Shaveart

Parents

shaveart — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 05:19:19 +0000

Everyone has them. They are always older than we are. They are usually smarter than we are, and if you are lucky like my brothers, sisters, and I are, you have great ones that are still around and even married after 60 years. My parents, had 5 children, 2 boys and 3 girls. I am the oldest, and I want to take this time to congratulate them for their accomplishments as husband and wife, and as wonderful parents.

To recall childhood memories of things about growing up with these parents, and in such a wonderful family is such a gift. I cherish these things that I lived as a child who was loved and protected.

I am about 4 years old and my lovely mother is standing at the kitchen sink in her spike high heels and dress in about 1956, in our kitchen on Grand Island, New York, and she is harmonizing in her beautiful voice to music on a radio as she washes the dishes. It is one of the moments in my early childhood, I can never forget. After dinner, my Dad, always with his pipe, tamping and puffing away, would head to the baby grand piano in the living room for an evening concert, playing a wonderful haunting melody as we children played games. The fireplace often had a fire in it in the wintertime and I remember watching the Ed Sullivan Show, Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, and Mickey Mouse on the console television. Before we would be sent to bed at night, Mom would march us over to Dad’s chair and have each one of us give him a kiss on the cheek, goodnight.

In the long winters, the lake effect snow in upstate New York would pile up around us on Grand Island, but my mother would bundle us up until we could barely move, and send us outdoors in the bright sunlight reflecting on the snow to play. When we walked the swish, swish, swish sound that our snowsuits made as we walked into the freshly fallen snow, was the only sound we could hear. We would carefully fall backwards to make snow angels before we would jump back up again and race to grab the sled and flying saucers and slide down the small hill in the backyard over and over again. When we finally came in soaking wet, our fingers and toes numb to the bone, dinner was always ready, Chicken and dumplings, spaghetti and meatballs, goulash, meatloaf, stuffed peppers, and wonderful cloud (tapioca) for dessert were just some of the delicious meals our mother would prepare for us.

In the summertime the surrey with the fringe on top was motorized, and my younger brother would give us rides. Once we had bicycles we would ride them to our friends houses all summer long. On summer evenings, he would play “You are my Sunshine” on the ukulele we had, and we would all sing along and harmonize together. Parcheesi games, zilch, monopoly and rummy are just a few of the games we enjoyed playing. In the summertime dinner was cooked on the grill, shish-kabobs, hot dogs and hamburgers. For breakfast, I loved the cream of wheat; Frosted Flakes; toast with butter, cinnamon and sugar; pancakes; and fried eggs and bacon. Lunch was always delicious, fried baloney with mustard; American cheese on bread, toasted until puffy and golden brown; thuringer sandwiches; fluffernutters; bananas with peanut butter; saltines with butter and sugar; popcorn, and sometimes even root beer floats.

In the fall, we would all get in the car and Dad would drive us all out into the country so we could see the beautiful fall colors of all the trees. We would stop and have a picnic with concord grapes and fresh Macintosh Apples purchased along the roadside. Any remarks like, “she’s touching me again!” from one of us in the back seat, were always met with a look from Mom that told us that we better not do whatever we were doing, or else!

Dad would take us for speed boat rides on the great Niagara River, dodging the other boats and hitting those giant waves until you felt like you were going to bounce right out of the boat.

So many memories of my childhood I cherish. I would like to let those two wonderful, hardworking, loving, creative people know, that everything you did for us, is appreciated, and I think we had a pretty great time!

Thank you, my parents.

What if

shaveart — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 15:36:53 +0000

I thought I knew something that could help the people I cherish in this life, but I became so sure that no one would listen to me that silence became my friend. That knowledge has continually faded from my memory until only a cold whisper remains when the sad news comes that another one is getting ready to go, or another leaving has just happened.

I want to exclaim, “this is not the last time we will be together! THIS is the illusion!”

An ending becomes an opportunity to add to the story and give hope.

