Magnolia Stories & Paintings

She calls me Darlin’ yet we’ve never met in person. Her witty emails sound like letters from home to me so I always love to see her name in my inbox. It should come as no surprise then that her latest email brought me to tears yesterday. Last night, I handed off my laptop to Matt before I headed back to bed and told him, “I think you should read this.” A few moments later, he appeared in our bedroom and I could tell he too was choked up. We love seeing the photos that accompany her writing. It’s with Brooxie’s permission I’m sharing this with you below. Thank you Brooxie. I don’t know how you found me, but I think I know who sent you!

Inspired by my Precious-Pastor-Son-in-Law and his ONE WORD series, my word for this year is Presence…. to be present in all situations, to feel God’s presence, to know the presence of those who influenced my past. Which brings me to this incredible painting, and it’s darling Birmingham artist, Amy Crews (no relation, but don’t I wish!).

Last year my word was green – the verdant, abundant, life-giving color present everywhere here in my new home state of Mississippi. So, I painted my kitchen green, but there was a wall that needed a “presence”. Then, at some point through the year, this incredible piece of art caught my eye – green! a magnolia! I couldn’t quit thinking about it, and looking at it on Amy’s website. On Amy’s website, the painting was entitled, “Back Home”. Amy also said, “I began painting magnolias in honor of the strong women who raised me.” Finally, in November, I returned to Oklahoma to conduct a training …. and I contracted COVID. For 4 weeks while I isolated, I looked at and longed for this painting.

It was a life force – reminding me of God’s presence through illness, through nature, and of the strong presence of the women in my past: my grandmother, Mollie Marie, and her sister Jessie, who came from Indiana to Tennessee in a covered wagon, my great-great Aunt Ainnie and my great grandmother Huffman who ran a dairy farm during the Depression, my paternal grandmother, Susie, who sent 4 out her 5 sons to fight in WWII, my own Mother who suffered hardship as a girl only to go on to Mississippi University for Women and graduate from Memphis State as the first college graduate of her family.

It also reminded me of my life-long love of the Magnolia tree. There was always a giant magnolia tree in my presence – a huge one in our yard that a family of six could live under, floating magnolia blossoms in the spring, magnolia branches on the mantle at Christmas, a porcelain ceramic one my mother made, needlepoint cushions in antique chairs, the list goes on. So I contacted this dear girl and told her of my lifelong connection with magnolias and purchased the painting. It’s presence does not disappoint. Everyday I am reminded of the powerful presence of my God, nature and the presence of the strong women who went before me. I am truly “Back Home”.

How Presbyterian, Honey

When my mom would see something in a store that she really wanted but had some hesitation about buying it, and would go back to it later only to see that it had sold, she would say “How Presbyterian.” Now she was Presbyterian so I’ll just say that first. But I think it was her funny way of saying “It wasn’t meant to be.” Now, you could also use that term when things are meant to be too.

There are occasions not only in life but also with my art when this witty phrase of my mom’s fits perfectly. I’ll share two of them with you here.

Take for example, the first time I had painted a 5 foot tall magnolia blossom. I just knew in my heart it was meant for someone special. Later, at an art show, a very intimidating woman was looking at this large magnolia painting. (I would describe her as having a hard exterior. Perhaps carrying a heartache and protecting herself is what I was perceiving that to be.) I asked her, “Would you like to know the story behind this piece?” And she said “Not really. But you’re going to tell me anyway so go ahead.” So I quickly mustered up my courage and trusted that my sincerity would help alleviate the tension.

She came back around later and and when she said she wanted to buy it, I was completely shocked! Then I looked her straight in the eye and said “I knew in my heart this was meant for someone special. You must be very special.” And you know what? I don’t know the last time someone reminded her she was special. It may not have meant anything to her, but it could’ve also been something she needed to hear. She softened a good bit in the end.

So what does this have to do with the honey? Well, I decided one day to paint my brother-in-law’s honey jar. He is a bee farmer and has shared these jars with us for years. And this painting hadn’t sold. So it was starting to feel very Presbyterian to me that he should have it! Yesterday, he happened to be in town and had dropped by to give us two fresh jars of honey, and I was able to give him one in return! I felt a little relief knowing it had found it’s perfect home. So very Presbyterian.

