Hanging Pictures



No, I didn't fall off the planet. But, once or twice, it was the fingernails that saved the day. We learned, on relatively short notice, that we were the lucky hosts of the family reunion. Note that I say "relatively short notice" that is short compared to how much needed doing to prepare for the arrival of the group. Since I got a little carried away with art shows last year and produced quite a bit of new work, that meant piles of frames collected and were stuck on the floors. I began to notice that the room once designated (only by me) as "the gallery" (any normal person would have recognized it as the formal dining room) had considerable less floor space than when we first first moved in. It had even crossed my mind that the room would soon shrink to the point of becoming a hallway to nowhere.

How could this happen, you ask? Well, for one thing, when we moved in, this house was only about four years old and the walls still had a lovely coat of mostly uninterrupted paint. This became a thing with The Husband. While I have mentioned more than once what a catch he is, he is human—yes, there is a flaw here and there. He had adopted this notion that he didn't want "a bunch of nails" in the wall. We had hung a few things that I talked him into, along with a few picture shelves, and I had used a bunch of easels as well as the fireplace mantel. Yet, we had a warehouse of frames leaning against walls and an expanse of lovely empty walls. Beautifully painted. Clean. Boring. Empty. Walls.

While we are on The Husband's eccentricities—you hear about mine all the time—the period leading up to house guests has become quite predictable in our home. I have played my part in this little ditty dozens of times in the 30+ years we have been married. If there is any notice at all, I begin making an effort to clean the place up as soon as I get the word that guests are coming. I immediately sense panic, because of course I am always in the middle of some all-encompassing project. On each occasion, I had managed to virtually overwhelm myself with ambitions and deadlines leaving no time for the routine of housework. And, equally inevitable was The Husband's response to my rising panic. "Don't be silly. No one cares what the house looks like. You make too much over it. Stop fretting and relax."

Many years ago, I would fall for that line. Such naivete. Soon however, I learned that it was a trap. A devious, seductive, but stinking trap. Every time I would be rocking along, focusing on my all important, new and wonderful adventure at whatever, oblivious to the impending storm. Then, suddenly one morning, the man I lived with would be replaced by this obsessed person who could talk about nothing except what needed to be picked up, put away, thrown away, washed, dusted, or just generally fixed. I know, you are probably saying why not let him clean and count my blessings. That is because you have never been through this whirlwind.

Soon, he's interrupting me with "What can I do with this junk of yours? Can I throw this out? Do you need this anymore? I'm taking all this junk to the dump, anything you want?" Needless to say, any possibility of concentrating on my project is impossible and I get sucked into the whirlwind.  Well, I am on to him now. When he says, "Don't worry. No one cares, but you", I smile (mostly) and continue cleaning. I am on to his tricks.

This time, the place had gone completely to pot. The end of last year was about art shows and a new web site. January was about being sick. Housecleaning? No way. To top it all off. We had family leaving on a Tuesday morning and another house guest arriving that afternoon. It was going to be interesting. But, this time there was a surprise.

About two weeks before the guests were due here—right on schedule, he walked into my warehouse meant to someday be my gallery, scanned the piles of frames, and announced, "We need to hang this stuff on the walls." Fortunately, I was near a door jamb and didn't hit the floor. I hustled to my studio, nervously grabbed the ever-ready hangers and hammer (and I was never even a Girl Scout!), and said, "Where shall we start?" I was so startled, I couldn't believe it would last.

For days, we spent part of each day hanging prints. In between, I dusted, washed, put away, and cleaned alongside this transformed creature—always anxious about when the old and familiar man might reappear. Fortunately, there was no relapse and, over several days, more nails were tapped into place until the house was transformed. At the end, he stood back and said, "Wow, the place looks great."

I am still pinching myself and periodically have to browse through all the rooms marveling at all my work hanging. It seems that the gallery spread quite a lot beyond the walls of what was built to be a dining room. When the dust settled and the last guest left, last Wednesday, I was bleary-eyed with exhaustion, but smiling. And, I am still smiling.

What the Heart Can Imagine

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"In art, the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can imagine." 

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Final Step with the Camera Connection Kit

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After a Wednesday late-afternoon drive around Bear Valley Springs with the trusty old 40D, I decided it was time to trot out that camera cable and connect to the iPad. It was simple as pie. Of course, the RAW files from the 40D aren't 21 megapixels, but the operation went smoothly. I can see that it chews up quite bit of battery juice. I decided what the heck. I had come this far without using the desktop I may as well complete the exercise and process the small set of photos with Snapseed and FilterStorm.

