Molly's Roses

When we lived in our previous house down in Venice the woman who lived behind us went a bit batty and one day snapped all the heads of my roses as she walked by as my recompense for talking out side during the day in my lanai on my cell phone. I think she must have had her hearing aid turned way too loud, for she lived quite a distance across a pond and I am not all that loud. Nonetheless it made her mad and in a fit of pique she shuffled over in her walker and beheaded my roses, just like the unhappy Queen in Alice in Wonderland. It apparently took the stuffing right out of her and not to long after she was packed off to a “residential treatment facility”, (what as kids we called the looney bin). One thing is clear is that the roses’ beauty was not to be tolerated in her increasingly ugly world, any more than my happy prattling to friends, family & co-workers. Molly Schmid’s roses, laid so casually with their ribbon are like my happy conversations on the lanai…without consciousness and seeming eternal, certainly fresh and happy. When the ugly demons possessed my neighbor’s brain, they would have none of either, snapping off any head daring to smile out of its fox hole. When I look at Molly’s roses I find them quite enchanting and the buds, as they unfold very charming. I think of my neighbor, wonder if she is still alive, hoping, if she is, that her tolerance for grace & beauty has returned. Molly’s Roses are on the wall at www.Mgalleryoffineart.com.

Do you ever have those days where you feel perhaps you arrived in the wrong place, wearing the wrong clothes, thinking the wrong thoughts, having the wrong assumptions and it all turned out to be ridiculously right? Or at least perfect for the occasion? I have those days fairly often...It is as if the universe is telling me...as my children say...to "chillax". When I look at Oleg Radnov's Lady Plumber I am reminded of those times in my life - oh so wrong yet - oh so right. She is hanging at M Gallery of Fine Art along with several other of his magnificent paintings...

Russel Gordon's St Sebastian Mannequin is the original don't ask don't tell military man. An officer in the Roman Army Sebastian was found to be a practising Christian and was ordered executed by arrows...After his execution proved less than fatal, was healed back to health by St. Irene who rescued him by torch light from a cave and stitched him back together. He is a patron saint for soldiers, policemen, athletes & gay men. All of Gordon's work like any competent renaissance era painter is filled with symbolism & irony. He is having a wonderful one man show this Friday at M Gallery and bringing a number of new works. I can't wait. Maggie

Salt Marsh in Fall

Today was spent on the salt marsh south of Portsmouth. The delicate estuaries that make up our coastal landscapes are truly miraculous. Deborah Paris’ painting of the salt marsh moonrise captures the wonderful sense of mystery and constant change in these habitats. I have been very home sick for Florida the last few weeks, but today’s afternoon in the burnt sienna grasses and tidal water seemed to suspend all longing and bring me to the peaceful present. It was as if nothing mattered but the tide surging up the mud flat bringing little fishes and wheeling birds. The great brackish smells, clean air…so salty it abrades your skin, wonderful autumn color made it completely absorbing. When I look at Deborah’s painting time suspends in the same way. The moon rises, the water carries us through…

Jeff Cornell’s drawing of this rather ample Ringling model always gets interesting reactions at the gallery. Jeff obviously loves women of all shapes & sizes and when he renders them to his paper the result is stunning. I am intrigued by the acceptance of this particular Cornell piece, how many women find it very lovely…yet those same women would never grant themselves the same graciousness. Many men stare at the drawing obviously enjoying her wonderful curves. Too often, we often hold our image of beauty to a standard defined by outsiders. And, many of those outsiders have a vested interest in selling us things: weight loss products, badly designed clothes, etc. We all know the disastrous effects obesity has on our health. I see women desperately trying weight loss products which damage their livers, yo-yo dieting until their metabolism shudders into uselessness. Many of us live in shame over pounds we can’t shed, imaginary character faults, silly standards our shapes & DNA can never achieve. I find the kindness proffered by Cornell, the illumination of beauty in this woman’s shape and regal presence an important lesson in self acceptance and understanding. Jeff found this woman beautiful. I hope this woman, if she has any sense at all, finds herself beautiful. Visitors to M Gallery certainly have. It is my wish that the women & men looking at her shapely form will also find themselves beautiful: whatever their form. Jeff Cornell paints out of his studio in Venice Flroida and his works can be seen at M Gallery of Fine Art, 16 S. Palm Avenue Sarasota FL www.mgalleryoffineart.com

