Warm fuzzies linger from the gracious audience at last night’s performance. Honestly I feel a bit awe-stuck from the beauty and intensity of an instant connection…the feedback…laughing… gasps…tears…and warm community. Definitely is a departure from the “hermitude” of studio life. Emboldened from previous performances, I continue to experiment and grow. Last night was no exception…yet…exceptional given the audience and the carefully woven colorful and meaningful elixir shared.
Stuffed today with kooky creativity, burly business, house-keeping (even scrubbed the bathroom), family care (took my father home from the hospital, visited with Flynn's parents at ICU, and climbed 3 pitches of ice in the evening until 8pm…should I mention the scrumptious dinner out…the big margarita…the soothing soak…the fine companionship?
Awesome start to the week!
Rapelling off of the falls in the late evening...fresh snow falling...
Known as the most painterly method among the printmaking techniques, monotypes are essentially printed paintings. The spontaneous characteristic of monotypes is that no two prints are alike. Although images can be similar, making an edition using a printing press is not possible. I use an antique printing press (named Junior) and often combine ink, pastels, colored pencils and a variety of media in each original artwork.
"Shasta" can be viewed/purchased at:
I left my father’s side Friday evening to stay with my mom in Bozeman. Two young climber friends got out of the hospital elevator and I realized instantly that the family in the ICU waiting room is there for Flynn; young-adventuress-big-smile-super-kind Flynn who rolled her car a week and a half ago. She was returning with her brother through Gallatin Canyon after a day of teaching ski classes at Big Sky. She broke her neck and crushed her pelvis. They both had seatbelts on, her brother was uninjured. Our small climbing community is still not over the shock and concern for LizAnn after the accident on Mt Cowen left her paralyzed months ago. Once again the climbing community has rallied with love and support for one of our “own” cherished super sweet and adventurous gal. The plan was to transport Flynn to Craig on Wednesday (the same rehabilitation center where LizAnn went after her spine injury)…so I hadn’t connected the dots…and had no idea the family in the ICU waiting room belonged to little Flynn. Lung complications have kept them from transporting Flynn, in fact…the complications took a turn for the worse yesterday which necessitated sedating her, putting a feeding tube in and scheduling a tracheotomy this morning. She won’t be able to talk when she wakes up…terrifying to someone who cannot move or feel below her neck. Just a few months ago, Flynn inquired often about LizAnn’s progress after LizAnn’s accident and remarked that she did not think she could deal the way LizAnn did. Dealing she is, struggling for breath and life, showing grace and bravery. My heart aches for her parents and their pain. The journey by LizAnn’s side has been poignant and gut-wrenchingly painful…but is no comparison to a parent’s pain. Parents were not part of the intensity of that first month in ICU with LizAnn. The sedation, the breathing tube, and respirator allowed her parents their first break in the bedside vigil last night. They got a hotel room and showers for the first time in 10 days since the accident. Much needed rest, hopefully they feel strengthened for the scary moments today when Flynn wakes from surgery and realizes she cannot speak. I am home after a relatively simple vigil with my parents. Dad is recuperating from his surgery, feeling good enough to be grumpy about his breakfast. Dinner last night was shared with a big batch of girlfriends by candlelight during the 60 minute Earth Hour where many people from around the world turned off their lights and power for one hour. Felt good for me to reconnect with some of the women in my own little town. I read updates about Flynn and her family before bed last night, (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/flynnmurray/journal) and became too pumped with concern and emotion to sleep. The morning brought thick winter whiteness, trees veiled and snow falling. My first cup of tea had Bailey’s, two more cups (without Bailey’s) and a number of phone conversations later and it is time to write for the April 1st performance at Pine Creek
A family is camped out in the waiting room outside ICU. Red suitcases line one wall. Small coffee tables have open bags of candy with bows and empty coffee cups stacked three-deep. I offer a smile each time I pass them; a smile bright and bold as the red suitcases - packed with comfort, sincere compassion, strength, and warmth. I wonder how long the family has been here and wish I could offer more.
