Back from New Zealand and Filling the Well

 

Auckland, New Zealand and the 40-storey high rise
I called home for six weeks. Waving from Floor 24! 

Hello, Everyone! I'm finally back in Albuquerque and the high desert after six amazing weeks staying ("luxuriating" might be the better term) in downtown Auckland, NZ.

Until today, I haven't blogged for weeks. Months. It wasn't intentional. Before I left home I had all kinds of sincere plans to keep posting and sharing my life down under, but the truth is that after only a few days in my lovely apartment I decided I was on vacation. 

Instead of blogging--or any other kind of writing for that matter--I spent my time visiting wonderful friends, going to the movies, shopping at every bookstore I could find (I ended up bringing home a total of ten paperbacks. "Heavy" doesn't begin to describe my carry-on load.), eating at incredible restaurants (NZ food is still the best in the world), exploring Auckland's very clean and very green neighborhoods, and yes, sketching every chance I could with a small watercolor set I bought at the art museum. 

The sketchbook I used was one I found in a great little stationery store called Typo which appealed to me not just because of the name, but for what they carried, too. I managed to fill the entire book with my impressions including a day trip to Bethell's Beach (my husband's favorite childhood hang-out) where some Buddhist monks were also admiring the scenery.

Just a few miles outside of downtown . . .

I couldn't eat of enough of these.

Rain or shine, I never tired of the view.

 

A long time ago--decades ago--Auckland was home. New Zealand is where I finished high school, attended the university, got my first job, and most especially, it's where I met my husband. It's also where I became deeply influenced by the country's art--especially ceramics--as well as the literature, music, film making, and overall sense of "do-it-yourself." When I stop to think about it, I really have to say that without New Zealand there's no "me," nor is there any of my writing starting with my YA novel Better Than Perfect set in suburban Auckland. Without New Zealand, I don't think I would ever have ventured into art, beading, and pottery. New Zealand set the stage for the rest of my life, even being the reason I ended up in Albuquerque thanks to my husband's own unique business brand originating in, where else, but New Zealand.

But regardless of the past and all it means to me, returning wasn't easy. I had been gone for a long time, and Auckland has changed so much it took me several confused weeks to even know where I was. One of the strangest things was I had completely forgotten that Auckland is built on a series of hills and that walking anywhere can often feel like mountain-climbing. More than once, puffing my way home with an armful of books and groceries, I couldn't help but marvel at how strong I must have been in the "old days." Not once as a student had I ever thought it was difficult, or unusual, to run up and down numerous ravines to get to a lecture or to meet with friends for lunch in the park.

Besides feeling that I was on some kind of endurance test just to buy a sandwich, I couldn't help but also feel a genuine sadness at how much of the past had disappeared. Beloved shops and buildings had not only been demolished, but the buildings and businesses replacing them were light years away from my memories. Where there had once been shops selling gumboots and sheepskins I now found Prada and Tiffany's, Dior and Ferrari. Very fancy, very international, but oh, how I longed for the innocence and simplicity of the past when we only had one television channel and talked all night over a jug of beer rather than cocktails. I hope I didn't become too boring with my constant questioning: "Where is . . .?" "When did they go out of business?" "Where can I get a lamington and an asparagus roll? You know, afternoon tea?" 

Oh, well. Enjoy the new and go with the flow. And I finally, after a lot of searching, did find a lamington during a visit to the sugar factory. Yum!

A difficult choice between raspberry or chocolate. 
Both with the obligatory cream and coconut.

To prove I did more than look for cake, here are some other highlights:

Loved taking the ferries to cross the harbor.

As well as the places the boats landed,
e.g., Waiheke Island for lunch.

Coming back to town. Queen Street view
from the Ferry Terminal (pictured below).

My daily route on the way to buy groceries,
books, and art supplies.

One of the many views from my living room: I never stepped
onto the balcony, not once!

Although I did sit close enough to the window to
sketch my cardigan drying in the sunlight.

Auckland University's "wedding cake" where
I spent four years studying Spanish Lit. and politics.
It's also where I was led to eventually meet my
literary mentor, the late author, Hugh Cook.

Auckland War Memorial Museum, always my "go to"
on a rainy day, both in the past and this visit too.

Because who can resist a Giant Moa?

Or a gaggle of kiwis? (Don't ask why they have
a ferret friend. I have no idea.)

