artist's hands

We left the spring-like City around six, excited for the chance to tie up loose ends and expound on stories and thoughts sent via email. Happy for the in-person conclusions and live commentary, we each gave our take on the other's happenings; always encouraging.

Amidst the accounts, we'd stop and say, "Wait. What. What will we say when we meet him?" (A conclusion we never arrived at). How do you tell a person their art has changed you? How do you convey your fervid feelings of admiration and respect and sheer awe at their talent, all the while not making a complete idiot of yourself? How do you tell someone their art is more than a feast for the eyes; that it feeds your very soul? It fills you up and becomes a part of who you are. It means Home. Identity. Standing amid dancing figures and bright-eyed babes has become something very close to sacred. This is why we couldn't decide on a dialog. Why words seemed absolutely insufficient. Blank.
* * *
I love the photograph of Claude Monet sitting on a bench in his Giverny, cane at his side, one leg crossed over the other. A hat covers his head and his snowy white beard nearly reaches his belly. To jump inside that photograph, to sit beside him and ask why water lilies; and how, exactly, did he create that red that makes his field of poppies pop; how come the pink house and the green shutters? This would be an absolute dream. I'd want to look at his hands. To examine them. Hands of a master. Cracked after years of touching them to turpentine. Perhaps his thumb is permanently bent from holding his palette. His index finger some mixture of every color imaginable.
* * *
He looked as he should - we all agreed. There is a humility about him. Yet he is affable. Approachable. With a little prodding from his wife, I inched towards him and asked if he would sign my book. We exchanged smiles as he knelt down, using the desk. I paid close attention to his hands. They circled about, forming each letter in his name. "Keep the page open for a few minutes to let the ink dry," he said. He smiled and handed me the book, which was open to the title page. We took one more turn about the gallery, full of singing babes and dancing couples. I clutched the book to my chest with both hands as walked out into the cold Park City air.

dandelion days

Even now, we say the red brick house is our favorite. It's full of cozy memories, Sunday slide shows and family night in the front room with Grandma and Grandpa. We used to watch John and Amy steal rocks from "The Ladies," next door, a set of sisters who never married. They had an enchanting rose garden, full of rocks as good as chalk for writing on the sidewalk. In the summer on their back patio, they would let us crank their player piano. They sipped iced tea in their house coats and pushed their feet back and forth on the pavement, the gliding vinyl patio furniture swinging to the music.

We played night games until dusk and did fireworks the whole month of July. The park just up the street was perfect for playing "Three Billy Goats Gruff" and Dad made the best Troll. We liked to practice softball on the lawn. The flowering plum tree was home plate, the edge of the sandbox was first, the drinking fountain was second, and the bench was third. Amy and I usually got stuck in the outfield where we'd make clover flower crowns and talk about anything at all until it was our turn to bat.

Maybe it's because life was simpler, because my best friends lived next door, or because the farthest I could run before my Dad could catch me was up the street to the park, but every memory of that house is magical. Even with a Dorothy Hamill wedge haircut, life was perfect.

make a wish

twEnty.

Lots of LOVE to you, my dear E.
Hurry home. Can't wait to celebrate!

a brown box

When my Mom was a little girl, her two older sisters (already away at college) sent a curious Christmas package. Inside a big brown box you could lift with a finger, was...a tumbleweed. To my Mom (and her four siblings who were still at home) in her Field-of-Dreams Is-This-Heaven-No-It's-Iowa, it was an unfamiliar natural curiosity, sent home.

Tonight, as I crossed the highway, a tumbleweed bounced up and over the windshield, blissfully buoyant, onto the car behind me. I watched it in the rear-view mirror and got on the freeway, heading home.

I left the party, decisively taking the scenic-route. It was raining (only just) and I knew I'd be able to catch the last glimpse of the stormy sunset as soon as I hit Wasatch Boulevard. I put an untitled CD in the player, anxious to see who and what would sing back. I'm driving my Mom's car while she's out of town for the next few weeks. It's amazing how dials and glowing gages, although offering the same information (i.e. MPH, empty/full, heat/AC) become unfamiliar behind the wheel of someone else's car. By the time I figured out how to get the heater to simultaneously drum out a heat-beat onto the windshield (defrost) and my feet in perfect amounts, I was lost. The thought of turning around simultaneously entered and exited my mind, just like the force of the heater. I looked up into the vast expanse that is the east bench of Sandy and thought: What the heck? You only live once, right? Then, the Native Utahn in me said, This is the right way. Drive On! I cranked up the CD player and sang along as I turned...east(?) towards home.

