How to Birth An Art Business

On Holiday with Matisse

Do artists create to know peace or do artists seek peace so they can create at their highest level?    

 I've found that time-outs, even (micro-mini-holidays) prove vital to the creator's best art.      To sustain the highest clear notes, the soprano must first silence her vocals before her performance.   To pen a poem, one will read and nap, walk and wait.    Often,  to paint up a masterpiece, one must saunter off to the bench in the park, and learn the art of nothingness . . . for a moment or two..     Some suggest a "walk on the beach" is the luxurious prelude to the artist's "wow factor."    .Living landlocked in Oklahoma, I squirm at that mandate yet like the thought.    I have to ask myself, "did Matisse find sand in his sandals before detailing his remarkable tablescapes?"  I think so.     

Then I consider Picasso and his penchant for around the clock painting in his undies.       Did he traipse through the curves of Paris to get inspired or did he dare to slap oils across the canvass with no walk, no beach bumming?   Even he idled to think and recoup.                             

                                   
So, if the beach is off limits, perhaps a walk through a garden may help us artisans muster up the just right endorphins needed to create our best art.

With a creative  friend, I spent such a lovely afternoon walking through my neighbor's  glorious gardens.    We walked and talked and bent low to feel the filmy fennel, ran our hands over the soft lamb's ear, and admired the new rock work.    The winding trails through trellises and the climbing roses led us to the curling ferns and wide patios.        We swayed in old-fashioned porch swings as we talked and looked at photographs and and talked of tender moments with their children.      We talked about their recent trip to France and how that visit gave them closure concerning their heroic fathers' life sacrifice .           We took deep breaths as a certain gratitude and healing balm fell on us much like the soft night air.  

Better, I am because of the garden walk, the tender talk.      I consider Matisse, also a kind conversationalist, who spent hours thinking and cutting, sketching and observing.    He talked, he napped, he astounded his empty canvasses.     I don't know if all artist need time outs to create their best art, but for me, I will shout yes, yes.       As I walked home I  rested in the memory of the  afternoon.    I felt freer to risk all for the sake of the ever-present creative call.          The soft night air and the words of the afternoon blessed me, yes, simply blessed me.

Mothers and Monday

My Darling Mother above - healthy, amazing, loving..

Yes, Mother's Day is officially over.    Today we moms get back to making our own breakfasts, mopping up milk spills, tossing undies in the wash.      I sip my morning coffee; the house is tomb quiet.       I take a few moments to pore over yesterdays quick digital pics and lug a fat photo album onto my lap.     Oh my, I think of the many Mother's Days I have celebrated.     My timeless photos albums tug hard on my mothering heart..     I sigh and gently  run my hand over the years.    If I stacked up all my albums,  I'm sure they would touch the sky.

 There I am with my first newborn, there I am with my first grandchild.    There I am on my wedding day, nearly forty seven years ago.   There I am the afternoon of my husband's funeral with family surrounding me like a cloud of mercy.    And, there I am yesterday, happy and whole, productive and content.

 Some Mother's Days are quiet, some hectic, some memorable, but not all.    This year I traipsed to my back yard studio and played with my new fabric stash, rearranged my desk, gathered up some zany thoughts and jotted them down on the edges of my Monet calendar.    

Heaven holds those who have gone on before and we miss them.     Heaven speaks softly to my heart, a kind of silent symphony - "All is Well, All is Well, All is Well."