim in – the intersection of spirituality, identity, the frontier of our understanding of our existence and the power of story. Besides the weekly interviews, there are columnists like Parker Palmer, Sharon Salzburg and a few others who I want to get to know. I don’t know where I’m going to find the time to take it all in!

I’ve already listened to her interviews of Martin Sheen, the poets David Whyte and Mary Oliver and an episode called, “The Magic Shop of the Brain” where she interviews a Stanford neurosurgeon, called James Doty – in part – about how the brain and the heart communicate. I am able to easily split my attention between painting and listening – to music or even to people talking.  I love that I can paint and “read” at the same time. There are some paintings that I can remember the book I listened to as I painted: Faith was “The Help,” Dazzling was “The Paris Wife,” Jubilee was “The Hundred Food Journey” – to name a few. Now, I can’t wait to dive into this treasure trove of goodness as I paint. The episodes go all the way back to September 2001 – just after 9/11 – where she discusses, “Where was God?” with several – as they are described – “great religious minds.”

I know I am who I am in large part because of this compulsion in me, to understand and grow my consciousness. And to have such a source of perspectives from others, who have spent their lives deeply considering and discovering, ignites the desire in me to hear and learn more.

I took a break from writing to walk Bo this morning, before the day warms up too much. He’s a black doggy and prefers the cool of the morning. While winding up and down the hill, I had one ear bud in listening to Krista interview a poet – new to me – Maria Howe – another episode I could listen to again for all its pearls. In this conversation, they talked about two things that brought me to painting and our world: one is the ordinary sacred. Marie’s brother died of AIDS at 28. She recited one of her poems about him at the end of his life, called The Gate, about one such ordinary moment around a cheese and mustard sandwich, that had tears spill from my eyes, as I huffed and puffed up the trail.

Douce – an ordinary moment made transcendent with paint and paper.

This had me think about my painting from last summer called “Douce”, and how it started by my taking a jar that had held jam, and the last three blooming things in our drought-stricken garden last summer. I collected them and spent a short time taking pictures of it, sitting on the weathered grey fence rail in the front yard in the early evening sun. The background is the just the shadowy asphalt of the street. It’s all ordinary and – at least to me – it carries the transcendent too. When I think about it, most of what we paint is this – the beauty, or interest or whimsy from our regular lives that our attention was pulled to. Even a trip to a gorgeous garden – like Filoli a couple of weeks ago – and I zoom in to a world that is created by seeing only a very small part of it. A cluster of apple blossoms, though beautiful, is ordinary too.  Its ultimate purpose is to attract pollinating bees, so it can become fruit to feed bellies.

The other thing that I heard in the conversation, was that at the heart of every poem is silence. They even said that the heart of everything is silence. Moving this idea to our visual world, it came to me that there is stillness at the heart of every painting. Our paintings record, they document, a moment in the life of a flower or something to eat, or a patch of the earth, or a human or other creature’s face – all of which are in a state of constant change – on their way from the past heading to the future. The camera and then our eyes, brains and brushes bring that moment, the stillness of that moment, to the paper for it to live on.

It may seem that these are lofty ideas that many people don’t have an inclination towards, but for me they bring meaning to my life – to the moments that make up all of our lives. The thought of a life devoid of meaning, is bleak and even pointless. For some reason, this is bringing to mind several tender moments in the past week I had with artists in our groups – when they shared with me a bit of the burden they carry with them into our painting time. Each of them expressed how the time we spend together, takes their burdens off their shoulders for a while, as they paint. It’s so good to have that relief, but I know that our burdens are still there – present in someway in our brushes and in the gestures that make up our paintings. It is my firm belief, that we bring all of it along with us, as we do what we do – including making our artwork.

The end result then, is that these paintings are the alchemy of the ordinary sacred, the stillness of the moment that called to us, the burdens – and joys – of our lives – as well as our struggle to work with our art materials as we paint. A whole lot goes into making art – it’s no wonder we can be afraid of it! It seems good that we aren’t present to all of this all the time, or we’d never get down to it. I just hope that now and then the magic of what we are doing does sift in – and in doing so, it connects us to the silence and stillness that is in every moment – every momment that ever was. When we do, we are in touch with the eternal.