And, in case you haven’t been told in a while, please know that YOU too are very special!

Prints are now available of the honey painting referenced in this story. They are available in my online shop here.

Older Than Dirt

She walked by my booth with little fanfare. Alone. Not carrying anything. As if she was out for a walk and just strolled into the art show to see what the fuss was all about. She turned around, came back and stopped. She studied everything I had painted as if at a museum and then picked up my information card. Finally she spoke. “You’re good.” I smiled and said thank you. She carried on about some of my awards and what-not. Then she said, “I’m older than dirt. And I have no business buying any art. But I really like what you do.” Then she was gone and I thought that was the last I’d see of her.

After the show, I got a phone call at home. “You probably don’t remember me…” but I did. She asked if I still had that big swan she admired. I did. Then she reminded me she was older than dirt and sent a check in the mail. The next year she came by and purchased a cardinal at the show. A year later, while my mom was in hospice, she emailed and asked about commissioning a piece. My daughter and I took the opportunity to deliver in person, and take a break from caring for my mom. So we drove to Nashville to her house. She insisted she take us to lunch. So we got in her car and she drove us to her favorite place, where they knew her well, and she said we had to have the carrot cake for dessert. We don’t like carrot cake, but that day we did. I savored every second of that visit. We were given a tour of her beautiful home, she shared stories about her fascinating life and I snapped a photo of her at the piano with my daughter.

This spunky independent woman who was close to my mom’s age was so dear to me and had become one of the highlights of this particular show in Nashville. The next year I noticed she didn’t come by. My heart, already sore after losing my mom, grew worried. So I googled her name and I found her obituary. I was heartbroken.

I’ve been thinking about her so much lately and thought it would be a good idea to add our story to my blog. It illustrates what I miss most about in person art shows and connections like this are a significant part of why I love what I do. Sharing our hearts with one another. Eye to eye and heart to heart.

My Top 3 Books for Beginning Oil Painters

This morning I received an instagram message from a follower who asked, "For a beginning oil painter, what are your top 3 book recommendations? I'm trying to build a self-study curriculum for the summer." I love this idea and wanted to post my answers in case others may also like to know. I've provided affiliate links to Amazon where you'll be able to find more details.

1. The Creative Call: An Artist’s Response to the Way of the Spirit (Writers’ Palette Book), by Janice Elsheimer

Not a technical book about “how to” oil paint, but my favorite in my art personal library and one I recommend to everyone I meet who is even slightly creative! It is faith based and encourages some time for journaling and reflecting about your gifts to help you dig a little deeper. It’s great for writers and musicians too! It’s a great jumping off point for inspiration! I did worked through this book a chapter a week with a friend. It’s a great book for a small group or individually too. Click here or on the image above to view this book on Amazon.

2. Alla Prima II Everything I Know about Painting–And More, by Richard Schmid

A warning first. This book is expensive. But I have to list it because it is one of my very favorite painting books! And I know I did not pay this much for my copy. If you can find either Alla Prima book by Richard Schmid in new or used condition for an affordable price, get it! It is full of his gorgeous work and gives a real glimpse into his thought process and techniques. Check your local library and see if they have one you can check out if you can’t find a copy. Click here or on the image above to view this book on Amazon.

3. The Oil Painting Course You’ve Always Wanted: Guided Lessons for Beginners and Experienced Artists, by Kathleen Lochen Staiger

I think this would make an excellent “text book” for a beginner oil painter. There are illustrations with explanations of supplies needed to get started. It covers basic drawing foundations, how to handle the brushstrokes, and a chapter guide dedicated for three painting subjects (still lifes, landscapes, and portraits). I think these are the foundations of any good workshop, but with a book format you may feel less pressure and can go at your own pace. Click here or on the image above to view this book on Amazon.

If you are reading this because you are a beginning painter, you may also enjoy a recent e-book and art course I created. You can find all that information in my blog.

