The Power of Coffee

People generally get over the thought that they are an "adult" around age twenty-five. I am sixty-three and it crosses my mind (more often than I care to admit) how wonderful it is to NOT be a kid. There is absolutely nothing that says adulthood more than grinding your own beans and holding a cup of hot, dark Army grade coffee in your arthritic hands. Ahh. So good to be able to eat whatever you want, whenever you want, and call it what you want, a cup of brew, a cup of Joe, black magic or, well, coffee. Part of the reason I did not enjoy being a kid was that I did not understand the power and the language of adults. The old saying "Power Corrupts and Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely" is so true. Parents cannot comprehend even the simplest powers they weld, one of which is the power of words. Why all the rumblings about language and power and breakfast? Well, there are things that trigger me and on this particular day I had a pot of Open Meal cooking on the stove. I ladled it in to a bowl, added lots of sugar and poured a few generous tablespoons of evaporated milk, straight out of a can to my bowl of Open Meal- because after all, monkey see monkey do. That is the way it was served when I was a child at home, living with the monkeys.  Although I require cream in my coffee, the milk for my Open Meal HAS to be out of a can: this is a childish tradition that cannot be broken. My adult addition to my Open Meal was that I was adding fresh raspberries from my garden. Freedom to choose. That is what I crave. Freedom, bound in tradition, with a helmet on for safety, and 911 on standby. 

              What might you ask is Open Meal? It took me a while to figure that one out too, because one cold morning when still just a preschooler I got up, and sat on the heater vent for a while to warm up -pulled on socks and went to the breakfast table where mother was serving "it."  In my most "Oliver” voice I said.... "Please mum, may I have my Open meal?" She said, bluntly, "No.” “What?" I gasped, “No Open Meal? Was there a problem?" (I am sure I did not articulate all of that. I think I must have just looked sort of dumb founded.) She said bluntly, "It is not Open Meal." The silence that followed was eerie. My stomach rumbled, the dog barked, it thundered. It was a mystery and a western shoot out all rolled up in one cold dawn. Okay, here is the cruelty of it all, the thing that I now know as an adult, - she was standing there with a cup of coffee. Let that sink in people. She had coffee.

               Her cheeks held the rosy glow of a campfire cook, and in spite of the fact that she was only 5 foot 2 inches; to me she was a giant, standing there tall, and warm, and geared up with caffeine, ready for the rodeo. I, bless my small pea pickin' heart, was standing there shivering in my nightgown without any knowledge of the fact that the best part of waking up was Folgers in my cup. I just wanted my Open Meal. How was I going to get my breakfast if they changed the name for it over night? I looked around the table at my four siblings, all with a big bowl of Open Meal right in front of them and I knew, perhaps for the first time in my life, the meaning of the words... no help at all. Was there really no Open Meal left? Had they gotten it all? I glanced around and checked the clock on the wall to see if I had really slept that late but that was just another testimony of my in-adequateness. I could not tell time. 

              By faith, I went ahead, climbed up in the chair, and sat there. My Mother, as if speaking to someone deaf mouthed the words slowly." It is OAT MEAL. “She spat the T out as if it was distasteful. If you have ever seen a dog tilt his head to one side, I am sure I did a pretty good rendition. If I could have articulated it, I am sure I would have said, "What the heck is an OAT?" I knew what "Open" meant and to my preschool brain, Open Meal made more sense. After all, listen close everyone reading this because I want you to think about it. She OPENED the little tub of "it" and poured "it" in a pot with water and then OPENED the pot and spooned it in my bowl every morning. I was okay with thinking it was Open meal. "O- A-T -meal" she calmly and deliberately stated again. I nodded, she gave me a bowl, I ate. She could call it whatever she wanted. At the ripe old age of 63, I still call it Open Meal. 

Caymen Islands: The Storm

I created this painting from a photo I took in the Grand Cayman Islands.  It was  the year 2008 and I had just completed my Associate Divinity Degree and a season of Chaplaincy at Duke Hospital. My husband wanted to go scuba diving with my son and I felt that it would be nice to join them for a little nine day rest. I was into whittling at that time and was sitting on my porch the day before we left for the Island whittling a walking stick, the blade slipped and cut my wrist. I received nine stitches. It should have been a warning to me, an omen of sorts. A slit wrist. I still have the scar.

We arrived in Belize and took an egg beater airplane over to the Island. I was not comfortable on that small plane, it did not help that one of the fifteen passengers on the plane was a man who talked loudly and had great knowledge about the way little planes operate and the likely chance we would all die.

