More wings of the elephants

My fascination with the possibility that Apifera's hills are lined with the fallen wings of elephants continues. See the entire painting at the main art site.

Downward cat

I do this pose every morning in my brief yoga routine but not half as gracefully as Samuelle. He does not require a mat, attractive yoga wear or signature water bottle, only the warmth of dry concrete sprinkled with goat and sheep berries.

Apifera hills made from elephant wings

I am lucky to receive an annual art mailing from someone each Earth Day. This year the theme was elephants.

I have always loved elephants and feel a kindred sadness with them. Their annihilation is particularly heartbreaking especially since they form deep relationships with their mates and herd. When I first moved to Portland from Minneapolis, prior to becoming the female half of The Pre-Dirt Farmer, I went to the Oregon zoo and naively walked into the volunteer office, explained I loved elephants and wanted to work with them somehow. The woman behind the counter said very authoritatively, "No one volunteers with the Big Boys."  I  tucked my thoughts on elephants in my back pocket, temporarily.

Blue Drawing: Sheep Hill

Sheep Hill, a small inclined area in front of our perennial gardens, bordered by old lilacs, cherries and quince is the burial ground for Rosie and Coral and their six triplets, along with two other lambs. Far enough from the well to be trouble, I have been working to establish wild flowers on the graves. The giant red poppies are growing in full force over Rosie and her triplets. The grave of Coral Bell is starting to take with the wild daisies I gathered from the river front acreage, but I have a lot of weeding to do to get them established. When I'm caring for a grave I feel vary calm and kind. It's the same soothing quality that comes from brushing a child's hair or a horse's mane.

I know exactly how their bodies are placed below the ground. I can see their faces, and I envision the roots of the trees and flowers embracing them.

See more of the Blue Drawings at the art site. Available for purchase there too.

He went and named one John John

We never name the rams lambs, or at least not since the first lambing season 7 years ago when I kept every ram lamb and named each one thinking I could sell them all quickly for registered breeding stock. Not.

Part of raising livestock is dealing with the males. I've been over this a million times, so it is not that I have not thought of creative ways to deal with it. Rams are either sold for breeding, or eaten. It's a fact of farming.

However, this year, I am doing something I have never done. It all happened when Lilly gave birth to triplets. This triplet birth was a few days after Daisy had given birth to her triplets, but two were lost within days. So when Lilly had triplets, my heart flipped, but also sank. Especially when I saw the size of the little male runt that came out last. He was maybe 3#. He still is 1/3 of the size he should be. I did all the things I try to do with the male lambs- put up a bit of a barrier so as not to get too attached. And that means no names, no cuddling, no midnight bedtime stories.

But then Martyn came into the house one night weeks ago and said, "That little runt is so cute, he runs around like John John did in the Oval Office."

Great. He called him the same name as one of the century's most beloved first sons of one the most beloved Presidents.

I had spent the month very sick, and had hospiced two newborn lambs until they died. We'd lost Gertie and Georgie in the winter, and then the sudden death of a young ewe, Emily Wigley. The idea of butchering John John was unthinkable.

John John will be whethered and remain as a buddy for...I don't who, but he's staying.

Spring compassion

Spring is a busy time here - lambing, gardens to plant and maintain, fencing to fix after winter rains and vaccinations. And it's time to visit all the graves scattered through out the farm to touch up the tombstones.

At one point I wondered if I should just let this task go. These creatures served the Earth in the way they were intended and now rest in the dirt, their bodies returning nourishment to the tree roots around them. It takes days to clean the little stones and repaint them. I even have a map scribbled somewhere so I don't lose track of which grave is which.

I was very moved when we visited a Mission in San Diego area where the dead, many American Indians that had helped create the Mission and grow the food, were buried in a simple grave area. A book was kept noting who had died. The markers were plain and unmarked. It was a very humble but emotive spot for me to stand. Keeping my various cemeteries  for fallen birds, bats, mice in love, hard working mother sheep with lambs at their side, roosters and cats, chickens, and one old donkey, is perhaps my most compassionate work to date.

Slightly tilted chicken underpants

"Love Floats" new mini book available

See the slide show of the book>

~Currently Sold Out~

"Love Floats" is a 20 page mini book created created with my art and words. It is a heartfelt musing of the power of love, and it's transitional qualities albeit mystical.

