Paintings and Changes

paintingsbyjms
New phoenixes!

Hi there!
Long time no write…anything other than poems anyway. I’ve been keeping busy – since the weather started to show spring, I’ve been out on the deck painting like a mad person. I have had more paintings going in the last month than I had in six months before we moved to the city (almost three years ago). Most of them are on the small scale (I think the biggest one is only 20 inches by 20 inches), but it feels amazing to be making art again.
There have been some phoenixes, some flowers, some other animals, and even revisiting old canvases. It’s been wonderful. Eventually I’ll be putting some of them up for sale, and getting some prints/products up on my CafePress store.

paintingsbyjms
Gardenias!

But even among all the greatness of painting again, there’s an undercurrent. My painting style is going to have to change soon. I’m going to have to embrace something different. Today, I had to put away my paintings because my hands were shaking. I’d eaten breakfast, and lunch, and had plenty of water.

paintingsbyjms
Buffalo’s White Spring (WIP)

But even now, my hands are trembling. An edge, on canvas, is impossible. Keeping my hand out of wet paint is unlikely. Loading a brush with just a touch of paint becomes an overloaded blob.
Most likely, it’s genetic neuropathy.

It is an incredibly frustrating prospect – to stare down something that is going to change what I do. I know that these things happen to people, especially as we get older. I’m not letting it get me down, though I’ve grumbled about it to myself more than once.

paintingsbyjms
More Phoenixes!

So, while I’m still going to do as much art the way I have for the past 5 years in oil (and more in acrylics), I’m going to start experimenting…keep a raw canvas or two around just for the days when there’s no chance of a clean edge, when the strokes are going to be thick and wobbly, and learn a new way of making art. I hope you’ll all stick around.

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Poetry: Unequal

The Sun and Moon have
Seven and Two, with laundry piles each.
Running to and from Seven’s school.
Counting, colors, letters and spelling for Two.
Assemble the block tower, again.
Homework is too hard, Seven says.
Moon tries to teach without doing.
Seven and Two need to be fed.
Seven won’t eat things that are not orange.
Two eats anything.
The Moon has not picked up the bright blocks.
Or managed to get the vacuum run.
The sink is still full,
And clean dishes are not in the cabinets.
The Sun does these things,
And the Moon weeps.
Because the Sun already has the harder job;
The Sun loves her.

Poetry: Sleep

Furious fingers
Grasping and groping
For reassurance,
The touch that confirms it’s me.

In the dark,
I sing,
I rock,
I soothe.

Furious fingers,
Seeking and scratching
In the fight against sleep,
To be sure it’s really me.

In the dark,
Fuss,
Fidget,
Cry.

Furious fingers,
Soft and still,
Cradle my cheek,
Finally certain it was really me.

Poetry: Hidden

Shift, twist.

Were you who I thought you were?

There’s no way to tell,
Who I thought you were,
Because you’re invisible.
But somehow threads still link
Me to what I thought you were.

Look, seek.

How could we have been so sure?

What was bent and broken,
Begins to stand tall,
Again.
But you…
We still can’t see.