 The Island was beautiful and the water was clear and an exotic green. There were pineapples and coconuts all ready for picking. It was just like the brochures depicted... except when when I walked around the corner to the street  behind the resort. It was then I discovered it was more like a set from a Western Movie, not a modern set, a set made in  the 50's.  The water front hotels were painted beautifully, but behind the façade the rest of the town consisted of  things propped up and in shambles.

We stayed in one of the best resorts on the island and decided not to complain about the fact that there was no hot water ,after we mentioned it one time and realized the maid did not speak English. Then the power kept cutting off, sometimes for hours. I watched the news and discovered it was not the approaching Typhoon that caused the power to go off, it was that the Island had not paid their part of the  power bill. Belize was mad at that little island. That was okay. The Island was stunning and charming. The little village behind the resort had some nice little vendors and we were amazed to discover there were no flies. None. You could eat outside and never see one. I asked the locals  why there were no flies and they said... ( okay, this is the truth- I kid you not) ....that the flies would be in on Thursday. I pondered that greatly in my heart, and also wondered if I missed something in the translation.

My husband and son gleefully charted their scuba course and took off on the boat early the first morning while the clouds gathered over the horizon and the news reports mentioned that hurricane/tropical storm Arthur was heading for shore. We, the maids and I, listened to the wind whistle and battened down the hatches. I nodded my head at them a lot and tried to communicate "Are we going to die?" They cheerfully nodded back. Yes, Yes, we are all going to die.


 We had experienced three days with flickering lights, cold showers, winds and threats of  rain, yet the guys managed to get in two days of Scuba before the resort took on the look of Gilligan's Island. Both days I wandered the island during the day and in the afternoon I stood on this dock, the one that is depicted in this painting, and watched the ominous evening clouds roll in, wondering if the guys would make it back to land. They came back glowing with joy. Apparently you can not tell there is a hurricane when you are under water. Keep that in mind the next time you are under water, you never know what is happening in the sky.

On Thursday, the heavy rain bands came through and during a moment of eerie calm we ambled back over to the little "one street town" to get a bite to eat. The flies were everywhere. Everywhere. I was amazed that they actually did come in on Thursday, - like- "It's Thursday, time to go onto town for the Blue Plate special!" My amazement at the uniqueness of each of God's creatures, and the knowledge of the natives concerning such things was profound.  I found out later that flies come in with the first rain, not on Thursdays.

                        * I felt like the flies deserved a paragraph all of their own.




The worst of Arthur lasted 24 hours, when he had finished ripping every coconut and banana off of the trees on the Grand Cayman Islands the flickering TV news report said that tropical storm Alma  was brewing in the emerald green waters off the shores of the island. In  Southern terms she was "over yonder close by" and chasing Arthur like a hussy; since I did not  know what dysfunctional relationship they had I decided not to hang around to meet her. I was concerned that in "Act Number Three"  Arthur and Alma would spawn a little demon storm named Alvin. At that time I did not have a smart phone so we walked in the rain to a little sketchy internet cafe and looked at our emails to contact our airlines and cut the trip short. As I typed all my personal information into a twenty year old dirty computer, on a keyboard with half the letters worn off, all my usual fears of internet hacking or someone stealing my credit card numbers were miraculously non existent.  The next morning I got back on the little egg beater plane in the pelting rain with high winds and low visibility and I was not afraid. I was heading home.


I will refrain from telling you the details of our flight home. Suffice it to know it was a rough plane trip and the lady beside me had to use the little bitty barf bag. We landed in Texas to take a connecting flight home. I came really close to kissing the Texas tarmac.  That tarmac was melting hot and nasty- but really -yeah, I was ready to bow down to the earth and French kiss it, I loved that Texas Tarmac and still think fondly of it.

I got my stitches removed the following week. 

So enjoy the painting. I will not go back for more photos.

Rainy Day on the Corner of Jackson & Grant: China Town, San Fransico

   This by far took the longest of any painting I have created.

 It was like a puzzle, every day I put it together piece by piece. 

I was afraid to do the Chinese lettering because I know how easy it 
Is to make a mistake and then who knows what you just wrote in Chinese? 
My fear is grounded on reality. 

Many years ago we had some Spanish speaking employees for our business  I had

 a little hand book  on learning Spanish and was trying

 to learn a phrase or two. They put up with me . I could say "¿Dónde está Phillippe ? 