With my love,

Cara

April 12, 2016 – Like potatoes on Mars

This rose is growing in its own ecosystem, as am I, in mine, while I paint her.

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I’m part of a coaching group – there are 6 of us, all women, whose intent it is, to make an impact in a purposeful way with our work. We are each building businesses – we’re heeding a call, to make real in the world, the work of our hearts. We are led and guided by our beloved coach, Lissa Boles. We also guide and en-courage each other, with thoughtful feedback and reflections of our own. The weekly meetings of this group of women foster my evolution as a person, in addition, to supporting the unfolding of my work – my business, as it becomes real in the world.

Through my time with this group, I’ve also come to understand that what I’m up to, goes well beyond transferring the skills of painting in watercolor. I love watercolor, I love to make these paintings and to share with others, what I have learned about how it works – with the water, the paint and the paper. And I see, that there’s something else that’s more distinctly me, that I bring as I teach. I am a guide for the inner and outer process of becoming an artist, a creator. I didn’t set out to do this, but as time has gone on and as I’ve been witness to hours and hours of artists making paintings, something in me, has had me pay attention to what we say and how it is for us (me included), as we do what we do. This has given me a way to hold artists and their work, and talk about their process, that normalizes the challenges we go through.

More than a dozen years ago, I was in a session with Donna, (that is My Donna) at a time when I was still working in San Francisco, in the tech world. I told her that getting on the bus to go to San Francisco, felt like slamming my body against a concrete wall. I wanted to do anything, that would keep me from having to commute and attend meetings about things that I no longer cared anything about. I told her I had thought I might become a bookkeeper. I was doing the books for my hubby’s company, so maybe I could do it for others too. She told me I was up to other things. She said I was a teacher, and suggested I look into the website (www.thecoaches.com) of a life coach training company, that another client had told her about. I went home and looked it up. It turns out The Coaches Training Institute is headquartered right here in San Rafael. Reading the curriculum, I said to myself, “this is so me!” I had never felt this at home in any kind of work before.

At the end of the coach training and leadership program that I did afterwards, I was pretty much paralyzed at the thought of creating a practice as a life coach. What I realize now, is that though I loved all that I learned, I needed a vehicle for these conversations – an activity, a process that was real and had tangible results. After Shannon Brown hounded me long enough, I tiptoed out and gathered a group of five artists in September of 2011, to “paint together.” It’s clear to me now, that both my love of watercolor painting and the “in my bones” coach in me , who looks at the whole person in front of me, and all aspects of their life – pretty much all the time – have been combined to give me work, that I feel born to do. What has ultimately come of all this, is the creation of a special environment, that feeds creative expression – specifically in the form of watercolor painting.

Susie (left) and Paulette – another dedicated and prolific painter who is having her second or third solo show in June.

Last Friday was the opening reception, for a solo show, of the work of Susie Rosenberg – one of the artists who came that first day in 2011. She has a show of 15 or so of her gorgeous watercolors, on display this month. Walking in to see so many of her paintings gathered all in one place, was a thrill for me. And she was beaming. I’m so glad that a whole bunch of her fellow artists from our groups, came to share in the celebration too. As she introduced me to people in her life at the reception, she called me her “inspiration.” But I take no credit for the energy-filled, inventive, and refined work she’s done. These ideas came through Susie, and it was her hand on the brush, for every square inch of painting. But what I do see, is that the environment that has come to me to create, has supported her evolution as an artist. And just like the old “lead a horse to water…” no one can make anyone paint, but us. She’s dedicated herself to her work; she’s missed very few weeks over the 4 and-a-half years, and she has painted as much as possible, in-between our weekly sessions. This has played an enormous part in the development of her work, and the number of paintings she has to show.