The Maori displays at the museum were unfortunately closed
for renovation, but these carvings inside the Auckland Library were a
good compensation for what I missed.

As was this contemporary Maori sculpture
at the Auckland Art Gallery (below), two blocks from my apartment.

Rangitoto, Auckland's most scenic volcano.
Photo taken at Takapuna Beach only hours before
a cyclone hit.

Last view of the Sky Tower.
I'll be back!

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I had truly planned to continue blogging when I set out on my travels. I didn't mean to stop, or for so long, but I'm glad I did. Because, more than anything else, I needed a break--from everything. I needed a genuine vacation; a chance to rest, watch the sunrise, read, go slow and in particular: fill the well. New Zealand, even this modern, unfamiliar version, gave me that in bucket loads. I feel re-inspired to paint, design more jewelry, and to keep writing. More than anything, I feel inspired to meet the future, not just dwell on the past.

Tip of the Day: One of the things I love best about travel sketching is how easy, and quick, it is to capture mood and atmosphere for future writing. Whether it's laying down an abstract watercolor wash in neutral grays, or going for a more detailed study of the greens and blues of sea, sky, and land, there's something about the physical act of painting and/or drawing, especially with some accompanying notes to the page, that a photograph can never duplicate. On this particular trip, I deliberately left my sketch kit at home so that I could check out, and purchase, foreign supplies. It was a good decision and one I recommend to anyone else wanting to experiment with some sketching of their own. Best of all, now that I know where the art supply stores are, I'll know exactly where to go on my next visit!

Back from England, Part 3: Writing the Book I Wasn't Supposed to Write

Autumn + Fog = Endless Inspiration!

Welcome to my final post on my multi-week visit to Faversham last winter. In my previous posts I've described my general impressions of being in England, as well as my daily art practice. Today I want to go over what was probably the most valuable take-home from my stay: the manuscript I wrote in between sketching, shopping, and sightseeing. 

Writing will always be my primary creative pursuit, and no matter where I travel to I always take a journal and pen with me. It's not unusual to find me spending several hours a day (or night) in a cafe or my hotel room writing down my impressions and recording my memories.

For this trip, however, I gave myself a much more serious writing goal than keeping track of how many historic sites I could cram into seven weeks, and it couldn't have been a worse decision: I thought I wanted to write a grief book.

Before I left home, I had the idea that my time in England would be well spent if I finally tackled writing the book I had wanted to read when my husband died; the one I couldn't find on any bookshelf regardless of how hard I looked.

Don't get me wrong: it wasn't that I couldn't find any grief books. Dozens of titles, ranging from the widely-recommended It's OK to Not be OK by Megan Devine, to Carol Cornish's The Undistracted Widow are readily available anywhere that sells books. The trouble I had with these and others like them was that not one addressed my particular situation. I didn't have children to help me navigate bereavement; my immediate family was already deceased; and my circle of friends is close, but small. All of the books seemed to take for granted that of course your adult children will handle cremation or funeral arrangements, and yes, you'll have casseroles piling up on your back porch, and yes, your fellow church members will do everything they can to be of assistance--they'll even bring more casseroles! But I didn't want advice on casseroles or church services; I wanted a book that told me how to sell a business while my bank accounts were frozen.

With that in mind, I decided I wanted to write a book for other widows who might find themselves in circumstances similar to mine; widows who were suddenly alone without practical hands-on knowledge or support while dealing with utter despair. In short, I wanted to write a cross between a road map and a how-to instruction manual that included all the things I had learned to do by being forced into action.

With this lofty goal in mind, I set out on my very first day in Faversham to buy a large-sized notebook (I already had my pens) that I began to fill the minute I returned home.

For the next forty days (and it was exactly forty days with all the symbolism that brings to mind) I was more than diligent. I made an outline with chapter headings. I wrote a full two pages every morning as soon as I finished cleaning up from breakfast. I wrote notes for the next day before I went to bed. I brainstormed marketing ideas. I started a bibliography. And with each writing session I became more and more despondent. Not because my subject was grief, but because I was bored beyond human endurance. Worst of all, I wasn't saying the things I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say them. By the end of the forty days I was basically ready to scream, "Oh, hell, who cares about grief! It's crappy and it sucks and it's the worst thing that will ever happen to you, but you will survive. You will. I promise. Look at me, here in Faversham writing a whole book when I couldn't get off the floor three years ago." And that was the entire message in a nutshell.