Panic set in a few minutes later, when the road became narrow and seemed to wind up the mountain into the mist. To make matters worse, More Than A Feeling suddenly sallied forth from the stereo, and (this is the worst part) I had the sudden urge to play the air guitar. This was not good. Just as I was about to lift my hands off the wheel and start my arena rock solo, something caught my eye. There it was, off in the distance, like a beacon to my Boston-ballad moment-of-weakness, lamp posts leading the way up the hill. In the rainy mist, and with Shawn Colvin's Fill Me Up as a serenade, I passed the lantern-lit road to La Caille, which shot me out onto Wasatch Boulevard. Alas, twilight long since summoned the sun, which had dipped its head under the Ocre Mountains, closing the day. The city lights were flickering. I found comfort in the familiar scene of the Valley at the dawn of dusk. I drove on.

I was headed towards 215 when the infamous tumbleweed toppled over Mom's car. I thought of light-as-a-feather brown boxes, sent between sisters from Utah to Iowa. I turned onto the freeway entrance and headed home, taking in the familiarity of scenes and sentiments, tumbleweeds and all.

the green house with the green chairs

She was kind, in her German sort of way. She'd say "Yaugh, yaugh," and kiss us on both cheeks when we greeted her. Her house was green, inside and out; she had a green kitchen with green cupboards and green chairs. There was green carpet in the living room which smelled of old things - treasures that had sailed across the sea to America, just as she had. There was always a nice woman there to help her; to braid her hair, to cook for her, and, towards the end, to help her in and out of bed. She liked it when we played the violin and the cello, saying, "Sankyou! Sankyou!" (like she had just won Battleship) as we pulled out the last bow stroke. For as long as I can remember, and even towards the end, she'd say farewell in the same manner: Placing a shiny quarter in each of our palms, she'd fold our fingers to cover it. As soon as we reached the edge of the room, Aunt Martha would kiss the back of her hand, then use her index finger and her thumb to flick the kiss across to us, winking as we walked down the back steps.

Not only do I bare her name, I now have some of her treasures; dainty handkerchiefs embroidered with an "M," a gold bracelet with a monogrammed charm, and a green stationary set with "Martha" across the top. It smells of her green house. And, tucked safely under the box of stationary and stack of handkerchiefs is an envelope with my name on it, written in her scrolling script. Inside are four quarters, which have lost their luster, but have grown in meaning as I've learned to appreciate the time I had with her and the memories I can keep.

oh, my aching...

On Friday, Mandy told me she was so sick she couldn't move. She said she'd been in bed since Monday. You think that would have stopped me, but that same night, I waltzed about the sidewalks of Park City, coat-less, snow piled six-feet high on either side of me. Sunday, I poor-deared Mern's soar throat and achy bones as I told Brother R. that I was "Great, thank you. Just trying not to catch this dreaded flu everyone's got." Monday was mind-over-my sniffles. And Tuesday, Tuesday my body waved a white flag, in full surrender to The Terrible Flu.

A mountain of Kleenex sits at the foot of m bed, like drafts of love letters pulled from a typewriter, crumpled and tossed on the floor. Others mingle together, bad fowl shots, near the waste basket a few feet from my bed. The nightstand is covered with multiple bottles of cough medicine, all advertising to alleviate.

I've caught up on all your blogs. Twice. I've read more about Hillary's campaign than I ever wanted, watched 101 Dalmations two and half times and started three books (and finished two). I've gone trough several bottles of anti-bacterial gel and eaten all the raspberry popsicles. Now I'm onto the tropical ones. I eat the strawberry last. They're my favorite. I hope by the time I unwrap the first of the strawberry-flavored frozen treats I can actually taste them.