Susie’s show at Artworks Downtown in San Rafael

Last year’s movie “The Martian”, with Matt Damon is coming to mind. I love the scene when he goes into the greenhouse he’s built, to find his first sprouted potato plant. (Near the end of this clip…) As he touches it gently, he says “hey there” to the little sprout – the only other living thing on the planet. Nothing grows on Mars, so he had to create the right environment, including compost for the soil (from packets of his fellow astronauts poop), and water (from burning hydrogen). Whether or not the science in this movie is accurate, it tells a great story about creating an environment that fosters life,.

For the most part, the “normal” world isn’t as in-hospitable to creative expression, as Mars is to growing plants, but – providing an eco-system for our creative lives, does play a part in what we create – which sometimes has a sizable impact. There are some, in our group, who say there’s no way they can paint at home, because of distractions and other challenges, so the time to paint and be supported, and in the company of like-hearted artists is treasured.

I believe that the work that is in us, has a life of its own. The impetus to paint comes from mysterious sources. And what we paint does too – our art chooses us. But just as potatoes won’t sprout on Mars without the help of an astronaut botanist, our painting lives thrive when they are fertilized and watered – by the structure of a commitment, the freedom of full permission, and an enthusiastic rooting section of those who care about us and our work.

I’m guessing that when we all gathered in 2011, Susie didn’t imagine herself standing in a gallery space surrounded by her artwork on the walls – for sale! Just as I never imagined that I was heading down the path to my life’s work, as I tiptoed out to lead them that day. But does the potato sprout know it will grow bushy and tall, and create big round roots filled with energy, that sustain others up the food chain? Sometimes we do set out to accomplish specific goals, but sometimes – and I think often times – just putting ourselves where there is enough nourishment, water and sunlight, ends up creating a life that we couldn’t have ever imagined.

With my gratitude and love,

Cara

April 5, 2016 – What Brings Us Alive

The painting I’m working on – as it is today – bringing this rose and its surroundings alive

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My mom and dad host a dinner almost every Sunday evening. By Sunday morning, Mom sends a text or email to my three brothers and me and our spouses – this is what Dad’s cooking, who is coming? This past Sunday, the four of us siblings were all there. It’s so good to connect with my brothers and their loved ones. I hadn’t seen my brothers Matt or Mike in several weeks, as we’d been missing each other – especially Mike – he lives in San Francisco and has a busy travel schedule, with his super-demanding job with Apple Computer. He is responsible for the build-outs and remodels of Apple stores all over the country. Before getting into corporate construction management, Mike was a builder and general contractor. On Sunday he came in late, just as we’d started eating. He had just come from Sacramento, where he was helping build a new building for the folks who run the rafting company, where he and Julie take a river trip every summer. He had spent the weekend framing and sheeting the new roof.

After working all weekend and a 2-hour drive, he practically burst through the door, filled with energy. He seemed taller and younger – his face looked more angular. And the slight sunburn on his face gave him a healthy ruggedness. He even moved differently in his body. As he chowed down on a big plate of food – he’d worked really hard and had to refuel! – I kept marveling at how alive he was. When I told him so, he said he felt alive. He’d been up and down a ladder probably 50 times all day, and it seemed like he could have gone 50 more. He said it felt great to put his bags on and do something physical, tangible. All the practical knowledge of building a roof – which can be quite complicated – was right there – he’d not forgotten any of it. He said he wants to figure out how to retire, so he can go to work for our oldest brother Joe, doing physical work, building stuff. How’s that?! Retire so he can go work hard! I’ve not been able to stop thinking about him, and the impact that doing something that he loves to do and feels made to do, had on his physical body, his presence – his whole being.

I came home and shared this with my Joseph and asked him if, for him, that thing was flying airplanes. He said it was. He comes home from flying a different guy, like he’s had fresh jolt of life-force. I’ve been up with him a couple of times and know that flying is immensely consuming, he’s focused on nothing but the checklist, the instruments, the radio communications. He’s in full command of the airplane – I can tell he’s a really, really good pilot. It engages his brain, his knowledge and I think there’s something about the rigor that’s required – making literally life and death decisions – that appeals to him. On top of that, he’s on top of the world – my guy is a big-picture guy and the perspective from thousands of feet in the air, is how he sees.