The minute I stopped long enough to truly listen to myself and to hear what it was I truly wanted I realized that the only way I had learned so much about a grief-filled life was because there wasn't a manual. There was no "rule book." Things that seemed hard at the time were only difficult because I was so deeply caught in grief and no book would ever have made any difference or my tasks any lighter.

Which is why after forty days and nights of dutifully plowing through a first draft I was beginning to hate, I suddenly wanted with all my heart and soul to tear up the field with my bare hands and burn down the barns while I was at it. I wanted to write a different book. I wanted to write a gothic romance (my ultimate favorite genre), one that included themes of grief, loneliness, betrayal and loss, but in a way that gave me, as well as potential readers a sense of . . . entertainment. I wanted to express my feelings and experiences through art, not a homework assignment. 

The next morning after what I consider a genuine epiphany, I went out once again into the cold and bought a fresh set of lovely notebooks to start writing the real grief book; the one that was begging to be written as fiction--the absolute best way I know to tell the truth.

As soon as I set my mind to following my heart rather than my "shoulds" all kinds of magical things happened. I saw a little cat who would become a character in my story (I named him Mango) disappear through his own little portal cut into a church door. I saw where some of my characters would live:

 

 Or haunt:

Or meet for a long history of fatal duels:

Overnight the Kentish wintry miasma of gray skies and dropping temperatures became as necessary to me as breathing. Best of all was coming home from my endlessly soggy walks, making a cup of tea, and sitting down to work at something I loved doing. As a child growing up in California I had always dreamed of one day writing in a garret with the rain pouring down and here I was!

So I say, write what calls the loudest to you, not what you think is the literary equivalent of liver and onions because it's "good for you." Creativity should be fun and satisfying; go for the eclairs. There's no shame or sense of defeat in abandoning a manuscript that bores or keeps you from wanting to continue, because essentially nothing is ever wasted. That same boring manuscript that has become an exercise in torture is in actuality a gift, the stimulus for writing something much, much better and more meaningful to you. For me, writing about my personal run-in with grief was--until it became a chore-- cathartic. It helped me to release a lot of my old thought patterns and examine why I was holding onto them in the first place. More importantly, having the discipline to write every day eventually led me to discover what it was I really wanted to write. If I hadn't made that initial effort I still would be thinking there was a book I was "supposed" to write, which after forty days there was. It just had vampires rather than tips on how to file estate taxes. And what could be better than that?

Tip of the day: Never refuse an eclair. Unless you're offered a sherry trifle instead.

Thank you so, so much to everyone who has taken the time to read these last few UK posts. Going to England on my own was one the most challenging, and rewarding things I have ever done, and I'm not finished by a long shot. Believe it or not (and I can hardly believe it myself) my next post will be coming from New Zealand. I'm leaving Albuquerque again for six weeks to draw, swim, and eat some of the best cakes on the planet while retracing my steps from a former life in downtown Auckland. See you soon!

Back from England, Part 2: Traveling with Makeshift, Limited, and Unexpectedly Good Art Supplies

Faversham: How could anyone not paint?

In today's post I want to talk about what I painted, why I painted, and how I managed with minimal art supplies during my recent multi-week trip to Faversham, Kent.

One of my main reasons for going to England was to experience what my daily life would be like if I chose to eventually live there, even if only part-time, and that would include maintaining my daily writing and painting routine. With that in mind, I made sure to bring a few supplies with me:

Limited, but enough to get me started.

1. One Bic mechanical pencil with replacement leads stored inside the barrel. While not the best pencils in the world, these cheap little Bics are great for travel. There's no need to bring a pencil sharpener and the removable eraser actually works.

2. My beloved Sailor Fude Pen. I can't go anywhere without this Japanese fountain pen originally designed for calligraphy. The unpredictable wackiness of the angled nib lends itself beautifully to what gives any sketch a strong sense of energy: the element of surprise. Together with the pen I also brought a box of black ink refill cartridges.

3. One white Gelly Roll pen. You never know when you need some highlights.

4. Three water brushes: one flat and two rounds. The beauty of water brushes is a) they're self-cleaning, and b) you never have to worry about bringing, or finding, water for painting when you're on location, inside or out. There's no need for jars or cups, and certainly no worries about spillage.