a father's prayer

Once, I watched a man take his last breath.
* * *
God breathed life into Adam and made him man. Giving life to spirit, vitality awakened in him a sense of mortality; a dependence on God. That same breath, the breath of God, stirs within us our entire earthy existence, although all too often we forget the Divine. We carry on, breathing that lended breath, yet turn no breath back into heaven. We cease to pray. To sing. To shout praise.
* * *
In the meeting the morning before, Kelly told me about him. The CHF. The pneumonia. The DNR. Sensing that his moments in this life were fleeting, she called his children. One by one they arrived at the hospital. She motioned for me to come near the room. "Come. See. You'll learn from this." I inched closer, scared to watch the process unfold. Kelly took my hand and helped me walk into the room. One by one, each child huddled in close near the bed. They whispered memories into his ears. His youngest daughter sat for a long time. She held his hand and stroked his pale cheek. "I love you, Daddy," she said. Over and over and over again. "Never forget." His seemingly sealed-shut eyes opened, then closed. He was gone, the sound of his breath stopping with the fall of his chest; a slow exhale, his final earthly-utterance. There was a supreme sense of the spiritual; something I had never before experienced; something I have not experienced since.
* * *
I suppose it is not until our breath mingles with that of the next life that we really truly begin to turn our breath back towards God. Then, perhaps we pray unceasingly; from breath to breath and the moments in between. We move our lips and utter a Prayer For Life. As if, with the force of our breath, we might pin back the wings of death, if only for a moment more. To linger. Here. Safe. With those who breath free. To remind. To help them remember to turn their faces to the heavens. Not just in the last moments; the fleeting moments. But in all moments. So that when their final breath is uttered, when their chest falls with the last exhale, it will not be an end, or a beginning. But a continuation; from one breath into the next.

two scoops

My Grandma used to put surprises at the bottom of our ice cream cones. My sister and I would leave the kitchen, and wait in the hallway with the green carpet. We'd hunt for treasures in the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of collectibles from Berlin and Switzerland, jingling the swiss cow bells and flipping the tops of the German steins, as we eagerly awaited the mystery.

We'd sit at the kitchen table, our six and seven year-old tongues licking the vanilla ice cream and nibbling the cone until we reached the tip. The last bite would be filled of vanilla ice cream dribble and Skittles. Or peanuts. Or chocolate chips. A milky-white grin would appear on our faces, and, if it was a Skittles surprise, the milky-white would turn a variable rainbow as it dripped down our chins.

Last week, I told myself that I would stop eating ice cream. Well, at least in such large quantities. This was quite the declaration, as I eat ice cream all too often. But, I scoop in honor of my Grandpa. In honor, and because, well, I just can't help it. It's part of my genetic make up. Like my squinty eyes and my love of architecture and design, I inherited Grandpa's penchant for all things creamy and frozen. The man ate a hearty bowl every single night.

One of the few pictures I have of him was taken after a Saturday spent in the yard. He's sitting on the patio, the Saturday twilight shining on his silvery hair. A yellow napkin is stuffed down his work shirt. Directly in front of him is a heaping bowl of ice cream, which, thanks to Grandma, is festively bedecked with summer strawberries. Spoon in hand, he's staring out of the photo with his soft smile, ready to dig in as soon as Grandma's flash goes off.

Grandpa designed the Snelgrove's ice cream shop on 2100 South in Salt Lake. The one with the iconic big rotating double-scoop cone. Seems all too fitting. Eating Snelgrove's in our family was/is an occasion - when we were little, it was a reward for a ballet or violin performance. And when we were with Aunt Elizabeth, we'd go to Snelgrove's just because it was Wednesday. Many a milky-white grins were wiped away in that ice cream parlor. And now, it's closing. Forever.

With such sad news, Mom has stocked the freezer with Snelgrove's galore. Chocolate chip cookie dough, Strawberry, pralines and cream and Canadian chocolate. However, the downside of this (as if there is one - a freezer full of ice cream is pretty amazing) is that there's no burnt almond fudge to be found. Trust me. We've looked. The other night I went so far as to smash some almonds and mix them into my bowl of Canadian chocolate. Don't bother. You'll waste perfectly good almonds. Save yourself the disappointment. And let your almonds live on...whole.