Do you have any art books that you treasure or would recommend? I’d love to know! Please share them in the comments below.

Happy Painting!

Amy

A Commission Story

Each commission is as unique as the individuals that they are created for. I enjoy these opportunities to get to know clients in a more personal way. Often times, the painting is a way to celebrate a special occasion or memory. Here’s a story behind one of my favorite commissions I’ve done.

On a recent trip to Italy, Jeanna and Leigh Boothe wanted to indulge their love of wine by going on a tour of the Tuscan wine country. This included a visit to a tiny winery called Colombaia, tucked away on the hillside of Northern Tuscany, outside Siena and it left quite an impression.

Leigh decided a painting from this trip would make a great surprise anniversary gift so he contacted me about creating a custom piece. We discussed size and price options, the photos he had that he could share, and what elements and objects he wanted to be sure were included (and some left out).

On the day of their anniversary, with Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” playing in the background, Leigh unveiled the painting to Jeanna’s surprise and she absolutely loved it! The painting now hangs in their master bedroom. Leigh says they are reminded of what a wonderful world it truly is and of the importance of creating memories with the one you love whenever they see it .

If you are interested in discussing a commission piece of your own, I’d love to discuss it with you! Contact me here.

More information about this beautiful winery can be found here.

God of the Hills and Valleys

I love to write. I get it honest. There are many a writer in my family, my favorite being my mom. But I asked my cousin Jocelyn to write this time. Above is a painting she commissioned with a very specific vision in mind. I asked her to share, in her own words, a little bit about the story behind this painting.

Here are Jocelyn’s words:

“I adore my cousin Amy and KNEW despite her fears of not meeting my expectations that I needed her unique talent to express a strong vision I had been given which gave me great comfort…as much due to our knit hearts as for her talent with paintbrush. Amy is famous for her nests. But, I am soon to face an empty one!

I have a lovely daughter with a double name …Mary ( after many family members and the woman who worshipped Jesus with her tears and hair) Grace (my beloved grandmother and my favorite word). Mary Grace will soon be launching; and as her mother, it’s rather daunting considering the world she is journeying into!

That arduous future is expressed in the uneven and intimidating landscape background which I had “seen” as mountainous and rocky. In the vision I heard the phrase “everywhere that Mary went, the Lamb is sure to go”… I view Amy’s painting of my vision and know that though the future may be treacherous in some places, she will never be alone. Jesus the Lamb is with her, and ahead of her. What a sure hope and comfort when my nest empties.

While I had owned the verse “I go before you to make the crooked places straight.” ( Is 45:2) I had no idea until I looked it up today that some versions actually say “I will go before you and level the mountains” . WOW! I’m even more encouraged! 🙂

Finally…it is AMAZING discovering that the woman who penned those words “Mary had a little Lamb” (along with a man studying for the pastorship) was the same woman, who actually is responsible for Thanksgiving being a national holiday. The Heath side of our family through which Amy and I are kin would gather yearly on Thanksgiving to connect! I consider this painting among my most, most profound gifts in life.“

Be sure to watch this video forwarded to me by Elizabeth George Cooper. It’s a song that she thought of when she saw this painting and I think it fits this perfectly!

Link: God of the Hills & Valley

Common Ground

I knew he was special when I got in his car and he was eating an ice cream cone with James Taylor singing “How sweet it is to be loved by you” on the radio. (That was my mom’s favorite song.) He said it never fails. When he is at McDonalds he always gets notified that he has an uber rider to go pick up. This time it was me. I teased him that he should have brought me an ice cream cone too and we shared a few laughs while discussing food. He told me his grandmother made the best apple cobbler and homemade vanilla ice cream. From there we discussed the culinary differences between what is considered “good barbecue” in different regions of our country. He, originally from Michigan, is a rib man. Me, I prefer the North Carolina vinegar based pulled pork served with a side of hush puppies. From there he told me about how his family originated from Alabama. They moved to Michigan during the “Second Great Migration”. *George. I almost forgot to tell you his name. When you are eager to tell a story, sometimes details like that can get left out.