5. Two torchons: one large; one small. These rolled paper stumps are wonderful for blending pencil marks and creating shadows.

6. One Faber Castell kneadable eraser in a cute little box. I rarely use erasers for actual mark-removal, but they are super-useful in the same way the torchons come in handy.

7. Two binder clips. For holding down the pages of my sketchbook.

8. Viviva watercolor sheets. The absolute star of the show. I had never used these before, but so many people had recommended them so highly I thought they would be perfect for my trip. And they were. The "pamphlet-style" design took up no space whatsoever; the colors were intense and required only a tiny drop of water to activate; and they lasted for days--weeks! I didn't run out of paint until the very end of my trip, a full seven weeks.

Just add water!

9. My small but trusty I Love Cats zippered pouch. Super-lightweight, sturdy, and made from recycled plastic bottles, it held all of my travel art supplies with room to spare. It also let people know how much I love cats.

The only thing missing from this whole set-up was a sketchbook, a decision I made on purpose. Besides not wanting to carry the extra weight, I thought it would be fun to buy something in England to remember my trip. What I didn't know is I would end up buying five of them.

The first sketchbook I came across was a small mixed-media spiral-bound tablet made by a company in Dorset: Coffeenotes, named such because their products are manufactured from recycled coffee cups. I loved the size, the cream-colored paper, and especially the strength of the smooth-textured sheets that took watercolor without excessive buckling. I need more!

 

The next one I bought wasn't quite as unusual, but highly necessary: a Moleskine A4 landscape watercolor journal. I used it every day and night for the entire duration of my trip.

 

One small snafu I encountered in Faversham was the lack of dedicated art supply stores and I was lucky to find what I did at the local bookstore, Tales on Market St.

 

 

Despite the small amount of choice, I did manage to buy two more sketchbooks when I popped into a pop-up store at the 1697 gallery (really built in 1697). Handcrafted by a Faversham bookbinder, Bindfulness, there was no way I was going to pass up these unique and very special concertina books.

As if I didn't have enough paper already, I also unearthed a pad of the best, best kraft paper I have every found--in a discount general merchandise store of all places. Tucked away on a bottom shelf, I saw it while I was searching for dishwashing liquid. Finding art paper was much more exciting than the thought of doing dishes, and I couldn't believe the quality, or the low price of this incredible paper. Made in India, the thick, grainy texture has an old-world feel missing from much of the modern kraft or "bogus" paper sold here in the States, a texture I'm always in search of. After a few initial ink sketches, I used the bulk of the pad for black-and-white acrylic background studies, something I wasn't planning to do, but the paint was on a shelf above the paper and I thought, hmm, why not?

After I found paper and paint, I realized I could get all sorts of cheap but surprisingly good supplies at a variety of discount stores: children's gouache and oil pastels; a set of twenty-four watercolor brush pens; a package of three synthetic watercolor brushes; three house-painting brushes; and two throwaway fountain pens. The prices were excellent; I don't think I paid more than $20.00 for the whole bundle including the black and white acrylic paint, which meant that I used every purchase with reckless abandon--the exact way paint should always be used, regardless of price.

Added to my stash of store-bought supplies were the items I gathered on my daily walks and took home to use as impromptu art tools: sticks and stones, leaves and acorns, flower petals, tiny apples, and best of all: seagull feathers.

Not dinner.

Before leaving home I knew I wanted to take some kind of a drawing class during my stay, and the one I found, Mindful Drawing taught by Nicole Antras at Faversham's Creek Creative couldn't have been better.

Entrance to Creek Creative studios and art space. Cake and hot chocolate, too.

 

The class was only for a single Sunday morning, but I learned so much in a few short hours that I continued to use Nicole's techniques and advice for weeks after.

My Faversham mini-studio with a sample of my classwork.

Switching to drawing from painting sent me once again to the discount store (they were beginning to know me by now) for more supplies (yes, I have a problem): this time a spiral-bound pad of heavy-weight white drawing paper (technically the fifth sketchbook I bought) and a generic set of both graphite and color pencils that turned out to be as good, if not better, than fancy-brand pencils I've paid a fortune for in the past. Unfortunately I then had to buy a rather bulky pencil sharpener; so much for bringing my "convenient" Bic pencil from home.

Sketching, and especially painting, in the English climate definitely had its challenges, starting with the constant cold and damp preventing me from doing anything on site. Worse yet was trying to get my paint to dry, even when indoors. It was the same with my brushes; always wet and soggy no matter what I did.

