Painting can be a lesson in solitude. My dog doesn't even like to accompany me to the studio, where I lose all sense of time. We enjoy lively conversation on our walk down to the studio: "Okay, you can come with me. But Heel!"...Tail wags as the terrier bounds into tall grass after a grasshopper. "Watch for snakes!"...Tail wags as she sniffs, circling. "My, that must smell interesting—is that coyote poop on that bush?"...Tail wags double-time.  But once in the studio, I lose my ability to speak Dog. Or English. Soon Cooks the Ranch Dog languishes, bored in a sunny window. annoyed with the whole concept of creation.  You'd think I'd staked her on a bed of red ants for our play date as she waits, morosely for Jim to rescue her.

My husband is actually afraid to enter the studio. Apparently, when I'm lost in "that world I go to" where I don't hear anything he says, I tend toward curt and evil my reponses. As an antidote to right-brainitis, he often brings iced tea, to which I am addicted. If I get really lost and paint past suppertime, he brings single malt, then delicately inquires as to my plans for dinner. If I paint that late, there aren't any plans for dinner. But, he can hope. At least the Glenlivit makes me appreciate whatever he cooks.

Roxa Robison, my studio partner is fine company. I can cuss under my breath with Roxa there and she simply chuckles instead of trying to fix whatever unhappy accident I just created. We laugh at ourselves and our attempts at art in the midst of our crazy, busy lives. We intuit when to speak, when not to. And she isn't offended if I break off a thought mid-sentence, paint awhile, then pick up where I left off half-an-hour later. Or never finish that thought at all. Days we're at the studio together are too rare, though. Often, I'm showing up at the studio as she's leaving to fix lunch. I suspect Tom misses fewer meals than Jim misses.

As Jim recovered (in Lubbock) from his first hip replacement surgery (he's back home, doing terrific, thank you, but I'm glad he doesn't have three legs) I took time off nursing to paint with Mom and her neighborhood clan of watercolorists. To qualify for a home at Ransom Canyon, TX, you must first demonstrate an interest in painting in watercolor once, preferably twice weekly. Never painted before? Doesn't matter. They'll bring you up to speed.

I don't do watercolor. Lugging my pastels and trusty Soltek easel, I joined the Splash team for lunch, followed by an afternoon of painting. As they gathered tidily around a big kitchen table, I threw plastic sheeting on the floor to collect the dust I'd inevitably produce, erected my easel.  This takes like, two minutes, during which time I begin planning my painting. Normally, this is where I lapse into that nonverbal twilight zone and morph into Zombie Artist. Before I could secure my canvas, our talented hostess Joyce Runyon passed me iced tea, (how did she know?) then showed me through her home, which she's decorated with her colorful abstracts. Nothing like what I do. I loved seeing her free-spirited, design-inspired work. I found myself torn between itching to paint and enjoying the view.

Done touring, I pulled out a photo and a small pre-mounted piece of Wallis paper. I keep both in my plein air easel pack. That way, I'm always ready to paint without much thought, on location or in someone's kitchen. Mom passed me munchies. Joyce refilled my iced tea. I decided to use Nupastels. Not as much mess. I donned my apron-smock. The watercolorists wore real clothes. I'd trash real clothes in a heartbeat.

Debra Clark passed around professional-quality photos she'd taken. We admired them, agreeing that building a resource photo-library of inspiration-rich food for an artist was an art form in itself. Sherry Crawford, knitting her brows sketched and adjusted, sketched and resketched an Indian woman until finally, she captured the likeness. (We've all been there! They were trying to figure out how to transfer her sketch for watercoloring when I left.)  Mom, Bettye Cook, reworked a stack of old watercolors, stuff she'd been dissatisfied with.  Ellen, six weeks out of hip replacement herself, layered lilac washes on a floral detail and exclaimed how good it felt to be out again and painting. Kayla came late, set up and got to work. Another Sherry, another Joyce. The Splash group is very rich in Joyces and Sherrys. There are others. It's an informal gathering to which all are invited. Someone piled another handful of trail mix munchies on the TV tray beside my easel. I figured eating with pastel-dusted fingers once probably wouldn't kill me. (I'm still here.)
 
Eight or nine women, aged early forties to early eighties painted all afternoon. They (we) talked about workshops and art supplies. Travels. Halloween. Aging parents. Pets. Life. Art. Someone asked me when I'd realized I was so good. (Now that's a hard one to answer gracefully, even if your proud mother is in the room.) Ellen asked questions about pastel technique. Somewhere in all this, I realized I'd lost my focal point. If I'd ever had one.

I'll look for it tomorrow, in my studio. Alone. That painting session was about belonging, not about focus.

I'll crash these watercolorists' kitchen paint-a-long again when we return for hip #2. Maybe this time, I'll supply the refreshments. (I'm sure Jim won't mind baking cookies while on a cane.)

An afternoon's play    Unfinished pastel miniature 5" X 6" by Lindy C Severns
check Lindy' Gallery on my website next week to see if I found my focus again!
oldspanishtrailstudio.com