George told me about his grandfather. How he had many wives. And ultimately 36 children, at least that they’ve been able to identify so far. Perhaps wanting to explain he told me his grandfather was a “breeder”. I thought he said “reader”. But as he went on with his story I understood what he was saying. His grandfather was a slave on a plantation in Alabama called “Magnolia”. And the plantation owners sold him around to other plantations for breeding purposes. I told him I had never heard of that. “Like some sort of stud horse?” I asked in shocked disbelief. “Yes”, he said, “thats a good way to put it.” That breaks my heart. He continued to tell me that his grandfather could read and write, and so he would teach other slaves how to read and write. In secret of course, we agreed. And his grandfather was also a preacher. Eventually, the white man put a bounty on his grandfather’s head. So the slaves held a fake funeral, complete with a casket. They “buried” him while he managed to escape. Wow. Just wow. I took his story in and imagined what it must be like to have lived this life and to have a family history like this. I found myself teary eyed. I think George could sense this. Maybe I had heard about this breeder thing a long time ago and just forgot. But it’s one thing to hear about it and it’s another to hear someone directly impacted by it talk about it.

When George was young, he visited Magnolia plantation, and the church his grandfather built was still there. George got to play the piano in that church. Imagine that. He does not know if it’s still there. I told him that this was an amazing story and that people need to hear it. He said his family knows it. But I think he understood what I meant. I asked him who taught his grandfather to read and write and he said, “You know, that’s a good question! There must have been a white man or woman who taught him, probably in secret.” I nodded. George says there were some good white people on plantations too. And he added cautiously, “You know, if it was a white woman, that could’ve been very dangerous. He could’ve been hung from a tree.” And I said I know. And the tempo of our conversation had slowed a bit. We were bonding over the sorrow of the past. And I said there were monsters and good people both back then. Just like there are today.

As we were arriving to our destination, we discussed how I had come to Chicago for the U2 concert. Since we had already lightly discussed politics, I shared that I heard the Obama’s were there for the show too. He said he knew Bono to be an activist. I said I had a lot of respect for Bono because of his actions, not just words. He said he understands Bono is good friends with the Obamas. And I said I know and he is also friends with George Bush. And that’s part of why I like him. He works with both sides, and is passionate about helping the widows and the poor. When it was time for me to go, George said I must be pretty special. That was a great compliment because I think he is too. I told him thank you for the ride and for sharing his story with me.

It was an honor to ride with George today. He asked for my card and said he will call me when he comes to Birmingham. I believe him and I hope he does. I texted my friend from the gate while I was waiting for my flight and she said I should paint his story. I’m still choked up about the thought of it. I’m not sure what that might look and feel like.

These are the conversations we need to share. We need to listen and love well. To “find a common ground by seeking higher ground” just like Bono said last night. Here is the poem I quoted at the beginning in full. One of many that scrolled on the screen at Soldier Field before the concert:

Kindness

Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

Hope Springs Eternal

A couple of years ago I painted a series from photos I took of a particular camellia bloom and I titled it “Vespers”. They were done in my monochromatic palette and looking back now that seems especially fitting. Many of you know I lost my mom in May 2014. Fewer of you know she was in hospice care at home during her last few months.

Her garden was her creative outlet. She knew every plant and flower by name and it always amazed me. Well, when she was at home during her last days, this single bloom appeared outside her back door near the kitchen window. Someone cut it and floated it in a bowl, like she would have, and carried it inside for her to see. I took it home one night and took several photos because I thought it was beautiful.

I chose the name “Vespers” because she loved those prayer and worship meetings and even held some in this house. And because I knew that people coming in that back door to say goodbye were praying and broken hearted. And some even came by to offer a song.

And it occurred to me this time, while I was painting this special camellia, that this must have been the last bloom from my mom’s garden. Wow. And, I painted it in color.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds but I think it brings the color back. Pretty special to me. Thank you for reading my story. I hope maybe it blessed you as much as it did me to share it.

We Are All Just Visitors Here

First, a disclaimer. I am writing this off the top of my (bed) head. I just woke up with so many thoughts and feel like writing them will help me process some things.

