The Farm Report

It was a glorious morning.  When I came back from my walk I checked in the garden and saw wonderful things...

... one kohlrabi is starting to grow.  See how it's swelling where the plant sits on the bale?  Evidently they don't grow in the ground but above it.  Who knew?




... the radishes don't seem to want to grow in the ground or bales either, they jut out of the bale flashing their red selves in the morning sun.



... the little patty pan squash is growing faster now that the flower has faded and nearly dropped away.


 




... the bee balm is at its prime.  I need to plant more of it.







... and the spiderwort is a haven for morning bees.  There were about six of them buzzing around gathering pollen when I took this picture.





... the daisies beside the house have been discovered by at least one Japanese beetle.  *sigh*  At least all of the roses bloomed and have faded so the beetles won't have those to chomp up.





 
This morning I knitted the second Afterthought Sock toe.  I tried the socks on and decided that this technique needs some tweaking for it to fit me right.  My feet fit in the socks but the toes, especially the not-self-striping one, aren't big enough.  I'll look up another pattern and compare instructions.  I'm not giving up, I just need more data.



Late this afternoon I finally dragged myself downstairs to finish the Pagoda Dress no. 1.  I like this fabric.  Now all of the garments I had cut out are sewn up which means one of these days I'll haul up some fabric and patterns and make another pile of things to be sewn.




 

14 July--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon. 

February

              By the fifth week of the painting class, I was at the boiling point over the way Jake had focused so much of his attention on me.  I kept waiting for one of the other students to complain to him, or at least make some disparaging remark to me before or after class.

             That night was no different.  As soon as class started I could feel Jake circling around behind me and standing there with his arms folded and his eyes intent on my brush.  My shoulders tensed, waiting for his criticism.  Our lesson this session was how to put more light in our work.  We were supposed to be leaving white areas to “sparkle in the sunlight” of our paintings.  It was tricky; we needed to wet the paper, but not make it too wet so the paint would spread over the whole page.  And not have too much paint on our brushes so we could control it.

Glancing around I was encouraged to see the other five students, Renee the painting teacher included, flinging their brushes aside in disgust, ripping the paper from their boards, and starting again.  As I reached to do the same, I heard Jake’s voice behind me.

“You can save it, you know.”

             I could feel my shoulders tighten even more.  “I suppose I can,” I said, not looking around, “but I’d rather get it right before I learn how to save it.”  My fingers were shaking as I removed the paper and taped a clean sheet in its place.  As I picked up my brush, cleaned and dried it for another attempt, I heard Jake’s boots scrape on the floor.  Good, I thought, he’s going away to bedevil someone else for a change.

But when I leaned toward my work, his hand covered mine and guided it.  “This is what I mean.  Use a light touch.  Ease up on your brush and…” Jake moved my hand and brush in the motion he wanted, “just relax.”  I tried to relax, tried to feel what he wanted to me feel, but four weeks of being in the spotlight had just about worn me out.  “See, Gail, how easy it is?”  As soon as he released my hand and stepped back, I dropped the brush and whirled to face him.

“And just how easy do you think it is to learn new things with you constantly breathing down my neck?  Isn’t there someone else in class who could benefit from your attention?”

Every molecule in the room stopped in its orbit at my outburst; the rest of the class stood as if suddenly turned to statues.  I kept my eyes fixed on Jake’s, daring him to respond.  After a minute, or an hour, he gave me a half-smile and turned to Renee beside me and complimented her on her efforts.

            Breathless after my loss of self-control, I stooped to pick up my brush and saw the red paint that had spattered like blood on the floor.  I left it there.

            I plunged the brush into the rinse water and picked up another one, loaded it with paint and tried again.  My hand must have learned something from Jake’s guidance because the paint behaved; it did what I wanted it to do.  Little white gaps stayed in the flood of color, small areas of negative space that would lighten and brighten my work.

            No one commented on my outburst during the break.  None of them looked me in the eye either.  Renee patted my shoulder as we stood near the coffee machine but that was all.  Jake kept his distance for the rest of the class session.  By the time ten o’clock rolled around I had several sheets with masses of wash enlivened by “light.”