My father is recovering from hip surgery…his second. Shortly after sunrise, I watched Dr Gammon write his initials in black ink on Dad’s white thigh next to the “yes!” written earlier and circled in ink by the prep nurse before the anesthesiologist came in to wheel Dad down the hall. The sunny blue sky morphed into a dreary gray while I kept vigil with Mom. The long over-due surgery went well…a relief considering the complications possible when replacing a hip on Dad’s “polio side.” Father survived three separate polio attacks as a child. He’s always had a “polio side” with one leg noticeably smaller than the other. Throughout life he continued to defy medical expectations for his level of physical achievement despite the floppy foot, lack of muscle, and mild deformity. The same doctor replaced his “good” hip five years ago in an attempt to offer some relief. The science to attempt surgery on the “polio side” did not exist back then. Half a decade of incredible pain was endured before science offered the confidence and knowledge to operate in the region wrecked by the mysterious virus. He’s a tough bugger, and that is putting it mildly.
Evening approaches. Pale blue patches of sky offer ribbons of cheer; breaking up the grayness. I write while sitting next to the hospital bed with my sleeping father. Our day was long but blessedly simple. My thoughts and healing energy go out to the family in the ICU waiting room, wishing them a future of sunshine and blue skies.
Little bits of snowfloat and fall like drunk and lost fluff white fairies. Patches of old snow are strewn across the bare valley in unkempt random piles of clothing left by the Crazy Mountains, a clue to the pre-pass-out revelries. The mountains, hung-over, sleep it off beneath heavy white down blanket covers. Spring time in the Rockies is a bar-hopping extravaganza of mixed drinks and changing scenery. Two days ago warm rock was climbed by t-shirt wearing enthusiasts. Yesterday six inches of fresh snow shrunk in the afternoon sun to two inches of textured wooly white. I post-holed thigh-deep up the mountain behind my cabin last evening. Dawn showcased trees dusted like donuts in a confectioner’s window. I love the mix…the flurries…the guessing….of spring time in the Rockies.
"I am in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection, but with Montana, it is love and it's difficult to analyze love when you are in it."- John SteinbeckMontana is a blessing. I happened onto the quote by Steinbeck this morning and must simply say that I could do the “Snoopy Dance” from pure joy at the luck of calling this place home. Home sweet expansive sky home. Home sweet blue mountains home. Home sweet wild spring rivers home. Home sweet cozy cabin home.I am blowing kisses to the heavens with thanks, gratitude and a grin.
Slept about two hours last night before the emotional goblins got rowdy…sometimes I just can’t quiet them down. I tended to them like a cranky barmaid. Tried not to listen to their bar brawl loud-mouth shenanigans. I was stuck relentlessly behind the bar putting in a shift that ended only as the sun came up. My weary body feels sick-to-the-stomach with sleeplessness. I missed Tara’s funeral. A spring snow storm dumped six inches of snow just the perfect consistency to get stuck in. Stuck I was, wearing a short black skirt, digging and swearing in my own driveway. My neighbor Cliff got stuck trying to get me unstuck and swore much louder. We had to borrow a skid steer to get our vehicles out. I haven’t been stuck for years…wonder why I had to get stuck then…fought a few tears and then let it go. Who can argue with such things? Being stuck in snow is a blessing compared to being in an accident. Somehow I was not meant to go. One just has to trust the big picture. I wanted to be emotionally together for my lecture at the Danforth Gallery last night so maybe there was a little blessing in being stuck.But I missed the memorial. I missed the connection with her family and our friends…missed being around others who feel the loss and the void…missed her brothers’ heart wrenching words, the photos, the stories, the catharsis. I hear it was beautiful and sad; emotionally exhausting. I wanted to be there. The night was long. I was stuck in a frustrating shift of sleeplessness, caught in the glare of hustling thoughts and emotions. The goblins clamored for attention. Crowding me, they leaned over the well worn bar…shouted above the din and the smoke and the scum of dark places.
Kathryn Baker Bornemann wrote a kind thanks on Facebook for the donation. Little Kellan Young has been diagnosed with a rare genetic heart disorder. Here's what Kathryn wrote:
"I wanted to say thank you for your very generous donation to Kellan Young’s benefit. The fundraiser was a great success thanks to you and so many really kind people here in Livingston. Proceeds have gone to Kellan’s growing medical expenses. Your horse painting was a great hit – And it was beautifully framed! We’re looking forward to April 1st at Pine Creek.Seems like we never get out for a date night!!! Thanks again for your kindness!! "
Little Sara has Down ’s syndrome and LOVES to ski. Rose and I are volunteers in the Eagle Mount Program. Eight weeks of skiing once a week with Sara fostered a serious case of warm fuzzies and good memories.