In the interest of full disclosure, I didn't download more than half a dozen files on this trial run. That means I have no idea how this would work if I had attempted to transfer 50 or 60 files. I have read that this sometimes causes the computer to freeze up. I have also read that your RAW files are converted to jpg's as they are transferred and they are downsized. Both of those things make sense to me. Earl, have I got all this right? I think I read all this on Terry White's Adobe Photoshop tech blog.

I now pronounce myself ready to move to the next phase. Time to refine the basic skills I have acquired and begin planning a weekend trip. The fundamentals are in place. Soon I will be travel-ready and that means ready for traveling light. Should I tell The Husband? Yeah, I think he is already on to me.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

What is the Emergency at UPS?

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When you are expecting prints (or any package, for that matter), this is not a message you want to see at the UPS tracking site: "Emergency conditions beyond UPS' control. / Delivery rescheduled." I had an order of prints that was scheduled to arrive Friday.  The package had left Mojave for delivery early Friday and ordinarily would have been here around 5 or 6 PM. Now, I have no idea when, or if I will see the package. Meantime, the window for framing is slowly creeping shut. No where near urgent, at the moment; but, certainly not comforting.

Or, Fat and Happy Hens

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No sooner did I whine about never getting a remotely salvageable picture of quail, then I got my best opportunity to date. Heaven help me if I never improve on this; but, I take it as a hopeful sign. Next time I hope the topknots are visible.

The Husband and I stood inside watching the quail and marveling at how fat they are. I suppose all the fattening up might well indicate that we are in for a long, cold winter. I love watching these birds even if do they thwart my photographic ambitions. There is something about the rhythm of their movements that I find charming and mesmerizing.

I am most often silent on days such as Veteran's Day. Others write eloquent tributes, I am left tongue-tied. The radio station we get devotes a great deal of time to observation of the day and its meaning. I tend to keep the station on all day and appreciate the interviews, music, and tributes. I am grateful that others find words to express what is in my heart and hope you all found a satisfactory way to observe the day.

Madder Than An Old Wet Hen

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Do old hens really get ticked off when they get wet? Can't say I know that for a fact. But, this hawk—busy shaking out his still damp feathers from the rain the day before—appeared impatient and  hungry. A rough morning for field mice near our back yard.

Snow on the Tomato War Battlefield

We had our first snowfall yesterday. It was a mere dusting, but a clear death knell for our lovely Autumn. It certainly was a far cry from the days of "The Great Tomato Wars of August".

Back then, I wrote about The Husband's tomato plants and the critters that were munching on the fruit. In spite of the caterpillars and ground squirrels, many of the tomatoes survived. The Husband continues to enjoy the bounty of his labors. While I can no longer eat tomatoes, I have enjoyed watching him reap the rewards of his labor. I am not certain he will put in the effort again next year; but, he certainly feels that it was worth fighting off the marauding enemies this year. My pleasure is doubled by the sight of the last of the red beauties still decorating the kitchen island.

Overdue Answers on Art Show Adventures

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A while back, Ken asked which pieces of work sold in the recent art shows and here I am finally getting around to the answer. Ken has probably forgotten why he cared to ask, but he is going to get an answer—just not all in one post.

The piece above pre-sold the second show. (I had a couple of prints displayed at the venue as a preview of the show.) Printed on metallic paper, that background was a shimmering gold and made for a piece that was eye-catching. During the first show, I sold two pieces and I could have sworn that I had already posted one of them, "Blue Horse Dreaming"; but, I was dead wrong. The third piece is very new. I will post both of those over the next few days.

About the same time Ken asked his question, PJ asked if I planned to write a bit more about my experience with art shows. Frankly, I hadn't planned to since my experience is extremely limited. But, I have no pride. I will reveal how little I know. I have not pursued juried shows, nor have I submitted to prestigious galleries. Mostly because I am a hard-core realist and recognize that my work doesn't exactly fall in line with what is hot these days. (And maybe because I am chicken.) My work  embodies the opposite of edgy and I have visited enough of the galleries in Los Angeles to see that my work does not come close to fitting in any of those venues. Although they might be the logical market for me, the type of outdoor art shows often done in parks would be far too rigorous an undertaking for me. The galleries in the nearest town are really co-ops. The artists pay for their space along with a commission to the gallery owners.

