More fur

Here's the most recent commission: a lovely dog that went to its rightful owner yesterday. Now I am free to share her with you. Isn't she sweet?

What is it about animal eyes? I don't believe that animals have a soul that can be saved... and yet, their eyes are definitely soulful. Can something be "full of soul" but still lack one? The smartest animals I've known definitely have feelings, simple emotions, sensitive instincts that go well beyond their innate animal drives. We've all seen how they have loyalty to protect those who care for them. Are they capable of love? It would seem so, if you've ever come home to an animal that missed your presence and was happy to see you.

I suppose the jury is still out for me on this topic.

I did laugh out loud recently, though, when I witnessed our cat's latest trick. She has decided that she prefers the freshest water to drink, so she leaps lightly into the bath tub to steal any lingering drips from the faucet. That's not the trick, because a lot of cats do that; our last cat did the same thing. This kitty's trick is waiting for her turn in the bathroom.

We have only one bathroom, you see. (Yes, we dwell in the stone age.) Twice now, I've come out from having showered, and have found the cat sitting tidily, patiently on her gray haunches, a few inches from the doorway. The minute I open the door and emerge, the cat heads into the steamy room with much purpose and jumps into the tub. She doesn't scold me for lingering too long—at least, she hasn't done that yet. She can be rather smug and entitled, though; such an attitude from her wouldn't surprise me in the least.

Choosing blur

Todd took Marcus shopping with him the other evening, and I hurried to set up the easel and pulled out a magazine page I’ve been saving with the intention of reinterpretation. Hence the image you see here, completed in under two hours.

I used to be drawn only to impressionists, because their work was just so pretty and pleasant to behold. I began to have more appreciation for realists once I’d actually picked up a brush and tried my own hand at painting—frankly, I don’t know how they do it. I’ve seen and admired many works of art that are almost photographic in their trueness to life, pieces that are stunning and amazingly impressive. I yearned to be that type of artist for awhile, and I tried to steer away from impressionism, suspecting that it was merely my lazy nature and inattention to detail that made me gravitate to a more fuzzy, forgiving style…

But I’ve come to realize that it’s a losing battle. Yes, I am lazy, uneducated in the finer points of art, too impatient to take my time; but I also gauge every single work of art on the same premises: would I hang it in my home? Would I like to see it each day? Does it invite me to enter into whatever is being depicted? Because really, that’s how I define art—those are its calling cards in my book.

So, I will unapologetically paint pictures that do not capture every intimate detail, that are unclear in places, that encourage (even demand) the eye to mix shapes and colors to create the final image that one sees. I have come to realize that, after years of stark clarity, I am ready to embrace the beauty of vague. Just as the Christmas tree looks more magical with my glasses off, so the painting looks more pleasing to me when I don’t quite finish it, when I embrace the imperfect.

In many ways I am a realist, but in the world of painting, I can toss realism aside, squint a bit, and step happily into the vision.