Fear does amazing things to me. It stops me in my tracks. It makes me forget what I know, who I am, where I am from, and even where I am going. I have read, studied and listened my whole life, searching for truth. When I first immersed myself in the knowledge, the intense feeling of uplifting, with all its necessity, was so full of truth, that nothing could possibly diminish it. Everything was different. All my questions, answered. When something speaks of it now, my soul still resonates with it. I know I will never forget entirely. The knowing will be there when I least expect it. Shinning like the morning sun, and enfolding me like a warm blanket of love in all the sunrises and sunsets of my life. It lives in me, waiting to be recognized until I feel its guidance once again.

Sharing it is my challenge.

I wish everyone who reads these words a very happy, prosperous, healthy, new year.

What if this is only a brief moment in our journey of who we are to become?

Walk with me, the best is yet to be.

The Unseen Ones

shaveart — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 17:52:26 +0000

Walking into the Hollow this late fall morning I notice the silence. No leaves rustling or crickets singing, not a sound. Hiking the leaf strewn path alone, up the short incline that leads into the woods, I stop, turn around, and look back at the view. Steep moss-covered rocks grace both sides of the entrance to the hollow where I had entered. The sunlight glistens on the colorful wet leaves that have fallen into the creek, and this all has given me the strange knowing I get when I have found the place to paint my next painting. I can already see it completed. I set down my backpack filled with my painting supplies, set up my easel, attach my 16″x20″ linen canvas, squeeze large amounts of oil paint from tubes onto my palette, and grab my widest painting knives to quickly lay-in my new composition. I glanced at the time, 11:31am November 7th, 2011. The time changed yesterday, and the Hollow already looks different today than it did the last week I was here.

Time and place mean nothing to me. I will carry out what I came here to do. Capture this moment, and light, in a place called Taylor Hollow. I try not to think about how long it will take me. This is automatic to me now. I remember to take a time to make the internal connection with the unseen ones, who I know are always with me, and ask for their guidance when I am working. If I forget them, especially when I get frustrated and feel as if I am making a big mess, not a great painting, I stop again, and think for a moment about them surrounding me, waiting to help. They always can calm me if I will let them. All my fear slips away, I hear them whispering to me, “Just keep working Sharon!” I have noticed when they are talking to me, they always use my name.

There, I am finished. Anymore time spent will be overworking it. Knowing when to stop is crucial to a successful painting. Check the time again. 12:40pm November 7th, 2011. I pack up my things, carefully put my heavy backpack on my back, and put my easel over my shoulder. In one hand I carry my palette, and in the other hand, I carry the just completed very wet painting. I begin my long hike back out of the Hollow. Carefully stepping so not to slip on the wet rocks. I pause for a moment, turn back to look at the spot where I had just been, listening, to the still silence in the dappled sunlit place I have been so busy at work in, and suddenly a question pops into my mind. “What will be the legacy of your life?” For a moment my emotions well up inside of me, as extreme feelings of unworthiness, inadequacy, and impatience with myself, fill my thoughts. Tears well up in my eyes, but before I have too much time to wallow in circumspection, a very interesting, large, grey-brown squirrel with a white face and ears, not noticing me at all, walks right across the very spot where I had just spent the last hour working very hard on this painting.

I watch as he continues on his way, as I too now will do, taking with me yet another interpretation of this place Taylor Hollow, his home.

Last week the colors of the leaves were much brighter, and there were many more of them still attached to the trees. This painting, was from the same spot in the creek, but I was looking in the opposite direction as the other two paintings.

My studio is going to be on the Sumner County Studio Tour December 10th and 11th 2012 the link is http://sumnercountystudiotour.com.

Please let me know if you read my blog or would like to be on my announcements list. I am planning trips to Ireland and France for Artists, Writers, and Explorers in 2012, and I would love for you to join me!

A Short Story, No One Will Ever Know

shaveart — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 21:31:54 +0000

The old woman’s steel grey eyes did not give any clues as to what was wrong. In her tiny, transparent, fragile hands, she clutched a crystal crucifix, attached to a string of tiny white pearls. She gently touched each one as her thin lips quietly whispered the prayers of the Holy Rosary. Forgiveness of oneself is much too difficult. Focus on the beads Agnes, repeat over and over the poetry drills of redemption, from your youth. This always gave her spirit rest. No one will know. No one will ever know.