Both my partner and I felt that the gallery/co-ops weren't our cup of tea. My problem is that the bottom line costs pretty much go through the roof with that arrangement. Most of all, I know myself well enough to know that the predictability of First Friday every month would become routine for me and wear thin. Being in the same place month after month would cease to be fun and stimulating for me. Yes, I am undisciplined in some matters; but, at least,I have learned to face my quirks and work with them.

Although we weren't interested in pursuing the other local opportunities,  neither did the once-a-year Cultural Arts Spring Art Show satisfy our appetites. Ultimately, we decided to make our own opportunities. I am okay with having sold three pieces in three days of shows. My prices are reasonable (I think), but I definitely don't sell myself short. I figure my costs—minus labor, unfortunately, then multiply for a mark-up. I love sharing my work and want it to be accessible; but I am not going to pay people to take my work home with them.

As I had already mentioned, our operation is unsophisticated and not a high profit venture. Hmm. Sounds like me. I have never been in a high-profit business and unsophisticated certainly fits me, as well as the area we live in. In another location, I might do things differently. Who knows? So far, our venture has turned out well. Our "What's-next situation?" suits me. At least for now.

Where There's Smoke or If it Ain't One Thing....

No, it isn't a damp, foggy afternoon in sleepy little Bear Valley Springs. That haze is smoke from the Comanche fire to the west of us. This one has razed 15,000 acres already and, at 2:30 PM, it was 30% contained. We thought it had been wrapped up last night, but no such luck. By 10 PM last night, there were 50 fires burning in Kern County. Today, several are 80% contained, some 30%, and many we can't find figures on. The wind in our vally is still ESE, blowing against the fire. But, a few miles the other side of the ridge, the wind comes from the west. Tonight the wind here is supposed to switch around and come from the west. There wasn't much rain in our immediate area last night unfortunately, but the forecast offers hope once again: 30% chance of showers, tonight.

We are on Bear Valley Road and this afternoon I have watched bulldozers being hauled in, and fire engines rolling out with sirens blasting. Still, because I am not your intrepid reporter from channel whatever, I took this from the shelter on the safe side of my bathroom window. I am already breathing my allotment of smoke. You deserve a better photo since I chatter on about this, but chalk it up to lazy reporting. Hey, I am still worth every penny of my salary.

The Husband has sprinklers soaking the west side of the house. He is taking another load of lumber scraps to the dump. Is his work more than likely unnecessary? Yes. But, he takes this fire business seriously. (Not that I don't.) Not long after we met, many years ago, he faced a fire in Malibu Canyon fighting to save a house he had in the non-chic part of Malibu. More recently, he returned to help a friend and trailered horses out of that canyon during yet another fire—one that roared right down to the Pacific Coast Highway. He stood, on the beach, with horse owners trying to soothe their nervous and exhausted animals, while the flames danced just across 5 lanes of asphalt. He is not a man to take this lightly.

We hope our listeners will tune in the next few days for the latest on cute dogs and photos of flowers. Fashion stories and fishing news may be delayed, but we are looking forward to a moratorium on drama. Maybe a feature on square dancing, or a documentary on the latest Zumba workout videos. Sorry. No film at eleven.

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While I was proofing this, it began to rain. It is the most beautiful rain I have ever seen. If I could be tap dancing, I would out be there dancing and singing in that rain. The sun is still shining, so it will be a brief shower, but this stuff is wet! Wahoo!

Good News Update

Things are looking good at the moment. No flames licking up over that ridge to the northeast. The fire on the opposite side of the valley over the western ridge is still going, but it doesn't appear to have grown and the best part of all is that some of that early darkness was about rain clouds—I hadn't dared to hope. The wind, still coming from the SE, has picked up; but, it is pushing a slight sprinkle of rain. The wind is expected to shift a couple of times during the night. Who knows how many directions it may come from before it is over. 

It was lightning that set all this off, now we can hope that rain will help to tamp it down. I am pulling for enough rain to douse these things. The poor members of the Kern County Fire Department had just proclaimed the Canyon fire (the first one) 90% contained yesterday and they are back at it. They barely had time to catch their breath before starting on this round. For this many fires, they will have help coming from surrounding counties.

