I have been most remiss this year about blogging. I have excuses. I have reasons. I have rationales. But none of that is of any interest to my dear readers, who have been begging me to return to the task. Well, one reader sort of said maybe someday I might want to do another blog, but we won’t go into all that.
And so, I am returning. I don’t have an exhibit scheduled in the near future (nor the far, for that matter) and my hip seems to be behaving itself, so I’m just doing the Renaissance Art Class and water walking. I think I may have run out of excuses, rationales, reasons, and recalcitrancies.
Jer and I just returned from San Juan Island, which is located in the San Juan Islands (duh). Canadian Friends and authors, who write mysteries set on the Canadian and American Islands in the Strait of Georgia, met us there to eat, drink, talk, and do research. So I ate, drank, talked and painted.
But of course, first we had to ride the ferry to San Juan Island:
I love ferry rides. They are like going by Amtrak. No map reading with one’s magnifying glass, no 16-wheelers passing right by your right shoulder, no tangle of freeways and tensions of clueless highway signs. Just a bit of coffee, water to gaze at, an occasional splash to make one think of whales and whale songs. And then one arrives at a quaint seaside village, and the clueless signage returns.
We only got lost five or six times on the Island, but being an island, all roads eventually come back to themselves (or dead-end in the water) so getting lost was not a problem. And our digs, found by friend George, were perfect. Set in the woods, absolute quiet, visited by a deer or two, and one perfect scene for painting.
This is the great room in our elegant digs, terrifically comfy for taking naps while apparently studying the greenery for painting purposes.
And this was the scene I painted from under the eaves while it rained. It served its purpose well, although there are photos of places I thought my sardonic nature would have preferred to set up an easel. As it was, I managed one perfectly sunny day of painting and then the eaves drip day, and other than that, I took a lot of naps. Perfection.
This fellow endeared himself to me by listening intently for fifteen or twenty minutes while I played the pentatonic flute standing on the deck that overlooked the woods and water. This was far longer than my friends endured my concert; when I went back into the house, they had gone away, searching out Friday Harbor, presumably for places to plant the murder weapon.
When they returned, we went to American Camp, a National Park, where I saw prairie in its untouched state — and was stupefied by the flowers. I have never seen so many camas blooms — in the middle of butter cups and shooting stars. And George and Kit found chocolate lilies by the dozens, again, a rarity for our over-tramped landscapes.
I painted at American Camp for about five hours, but that’s news for another blog. –June