September 15, 2015 – I am a journalist!

A photo I bought because it, in a small way, evokes my waking dream.

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I have a recurring waking dream, a fantasy, I guess. It came to me in a contemplative moment, something like 10 or 15 years ago. It downloaded as a fully formed experience in my mind and even in my body. In my “dream”, I wake to the sunlight coming through soft, gauzy curtains covering the windows in my room. I’m in fresh, white sheets and am wearing a simple white cotton short, sleeveless nightie. I get out of bed, onto the tile floor and go through French doors, outside to a large patio. The patio has terra cotta pavers and a wrought iron railing. On the patio are big terra cotta and glazed blue pots of lemon and orange trees, and orange and pink bougainvillea and – of course – climbing roses in bloom. The house, this place I’m in, is up on a hillside above the blue sea – somehow I know it’s the Mediterranean, though I don’t know if it’s France or Italy or Spain, or Greece even. The air is scented with the orange and lemon blossoms, and the roses and the fresh sea air. I can hear birds fluttering around and birdsong; other than that, it’s very quiet and the air is still. I’m fit and tan and comfortable in my own skin. I’m alone and completely content.

The experience of this waking dream has been so compelling to me, that I’ve attempted to find movies that evoke this sense of place and mood. “Enchanted April” for a long time, was closer than anything else I’d seen, but it’s not quite right. I came across the description of a film online years ago, about a woman who returns to Greece after a divorce to find herself. I think it had “Mediterranean” in the title and was filmed on an island, and I had hopes that it might be like my waking dream. I was never able to find out how to get a hold of this film to watch it, and have even lost touch with what it’s called at this point.

The more recent movie, “Mamma Mia,” the Meryl Streep adaptation of the stage musical, comes closer – it has the colors, the Mediterranean setting with the views of the sea and the light spirit. The year it came out, Joe gave the DVD to me for Christmas. One morning, in that special time out-of-time between Christmas and New Year’s, I watched it in my PJ’s, wrapped in a blanket, with my morning tea. Watching a movie in the morning before even getting dressed, is just the most decadent thing for me to do! I remember actually having tears at the sweetness of both the movie, and the experience of watching it in my pajamas.

I’ve described my dream to a few people, some of whom have suggested I paint it. The idea of this completely stymies me. I have no idea where to even start. It doesn’t occur for me to make paintings out of my imagination. There has been a part of me that has felt not like a “real” artist because of this. If I were, I’d know how to paint from my mind’s eye. I was relieved of this when I heard an interview on the radio of two writers. They were brother and sister – he a poet and short story writer, and she a journalist. They spoke of their process. For him, it had to come from within him. She said that she must witness, that she couldn’t make it up for the life of her. Hearing this I had a forehead slapping moment: “Oh, I get it. I am a journalist!” I must witness what it is I paint! I can’t make it up for the life of me, either! It has been incredibly freeing to know this about myself. Just as journalists are business writers, political writers, food writers, sports writers, I have a “beat” too. Mine is beauty – in the form of flowers, fruit, food (mostly sweets) and a few dogs. At least, so far.

Orchids in Balboa Park

I’m convinced we are born with our art in us. I’ve been taking photos of flowers, since I was in college in San Diego. In my old photo albums, there are pictures of orchids I took in Balboa Park, when I was still a teenager! I continue to be compelled to capture flowers, but my vision has evolved. As I’ve become more enlightened, my journalist filter has too. These orchid photos and even some of the early references for my paintings, lacked the light that so compels me now.

I was lying in bed this morning, before even opening my eyes, thinking about all of this. I was categorizing (another of my compulsions) my paintings, according to how I witnessed their subjects.

• There are those that absolutely struck me – that stopped me in my tracks to get a camera and capture them – Fauchon Eclairs, Honey Bee and Rugosa Roses, Family of Lemons, Jubilee.
• There are those I set up and played around with – what we’d call floral “still life” paintings – Full Circle, Grace, Blush, Summertime, Lustina and my new one, Douce.
• There are those where I went in search of one thing and found another – Blossoming Hope and A Celebration of Pink.
• Some I had to climb up a ladder to get into a tree to witness more closely – Tropical Peaches, Apricots in the Sun, Queen Anne Cherries. For Manualoha I risked life and limb by putting a patio chair on a outdoor table to get close enough to the plumeria flowers – I was determined!
• And, some came from images I took even before I was really painting, and had no inkling when I captured them they’d become a painting – Blue Door, Reach, Twin Dahlias, Lunch on the Terrace.

However they come to me, I witnessed. The thing that captured me was outside of me. And my camera is an integral part of my process. It records the visual part of the moment I experienced. This is why it’s really important to me to paint only from my own images. I’ve been tempted a few times by other’s images, but so far, I’ve not. I have this sense that my having been there, my having had the lived experience, really does translate to the “realness” of my paintings. This may be something that I’m making up, but it’s something that I feel pretty strongly about.

So, as much as I have this desire to see – in photos, in film, in some form – my waking dream, maybe that’s not the point of it. Maybe whether or not I ever paint it isn’t important. Maybe it’s meant to be a sensual experience, that I can conjure for myself to take me to that special place, where I am peaceful and safe and content – and immersed in loveliness. Maybe it’s a mythical, mystical place in my imagination that is just for me.

And maybe I’m only meant to paint what I witness. I paint to convey how I see this world, our world. I can’t tell you how many people share with me their photos of beautiful flowers. They say that when they saw this flower, they thought of me. Me. They see beautiful flowers and I come to mind. Hearing this breaks me open. It’s a remarkable experience to know that my witnessing and sharing the beauty I see in the world, has brought some amongst you to do that too. This affirms that I’m doing what I’m meant to – that how I witness and paint is actually my mission.

Something about this makes me think of the end of Desiderata, Max Ehrmann’s poem that so inspires me: “With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

With my love and gratitude,

Cara