Galen has been jumpy all day. I knew something had changed a few minutes ago when he suddenly became agitated and let me know that I had to follow him.  I assumed he was ready for another opportunity to "tend to business", and I couldn't move quickly enough for him. He urged me to pick up the pace and was in full emergency mode by the time we hit the door. I thought I had come close to waiting too late. It turned out he must have smelled and sensed the change. We had to go outside and verify the rain. It was coming down harder—not just the sprinkles we had earlier. That calmed him down. No need for "business" after all. The rain lifted my spirits, too.

Here We Go Again

I fear that I will become known as the "drama queen", but as we shifted into gear this morning, we discovered another reminder that fire season has begun and with a vengeance, this year. Last night, we had thunderstorms with lightning strikes galore. At 6:30 AM, I took Galen out and admired the beautiful clouds and drank in some of that sweet mountain air. Within less than an hour this is what we discovered. This fire is, unfortunately northeast of us and the howling wind is coming from directly behind that fire. It turns out that we have forty, yes, you read that correctly 4 and 0 fires now burning in Kern County. What appears in the photo to be one fire (that is what we thought) is, by now, four fires, all moving west right for our valley. Thank goodness the winds are supposed to shift tonight. Forgive me for sounding shamefully selfish. I want the fire to be turned back on itself not on someone else.

By the time I am finishing this post—it has been a strange disjointed day—the smoke fills the valley. In spite of our tight windows it has seeped into the house. No more of that delicious and fresh mountain air. The Husband is mowing as fast as he can. He was checking the tractor manual a while ago. Maybe checking to see how long he can run it without wrecking the engine? I have no idea. I said a fond farewell to what was left of the daisies this morning. It was a small price to pay for a smidgen more peace of mind. It is eerily dark for 5:00 PM and not still. The wind blows and the those beautiful early autumn clouds are barely visible. The canopy that was full of promise this morning is smudged with a dirty gray.

The drama queen comment is heartfelt. It is odd that we have for long led such a humdrum existence—quiet little lives and certinly not of desperation. Then, suddenly, almost literally all hell breaks loose. I talk about these things because they are, after all, what is now and I ask you to please know that I am not whining, "poor me". We are not in any imminent danger, only alert. We are perfectly safe and sound. We have been extremely fortunate and relished a handsome share of good fortune. There are so many truly suffering today. But to some degree my blog is reporting on life in our little mountain valley—telling stories about what I see here. Therefore, this post isn't completely personal then, just reporting what I see and what little I know.  Sometimes we are swept along by currents we didn't prepare for. It keeps life interesting, but may I order some boredom, please? And another order to go, if you don't mind.

California Wild Fires—'Tis the Season

The sight strikes fear in the heart. While this fire is far enough from us to eliminate any need for panicked packing, it is a grim reminder that fire season is upon us. The rains last winter and spring produced a bumper crop of underbrush and there is ample fodder to turn one of these blazes into an inferno that could quickly consume thousands of acres. We are grateful for some routes that serve as emergency exits out of the valley, but pray we never have to try one—especially while hauling a horse trailer.  There are a number of planes in the air working on this, in addition to the manpower on the ground. We remain, as they say, "cautiously optimistic".

Celebrations and Nostalgia

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This post has nothing to do with photography—it is strictly personal and reaches into my recent past. But, since this is on my mind and I am in blabbermouth mode, I am not going to sit on it any longer.

On occasion, I have mentioned, here, that I taught film acting and ran an actors' studio in Los Angeles for three decades. Having been retired less than four years, I haven't yet fully completed my long period of mourning for what I gave up. I may have left the life behind, but it will always be a major part of who am I am and it will always occupy a large and special part of my heart.

So here is the story. You have probably heard of the new DreamWorks film, The Help, based, of course, on the runaway hit novel by the same name. Well, it happens that the screenplay writer and director of that film is one of my students and the actress, Octavia Spencer, who plays Minny, also studied with me. No doubt, you will hear a great deal more about these two in the months and years to come and every time they make the news, you can bet that I will be bursting with happiness for two exceptionally talented, hard-working people—two people I adore.

I loved teaching with a passion that was difficult to put aside. Life changes—even the good ones—can be painful. Every time that phone rings and it is an actor asking about coaching, I feel a little ache in my heart. I begin wondering, again, if leaving was a mistake and I have a day or two of wistful thinking about the joys of watching talent blossom.