( Where is Phillip?) and they 

would point me in the right direction. Then one morning I was on my way to work and

 I hit a cat that ran in front of my car, and I wanted to tell them. I thought I remembered 

what the word" dead" sounded like, and everybody knows cat is gato so I went into work

 and said " El gato es una mierda." Then I made little hand motions 

and charade signals to relay the story of the cat. They nodded solemnly. I figured they

were feeling pretty bad for that cat.
 Later that week I was with a group of friends one of whom could speak fluent Spanish, 

so I told him what I said to the
workers about the cat. He laughed until he cried. I was puzzled-"
"What?" I asked, "What?" He said between gasp of breath..
"Tammy, you were so close, but you said, "The cat is shit." 

 If you wanted to say the cat is dead you
should have said...El gato está muerto. 

HUM

 El gato está muerto - El gato es una mierda." ..

.. it sounded the same to me.
And so, it is true, close doesn't count
 ...........except in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Quick Trick Book Stack

I still have a plethora of books hanging around. My kids love books and as they got older the books accumulated. I wanted to do a still life one afternoon so I decided to put them to use along with some pansy's from the yard. I stacked them all in my shadow box and adjusted the lighting, it took a few tries to get it all balanced and looking the way I wanted it to look and some where along the way I began to call it a "Quick Trick Book Stack."

What God Told Her, Saint Catherine Of Siena

I painted this large painting 4 ft x 8 ft in 2001 and called it " What God Told Her."  I adapted it from a photo I ran across of  a marble carving in the year 1386  on the tomb of  Giovanni da Legnano  in San Domenico, Bologna, Italy. The tomb of course had no color and I really wanted to bring this little nun back to life.

I prayed over this painting and reflected on my life as I painted it. I made sure to paint that ribbon in her book scarlet red, to me the book represents the bible, the column represents the church, the gold rings the Trinity, the wooden floor earth and the rays spiritual understanding. After it was finished it hung in my studio a while and later  I rolled it up and tucked it in a closet. 12 years later I rolled it out when my kids were over visiting and told them, she needs to be in a Catholic Church or school somewhere. However, I did not know any Catholics personally !

So a few weeks later, out of the blue a Catholic lady I did not know called me for a commission. We became friends and talked often. I still forgot about the nun in the closet and then one day this lady mentioned her husband was the principal at the Saint Catherine of Siena school,.. I mentioned the nun and as it turns out she will be hung at the Saint Catherine of Siena school. .. here is the catch, in 2001 I did not know that this little nun WAS Saint Catherine of Siena.....

but after many hours research of the tomb we found out that  she is.

                                                            I guess it was time for her to go home.

                                                                             I'm going to miss her. 

                                                                     The providence of God is amazing.

I

My reproduction of William-Adolphe Bouguereau's Painting -"l' innocence

This is a very large painting and so it was the one I decided to put in the window of my display at the Cotton Company in Wake Forest. I was delighted when the mother of an 11 year old girl called and explained to me that her daughter begged her to stop the car and go back to let her get out and look at it. After inspecting it she requested a smaller 11x14 reproduction for her upcoming  12th birthday.

https://www.bouguereau.org/

http://www.bouguereau.org/home-7-24-1-2.html

______________________________________________

You can also find more about William-Adolphe Bouguerau at Artsy: 

https://www.artsy.net/artist/william-adolphe-bouguereau

The Golden Gifts

I did a photo shoot of my grand daughter this Christmas and when I got ready to paint I saw the Easter Bunny laying in the rocker behind her. I pondered painting it out and after serious consideration decided to leave it in. The reason I left it in is because Christmas and Easter are not just two separate Holidays. As I painted this picture of my grand daughter I decided its title would be "The Golden Gifts" and  I hope one day my granddaughter will understand why. As I reflected on all of this I pondered God sending his son to earth to be the way of salvation for those who believe. How else could we connect with a God who is a spirit unless we realize he knows what it is like to be human? This story is not complete with out Easter and the knowledge that just as Jesus chose to come to earth to be an example of forgiveness and holiness he also chose to be a sacrifice  for our sin, how else can we connect with a God so infinitely holy and pure?   No other God that men choose to worship died for His people. When He walked the earth He told us to lay down our lives for each other, how could he ask that unless he was willing to do this himself?

..and this is my commandment that you love one another, greater love has no man than this, that he would lay his life down for his friends. You are my friend if you keep my commandments..John15: 13:14

I received little rocking chair in the background as a Christmas gift in 1960.