This had me wonder: what it is for me? What brings me so alive like this? You’d think it would be painting, wouldn’t you? As much as I am compelled to paint and love color and creating beauty, the actual act of painting in watercolor, in the way I do it, doesn’t impact me this way. For me, painting is more like something I must do, in order to stay in good shape – if I don’t, I get crabby. But I don’t feel like Mike looked on Sunday, after I’ve been painting.

Then I reflected what I did on Saturday. I spent the day with Lenore and Sue, two new friends I’ve met through our watercolor groups, at Filoli, a gorgeous garden in Woodside, south of San Francisco. Filoli is an estate, established about 100 years ago, that was donated to the County of San Mateo in the 70’s. The mansion is surrounded by 16 acres of beautifully maintained formal gardens. It was a perfect spring day, to walk through a flower-filled garden. There were still plenty of tulips in pots; the tree peonies were going full force, the camellias were at the end of their bloom, but the rhododendrons were just getting started. Enormous purple and white wisterias, that grace the sides of the mansion were at their peak, fragrant and buzzing with bees. Just a couple of climbing roses were blooming, in a few weeks, the rose garden will explode with color and scent.

Some of what we saw on Saturday.

Sue and I discovered that we both love apple blossoms, their sweet, chubby flowers with just a hint of pink on the buds – and green leaves at the same time as the flowers. We found ourselves completely obsessed with this one apple tree, and took a whole bunch of pictures, in hopes that one will call out “paint me!” It was so fun to be with someone who loves something, just as crazily as I do. Lenore eventually lured us away to see the pink dogwoods, in prime, full bloom. Oh. My. Goodness! Beauty everywhere. On Saturday, I experienced in my body, why we use the expression “breath taking.” Re-living it now as I write, I feel the energy rise in me, expanding my chest with joy and aliveness. Being in a place like this, brings me alive.

Having a great time together!

Lying in bed this morning, I had another memory sift back to me. It was last October, after an 11-hour flight, I was riding in an airport shuttle van, as it entered the city of Paris. Like carbonation, I felt energy bubble through me at the sight of those Paris buildings, with their blue and white street signs on the corners. Paris. I was there, really there. Though I’d slept little on the plane and my body was reeling from being whooshed 9 time zones away, I had the energy to walk for several hours before having a bite to eat, and giving my body what it was craving on the flight, to be resting fully horizontal. I am a different version of me when I’m in Paris. This has me thinking it’s time to set aside my hesitations, and put another Pilgrimage on the calendar. Even if I end up going all by myself. Paris brings me alive.

It’s more subtle, but I also feel myself come alive at the start of every painting group, as everyone arrives filled with appreciation for each other, the time we get to spend together – and for me too. Our groups have a restorative impact and it’s as if they all arrive famished, to a lavish table of food. That I get to provide the environment for this kind of nourishment, fills me with purpose and fulfillment – a different kind of alive.

There’s always stuff in life that we don’t want to do, but have to. Even so, I woke today, realizing that even if we can’t do the things that bring us really alive like this every day, if we are determined to, we can carve out the space and time to do them more. I’m not going to become a gardener or move to Paris, but writing this today has me see how important it is, to get enough of our own particular kind of life-fuel.

Mike’s aliveness on Sunday, had an impact on all of us in the room – and it inspired me to share it with you today. When we are alive, it has a ripple effect; aliveness is compelling and it’s contagious. So, what brings you alive. I’d love to know.

With my love,

Cara

March 29, 2016 – Painting redemption

Moving on – my next painting underway, another rose – having fun with the detailed background.

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Most weeks, by the time Tuesday morning rolls around, I know what I’m going to write about. Today isn’t one of them. I’m stuck today. I didn’t sleep well – I woke at something like 3:30 and lay awake for a couple of hours. After getting back to sleep, I woke up about 7:15, really groggy. I was in a fog as I made my tea, pondering the possibilities. What am I going to write about today? Yikes! So, I took my hike with Bo before writing today in hopes that it might give me some clarity. One idea seemed to resonate. I started writing and after about 400 words, it felt flat and lifeless, and I had no idea where to take it. Ugh.