But, that was another life in another place. Now, I am that retired teacher who basks in the pleasure of memories and celebrates the triumphs of my precious students from a distance. It was a gift to have witnessed the journey of so many talented individuals. They taught me so very much and I will always be grateful. People often ask me if I have any children. I frequently quip, "No, but I sure borrowed a bunch."

Making the Most of It

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I wonder if that is what is happening. Are many making the most of this waning summer? I know I become more conscious each day that this late arriving and much savored summer is coming to an end. The days are already shorter. The nights are cooler. Like the child out of school and dreading September, I want to hang onto each shred of my precious summer. The balmy evenings, the easy-going mornings enjoying the kinder summery breezes, even the cloudless skies have warmed my bones and brought a welcome relief from the long, cold, seemingly endless winter.

Yes, winter has its allure with bracing cold, crisp air; blankets of snow turning the simplest landscape into a wonderland; and cloud shows that provide inspiration for weeks to come. But, I never think to call winter charming or comforting. Spring invigorates me. Autumn makes me especially thoughtful. Summer calms me, bringing a kind of deep peace. Childhood memories? Probably.

These last few days are to be noted. Taken into account and stored in memory. I will need those images in my mind that first Autumn morning when there is ice where the daisies grew. Ah, well, each season has moments of being my favorite. For now, I am a summer girl through and through.

Wild Daisies

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The wild daisies are one of the reasons I love summers in Bear Valley Springs. I never tire of them. Yes, they are absent the refinements of so many other lovely flowers. And, the daisies certainly are neither fragile nor difficult to propagate. Far from possessing the mystery and delicacy of so many other blossoms, these common, wild things—weeds, really—dominate the landscape here by July. For weeks, they stand, merrily waving in the summer breeze, savoring the sunshine, and generously spreading their simple joy.

Let The Husband wage his relentless war against the mustard, if he must. But, woe be unto any who dare mow down all my daisies. Fortunately, we long ago negotiated peaceful co-existence: a portion of our landscape has been assigned to the daisies; the remainder is subject to the mower. As a result, all all is well with us, just as it is with the ever-cheerful daisies.

Broken Wings

If I walk out to the road and back, alone, the killdeer seems quite calm. Note seems. For all I know, her little heart is pounding frantically in her breast as she holds fast to guarding her precious charge. But, she doesn't budge off those eggs.

When, instead, it is a family walk—The Husband, Galen, and I, the story is quite different. Either mama or papa (we are never sure which) goes into the full protection mode. We see the apparently frantic bird skittering across the drive on those stilt-like legs toward the road or, sometimes, we are even treated to the "broken wing act".

Now, what predator could resist following an injured bird hoping, any moment, to pounce on the seemingly helpless prey that pathetically flails just ahead of you? Of course, as you follow the lure, you are being taken ever further from the fragile eggs. (We tread carefully and if the silly bird begins to approach the road, we turn back. We don't want her to dash out into the road and we don't want the eggs left unprotected for long.) Whatever the path of supposed pursuit, when you, the predator, have traveled a safe distance from the nest, the bird is miraculously healed and soars back over your head to the eggs.

We had not seen a killdeer nest on our place until this year. I suspect that they were drawn by the puddles in the circle portion of our driveway. Those puddles threatened to never dry. Because there are plenty of predators around here, I have been concerned from the beginning about the chances of ever seeing killdeer chicks. More recently, I am most concerned that these eggs are never going to hatch and the poor bird will not have her babies this summer.

I did a bit of reading and learned that killdeer chicks remain in the egg longer than most bird species and neither of us can remember exactly when The Husband first spotted the eggs. Meanwhile, The Husband has blocked off the circle so a visitor will not clumsily roll their vehicle over the beautifully camouflaged eggs. We are holding out hope for a little longer. However, we are certain that mama is rapidly running out of time. Nature is full of harsh lessons and disappointments. In spite of the sadness I fear for the expectant mother, I have enjoyed having our very own killdeer educating and delighting us on almost a daily basis.

Note: This post was scheduled for publication Monday morning. During Sunday evening's family walk, we noticed that both mother and father killdeer were in attendance. Mama seemed unwilling to leave the nest to lure us away from her eggs and Dad, instead, was handling guard duty. Hmm. That has not always been the case. Then, on a slight detour from our usual path, we found what was apparently one of the precious eggs, far from the nest. Panic. We had just seen a hawk close by only moments before.