The little book is dedicated in the front page to all the old and neglected animals standing in a field alone, waiting, for love. Like most of my art sales, money is used to offset the cost of care taking of our adopted old animals- Matilda the donkey and the old goats.

The book can be seen at this slide show link. And if you'd like to purchase, you can do  through Paypal button below. I can also accept personal checks from repeat customers, and first time customers [the latter must wait for the check to clear.] International orders pay higher shipping.

$24.50 includes USA s/h.

Currently Sold Out

Song for an old man

Each day that he greets me at the front gate is a gift. His crippled joints are catching up to him, but he gets up everyday and follows me to the hay barn where he spends as long as he needs to eat his breakfast in peace, unencumbered from other goats or boisterous lambs. He teeters and totters and there might soon come a day when I must help him to comfort. So today I sang him this song.

Smile of the moment

The smile of the moment....can last all day. Do you know who is smiling here?

Video Trailer for Creative Illustration Workshop"

The Bower of Dreams...Part Two

In Part One of The Bower of Dreams, readers were left wondering what was lurking behind the mysterious floating door of The Bower - creature, spirit, or perhaps just a figment of the artist's imagination? We shall see.

Nose of the beloved

I drown in the beauty of his brown nose, a deep brown it is, often with dew like gloss on the top.

The face of Fern

She was born of Daisy, quietly. We both worked hard today, she in her field, I putting down fir floors in the house. If only my face were as lovely as hers after a day of hard work. Still, we will both go to bed content with full bellies.

The Bower of Dreams...part one

It was a Tuesday in May and like many of my days I was mingling with Apifera, surrounded by creatures and land, void of any leader except for the muses in my heart.

I had just conversed with the sun overhead, so knew it was noon by minutes. And that's when I first saw the door.

I was instantly intrigued by its mystery but also rather spooked by its strange location, floating some 15 feet up off the ground with the hayloft sitting off to its side. The old wooden door was accessible only by a tall ladder making the purpose of the room lying behind it even more provocative for my Lucy Ricardo mindset.

The smile of Stella

Years ago, when I was a freshly showered single lass wandering the city for amusement, I always had a farm in my head - where it was I didn't quite know. And I knew that future farm would have goats.

Day of shared mud

I continued my work as a warrioress against mud tonight, until I realized there was no point to fight it anymore. Rather, I spent brief moments amongst a mud clad donkey gang, and I focused on small often unnoticed details- like the way a wet back looks covered in mud against a distant tree in a moss coat.

I sang amongst my clan, a verse of a song I love:

"Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight."
[Jerome Kern, Dorothy Fields]

Some times your beard gets wet

To combat the dreary weather and take my mind off the fact it is the wettest March in Oregon history, I jumped right into the donkey and goat paddock and crawled in mud to capture the essence of muck.

I'll share those pictures with you later, but Iris caught my eye. When I went to buy Iris and Stella, back in 2004 when we first moved to the farm, they were 3 months old. I picked Stella out immediately as she was a real looker. When I picked out Iris in a mass of rambuncious goats, the farmer said, "Well, she might tender up someday." Iris always has, and always will, remind me of a monkey. She's smart, mischievous and swings from trees.

The picture below captivated me when I got back to my computer. It looked like a staged background. I drew myself into her curled ears, swinging as she moved and I said a prayer,

"Please, don't let me ever forget what her curled ears looked like, no matter how old or demented I get."

Chicken underpants of the moment

It's a challenge to keep one's undergarments clean and fresh in the muddy season, but Clara knows at any moment the paparazzi can be lurking, waiting for the perfect underpants photo opportunity.

Horse balances woman

It took a long time to get my balance back after leaving Minnesota and moving to Oregon. Even though the move to the farm was the dream of a child turning into a middle aged woman's reality, it was still an uprooting of many kinds- leaving the single life to marry Martyn and giving up the conveniences of the city.

When I look back at the initial era of paintings created on the farm, the woman is often balancing, or being balanced with the help of the land and creatures she has surrounded herself in. Do not take this as a sad time, it was not. I have rebalanced now, and it is when I'm away from my studio and farm I am out of balance. My women in paintings are upright again, with braids acting as wings.