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Tag: change

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When life blindsides us

Tilt-A-Whirl, oil on canvasboard, $869 framed. Includes shipping in continental US.

I had an extremely tight schedule this week. I leave for Sedona Plein Air at noon today, and I needed to finish recording video for Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters. I’m a person with one-day, one-week, one-year, and five-year plans, and I’m running behind.

I’m also a list-maker. When my schedule is overloaded, I just drop my gaze and focus on the next task. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

Deadwood, 30X40, oil on linen, $6231 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

That’s where I was on Monday morning when we received a phone call that suddenly changed everything. (It’s not my news to share, but we and our family are fine, and that’s what matters.) My carefully-calibrated projections have been knocked sideways.

I needed to start a whole-life pivot while discharging my immediate responsibilities, all the while coping with that horrible buzzing in the head that accompanies extreme stress. By the grace of God, I did it, but it wasn’t easy.

By Tuesday, I was a little more sanguine. “This is not the first time I’ve been blindsided,” I told my husband. The accidental deaths of two of my siblings as teenagers and my two cancer diagnoses were much worse shocks.

The Logging Truck, 16X20, oil on canvas, $2029 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Being blindsided is different from run-of-the-mill bad news. When artist Kevin Beers lost thirteen paintings in the devastating Port Clyde fire on September 28, he had no warning of the disaster that was about to crash down. One minute, he was larking along, and the next, his body of work was gutted.

Being blindsided has an instant physiological effect. Your flight-or-fight response kicks in, adrenaline pumps and your mind races. At that moment, it’s hard to take any action, let alone sensible action.

There are silver linings to most clouds, although they sometimes take years to realize. I often muse about writing a book called “100 Best Things About Having Cancer.” Since it didn’t kill me, my first cancer was liberating. I stopped doing things I didn’t want to do. I finally did something about the psychic damage caused by my sister’s and brother’s deaths. You could say that cancer allowed me to finally be happy.

The day I learned I was having twins was a good shock. However, it had its moments. My husband was in grad school so I was the primary wage-earner. I spent three months on bed rest and was hospitalized for five weeks. I did lots of worrying, and none of my fears came true. We waste a lot of time worrying in this life.

Ravening Wolves, oil on canvas, 24X30, $3,478.00 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Perhaps it’s true that challenge helps us develop resilience; I don’t know. My personal philosophy is that God has never let me down yet, and he won’t start now. Of course I have my moments just like everyone else; I frequently echo Doubting Thomas in prayer: “Lord, suspend my disbelief!”

Last Sunday, we had a visiting preacher named Gary Bolton. His vision is absurdly large, to plant new churches across Ireland (thereby neatly sidestepping the Protestant-Catholic divide). It would be so easy for him to lose heart and falter, but he’s applying the same logic I mentioned at the beginning of this post: How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Nothing lasts forever

Lobster pound, 14X18, oil on canvas, framed, $1594 includes shipping in continental US.

I woke up on Thursday morning to bad news. The downtown core of Port Clyde, arguably one of the most picturesque seafaring villages in Maine, had burned down. At the time of this writing, they are still sifting through the ashes.

I am a member of the Red Barn Gallery, which is just across the road. Our season has ended and we were in no danger anyway. However, I do know someone affected directly by the fire, and my heart goes out to him. Moreover, it’s going to change the commercial life of Port Clyde forever. Those beautiful frame buildings will never be rebuilt as they were.

Downtown Port Clyde in happier days, from the front door of the Red Barn Gallery.

A gallerist at the Red Barn Gallery could entertain herself for hours, sitting at the desk and watching the activity in front of the General Store. I’ve often done it, and I planned on eventually doing a painting from that window. Alas, I started with the back view first, across the water to the lobster co-op. After all, I had all the time in the world, right?

In the same news cycle, I read that the Sycamore Gap Tree in Northumberland, England, had been cut down. A 16-year-old is “in custody and assisting officers with their inquiries,” as my favorite mystery writers put it. I have a relationship with this tree, having hiked the length of Hadrian’s Wall in 2022 (my account of this ramble starts here). The sycamore was photogenic and perfect, nestled into a curve between two rising slopes. That is why it appeared in a prominent scene in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. It won the 2016 England Tree of the Year award, and was a finalist for the 2017 European Tree of the Year. If the lad is the culprit, it was a spectacular example of teenage bad judgment, but nothing will bring the tree back. And I don’t even have a photograph.