The Husband marked the location of the egg so we wouldn't step on it while I went back to check the nest and see if, indeed, an egg was missing. Mom stood inches away from the nest, but was doing her best to lure me away. Dad came back to pitch in. There were eggs missing all right. And, in their place there were fuzzy little creatures in the nest. I didn't want to get too close for a good look at the newborns. But, I smiled and celebrated all the way back into the house. Mama killdeer knows how to play bird with a broken wing, but she won't have a broken heart. (Yes, I know birds don't have broken hearts; but, hey, that is part of me that is still a girl.)

Getting My Ducks in a Row

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Several days ago, we went down to Cub Lake to take ourselves and Galen for a walk. The ducks with their new chicks were the bonus for our effort. It was my first time in weeks to carry a DSLR outside the house and I felt I could only manage the 24-105 mm lens for any length of time. The result was that I had to crop these like crazy. Nevertheless, it surely felt good to have a camera in my hand. 

The brief outing whetted my appetite. The deer are moving about in the valley—mamas with their babies also; some hawks have been hunting in the field west of the house. It is time to be out and about with a telephoto lens.

I should be safe driving by the end of next week—the incision at the top of the palm is markedly improved and the thumb is doing rather well—working on strength and flexibility. Between the creatures close to the house and being able to wander around in the valley, I have hopes of some local exploration.

In the meantime, I am simply enjoying the fact that we are finally into a kind of Spring here. After a brief spate of hot weather, we are back into a cooling trend and, supposedly, we will see the upper 70's during this next week.

Her Evening Stroll

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She appeared to be aware of me on the other side of the glass, but certainly not in a panic. Instead, she stood calmly for a few seconds watching, listening, testing the wind and did all this with the fading evening light in the eye closest to me. I dared not move, standing there in the bedroom looking through the window. It was a sweet moment to savor. Yet, it was a brief one and she was long gone before I had had my fill of the visit.

We don't see many deer close to our house these days. I remember how ecstatic I was the first time a doe wandered almost onto our porch. But, that was in the days before we moved in and the house had sat empty while we stayed in Los Angeles trying to sell the property there. After moving in fences, horses, and even a dog with a bark that can split atoms, plus all the human smells with which we litter our little landscape, the deer mostly keep their distance as long as there is light. They still roam close to the house during the night. We know about their nocturnal visits by the look of the plants out front.

A Work Report Postponed

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For the last several days I have been in a frenzy of matting and framing prints for that next project I mentioned. There will be chatter about all that soon. I have been busy and distracted, but good busy. By the first week in May, I will have a new display of work up in town and got the good news yesterday that another piece in that location sold.

Now, however, there is another distraction to deal with. The Husband's surgery is nearly upon us and, of course, there are still dozens of things to do before the big day. I am already pooped.

I am far more anxious than I was before either of my recent surgeries. After all, I had The Husband to take care of me. Now, he is stuck with me as caretaker. I can't compete, but will give it my all.

Galen is on several medications for what appears to an allergic reaction. That stinks. Poor little guy is being a champ about it. Chores are piled up. Life is more hectic than usual.

Winter just won't go away here. We have had a great deal of fog. (See above.) Lots of cold and windy days. But, skies beautiful enough to bring tears to your eyes on many days, and there are hints of Spring. Eventually.

Updates will come in a few days. In the meantime, I hope all of those struggling with spring allergies get some relief soon.

Reflections on the BVS Annual Art Show

(The "bigger, better" version, in this case, has a haloing and banding that stinks and wasn't on the print. If you can overlook that, you will have an idea of what the print looked like)

Saturday's forecast had called for a high of 69 degrees—balmy by our recent standards, and no rain in sight. That was promising. It was looking as if we would have a great day for a party and an art show. Sure enough the sun come came out bright and clear—not one of those gray mornings that have been the norm lately.

The Husband got ahead of me and placed all five of my pieces in the back of the car and we took off before 8:30 AM to deliver everything to the country club. Before we could get everything out of the back of the car, there was a friendly greeter out to meet us and offering to carry anything inside for us. Our greeter was a friendly face from two years ago, a fellow photographer who had been extremely kind and encouraging to me. Another good sign for the occasion. 