I keep a file in my “Posts” folder called “Ideas for Posts.” So I just went to the file. The first sentence is this: “I want for us to have the capacity for our own suffering.” Oh, yay! Suffering! Now isn’t that a cheery thing to write about? But it grabbed me. And it seems a fitting follow-on to last week’s missive about grieving. Easter was two days ago, but it appears I’m still in Lent. So, why would we want to have the capacity for our own suffering? Wouldn’t we want to do all we can to be rid of it? We go to the doctor, the therapist, our loved ones, other professionals to seek healing, resolution – to be free from our pain – whatever form it takes. Yes, this is the natural thing to do, and I do all those things. I don’t want to suffer any more than anyone else.

But guess what? We will still suffer. It’s part of the bargain. We get to taste a bright, ripe raspberry or sip and smell coffee in the morning, we get to listen to the birds chirping, we get to caress a dog’s soft ear, we get to see the color green on the springtime hills and the vivid blue-violet of the Dutch irises, that have just bloomed among the grass. We get to read and be inspired by the words of a poem or a moving story. And we get to love each other and experience others loving us. There is no light without darkness, so to get all these goodies, we must endure some suffering too.

Since I’ve started to notice when people have the capacity for their own suffering – and when they don’t – it’s become really obvious to me. I met someone a couple of years ago who is coming to mind. She had lived a very difficult life and was telling me all about it. As she was sharing her story: drug addiction, prison time, losing her children, I felt heavier and heavier. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle what she was sharing; the heaviness I felt come from the place from which she was sharing it. It felt to me, that she had little capacity for her own suffering. There was no container for it, so it spilled out on to me. Although she was living a life free of all these conditions, she wasn’t, at that point anyway, free from the darkness of it. There wasn’t yet any triumph over it – no redemption.

I’ve had many conversations with redeemed people, who have lived lives just as trouble-filled. These people, who have gained the capacity for their own suffering, have spirits that shine even more brightly, than those who’ve never lived in the dark. I’m finding it hard to articulate how this is, but what comes to me, is that redeemed people have fully digested their suffering. They’ve gained perspective, and reaped the rewards of it – which I believe are always there. Even as suffering returns, (as it does over and over), they continue to have the capacity to hold it, to contain it. The sad thing is, is that I find it hard to have compassion for those who can’t hold their suffering – I just feel repelled. It’s as if there is an unconscious intent to drag me into their darkness. On the other hand, I feel drawn to those who are suffering with awareness and perspective – even if that perspective is that this is really, really hard and awful. With these people, I find an easy connection and the compassion just flows from me.

So what does all this have to do with art and being creative? I speak on no authority besides my own – but my sense is that it has everything to do with our art and our creative lives. When I first learned to paint, I was still living the dark – married to an alcoholic and desperately lonely for real connection. I was able to paint only very sporadically, and what I painted had little energy in it. A couple of years later, I was working towards extricating myself from that life, and had no inclination to paint at all. The refuge that my creative life is now, which I spoke about last week, wasn’t yet available to me. I was still doing life-triage and building capacity for my own darkness.

But as my capacity has developed, to understand and have a place to hold my suffering, my art and creative life becomes a companion to it. I’m not one to paint my process, as in, to paint my anger or my wild, disturbing dreams. I get there is great value in doing that, but what I’m called to do, is to paint my redemption. My most recent painting “Together”, is a reflection of a break in a long standing friendship. But even those that don’t have that direct connection, they are a reflection of what I have the capacity to hold within me – as it is with all of us.

Win’s painting – she’s named it “Mourning.”