Photo; Copyright 2011

Born at the turn of the century in a large northeast city bordering the Great Lakes, her mother was a controlling, upwardly seeking, jealous, religious, woman and Agnes was her only child. Her kind, loving father worked for the railroad and his beautiful, shy daughter was the love of his life. He doted on his only child, spending as much time as he possibly could with her, but his wife’s jealousy of the special relationship the two had, was something she became unable to control. She would do anything to make her daughter unhappy. Creating reasons for her to not see him became her mission. “You will take lessons Agnes, your piano teacher arrives tomorrow.” How quickly she became accomplished at whatever her mother asked her to do. This made her mother more angry and controlling. Her mother eyed the local convent for Agnes to aspire to. Her cousin had chosen the path to become a devout Catholic Nun, and with the continual prodding of her mother, Agnes too had thoughts of joining the order. Religious study for Agnes, however, made her realize that there would be so many changes in her life, and she had blossomed into a beautiful, dark-haired, petite young woman of 16. That year she met, fell in love, and embraced with abandonment a handsome young man, and in an afternoon of youth filled passion, completely forgot herself, along with all the mores of maternal criticism and fear that had always ruled her life.

No one will ever know. Taken to a remote location outside of the city, Agnes spent the next six months in reflection and prayer. “A woman at the church, with other young children has agreed to take the child, and raise the girl as one of her own. No one, including the child will ever know you are her mother.” At the time, this seemed a horrible way to continue living, however, she would still be able to watch her child from a distance, as long as she would never speak of it. The domination by her own mother overwhelmed her, and her fears, compounded by the religious teachings of a lifetime, made her accept the one thing that even 93 years of life would not cleanse from her memory. No other children were ever born to her, and the unspoken acceptance of internal guilt, was the only way, with her religious, fear based, upbringing, to keep on living. The hidden secret of a lifetime.

Alone, in an elder facility home. Forgetting who you really are, and what you have experienced is impossible. All life’s secrets come to dwell with you. The child matured, became a young mother herself, and as your friend, shared many of her happiest moments with you. She was always your young friend. You could never tell her who you really were to her. Could she have known? She visited you almost every year, driving or flying miles to spend a weekend or whole week with you playing your favorite games, taking you for drives and walks. Being a dear friend to you.

I still remember the day you told me you wished you had your own daughter. To me, you were always my grandmother. When my Grandfather married you, I was only 8 years old. You taught me to knit, cook, plant roses, and how to enjoy afternoon tea. A late whisper by my Grandfather, told me that there had long ago been a rumor that the woman who was your good friend was really your daughter. I questioned it in my mind, but could never speak of it to you. Once Grandfather had died, I visited you regularly in the old folks home where you did not want to be. You had reached the end of a life you no longer wanted to live. Somewhere in your life the lies became so real that living seemed much worse than death and forgetting forever. Going through photographs that you had saved one day, with you, I remember my shock at seeing the photograph of your friend that told me the truth, that she indeed was your daughter. My eyes as an artist saw the photo and I knew, I saw you. The resemblance, as I remembered you at a younger age, was, for me, the answer to why for all the years I had known you, there had always been a strange pushing away of those who loved you, and an unspoken anguish to your spirit. I suddenly felt such sadness well up inside of me for you both. How could you possibly hide that wonderful truth till death?

When they found Agnes on a cold winter day outside of the facility, having tripped, fallen, broken her hip, and on the ground shaking, dressed in her good clothes, hat, and holding her empty purse on that very dark night, she told the nurses who found her she was on her way to visit her good friend in the Northeast.

Her wonderful friend.

Her only child.

To say goodbye?

We will never know. She died a few days later, at age 93.

No one will ever know.

They say that at this time of year the spirits of those we have loved come close. I honor you, and wish you well on your continued journey.