Inside, all was abuzz with activity. There were stations for checking in where workers attached official labels to the bottoms of the art, then "hangers" who quickly and efficiently grabbed up the work to hang it on available wall space. Everything appeared to be humming along smoothly.

My work aroused a bit of curiosity at the check-in area. That's not surprising, since there are far more painters involved in the event than photographers, my process as well as mediums evoked a few questions. The pieces all looked sort of like photographs, but not exactly, and that brought up a number of inquiries. The metal, canvas, and metallic paper brought up questions about "how I did it". The piece that garnered the most questions, not surprisingly, was the one on metal. I was told that one of the men working the show commented, "If that one doesn't sell, I'll eat my hat." Goodness knows, I didn't want the man eating a hat! I needed a sale.

After a brief visit with a few people we recognized and some embarrassingly lame attempts on my part to answer questions, we left the working staff to finish their job and headed back home. There was a nice break for a rest, lunch, and then time to get back for the reception. I didn't want to miss a moment of the party.

We got there about five minutes after the doors were to officially open, but there was already quite a crowd munching on hors d'oeuvres and sipping wine. I collected my name tag. It announced "Artist" in bold letters under my name and made me feel a bit self-conscious. Maybe "Contributor" would have been easier to handle, I thought to myself. But there wasn't time for reflection. The big lobby was already noisy, there was a constant hum of chatter and people moving about. As time went on, I heard more than once that some of the missing husbands were "in the bar, having a 'real' drink." Perhaps the getting dressed up had been a bit too much for a few of the guys. The mood was upbeat and the energy level was high. 

The walls of the club lobby were covered with art work. I know I will have to go back one day this week to really take it all in. Yesterday there was simply too much noise and too many people to really see more than a handful of pieces.

Wherever I was I could see that there were usually two to six people looking at my little portion of the east wall. That east wall placement proved to be a major asset. Early on, I was at the back of the hall encouraging a bright-eyed young woman who enthusiastically confided that she was participating in her very first show ever. Later, making my way back toward the entrance, I stopped off to admire the drawings of a new friend. While she complained that she didn't have any really new work for this show, I marveled at her skill in depicting the life in her subjects' eyes.

As I had begun my return from the back of the hall, I had noticed a middle-aged blond woman accompanied by an older woman looking at my work. By the time I left my friend, still unconvinced that her gift is in capturing eyes, I registered that those two women were still in that same spot and became curious about their interest in my pieces. 

It turned out the younger woman had fallen for the largest print in my group—the photo of our chestnut, Lancer (the picture above, but without that nasty banding you will see in the larger jpeg). They asked questions about creative process that I didn't have good answers for. I felt more stupid than ever. How do I know why I added the golden glow to the dust at the horse's feet in that one image? In spite of my lame answers, the daughter was convinced that she had to have the 20x26 framed piece. The mother, however, was certain that her daughter didn't have room. I could feel a potential sale slipping away.

While I caught a glimpse now and then of "the one that got away", M (the artist who knows how to draw eyes) began selling my piece on metal. I was amazed. I couldn't have hired a better advocate. She was collaring friends and acquaintances and dragging them to vantage points to take in the effect of late afternoon light bouncing off the metal. Before I knew what hit me, M had sold the piece and the red dot denoting "sold" went up on the label for that piece. Whew! She was a force to be reckoned with. I want to take her with me every time I try to sell anything!

By the time that sale was concluded, I was feeling pretty good about the show—except for my back and feet, that is. Then, I got a new burst of energy. The woman with the blond braid down her back who had been admiring my large print was back, standing in her place once again, square in front of the piece, no one else around her, and glued to that image.  Maybe..., I thought, just maybe, and made a beeline for her. I wanted to be nearby in case she had any questions, and I guess my timing was good. She turned to me as soon as I neared and said, "I'm going to buy your horse!" Well, that was fine by me.

I left the club exhausted, hungry, and elated. But the best part was still to come. My back had barely survived the test and when home, I took time out only for a greeting for Galen then headed for my closet to change into pj's. I knew I was done for the day. Yes, I would be sitting upright for a while, but I would be totally useless the rest of the evening. When I emerged from the closet, comfy, and ready for relaxation, something out of place caught my eye. While I was in my exhausted stupor, The Husband had snagged my "Artist" label off my sweater and stuck it at eye level on the mirror above my sink. See why I think he's so special? I couldn't have asked for anything sweeter to wrap up the day.