I just thought of this recent painting by Win, one of the artists in our Thursday group. Win was there the very first day I led a painting group at the Fairfax Church, four and a half years ago. She has lost two people very close to her – her mother and her son. The anniversaries of their deaths are at the beginning of the year, which renews her grief in their loss. In February, she showed me the image that was the inspiration for this painting. She wanted to paint it but was uncertain about painting a fading rose. I encouraged her to – and the result is stunning. “Mourning”, contains Win’s love for her mother and son, and her grief in their not being here anymore. The same beauty in this painting shows up in her every Thursday, too. In our hello and goodbye hugs, I can feel her tender heart as well as her love and joy at being here, and sharing her life with us.

I come back to my deep appreciation for having an active, integrated creative life – for the way we can reflect our humanness – our love and our suffering – in these creative works. I know that many people come to our groups for instruction, help with technique and color and all the tech support I provide, but what I see they are actually doing, what we are actually doing is painting our redemption. Whether we know it or not. There’s hardly a better reason to learn to paint.

With my love,

Cara

March 22, 2016 – Easter Saturday

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In the past several weeks a very close, long-standing friendship took a painful turn and in the past few days, has very possibly ended. We’ve been friends for more than 25 years and have been through so much together. It’s hard for me to really grasp that six weeks ago everything was seemingly ok, and now we are not in each other’s lives. At the same time, it is clear to me that the spirit is moving through all of it. There was something that needed to arise, to be known and made conscious. This something has brought me to a new place inside myself – almost the next “version” of me. This shift could not have been stopped or prevented. It had to happen. And, my heart is heavy and full as I grieve what once was between us.

We don’t choose to experience grief – it’s never fun or easy. There’s little energy, certainly no fire for new endeavors. When I’m grieving, I feel raw and it’s hard to have light conversations with people – especially those who don’t know what’s going on. In times like this, I watch others who are interacting with each other normally as if they are in another dimension, one that I’m not a part of. But there’s also something precious about it – there’s an opportunity to care for ourselves exquisitely. I learned this after we lost our dog BJ to an awful accident, and I was in acute grief. Because of this I was called to be really, really tender with myself, in a way that I otherwise wouldn’t. And in that, it occurred to me that I was living through a time that had its own gifts. Grieving is a deeply feminine experience. We can’t direct how it goes. It has its own pace, rhythm and duration. We just have to ride it through.

It has occurred to me, that I’m in an Easter Saturday/Holy Saturday time. I was raised culturally Christian, but we didn’t go to church or actively practice Christian traditions. My family’s celebrations of Easter and Christmas were entirely secular. Later in life, I spent a decade or so as an active member of a very progressive Christian church, through which I’ve become connected to the deep themes of this faith tradition – in ways that I can easily see threading through my own life. Since I’ve become a seeker of this deeper understanding, Rev. Cynthia Bourgeault is one who has been provided me with illumination. She is a mystic and Episcopal priest, who writes and teaches about Christianity and especially about Mary Magdalene, in ways that are both completely inspiring and completely mind-blowing. She’s pushing the edge of Christian understanding, and in doing so, gives me access to it that requires no translation, making the roots of this 2,000 year old tradition accessible and applicable to me in ways, that mainstream Christianity just doesn’t.

In a recording of hers I listened to a few years ago, she talked about where Jesus’ spirit was on Saturday, the day after he died, and before he was resurrected. While all those who were close to him, who loved, surely were deeply grieving and in despair, he was, as the tradition calls it, in the Harrowing of Hades – or hell. The way Cynthia Bourgeault spoke of it, though, brought me to tears. She said he was bringing the light – his light – to the souls living in the darkest place of existence. This is the invitation we have when we are in grief, and when tending to those who are grieving – to simply shine the light of love into the dark. Offering myself tenderness when I’m so sad is that light of love, shone on myself.

Another teacher who makes Christianity accessible to me, is Father Richard Rohr. What he teaches is also both deeply rooted in the tradition and so out there, that it’s hard to believe that he is a priest within the Catholic Church. (He and Cynthia Bourgeault are kindred spirits and teach together at times.) Sometime last year, Oprah had Richard Rohr on her Super Soul Sunday program. In their interview, he said something that stuck with me: if we don’t transform our pain, it will be transmitted. It’s certain. We will pass it on to others. Since loss is inevitable in our worldly lives – everything dies – we all experience grief. So, we all have Holy Saturday times – though they generally last much longer than a single day. In these times, we have the choice to operate out of our pain, thereby passing it on, or we can tend to it, thereby transforming it, which grows our capacities to hold others and become greater expressions of love.