Join me in traveling to France next June and Ireland in September! Artists, Writers, and Explorer Excursions 2012

Power Drills and Cigarettes

shaveart — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 19:42:01 +0000

“Why in the world is that very tan young woman in cobalt blue, short-shorts with canary yellow, tank-top drilling holes in the sand on this beach with a power drill and long attachment?” I ask myself. The Hilton Resort in Sandestin, Florida is where white sand beaches with clear Gulf of Mexico azure blue water are just beyond all of the tall buildings lining the coastline of this well-appointed resort. Tan stucco, with red tile roofs, and landscaped grounds that are designed to impress, are off in the distance as you enter past the gate houses. The golf course winds its way along the road, with inland lakes and large fountain sprays in each. Across Route 98 there is an interesting artificial village called Baytown, with restaurants, bars and shops, all vying for your attention, located by passing through the uniform attended guard gates and is owned and operated by the resort. It has a Key West feel to it with live music coming from all different areas of this fabricated-village that sits at the edge of a small harbor. The nightlife there is fun and lively. Dueling pianos, thumping hard rock, classic rock, all at a variety of authentic-looking places to make you forget who and where you are. Vacationers and corporate executives share in the excitement of buying expensive drinks and a variety of food, as they run tabs that no one seems to have a limit on. It reminded me of the Holodeck on Star Trek.

Early every morning I would get up and ride my 30-year-old, slightly-rusty, dark green, Free Spirit bicycle with a large wicker basket on the front, past the golf course and tall buildings, park in the bike park in front of the Hilton Hotel, and walk down the narrow boardwalk that led down to the beach. Very few people are there, just a few walkers like me. The water is calm and the air is fresh. Before I head back to my bike, I talked to the very tan, handsome, shirtless, young man as he has started using his power drill in the sand to put Dark French Ultramarine blue umbrellas in a perfect row. He tells me I will be able to use one of them to give me the shade I will need to do a painting later that day. I was ready to set up that afternoon, and I did three different ones last week while I was there.

It was a dark night on the road heading to Grayton Beach when we decided to go to a local bar a few miles from the Sandestin Resort. Small, one story, old, white-washed wood, beach bungalows, line the sand-covered narrow streets. The Red Bar was crowded this Wednesday evening. An Elvis impersonator was performing and the locals were ready to party. Why did I want a cigarette? I don’t smoke, but I asked a young woman standing outside, smoking with some friends, if I could have one of her cigarettes. She smiled at me, and said “Sure.” and then took one out of her purse and gave me a light. I took a long draw on it, only into my mouth, tasting the hot smoke, and quickly blew it back out, continually puffing away until it was down to just the filter. I now had new friends. They offered to buy me a shot of Patron Tequila to go with my smoking. Here I go again. Sometimes I am faced with an image of myself that makes me want to close my eyes, but suddenly I open them wide anyway, and stare right back at me doing things I would never normally do. Elvis has begun sounding more like himself. I, on the other hand, am now someone I have just recently met, and would like to get to know better. Who is that woman, smoking a cigarette, drinking a shot of Patron Tequila, and moving her hips dancing to Elvis in an old Grayton Beach, Florida beach bar? I will never forget her.

I invite you to travel with me to France next June. Click on the masthead at the top for links to the itinerary, or go directly to my website below, I look forward to sharing one of these trips I take with you!

Large A.. White Rabbits

shaveart — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 20:23:43 +0000

Ignoring Large A.. White Rabbits with timepieces dangling from their waists is a bit of a challenge, but with willpower and tenacity it can be done. Hurry, move more quickly, talk faster, don’t waste time, run as fast as you can, as the hours, days and years of life march ever onward. I am a clock watcher, even at night I wake up and try to focus in the dim light on any clock. Thoughts of having inadequate time have been with me since I was a child. I have always felt hurried. Recently, I started using my thought power to change my feeling that there was a lack of time, by constantly affirming there is plenty of it. That seems to be helping. I don’t let myself agonize about how fast time is going, I just repeat over and over to myself, “I have plenty of time.” That seems to work most of the time. Except when I am driving. That is when an entire army of Large A.. White Rabbits are running around with clocks dangling pointing at them. Doesn’t anyone else notice them? “Oh please, can you go a little faster you sweet, grey haired, elderly person in the sedan in front of me?” I say that only to myself, because… I stumbled on another pain in the A.., Rabbit.