Climbing in sub-zero temps. yes...that is ice on my helmet, coat, and eye lashes. Look carefully and you can see the road below (near my shoulder) where we started the climb
Meg and I
Another fun day >
Look at the top right corner and you can see the top of another big frozen waterfall...one waterfall after another...up and up and up
I got up in the dark after a night of tossing and turning and tossing and turning. When morning arrived, it illuminated a case of cabin fever smothered by snow white sky. I cannot see the cozy town nestled between the river and the railroad in the valley below. My chest is tight with sadness for the loss of a beautiful soul who passionately advocated for artists and the arts as the manager of Montana Trails Gallery. A freakish apocalyptic gas explosion instantly leveled three historic buildings in downtown Bozeman Thursday morning. Tara was talking to her friend while at her desk in the gallery. Her cell phone went dead. Debris shot in the air, cars flipped, and windows shattered for four city blocks before the fire broke out. The plume of dark smoke billowed with a greedy savageness from the heart of town. The buildings were gone. Simply gone. The fire burned for 24 hours and took a few more businesses with it. Tara is the only casualty; a stick by brick search in the rubble has not yet uncovered her remains. I feel disheartened. After spending the eerie day in Bozeman below the shadow of a darkened sky, I drove the mountain pass home late Thursday feeling whipped. Flinching like an abused dog I tucked my tail and kept my head low. I marvel at how precious life is and how much a few seconds can change the landscape and the soul’s place. I have half-heartedly chipped away at the business part of art, helped a few friends, craved warm food (and lots of it), kept a candle lit for Tara, and tossed my way through long nights where doubt and fear and financial woes lurk. Uninspired to create and like the snowstorm sky which chokes my mountaintop view, my own optimism feels sluggish and short-sighted. I cannot see my way out of the current economic challenge. How best to weather this storm?I am going to pack my bags, pile cat food into Maya’s dish, load up my dog, blow out Tara’s candle and head to the hills of Wyoming for a few days of climbing ice. I must shake the blues, focus my mind and clear my soul of creepy cobwebs. I will blow a kiss to Tara from on top of a frozen waterfall, meet death with life and honor her desire to live passionately.
Thus the dilemma of living in a beautiful place when Momma Nature beckons on a glorious Saturday morning dressed in her finest tantalizing outfit to come out and play BUT the same sunshine which highlights the fresh sequined snow also beams in through windows and lights up dust bunnies big enough to make slippers out of.
Bugger
Seems my quaint little cabin in the woods should have a batch of tweetering chubby cheeked birds and scampering chipper little forest critters to take care of the chores for me. If my part of the cleaning scene including singing like Cinderella…well…that thought just burst the bubble on a rather colorful animated fantasy. So here I am, wind chimes with their cathedral-like ambiance, sunshine, and the fur of one cat, one dog, and myself (I shed worse than the two put together) to tend to. But before I drag out my little purple vacuum, let me tell you a bit about a beautiful little detour I took last night after attending an art opening at the Holter Museum in Helena. I’d made the two hour drive to Helena in the late afternoon on dry roads punctuated by the customary stop at the junction of I-90 and 287. The junction is just that, a junction…not a town…nor is it near any town but it has a gas station, a bakery, and a strip joint complete with a sex toy store. The bakery is a “must stop” for two reasons: 1) everything is baked with flour from wheat grown in the surrounding hills 2) the ladies who work there are like a batch of aunts and grandma’s who bake and serve with the kind familiarity of a church picnic. (a third reason would be the cinnamon scones, or the best macaroons in the world, or the homemade biscuits with sausage gravy, or the desert-plate-sized cinnamon rolls of four or five different varieties, or the sack lunches, or…ok…see?!...must…stop). Munching on a warm cinnamon scone, I admired the late afternoon pastel painted sky, saw more antelope than you could count, and marveled at the huge frozen lakes while driving across country to a museum. Cliff called just as I was leaving Helena. He wanted me to look at the moon and the bright spot next to the moon which he said was the space station. The moon appeared as a paper cut out and the space station was brighter than any planet or star; a fact I found both a bit thrilling and totally disturbing. The night drive was uneventful, not even a deer in the