After dinner at my parent's tonight, I pulled open the freezer drawer, well aware of the treasure trove inside. So many choices! Tonights combo: chocolate chip cookie dough and Canadian chocolate. There was one tiny problem. I've been freezing all day. All morning. All through church. Through dinner, too. But, I wasn't going to let that deter me from my mission. I put two sizable scoops into a bowl. Thanks to my parent's chilly house, my hands were literally shaking as I took hold of the bowl. Fleeting are the moments with my beloved Snelgrove's, so there was no time to waste! I dug right in, thinking of Grandpa. The chills got the better of me after a few spoonfuls. Being the innovative slash experienced ice cream veteran that I am, I came up with an ingenious idea.

I sallied forth with my scoops, and up the stairs I went. I turned on the bath. Rolling up my pant legs, I put one foot in at a time, steadying my soon-to-be-devoured dessert on the side of the tub. Talk about the best of both worlds - toasty toes and the Snelgrove's experience, all at once. I can' t think of a better way to end an evening. Except, perhaps, with Grandpa on the patio at twilight eating vanilla and strawberries. He used to say that there's Snelgrove's in heaven. I'm pretty sure he's right. And, there will most definitely be an eternal supply of burnt almond fudge. Snelgrove's, rest in peace. Until we meet again in that glorious ice cream parlor in the sky!

personal palette

I popped in to the Pickett Fairbanks Gallery a few weeks ago. I hadn't been in for months and I needed a little art. I was running ahead of schedule, which rarely happens, so I decided to make the best of it. I love that little gallery. Art feeds me. So much so, that a few days later, I had another hankering. After finishing up a long day of work this past week, and feeling a dreaded cold settle in, I walked into A Gallery wherein I found a temporary cure. It was the blue and red contemporary painting in the window that caught my eye and drew me right to it. I will forever be drawn to red. Swedish red. I think I can thank my mother (and her father's mother) for that.

I know I had a personal palette prior to taking my color theory courses, but I think the true origin of my palette may have come as I sat front-row in the Brimhall building for two semesters, soaking in every last lecture, loving every single assignment. To this day Em and I talk about our late-night (early morning) talks in our apartment as she studied and I wearily pasted the last chips onto my color plates. I loved it all. Every color. Every shade. Every tone.

The colors of my life seem to be running together lately, trickling down into one big dribble. An unrecognizable color; an unrecognizable splotch on the canvas. In the end, I hope the hues and values will be part of something much, much bigger. A wonderful masterpiece. A work of art in a gallery on a wall all its own. Something I can stand back and take in. Something I can interpret, separating out the colors and the stories. Stories of nostalgia. Of sacredness. Of triumph. Of loss. Of texture. Representations of life. My Life. Forever preserved when bristles touch paint, which touch canvas. At this point, it is all very much a work in progress. A palette of oil paints. Tubes, yet to be mixed, in a tray on an artist's easel. They wait patiently, for their seals to be broken, feverish at the thought of mixing with air. With space. With the brush, under command of a master artist. Oh, how they wait in anticipation as to where they'll end up. There's green, in all it's uneasiness, wondering if it will end up next to one of it's complimentary colors, like purple or orange. The place it feels most comfortable. Or, in a less desirable spot, next to brown. Or black. Time will tell. After all, it is the artist who is in charge of their position. A work of art takes lots and lots of time. Any true artist knows that. And masterpieces take even more time. Especially when they represent a person. When the colors take the form of a life.

I suppose art can become a part of you, too. Part of who you are. It can define you, in a sense. Like the first time I saw Van Gogh's "Paris Bedroom" in Chicago or Monet's "Japanese Bridge" at the National Gallery. I had fallen in love with images in books that my parents had given as Christmas gifts. The colors seemed to jump off the page. Van Gogh's yellows and blues. And Monet's greens. Hundreds of shades of green.

When you come in contact with these true masterpieces in person - in a museum, the colors leap at you; they speak at you. You round the corner, the masterpiece in your periphery; you almost have to slow to a crawl as to prolong the experience. To hang, as the masterpiece does from the wall, between the time in your life before you had seen that wonderful work of art, and the time after, knowing full-well, you won't ever be the same. To mingle with greatness, with color and space and composition created by masters, truly makes you a new person.

"Art...must do something more than give pleasure: it should relate to our own life so as to increase our energy of spirit." Sir Kenneth Clark

Art is and should be the essence of our landscape, of our mood, of our whole perception of the physical world, for art can be found everywhere, in every thing. I plan to build more on this, as last night was truly a fantastic art experience - full of masterpieces, in presence of the artist himself.