Someone I love suffered a horrible and violent thing just two nights ago. I mean to tell you, this is the life-changing kind of stuff that no one can begin to know what to say or do to help.

So this morning I’m thinking there are these “brotherhoods” in life that we don’t choose to belong to. Groups like “addict”, “hospice”, “cancer survivor” and “widow” to name a few. But you can find yourself there one day and suddenly, when you meet someone who is also a member, there is this bond. A relief that someone else understands and relates. As well as a sense of purpose. That maybe there’s an unexpected gift or good that comes along when you can actually use what you’ve been through to help someone else.

Last night at an art show in Nashville, I got to meet my artist neighbor whose booth was behind me. His name is James Makuac and he cannot wait to tell anyone his story. Before the artist’s dinner we greeted each other and immediately he began to tell me. He is one of the “Lost Boys of Sudan”. At 11 years old, his village was attacked by men who had this mission to kill all the boys and his parents told him to run into the woods. He has survived numerous massacres and witnessed unfathomable blood shed, rape, starvation, sickness, separation from loved ones and refugee camps. He has had his hopes dashed and his sleep interupted by violence. He saw his mom 25 years after he ran for safety. She thought he was dead and he didn’t recognize her. He tells his story through his art and I loved his small book that tells what happened with his illustrations. He made it for his mom. I can’t even wrap my head around it all.

My favorite line in his book is: “My heart grew stronger because I had to walk on blistered feet.” This was written about the time he walked for 3 days through a dessert with no food on burning hot sand. And I wept because my heart could barely take it all in and he patted me on my hand and on my back and said “It’s okay. I appreciate your tears.”

When you ask James how he survived, he says it was hope. He said “You know, we are all just visitors here. This is not our home.” And he is not talking about being a refugee living in America. He knows God has a purpose for his life and telling his story is a huge part of it. I know my “problems” sure look silly now. And I know his is the type of story telling that can bring hope to everyone. Especially those like my loved one who has experienced unimaginable violence. I think it was no accident that I met him last night.

Here are some of his own words, from a post card he gifted to me:

Carpe Diem

“But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? – – Carpe – – hear it? – – Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary.” -John Keating, Dead Poets Society

Today I was finally able to watch the movie, my all time favorite movie, with my son. I fell in love with the Dead Poets Society when it first came out, and while we were watching it today, I couldn’t help but wonder if this movie inspired a movement in teaching. I also thought about an experience on our summer vacation and how together they helped me make a decision this week.

We were on our way out of the Grand Canyon after sunset and heading to our cabin when we stumbled upon this sign. A perfect spot for a family photo to commemorate the trip! As we got closer, we saw a woman taking several photos of the sign. After noticing that she was alone, I offered to take a picture of her with it. She was thrilled! So together we took several photos of her in front of and behind this sign with her camera. She then insisted she return the favor and she took this one of us.

Her name was Tina and it did not take long to learn her story. She was traveling alone on a cross country trip that had just begun in California and would take her back east via her hometown of Philadelphia. She was with a large touring group, all strangers, and had been assigned a roommate. But unfortunately, they were not finding much in common so she was very much touring solo. Thus no one to take her picture.

Soon it was quite dark and we did not think she should walk alone to her cabin so we insisted we give her a ride and she accepted. Once we were in the car, she shared something I have not been able to forget. Tina’s husband had recently passed away. They had enjoyed a long life together and you could hear the heartache in her voice as she told us about him. Then, with a note of courage, she shared that this trip was for them. She had made a decision to take the trip they always had dreamed of but never found time to do.

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die discover that I had not lived.” -Henry David Thoreau

This was a blogpost I wrote after our 2016 summer vacation. The week after which I was given one of those “once in a lifetime opportunities” that involved a last minute trip to California with friends. It was a decision I wrestled with a good bit and discussed with my husband. Should I do this “thing” that was offered to me? Prayer is key of course. I always think “Carpe Diem!” and now I think about Tina.

Like the words of Robert Herrick that I first heard in the Dead Poets Society,