Soul filling

One for the fondest memories from my childhood is my Grandma Rose. She was my anchor and often my care giver, always had time for me and taught me most of my life skills. She had large work worn hands and was simply one of the best cooks I ever have known…and I have had the luxury of many fine meals prepared by great chefs, famous cooks, in famous restaurants. She had a limited education, a limited circumstances and a limitless life force that continues long after her death. I miss her terribly. One of her prize possessions was an odd assortment of Nippon Lusterware from Japan which she kept above kitchen cupboards with all the odds & ends of vases and treasures given her by countless grandchildren, adoring children, families she cleaned and kept house for, neighbors, etc. She had a renown garden, vegetables (part of why her food was so good) and amazing flowers. Almost every inch of her Southern Minnesota yard was in some sort of flower bed, She created micro climates by manipulating cold frames, straw bales, wind breaks, burlap, any thing she could come up with to tame the -30 degree wind chills that were far too frequent in Minnesota and spring times far too reticent to coax delicate blooms from the frost encrusted ground. Sue Foster’s snow drops in the grey Noritake Lusterware vase returned me to my grandmother's swimming pool aqua kitchen: wooden table spread with a well ironed, well worn cloth, snow drops perched triumphantly in their delicate Nippon (the earlier name for Noritake) Lusterware vase. Her specialty was apricot kolatchies and although in late winter when the snow drops peeked out, we would have never had fresh apricots, the dried ones would have summoned these plumps fruits of Sue's like ghosts, to the table. Rose had found a theoretically hearty variety for her garden and although it never bore much fruit, they were considered a miracle for the Gurney Seed Catalog to have produced such a thing for her to coax into surviving the Arctic blasts which descended every winter. Sue’s painting evokes the smells of Rose's kitchen, the kolatchies fresh from the oven, apricot syrup bubbly and caramelized, snow drops nodding, silver glaze's soft grey reflections of my grandmother beaming as she watched us wolf down the still warm pastries, big glasses of fresh milk, re-energizing our lanky frames as we unbundled from the raw Minnesota spring air, ravenous from barn chores. I miss my grandmother, but when I gaze at Sue’s painting, she is back, larger than life, tucking a stray errant curl behind my ear, reminding me I had homework before bed. It is through Sue’s painting, the ravenous hunger in my soul's memory is filled, no longer empty from life’s barn of endless chores.

Dominic Avant painted our resident Homeless Man "Mikie" as he lounged under a shade tree this summer. Mikie suffers from fairly severe mental illness and has been a fixture downtown for many years. Urban legend is he was a boxer and is punch drunk; alternately he was brain injured by too many drugs; that he was abandoned by a well off father; etc. It is almost impossible to tell what the circumstances leading to Mikie's street based life are; he is usually not clear enough to tell you and when he does the story always changes. What is clear is he could be any one of us given the right circumstances. He is harmless to others, many of the downtown merchants feed him, give him cast off clothes, blankets, etc. More than once any one of us has dragged him out of the street, calmed him down, led him to a safe location. He continues to use and abuse substances as a way to self medicate his raging mind. As a society we do so badly by men like Mikie. He deserves a warm bed, medical care, a bath, clean clothes. He lives in a city where the amount of wealth is staggering. I have no answers for the Mikie's of our world. He would rage at any forced half way house residency...he is simply too crazy. So when I pass by him, I try and make eye contact, say hello, bring him lunch. He smells so bad it is hard to get too close. We can't invite him into the gallery, the body odor lingers for days after. In Dominic's painting Mikie appears blissful; and often he is very happy, chattering away, smiling. I am sure he will not live a long life based on the statistics for men in his circumstance. When I look at Dominic's painting of him it appears as if he has almost transitioned; as Dominic puts it "Almost Home". I am so delighted Dominic chose to paint him, commit him to our collective memory.