What Getting A Speeding Ticket And Art Critics Have In Common

The Traveling Artist recently put her camera in the car to visit an old friend. A bit of snow had jsut fallen in North Carolina and Virginia  and I was already anticipating the joy of coming around the corner on one of the back roads to see a cow in the snow, I was going to pull over and capture a shot. I did not anticipate pulling over for anything else. I do not like highways but  in this case I had to begin the trip by taking the highway and I got behind a large truck throwing bits of debris, I was  deep in thought about art, so at first I just trudged along behind it. When I decided to pass I gunned the engine and pulled into the left lane only to look up and see flashing blue lights behind me. What was my reaction? I was not surprised, or angry, and my heart did not change a beat -I thought to myself, " Hum, I am curious what I did besides pass this truck."  I know you do not believe me but you will have to take my word for it. I got around the truck and pulled over into the right lane and was pulling onto the shoulder when the flashing blue lights whipped on past me, I was not the offender. I pulled back on to the road and continued my thoughts about art, but thoughts about policemen and tickets now interfered. Why was I not afraid when I thought I was about to get a ticket, or relieved when I did not? I think it is because I know that receiving correction is good for a person. I try hard to see life as learning, even if it is from a policeman telling me he found something I did that deserved punishment. Even if I do not understand another persons reasons or interpretation of a situation I still celebrate honesty and correction.

A policeman is not going to preface his words with  "Well I think you may have been.. or maybe you should have," neither is he going to say " You always.. You never, You are this or that.- Each mistake will be handled on the side of the road, individually.  He is going to get right to the point and I like that.

I think an artist has to learn  to accept  judgement and to refrain from being defensive in order to grow as a painter. You can only get peace with your painting and your life until you are able to accept criticism and instruction.  It is not enough to say to yourself, well that is your opinion when someone looks at your art and gives an honest appraisal, instead you must get to the place of being able to take a fresh look at it from their eyes. You do not have to change it, although I have found that when I try what ever it is the person has told me, more often than not- it was just what I needed to do. When I can not do the suggested correction in my experience it is good to put that information, instruction or opinion into my"things to think about " file. When you are able to approach life that way it makes it so much more interesting to ask another - So tell me what you think honestly . As they give me their advice I try hard not to think of my own reasons or explanations of why I am doing what I am doing. It is harder when one person in the conversation is trying to prove they have the only way of looking at something, or if they feel they have a case against you, your work, action or personality. Some people compromise, some give in, some only want to win.  Once reasonable people realize you are willing to learn and value their opinion you can grow and learn so much faster.  This is fun to do with strangers, but is especially rewarding in relationships with people you trust and value, and this approach works with so much more than art. Trust me.

Vincent (Starry Starry Night) Don McLean

I have always loved this song, but I will admit I did not like Vincent van Gogh's art until I learned his story. The struggles Vincent van Gogh  had and his beautiful swirling colors remind me to be nonjudgmental and enjoy the differences that make each one of us unique. We all suffer, some of us suffer in black and white, some of us struggle in vivid color.

When I was at Duke University Hospital as part of  the Chaplaincy training, we were reminded to search for and listen to a patients life story, each person has a string of events that they have lived through that becomes a part of them. During times of trouble, pain, sickness, death, or hurt, our past story intertwines with current trials and things can become overwhelming; until some one comes along beside you and tells you it is okay to experience life, struggles and all, and assures you that they will work through it with you. Chaplains do that, true friends do that. 

I discovered the same thread when working with troubled teens. Their story is still all entwined with their family, their story sometimes is short and confusing. Many times they get hung on a certain narrative of what they feel life is supposed to look like.  When you put a blank canvas in front of a troubled teen they see one blank canvas and think of all the
 complicated steps to make one painting. They are afraid to make a mistake. When you tell them to just paint one block of shape at a time and that if they do not like it they can paint the canvas back to white and start over - then they begin to relax and create something they can enjoy. Life is like that, one step at a time, add a little color and see what takes shape, give yourself and others lots of forgiveness to cover up the mistakes, start over.  

If no one else believes or listens to your story, paint it. If you do not like what you have done, paint over it.  