I have been graced to have been given the understanding, support and determination, even, to choose the latter path – at least with the biggest losses in my life. The ending of my first marriage and way of being in relationship, not having been able to have any children of my own and the sudden loss of our beloved pup, were all followed by periods of grief. After a Holy Saturday time, they were also all followed by resurrections. I am married to my Joseph and have a deeply committed partnership, that I don’t believe would ever have been possible with my first husband. We have our sweet, smart “Ambassador of Happiness,” Bo-Doggy, who I am certain is the reincarnation of BJ. And I live a fulfilling life filled with making art and teaching and guiding others on their creative journeys – a life that I know I’d not have if we were raising kids. This may seem sort of transactional, maybe even too pat. But it’s my reality and I have to believe there is something to it.

I have been, and will continue to do what I do, while I am sad over this friendship. Along with tending to my home and family, I’m painting every day, writing every week and leading our painting groups – all of which are both tinged with what’s been going on for me, and are, that light shining into my darkness. This painting (above) that I just finished, is connected to this friendship. You can read about it in my gallery. Painting it over the past three weeks has felt right, just as I painted BJ right after he died, which I wanted to do while I still remembered what it felt like to touch him. For the most part, my art is not intentionally expressive of my inner process. I mostly paint what appeals to me – what I think is beautiful enough to spend my time on. But sometimes it is, which makes having an active creative life, a blessing and a refuge. It’s what I wish for us all, to have a place to take our grief and pain, to help transform it, so that what we transmit instead, is some form of beauty.

To come all the way through our Holy Saturday times, it helps to have faith – that there is a re-birth – of some sort – at the end of it. For those of us for whom this is our tradition, this week is Holy Week. It’s a walk through the cycle of death and rebirth – which takes place during the spring (rebirth) here in the northern half of our planet. This week feeds our faith that death isn’t the end of the story. And, in order to fully arrive on Sunday, we must tend to our grief on Saturday. Whether you follow this tradition or not, and whether you are currently in a time of grief, celebration, or some place between, I wish for you to notice and be fed by the beauty that is always here.

With my love,

Cara

March 15, 2016 – Sorta Perfect

My sorta perfect, getting there painting

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Last week Paulette, one of our Thursday faithfuls, forwarded to me an email with a plea for my help in responding to it. She’d been offered an opportunity to do a demonstration for a watercolor organization. First, I must say how wonderful and gratifying it is for me, to have artists in our groups garner responses like this for their work. I am a proud mama-leader to have artists of such caliber in my world. But, there was an “ee-gads” in Paulette’s response, which I completely understand and want to explore today. You see, I’ve been asked a few times over the years by various watercolor groups, to do demonstrations too. I’ve had that same “ee-gads” response and have always begged off.

My fear is that in a short painting demonstration, people – likely other artists who are hungry to learn – want to see magic. They want to see me paint a few brush strokes and “voila! It’s a flower!” But that’s not the way it works for some of us – Paulette and me included. When you look at our finished work, there is indeed something to it. The paintings live as if they are real. And they often trigger a desire in other – less experienced – artists to want to know how to paint like this. For starters, there’s a lot more to how we paint than technique. The images we choose to paint, have striking light and we hope a compelling – or at least interesting – composition. For me, I have to sense there’s something there in the image, for me to spend all the time I do painting it. But the painting part is mostly quite a struggle. Paulette and I tease that we have to “torture” our work into being.