But listen to this. It is that Mad Hatter that really gets to me. Are we smiling? Always smiling. Always in a hat? Yes always. Tea? Yes, always tea. Parties? Oh yes, lots more parties, please. Can we all dance wildly with total abandon around a huge table outdoors? Yes! Now that is what makes this a party! Then there is that other important subject of interest that really gets me going, and I begin to think out loud, “What is the proper attire, apparel, garb, get-up, costume for this party called life? Long-flowing, short-sassy, cropped, tucked, loose, the rules are endless and self-imposed. Will someone tell us when we should stop wearing those? Now, that would be helpful. Surely gloves are always needed, are they not? Please, do tell, shoes or boots? Which are most appropriate? God help us. Will someone please give me back my hat! Hair does not matter at all anymore and hats do amazing things for everyone! Don’t forget your silk scarves wound delicately around the neck, perfectly tied, of course. Where are those wonderful red spectacles? They are the only ones that allow you to see that cute little door mouse that is sound asleep in the corner waiting for the party to begin.”

You may be wondering what has brought me to talk about Alice’s interesting imaginary friends. I recently saw the film by director Tim Burton ”Alice in Wonderland“

Which got me thinking about fairy tales. I love the creative way they mirror our lives.

Looking closely, they can show us the absurdity of our inner selves because that is who we believe we are. We drift from thought to thought rarely taking control of the power that is always with us, that we can easily use if we choose to control those mindless wanderings of thought that take us places where we should never go. We encounter fleeting glimpses of something very real that can help guide us, and then it vanishes from our awareness through our inability to let go of all those moments that are in our past, that should be forgiven and forgotten. They obscure our path, like the bramble that has grown out of control, temporarily blocking our way, until we turn around, and leave it behind, never to return this way again. There is so much in my own life to let go of. I keep running back to some of my worst thoughts, like they are such an important part of me, but in reality they are not me at all, they are only memories that will get farther away, if I would only let them go, fading into the mists of time. Listening to that gentle inner voice, guiding me in brilliant ways to journey down freshly discovered paths toward creative gifts that are mine alone to share. Could it be that in controlling our thoughts, by not letting past, negative, fearful, and worrisome thoughts crowd us, we can all become the glorious creatures we are meant to be, in spite of our past? I like the idea and I am going to run with it. Now, if I can just stop seeing Large A.. White Rabbits with clocks while I am driving…

I will be taking a group to join me in Ireland and France next year, please let me know if you would like to join me on one of the next Artists, Writers, and Explorer Excursions of creativity and discovery.

Hot and Dry/Cool and Wet

shaveart — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 20:12:04 +0000

Where are the thunder showers the weather scientists keep predicting? I will not go outside in this unrelenting sunshine today. My sunglasses are surely not dark enough to protect my eyes from those blasting UV rays reflecting off absolutely everything. Walking slowly outside in the morning before the sun is very high, I try to remember what it is like to have a cool, damp, dark, rainy day, when the moisture in the air is glistening on every surface. The drought this summer seems much longer than last years midsummer annual drought. The lawn, that normally needs mowing, weed-eating and trimming every week, is no longer green. It is bleached almost white from the sun and crunchy sounding when you walk on it, no more mowing is needed. This area of Tennessee has a lot of rock and not much topsoil. Once that porous limestone underneath that smidgen of dirt heats up, without any rain or cloudy days to cool it, all the lawns, beautiful gardens, and trees, bleach and dry up until it looks more like Arizona than Tennessee.

When I am not painting, taking people on tours to far off lands, or writing, I try to grow things. No matter where I have lived, I have always had plants to care for. Leaving my home state and moving to Cape Cod in my wonderful old ’65 Chevy Impala in 1979, my car looked like a terrarium as I was going down the road. I could barely see to drive. Every plant from my apartment came right along with me. To this day, living again in this beautiful state of Tennessee, when spring arrives I jump at the challenge of planting an outdoor garden.

I don a brand new pair of gardening gloves, a very special pair of gardening shoes, a large brimmed hat and get ready to run the race of creating color in places where none remains from the year before. Always an optimist, I work excitedly in my gardens, planning all the places for beautiful things to grow, working with my hands until they are calloused, my nails are nubs, and my back is so sore I can barely stand back up again from being stooped over digging and planting all day. Only now does my enthusiasm begin to wane. Late summer hot and dry. At least my hands are clean, my nails look better and my back is no longer aching. Even though my gardens have shriveled once again, I know that when the cool fall winds begin to blow in the next few weeks, I will be shopping again for sales on flower bulbs to plant for beautiful blooms next spring. Optimism. Such a great thing. Looking ahead with a light heart expectant of a much rainier tomorrow.