Shadows of Turning

 Over Thanksgiving my husband and I went out of town to visit old friends. We began our journey home  around sunset and took the scenic route. On a back road I saw this church with a tree shadow on the side that was stunning. So I hollered "Stop and let me get a picture!" My husband who years ago would have kept driving did stop and I hopped out and got a few shots. Tonight, while I painted it I reflected on how it would have only taken a few moments for the sun to have changed positions and I would have missed this wonderful picture. Sometimes change is not so easy.. change seems to take things away, but sometimes it gives us something better. Certainly an example of a change for the better is that now my husband will take back roads and stop to enjoy looking at shadows on churches, I guess after 34 years he is beginning to understand  my relationship with both my art and church! I love churches and all they stand for, but I have always served in church like it was a full time job... lately there has been a change and I sense God teaching me to slow down and enjoy Him in a more prayerful, quiet way. I am enjoying my gift of painting, I am enjoying the solitude and the peace, I am enjoying going to church and listening. Things change... but I am so glad God never does..Every good gift and every perfect gift cometh down from the father of lights, in whom there is no variableness neither shadow of turning. James 1:17

Up on Blocks

UP ON BLOCKS

This is an old gas station that I had to drive by 4 times a day for about 15 years. It was on the way to take the kids to school and back. Under the eaves there was always something awesome, sometimes a tractor, or a truck. When I went to take the photo  the old sign was gone and I could not remember what gas company it was. Thankfully the metal case was still hanging from the wire and with a little research I found out it was a Phillip's 66. That rang true, I remember telling the kids that I was going to go climb up the pole and get the sign for their dads 66th birthday because his name is Phillip. Now in my old age I realize maybe it isn't such a good idea to tell your kids you are going to take a sign.. at any rate it was a a trip down memory lane to paint it, and I am glad I took the time to do it before this old station is gone.

Portrait of My Daughter

Portrait of My Daughter

This is a portrait of my daughter sitting in an old art deco chair that belonged to her great grandmother. The Dog is Oz,  and Boisley is the cat calmly looking out of the window over her shoulder. Courtney has always loved books so a portrait with out books would not be complete. The books are on an old Hoosier cabinet passed down from me, on which sits the infamous trailing Philodendron which has traveled with Courtney from city to city and manages to thrive in any environment. Can there be any more sentiment stashed in a portrait? Well, yes! The painting in the background is one of the first canvas paintings I  painted and it travels with my daughter and hangs in her home.

First Snow on the Autumn Leaves

First in a Series of Barns and Places along the Wayside

There are old barns, gas stations, beat up trucks, and tractors dotted along the road sides of the paths we take in life. They testify of  the hopes and plans others have had many years ago. As we pass by these places each day  we begin to feel comfortable with them, we know them like the back of our hand yet we never stop and really look at them. Seasons change, time passes as the new moves in and the old goes the way of things of age, these things begin to slowly get rusty or gray, shrivel up, lean, groan and then one day we pass by and notice too late, that it's gone. We miss it and we never really knew we were going to.

 I wanted to stop and paint a few of them. Not for you, or my kids, but for myself. To say hello to them for the first time maybe, and or even possibly good-bye, because even if they are not going away anytime soon, I for one am just passing though.

For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. James 4:14

Non Profit Ministry Project Summer 2012

Tammy uses art in the community in order to reach out to drug addicted youth with destructive habits such as self-mutilation, alcoholism, and drug use. She has had success in rehabilitating and restoring them to a life that is productive and effective contributing members of society. Her nonprofit, Hosanna Covenant Ministries -Art for Transforming" completed a 20x 60 community mural in the summer of 2012 to offer youth an opportunity to express themselves and create something beautiful.

The Difference in Me and Emily Dickinson

IMAGES FROM THE PAST ....

Click on image to enlarge...

This one thing I know, everything is relative to the moment. 

No matter how much you want to do the right thing you can not always do the perfect thing to save someone else's heart from breaking......

especially  in the moment that yours is breaking too. 

It is the intention of your heart that counts, and that is all that matters in the end. Sometimes that Robin is going to faint or fly away whether you help it or not, and sometimes your best efforts are not going to be enough.  All in all- do your best- to do your best -and then you can peacefully rest... in your own little nest!

Just For Fun

Kerr Lake Diva

This is a quick rendering combining several old black and white family photos. I wanted to do this painting just to relax and have fun. The beloved boat was called the Jolly Ollie, and the marina house in the back ground was Norwood's, run by old Mr Norwood himself. My mother in law who poses here in her stylish hat, had five sons. Somehow according to her  that gave her the rights to Diva status.  Each summer the five boys could not wait til the week of the fourth of July to  go to the lake.  Saturday morning she would pack everything  all up in the car and as all five boys watched in agony she would then sit down by the door to leisurely repair her manicure and paint her toe nails. This apparently drove the boys and her husband stark raving mad.

If The Whole World Was Like My Art Class

and other thoughts on how life ought to be. 

 

 

 

 

 

And Nail Salons would go out of business because  no one would want to pay 50 dollars to have pink color put on their  nails when with that kind of cash you can buy a tube of Magenta Pink Oil and it will end up on your nails.