I overcame the "can't draw outside" dilemma by doing my best to memorize colors and abstracted landscape features every time I went out walking, which was every day, and usually twice. As I walked I would also try to give what I was seeing an emotional context that I could explore once I got home. As soon as I got out of my coat, cardigan, scarf and gloves, I would immediately set to work in a sketchbook.

Watercolor brush pens in my Coffeenotes book.

Dark and gloomy. Sheer gothic joy!

At the end of the day I think I did pretty well with minimal supplies and a lot of improvisation; discovering that "makeshift" doesn't always mean "inferior," and in fact can be a high road into a myriad of creative possibilities. Every time I came across new and unexpected supplies I asked myself, "What if . . . ?" the same question I ask whenever I sit down to write, and my answers never disappointed me. Especially when those answers then turned me toward an entirely new direction: a brand new book manuscript inspired by my dark and stormy sketches.

And that's what I'll be covering in Post #3: Writing the Book I Wasn't Supposed to Write. (I tell you, I was busy in Faversham!) Until next time--

Tip of the Day: After buying all those pens and pencils I needed some extra storage and Faversham's numerous thrift stores were the perfect place to buy mugs, jugs, cups and trays for everything from mixing paint to holding brushes. I got what I needed within minutes of entering the stores, but there was one thing I totally overlooked and didn't think of until I was back in Albuquerque: buying art supplies in those same stores. It never occurred to me that thrift stores have art and craft sections and I bypassed what could have been some genuine opportunities. Next time that's precisely where I'll start first.

 

Back from England! Part 1

 

Faversham! Grey skies and all.

Hello, Everyone! The last time I posted it was about my art retreat journey to France and the artwork I did (and didn't do) there. Several months later I'm now back in Albuquerque after a seven-week visit to England where I stayed in Faversham on the southeast coast. 

 

 

Although I confined my stay to a town the size of a bread box, I managed to do so much that a single post won't cover it all. With that in mind, I'll be writing some future posts about not only what I painted during my visit, but also about starting a brand new manuscript inspired by my surroundings. So please consider this current entry as a general overview of what got me motivated to "stay creative every day" and how much fun I had discovering that same motivation.

 

Returning to Albuquerque during the holiday season gave me plenty of time to regroup and go through the pages and pages of manuscript and sketchbook studies I brought back along with three new sweaters and a set of the best drawing pencils I've ever owned (roughly the equivalent of $5.00 from the discount store. Go figure.). It also gave me some time to think about how on earth I had the fortitude to make such a lengthy and productive trip.

The only explanation I can come up with is that in the three years since my husband died I've encountered so many challenges related to loss and grief I've become much braver than I ever could have imagined. Going to France only weeks before leaving for the UK was another confidence-builder. Admittedly, staying in a French art retreat was hardly a grueling test of will-power and determination (other than surviving for nine days without my luggage). Instead, I traveled with a group, many of whom were friends I already knew, and our days were exquisitely pre-planned with food, transport, sightseeing, and art instruction served on a plate, usually with a glass of wine.

This latest trip to England, on the other hand, couldn't have been more different, and that was exactly how I wanted it. Apart from the freezing cold and having to constantly boil kettle after kettle whether for filling the hot water bottle I carried close to my chest like a beloved pet, or for making endless cups of tea just to wrap my hands around the cup for the warmth alone (drove me nuts, people. Drove me nuts.) I learned I could, well, cope and even be happy about. Good thing, too, because it wasn't the weather alone or never quite understanding the recycling system that forced me into a learning curve. I had to learn to not leave the house without an umbrella or my own shopping bag. 

 

My Halloween-themed bag I wanted to use every day! Boo!

 

I had to learn to accept and not go on and on and on about the weather (or at least no more than anyone else), or about never seeing the sun or never being warm enough to sketch outdoors. I had to learn to cross roads without pedestrian markings and never being certain which direction the British "wrong side of the road" traffic would be coming from (impossible for someone who when told to turn left turns right).

I had to get used to near-daily food shopping because my very-typical under-the-counter refrigerator couldn't hold more than six eggs and a cauliflower, and I particularly had to get used to not having access to a clothes dryer because there weren't any. In the end and more than anything else, I simply learned to be resourceful--the most British trait of all! Even on the rare occasions when I was consumed by homesickness: "England is such hard work! It's so cold! My clothes won't dry! Why is the sky so dark? I wanna go home!" had me laughing at the absurdity of my situation and looking for a solution, e.g., wear more clothes! That, and speed dry them with my hair dryer.