            As everyone began packing away their things and left one by one, I was moving slowly, thinking about how I’d yelled at Jake.  I couldn’t decide whether I was glad or embarrassed.  The usual happy calls of good-bye were replaced by murmured “see ya”s and little waves.  Renee leaned over my basket of painting things and gave me a hug.  “I’m so proud of you, Gail,” she said.  “I can see how hard you’re working to be the best painter you can be.”  She gathered up her things and left.  I finished putting my own things together, picked up my jacket, and started to put it on.

Jake was leaning against a table near the front of the room and said, “Gail.  Can I talk to you a minute?”

I glanced around to discover he and I were the only ones left.  “Sure.”  I stayed where I was.

            He pushed himself upright and walked toward me.  “Do you know why I’ve been at you these last weeks?  Any clue?”

            “No.”  I looked down at my paint-stained fingers.  “Well, maybe.”

            “Why then?”  He stopped in front of me and crossed his arms over his chest.

            “Maybe you think I can be a better painter?”  I kept my chin down but peeked up at him through my lashes.  Suddenly I felt like a fourth grader called into the principal’s office.

            “A better painter.”  He looked past me and smiled.  “Gail, the night you walked in here you were already a better painter than anyone else in the room.  Except me, of course.”

            That brought my chin up.  “No, I wasn’t.  I’d only just started painting a few months before.  How could I be better than people, like Renee, who’ve been painting for years?  Renee even teaches other people to paint.”

            “I know Renee teaches other dabblers to paint.”  He flung his hand in a dismissive gesture.  “I’m talking about being an artist.  There’s a difference, you know.”  He paused, obviously expecting a response.  When I remained silent, he continued, “A painter slaps paint on walls or canvas or paper and usually makes a mess.  Oh, sometimes their smudges might resemble what they intended, but usually it’s just color over white.”

            That almost made me laugh, but I controlled myself, waiting to hear the rest.

            “An artist, on the other hand, paints emotions—his or someone else’s—and hangs them out for everyone to see.”  He leaned toward me and continued, almost whispering, “You, Gail Logan, are an artist.”

            I raised my eyes so fast our noses nearly touched.  “An artist?  Like you?  Hah!  I’ve seen your work.  Your paintings are wonderful riots—color, emotions; they’ve got everything.  Your paintings are masterpieces.  I read that piece about you in Art World and nearly didn’t sign up for your class.”  He leaned away from my waving hands.  “I spend the days between classes in my studio painting, wasting paint and paper, trying to do what you ask and I can’t.  For the last four weeks I’ve been certain that while you’re standing there behind me, judging me, you’re deciding when’s the best time to tell me to pack up my things and just go home.”  I stopped because my throat had gotten tight and I was embarrassed to feel tears on my cheeks.  I reached a shaky hand up to dash them away before they dripped off my chin.

            Jake’s hands were firm as he reached toward me and held my upper arms.  “Holy crap, Gail.  Get a hold of yourself.  I knew my standing behind you was pushing you, but I never imagined you would think I don’t like your work.  You, of all my students here or at the college, are an artist.  I see so much in your work.  I can see if you were happy or sad or angry when you painted each one.”  He released my arms and stood back.  “Now I understand why your last few pieces have been so much better.  You were mad at me.  Good.  You need to get over the silly idea that you aren’t any good, that you’re not worth my attention.  Trust me, Gail; you’re an artist.  I wouldn’t waste my time on you if you weren’t.”

            His words made me feel warm with pleasure, but then a little cold voice in my head whispered, “what if I can’t live up to Jake’s expectations?”

           “What if you’re wrong?” I said with more bravery than I felt.

            “I’m not wrong.”  He struck a pose.  “I’m older than the young stud I appear to be, Gail, and I’ve taught watercolor for more years than I care to count.  I can feel talent in my blood.  You’ve got it.”

            “Thanks, Jake, I’ll try to remember that when you’re breathing down my neck next week.”

            He reached out and touched my arm.  “You mark my words, one of these days I’ll get to brag that I was your teacher.  Now get out of here and get some rest.  Tomorrow take a good long look at your work with fresh eyes.”

            “Okay, Jake,” I said, “and thanks.” I gathered up my basket and left.

It's supposed to be in the 90s with high humidity this week.  That is not the weather we're supposed to have in Green Bay, not even in July.  I am not a fan.  It's even been too hot for the kids to play out at day care.  Not good, kids that don't play outside are unhappy kids.
--Barbara