Ocoee

Oil on canvas, 12x12, commission

My dad and stepmother came east from Arizona for Christmas this year, as they always do. They usually come before the holiday, which lets them avoid some of the traveling chaos and also allows them to be back home in Arizona, with their friends, for Christmas itself.

We got together at my brother's house, and it was a different kind of celebration.

It was a brunch, it was alcohol-free, and it involved a minimum number of presents.

So often, the family has just gone overboard with presents. This year, we chose names, and gave one or two gifts, and it felt right.

Christmas will never be the same since my mother died. But it feels like it is starting to become something else, something new, something different, and for that, I am grateful.

On the Way to Warwick

On the Way to Warwick

Oil on canvas, 36x48

Please email me for information about price and delivery

What a year this has been! What gifts I have received!

So often, I am on the way to one place, on the way to one destination, when something comes to me, out of the blue - and it is beautiful, or gentle, or thought-provoking - and it was nothing like what I was setting out to do, nothing like the destination I was setting out to find.

This is what happened with this painting. It was a crisp October day, and I was on my way to Warwick. This scene was so beautiful, I nearly drove off the road. I'd have given something precious to be able to paint it in plein air, but the road was narrow, and the shoulder even narrower. A photograph was my only bet.

Back home, I painted in the studio, and much in the way that I'd found this scene I had not been seeking, I found views and colors and resonances in the photograph that I hadn't known were there.

In my mind, that makes it even more of a gift - because it's something I wasn't expecting, wasn't seeking.

I hope that you all stumble on treasures in this new year. I hope that you seek, and that you find - and I hope that on the way, you find something else. Something wonderful that you weren't seeking at all.

Fiona

Fiona

Oil on canvas, 12x12, commission

I realized this morning that, while my job as a local editor for Patch is indeed demanding, the fact is that I am still myself, and so I am approaching this job in the obsessive and over-the-top way that I tend to approach anything that engages me.

My usual day starts at 4 a.m. and continues, relatively unabated, until 7 at night, or later. I work seven days a week, so, you can do the math. If my week starts on Sunday, I am usually at 40 hours by mid-day on Tuesday.

Clearly, I have to stop doing this. I have to delegate more. I have to be satisfied earlier. I have to say "enough" at Point X in the day, and either paint or sleep or cook or, honestly, just veg out and do nothing.

So that is my new challenge. I painted yesterday, and I painted today. And I intend to paint tomorrow.

Wish me luck!

Meantime, if you want to see what's been taking up all these hours, click here.

Paintbrush

Paintbrush

Oil on canvas, 12x12, $350

This summer, while Heather and I were in Canada, we came upon something called an auberge festive.

"Auberge," I knew, meant "inn." And "festive," well, that's pretty self-explanatory. A festive inn? It sounded great.

We drove down a steep driveway and found what looked for all the world like a hippie encampment, right on the edge of the St. Lawrence Seaway. There was a yurt. There was a tiki bar. There was a hot tub. There were treehouse-like cabins built practically into the hillside. There were tied-dyed, tattooed, dredlocked kids by the dozen. And there was music.

Turns out this was a hostel, and it was celebrating its anniversary that very night with a "Woodstock night." All the cabins and beds were filled, but there were places to pitch a tent on the beach, and we were welcome to stay there for a minimal fee, use the communal facilities, join in the celebration.

Honestly, at first, I just thought: No, oh, no.

I didn't feel like staying in a tent, I didn't feel like staying with hippies, I didn't feel like staying with a bunch of 20-year-olds. In fact, the only thing I did feel like was an old, crabby woman who had no sense of adventure. And then I felt terrible about feeling that way.

My knee-jerk reaction could not have been more wrong or more small-minded. The hippie kids drank a lot and smoked a lot of pot, but they were fun and pleasant and happy. The other visitors at the hostel were fascinating and friendly. We cooked a nice dinner, sat on the deck and watched the sun go down on the St. Lawrence, and managed to sleep through the celebration and the bonfire and what, the next morning, looked like it must have been a wild night.

We talked to a group of students traveling from western Canada to work on Habitat-like projects in lieu of working summer jobs. We talked to a woman who had moved from to the hostel from France. We talked to a woman who taught art somewhere, and was staying at the hostel with her boyfriend and another couple - and their dog, Pencil.

In the morning, we thought about spending another night, but in the end, we decided to keep moving, and keep the memory intact. And I decided that no matter how many risks I take, no matter how free I feel or act, I will always have to guard against having a closed mind.

Trouble's Double

Trouble's Double

Oil on canvas, 12x12, commission

When we lived in Maine, there was a really great art-supply store on Main Street in Norway, a couple storefronts away from the Sun-Journal office where I worked.

It was called 100 Acre Wood, and it was a lovely place, run by a pleasant and somewhat ascetic couple whose names I could never remember.

At the time, I didn't paint, though I loved going into the store and looking at the paints and pastels and paper. Another treat was that I'd get to play with Trouble, the couple's Jack Russell terrier.

Let's just say that Trouble was appropriately named. He was more than a handful, luring two of our more peaceful dogs into fights, and causing a ruckuses whenever he could, which was often. He would sleep in his dog bed in the sunny front window of the art supply store, and he would look like a little angel, until anyone did anything that disagreed with him, which could be something as innocent as reaching down to pet him before he was completely awake.

This dog is not Trouble, but he sure looks like he is!

Bert

Bert

Oil on canvas. Not for sale

Until today, I have never posted a painting twice. But Bert is gone from our lives, and he deserves the recognition.

I made a few paintings of Bert during his 12 years with Rand and Molly. They were 12 happy years. Twelve years of love, and adoration, and glee, with all parties enriching each other.

Bert was a lumbering, snuffling, happy-go-lucky guy. He snorted and farted and defended his way through life, a gentle guy doing a great job playing  tough guy. At least, that's what it looked like from the outside.

As Bert grew old, he grew very white in the face. He grew very, very deaf. He grew even more dear.

He allowed my brother's and sister in law's daughter, Larkin, into the family and he adored her. He allowed a new puppy, Archie, into the family and at least tolerated him and his puppiness.

Bert loved my brother so deeply it made my heart ache sometimes to see them together.

You were one of a kind, Bert, and I will miss you forever.

Young Bert

Bert, Watching Winter

Archie

Bert the Elder

Buddy

Buddy

Oil on canvas, 12x12

Not for sale

Buddy was a dear old guy, the beloved friend of a beloved friend.

He made his way into her life, and, as the best dogs do, he stayed and enriched it.

Buddy was a happy boy, not too complicated, not too demanding. He was sweet. He pesheled and galumphed (my mother's words for "plodded," but with a little spirit, a little soul).

He pesheled, and leaned and paced - and he loved. He loved with his eyes, with his solid body, with his sturdy presence.

In the end, Buddy got cancer and cancer got Buddy. He lasted much, much longer than anyone thought he would. He had a tumor on his nose, and it got bigger and bigger, but until the very end, Buddy didn't seem to care. When he greeted his people, even with the tumor, he had joy in his eyes and a little lift in his gait.

And when it was his time, he let my friend know, as the best dogs always do.

Buddy was a buddy, and he is deeply missed.