And once my fingers thawed out enough to hold a pen, I filled notebook after notebook with what felt like a wealth of material: the perpetual sound of inland seagulls crying overhead; the unexpected rumble of passing trains; the melancholy non-stop patter of rain hitting my windows; a cat slipping through its own swing door fitted into a gothic archway. Over the weeks most everything I did or saw turned into a story-line and I couldn't stop painting or writing about every piece of it, including:

1. The town being so pretty, especially at twilight (which by November arrived very early). Little medieval or Tudor shops and inns, narrow winding streets, green spaces and water in-between made every exploration memorable.  

2. Pops of color. Often I'd be walking along thinking the world couldn't get any grayer than an English afternoon when suddenly I would see a surprise burst of color. The combination of bright oranges or pinks against a moody sky gave me some interesting sketchbook ideas I'm still experimenting with.

Yes, I know the sun is out . . . lasted only a minute or two . . .

 

Quick ink and gouache sketch using a twig. (Brought indoors, of course!)

3. Coffee shops. It took me longer than I thought it would to find the English equivalent of the type of coffee shop I'm used to here in Albuquerque, one where I can sit and write without feeling I'm taking up space or staying too long. Eventually I discovered the cozy, brick-lined basement at The Refinery where I was able to get coffee AND toasted crumpets (we don't have that in the Duke City). I'll be discussing the manuscript I wrote there in another post, but I will always remember writing, writing, writing by hand and with a fountain pen in that little basement. 

 

This ISN'T The Refinery, but I like the bricks!

4. Speaking of little . . . The attic flat I rented was worthy of a novel of its own. Up several flights of stairs in a lovely Georgian home, despite its miniature size and sloped ceilings it turned out to be the perfect creative space for when I wasn't exploring coffee shops. In all honesty I was a bit tall for rooms I'm assuming once housed a much-shorter serving class, and I was in constant danger of splitting my head open like a melon. What made up for having to remember to always duck if I wanted to go through a doorway was the fact the rooms had recently been painted and refurbished and the abundance of light that came through the windows provided much-needed morale. Another benefit was being so well-situated, smack in the middle of where I wanted to be and I could go absolutely anywhere within minutes. 

The view from my bedroom.

 

5. If you look closely at the photo above you will see the unintentional inclusion of a dog, and my goodness, but there were a lot of dogs. Before I go any further, let me say that most people know I'm not what you'd call a "dog person," being a committed member of Team Cat, but after seeing the huge variety of beautifully groomed, well-behaved silky, fluffy, and sleek breeds parading through the streets (Whippets! Collies! Chows! Terriers! Poodles!), even I started to see the charm in owning a little oodle-doodle of some sort. Never in my life have I seen so many sophisticated animals in one square mile. 

 

Stole this off the Internet. No idea who to attribute copyright to, but thank you! Also note summer clothes: not my experience at all.

Besides mistaking the town for the Westminster Dog Show, I basically spent the vast majority of my time as I've already mentioned: writing and painting, plus visiting wonderful people (probably shaking their heads in disbelief now that I've gone: "Yes, she was very strange. Obsessed with laundry!") and walking. I did a lot of walking.

Walking, wherever I am, has been my most reliable grief "go-to" and by now I'm sure I've circumnavigated the entire globe no less than twice, all the while thinking about my husband with every step. This time as I walked through quaint and bustling streets filled with as many prams as pups, or out toward the marshes where all I could hear was the wind, I thought about how much he would have liked being there with me. I thought about how much he, being English himself, would have laughed at all the silly and surreal moments only life in Britain can provide. I thought about how many of the same places I loved he would have also enjoyed stopping in to have a drink, a conversation, a piece of cake (he loved cake!). At the same time I felt confident that going it alone was exactly what he would have wanted me to do at this point in my life, and how very proud he would have been of me for doing so.  

(OK. Not crying. It's a stuffy nose from all that cold weather. Right.)

Next post: What I painted, how I painted, and why: 

Traveling with Makeshift, Limited, and Unexpectedly Good Art Supplies. 

Here's a glimpse of what's to come. See you soon!