My sorta perfect “mess” of a leaf (on the right) in the process of being re-worked

Just yesterday, working on this rose painting, there was a leaf that had gotten too dark and the shadow on it had a hard edge that was really distracting. I tried to fix it which made it worse. So I lifted the whole thing and started over. I’ve painted the yellow green of the leaf – not as light and transparent as I’d wanted, but it’ll do. I’ve yet to paint the shadow back in – so now if you look at it closely, to my eye, it still looks like quite a mess. This is not the work and process that I think people are expecting to see in a demonstration. And yet, I wonder if it isn’t exactly what I should be demonstrating. As much as mastery is thrilling to behold, we come by it in a mundane, down-in-the-trenches way. This seems to me to be a much more helpful, and even hopeful message than “voila, it’s a flower.”

I receive email letters twice a week from “The Painter’s Keys.” On Tuesday, comes one from the late Robert Genn – from his archive of posts before he died. His daughter, Sara, also an artist, sends a letter on Fridays. Her message from last week touched me and – along with Paulette – inspired what I’m sharing with you today. She starts here:

Carefully curated images on social media of shiny children and food, vacations and relationships presented by normal breathing humans, are irking social scientists. Apparently, the suffocating display of a polished facsimile of human experience without evidence of the associated toil, rather than delivering the desired feeling of connection and love, is alienating us and giving us the blues.

She goes on about the impact of struggle and toil in our art work. I found myself saying, “here, here.” Though there is a part of us that longs to be able to breeze easily through our paintings, it’s mostly not how it goes. For some time now, I’ve held that the struggle that it takes actually gives our work more of something – more of us, more of our humanity – and thereby imbues the art with another kind of magic that’s hard to put a finger on.

I did an art festival in a big building in Fort Mason on a rainy weekend in November 2007, my first year showing my work. It was a bust. At any given time, the number of exhibiters far exceeded the number of festival goers. The show cost me $600, plus an investment in overhead lights and all my time and effort. All weekend I sold only $40. Because there were so few people there, we spent a lot of time meeting other artists and their work. A lovely woman, a jeweler, came to visit my booth and in looking at my paintings – Paris Roses and Twin Dahlias were there – she said “oh, you are going to be famous – there is a real emotional quality in your work.” At the time I found what she said incredulous, but I’ve never forgotten it. I’m not sure about the famous part, but that she saw or felt emotion in my work, was the first clue for me that we are in our work. I believe that much of this comes through our struggling.

There is another piece coming to me now – tenacity and faithfulness to our vision, both play a big part. For whatever reason, ever since I started taking watercolor painting seriously, about 15 years ago, I’ve made myself finish every painting. By doing so, I’ve learned a ton. If something wasn’t working out, didn’t please me, I’d try to figure out how and why, and then do what I could to bring it closer to my vision. It’s not always completely successful. There are parts of paintings – paintings I’ve sold and that are quite beloved by some of you – that I still cringe if I look closely at them. The overall is fine, but those parts…! Nevertheless, by sticking with it, I’ve kept lots of paintings from being tucked away in a stack in the studio.

I see this at play in our groups. An artist will show me a painting they’ve worked really hard on. Either they are really ready to be “done” – or they wonder if they should just give up on it. I or someone else in the group almost always sees something that we’d do – if it were our painting – that will take it further along. One of the best parts of doing what I do, is seeing the appreciation – and wonder, even – in an artist who is pleased with the work they were ready to abandon.

The seeking of perfection is a funny thing. It’s a force that pulls us along, but it’s also a way we can punish ourselves and reject our work. I wish I could remember the exact situation, but recently I found myself saying the phrase “sorta perfect.” It was in response to something that happened that was unexpected and undesired, but which ended up with a result that was actually better in the end. As I said it, I was struck by its paradox. Perfect – as we usually think of it – isn’t a part-way thing. Perfect is perfect.

Today, in looking at all of this, I’m embracing “sorta perfect” as the best kind of perfection – a more sophisticated way to say it is “wabi-sabi.” But I like “sorta perfect.” Sorta perfect is life, it’s human. It speaks to our vulnerability, as well as carries an appreciation for us and what we do. I want for us all to remember that in any given moment, we are all doing the best we can, with our current skills and abilities. Here’s to our sorta perfection!

Love,

Cara