This past week, I was remembering the way the sun glows when it shines through all that moisture in the air that I saw this past spring while visiting that very wet, waterlogged country of Ireland. Travel memories help refresh my thoughts and sweep those incessant dry, dusty, cobwebs of thought from my mind. I was standing in the Castle Pub, early evening all alone.

After a long day of intermittent rain and sun, typical for Ireland, the sun had burst through the clouds over the river and was glistening on the single lane road that winds up to the Castle. Suddenly, I noticed in the afternoon light, trotting with the sun at their backs, was a small group of tenacious individuals who were riding horses in the rain. The golden glow of the sun on their backs and the color being created for that moment was just magnificent! I stood there knowing it was a moment in time I would cherish in my mind’s eye for many years to come. It was breathtaking as Ireland often is, when the sun shines through the clouds at the end of the day. When I did these two paintings recently of that evening, I painted them very small, as sketches for larger paintings. If you would like to see the paintings when I have completed the large studio works, drop me an email and I will send you a copy of them.

I will be conducting more tours for Artists, Writers, and Explorers next spring and fall. There will be opportunities for all sorts of creative expression and exploration in some of the most beautiful locations in the world. Join me in France next June and Ireland next fall!

Ireland Paintings

shaveart — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 16:43:23 +0000

The crowded streets of the village made me want to find a quiet safe haven for a few moments. Lucky I was to stumble upon this old brightly painted store front right off the main road with interesting old things in the window case. Hurrying into the crowded antique shop in Ennis, County Clare, I heard the sound of hundreds of antique clocks ticking away. They were reminding me that I really did not have much time on this visit to linger as long as I would have liked to. I could have spent hours looking closely at all the musty, dusty, old things that were once possessions of people long ago, imagining stories hidden, on this place called Ireland. The history of Ireland and its first place award for collecting things for posterity was very well represented by this shop, with a multitude of old, rusty, worn, curiosities. Every nook and cranny was so filled, your eyes could not help but wander from the very top of the ceiling to the bottom of the floor, where precious objects were hidden and piled on top of one another haphazardly, and it all seemed to never have an end. Classical paintings done on wooden boards, beautiful violins missing their strings, swords, ornately carved furniture full to the brim with tiny glass objects, time instruments of all sorts now stroking another hour, reminding me to not dilly dally, and lots of porcelain glass dogs. So many porcelain glass dogs that I asked the proprietor what were they for? “Everyone collected those years ago.” he told me,”and now they are quite valuable.” The proprietor looked as if he had just came out of a Harry Potter novel. Well dressed, kind eyes, ready to help. I asked how long he had been in business and he said, “Much, much, too long.” then I asked if I could photograph him and he looked down at his book and said, “You may.”

From that short visit this spring I did this painting of him.

Traveling the back roads one day as we drove through the lush countryside, on narrow lanes, trying to remember to hug the left side of the road with our car, we came upon some men out walking dogs. I hollered for my husband to please stop! I need to talk to them! He argued that I should not bother them, but I insisted.

The large dogs were race hounds. Very intelligent looking animals. When I walked up I asked the kind looking gentleman if I could take a photograph of them with their dogs. I was so happy they agreed. You could see the pride in their eyes for the animals they owned. The older man with his cute little dog, reminded me of how sometimes people start to look a little like their pets. His small fluffy dog was very similar to the porcelain ones I had just seen hundreds of in the antique shop! Kind, lovable, and very Irish.

I did this painting from the photos I took that afternoon.

The Movie “Chocolat” France 2012

shaveart — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 19:20:00 +0000

A stranger and her daughter arrive in the French village on a windy day, their bright, red, hooded cloaks billowing in the strong winds. Vianne (Juliette Binoche- English Patient) has come to this place to begin again. She knows what she is looking for and on finding it, a dusty old building in the center of the village, a friendship with the owner (Judy Dench-Shakespeare in Love)begins. The villagers are steeped in tradition, ruled by the church, and the local priest warns everyone to stay away from the new chocolate shop. Vianne brought a few precious objects from her past in a large, old, brown suitcase. The day she opened her chocolate shop she brought out an interesting object and sat it on the counter and spun it, “What do you see in it?” she asked her first customer. The response was her clue, an aid to give her insight into the small village and its people.