headlights. Sometime around 10 pm I got a phone call and an invitation to visit a friend, so while distracted, I had one of my admit ably frequent blond moments and took the wrong exit onto Churchill road thinking it was a shortcut at a junction closer to Bozeman. The slender paved road ambled on past farm buildings, cottonwood trees, and the occasional oversize mailbox before it began to dip, roll, and wind through two sweet little rural communities. Small houses nestled close together with warm lights glowed invitingly. Each small community had an impressively large lit up church. The feeling of “wholesomeness” wafted in the chilly night air as I looked into living room windows with simple furniture and walls full of framed pictures. Barn after barn caught my eye as potential perfect studio spaces. I am drawn to the classic farm outbuilding shapes and have no intention of building a big square box studio. I visualize variations of barns as the ideal exterior for the studio I plan to build here on the mountain. Peering at the buildings in the moonlight, I had the same overwhelming variety of choices as if I were standing back at the bakery trying to make up my mind as to which treat to indulge in. Each offered different potential and nudged me with an odd familiarity. I believe the familiar feeling was linked to an idea I had fourteen years ago. When I set out after graduating from college I hatched a plan; once cold temps and shorter days ended my summer job as a wilderness ranger, I would drive to little communities in Montana and seek out a widowed rancher or farmer’s wife who needed help around the place in exchange for a bed and a barn or shop complete with her late husband’s tools to use and plenty of time to create sculptures. Depending on how deep my well of optimism flowed as I pondered my possibilities, sometimes the widow would be well educated and spry with a deep rooted love of art coupled with an insatiable desire to travel the world. She would actually pay me to be her companion. We’d settle down between trips at the picturesque ranch or farm for long periods each year during which I was free to create art. The memory of that very real fantasy swung along with me as I lightly zipped and rolled over the snow covered hills and hugged curves in creek bottoms. The sky felt friendly and inviting; like an exotic sparkly canopy the heavens shimmered with stars and a space station. Zaydee looked out the window attentively with expectation; I matched her mood and laughed out loud, wondering where the road led but never actually feeling lost.
I just logged on to write a journal snippet and saw the “Spark” I put on the Patron Place for members Saturday morning (www.amberjean.com/patron-place ). The quote I chose to share was about bruises; which is funny because I sure collected some “color” this weekend after posting that quote. I hadn’t meant to manifest bruises so quickly after launching the quote into cyberspace BUT there ya go…a bit of synchronicity.
While my dog Zaydee collects “beggars’ lice” (burrs) on a regular bases; I on the other hand collect bruises. Purple and green are two of my favorite colors in life and certainly add a bit of zest to winter white skin. I have been sporting quite a batch of purple and green on my thighs and knees from the previous weekend climbing ice with Leslie. Actually, I didn’t get the bruises while climbing…I got them while rappelling off a 180 foot frozen waterfall without my crampons. Leslie didn’t have crampons, so I had climbed the ice, then tied the crampons to the rope and lowered them to her so that she could use them to climb the ice. I belayed her from the top of the falls. Her bright eyes and happy grin were all I needed to thaw the chill that comes from standing on top of a frozen waterfall in winter. Later while soaking with friends in the hot springs, Joe suggested that we could have each worn one crampon to rappel…which makes more sense than I had at the time I guess. I dangled from the rope, spun, and slid down the falls without the grace a few sharp metal points allow when in contact with frozen water.But today, the bruises are concentrated on my index finger. Purple, red, green and swollen like a fat sausage. First I jammed the finger on the tailgate of my climbing partner’s big truck…then I got hit in the hand by a fist-sized chunk of ice which had the velocity of falling 200 feet before cracking into that same jammed finger. SO…typing is a bit of a chore and the finger keeps getting my curious attention as it morphs beyond finger into something which is making me hungry for bratwurst and sauerkraut.I am not complaining. One little fat finger is trivial when playing with axes on ice. Truth is I can hardly wipe the grin from my face after a weekend packed with friendship, happy dogs, beautiful mountains, and compelling sculptural frozen ice.