Here I was painting out the back window of the gallery, when I should have been painting the front view.

On the road into Tenants Harbor there was an old-fashioned lobster pound. These are mostly obsolete; it makes more sense for lobstermen to keep their catch in lobster cars, which are slatted containers that allow sea water to rush through, usually off a floating dock.

A lobster pound was a kind of shallow corral where the lobsters wandered around until it was time for dinner-your dinner, that is. And this one was a classic, so I painted it on one grey, miserable day.

Then one day I was bumping down River Road and the lobster pound was gone. In its place rose a new building that I hear is going to be a seafood market, or something similar. I suppose over time we’ll learn to love it, but right now it’s raw and unfinished. But in this case, I’d managed to catch the old building before it was gone.

Middle and Upper Falls at Letchworth, 18X24, oil on canvas, private collection.

About twenty years ago, I painted the rail bridge over the Upper Falls at Letchworth State Park. I’d spent the summer painting there, which meant I had ample time to study the bridge. Built in 1875, it was a slender iron structure, not beautiful, and it always seemed woefully inadequate for modern rail traffic. Apparently the Norfolk Southern felt the same way, because it was finally replaced in 2017.

Sadly, we can never predict what will remain and what will be washed away by the tides of time. That includes people, because the only absolute in life is that it ends someday. Today would be a good day to reflect on how I might act in order to have no regrets when time takes away the people around me, as it inevitably will. And then I’ll shake off this mood and go paint something at Artworks for Humanity. If you’re in Waldo County, ME, stop by.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Change is an inevitable part of growth, but it’s not easy

We like certainty, but plans are to some extent illusory; things can and do change in an instant.

Sunset sail, 16X20, oil on canvas, Carol L. Douglas, available.

I’ve noticed a strange split this year—my east coast workshops are sold out, and my western ones are languishing. To be completely accurate, my Acadia workshop has sold out 1.5 times, because as people made plane and car reservations, they realized the difficulty and expense of travel to smaller markets. They dropped out and were replaced by others on my waiting list. I’m extremely blessed to have had a waiting list.

That list is now exhausted. I have a last-minute opening at my Acadia Sea & Sky workshop (July 31-August 5, 2022), because one of my students is waiting on a nitrogen oxide sensor and microchip for his GM truck. As GM has nearly 100,000 vehicles sitting in lots waiting for microchips, my optimism is dimming. I told him I’d ask if anyone wants his seat, so if you’re interested in a last-minute jaunt to Maine, let me know.

Owl's Head Early Morning, 8X16, oil on canvas, available.

This strange year, by the way, is not limited to just me, or to the painting workshop market. I’ve talked to people across the tourist industry in England and Maine and heard much the same laments. There’s an international labor shortage and things are still topsy-turvy from COVID.

It’s not that business is down—it’s not—it’s that it’s spotty and weird. We each have our own explanation. I’m hearing a lot about travel concerns, particularly the cost of rental cars. Another teacher says Zoom is killing his workshops. It’s easier to stay home and learn on one’s laptop.

Skylarking 2, 18X24, oil on linen, available.

At this point in the summer, my workshop schedule should be set in stone, but instead I’ve been dithering about my western workshops. After much agonizing (and advertising) I’ve decided to cancel Steamboat Springs and Cody.

That leaves only Gateway to the Pecos Wilderness, August 28-September 2. I kept it because it’s accessed through a major airport (Albuquerque), where I’ve found car rentals to be manageable.

Equally importantly, Our Lady of Guadalupe Abbey, which has inexpensive accommodations, did not burn down in the Hermit’s Peak wildfires this spring. I wish that last sentence was a joke, but this year has been a wild ride.

Beautiful Dream, 12X16, oil on canvasboard, available.

Lastly, there’s my second watercolor Age of Sail workshop aboard the schooner American Eagle, September 18-22. Although I’d have said Captain John Foss was irreplaceable, he’s made a mighty good stab at it in his replacement, Captain Tyler King. Tyler has the same equable temperament and top-notch sailing skills as John. When Tyler turns 70, I’ll be 107, and it will be time for both of us to retire.

Change is, of course, an inevitable part of growth, but it’s not easy. We like certainty, but plans are to some extent illusory; things can and do change in an instant. By not traveling so much in September, I’m making room for other opportunities. I can hardly wait!