Handsome Roux (Johnny Depp-Pirates of the Carribean) arrives on the river that flows close to the town. Traveling from place to place on river barges is a way of life for him, and he takes his time when he encounters Vianne. The desires of young and old in this movie are such fun to watch, but I don’t want to ruin it for you. Suggestion: Take your TV or monitor outside on a warm summer evening, put in the DVD of the movie, have some popcorn, with those wonderful things called Sno Caps, my favorite movie candy.

The village where this movie was filmed is called Beynac, France. It is only few miles from where the next Artists, Writers and Explorer Excursions are going next June. One of the best ways to view this and many of the other villages is by boat, and they have a rental close by for drifting down the Dordogne river so that you can glide gently past towns like Beynac (one of Frances most beautiful villages) and La- Roque-Gageac- a village that has a most dramatic setting situated right beside the river built into a cliff face.

This past weekend we took our boat, a type of canoe on the Piney Creek in Tennessee. It is amazing to me how much getting into a boat and viewing the world from the water changes your perception. Gliding silently along, you hear and see birds, snakes, fish and other wildlife that you would never encounter except on these narrow waterways winding through rural areas. Throughout the world people have always traveled from place to place this way. When the world around is reflected in the water, the golden sunlight glistens and dances on everything. Summertime, what a wonderful time of the year!

For a preview of the Excursion, click on France 2012 link at the top of this blog. If you are interested in joining us on this incredible journey to France, send your email address and you will receive the complete itinerary. If you know someone who may want to join us, click on one of the share tabs on the bottom of the preview. It is going to be an amazing journey of adventure, with a bit of luxury.

Travel to Ireland

shaveart — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 02:25:37 +0000

There she was. Just a whisper of a person. Her large dark eyes, took me by surprise. So tall, thin and fluid looking that it seemed as if she could morph into a reptile of some kind. But no, I am in Ireland, there are no snakes located anywhere on the Isle. There I was enjoying my first pint of Guinness in one of the oldest Pubs in Dublin. Not the kind of place where you think you will see one of those interesting creatures of tale and lore called a waif. I walked quickly, hoping to catch another glimpse of something that only I seemed to be noticing. Then, I chanced to look down at her feet. Yes! I now was positive what I was seeing was real. They were completely bare. No shoes of any kind. Thin, fragile legs stopping at feet so pale and moving in such a way she appeared to be dancing. It was very cold outside in the bustling city. It stayed in the 50′s most of the time while I was in Ireland. I wore tall boots and wool sweaters of some kind everyday I was there. Now I had the assurance I needed. I don’t think that anyone goes in a crowded Irish pub in the middle of a most metropolitan city in Europe during rush hour on a cold rainy spring day, in their bare feet, but a waif. I think waif’s are probably relatives of faeries or some such thing. They live in the woods I suppose. I tried to take a photograph but in the moment it took to set up my camera lens, she had disappeared into the crowd. Such a pity, I wanted to capture her to show you what one looks like!

Back at the Castle where we were holed up for over a week while the wind and rain came in torrents daily, the staff made us feel comfortable by giving us hot tea on a silver tray as we painted in the common areas of the Castle Markree. While some in our group of travelers were painters, others were riders of the gigantic draft horses that people ride there. The wind and rain did not stop them from enjoying galloping on the beaches and through local villages, where a stop for lunch to dry by the peat fire and catch your breath in the pub was welcome.
I found myself wandering the landscape with my mind as I listened to the lilting Irish Brogue spoken in the distance as the evening light streamed through the clouds and created yet another amazingly beautiful rainbow.

I will be doing another trip to Ireland next year and would like to invite you to join me. I paint wherever I go, and you can learn from me, paint or write on your own, or enjoy the many other activities that Ireland and the unique places I visit offer. Keep reading my blog for updates on my travel schedule and let me know if I can add you to my list of contacts for the Artists, Writers, and Explorer Excursions to fascinating places around the world. Be sure to remind me to tell you about the troll I saw under bridge the last time I was in Ireland.

Remember,

” The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”

Saint Augustine