I'm currently sitting at my kitchen table, looking outside at my small back porch.  The sparrows are back. 

 

 This is the third year that they've decided to build their nest at the top of my porch column.  I can't say I blame them--it is well-protected, has access to the birdfeeders nearby, and lets them make a home just big enough for themselves and their babies, about the size of your two hands together.  But what they don't realize is that when the fledglings take that first flight, it's a very long way down, and there's no soft landing down below.  It gives me anxiety to know the little ones will be growing quickly all Spring, and I might not be around to catch them and put them back safely when the first day of flight school arrives.  It really is a hard lesson in the bird world and for the human world, too.  

 

Our son was married in January of this year.  He and his lovely bride planned a beautiful day, with their incredibly supportive friends and family to witness their love and commitment to each other.  As part of the rehearsal dinner, I showed photos of his childhood, each one highlighting a stage of his life from infancy to adulthood.  With it was a passage by Australian writer Mia Freedman called, "Your Son Growing Up Will Feel Like the Slowest Breakup You've Ever Known".  It's worth reading, especially if you have a son.  Essentially, she describes how your son is forever evolving into a "new boy" and the previous boy is no longer exactly the one you used to know.  Of course, it's the natural thing to let this process happen with children.   To see our son making his new wife his priority is the way it should be. 

 

Our daughter is getting married in October.  (Yes, I chuckle, too, when I say this.)  It's going to be a busy year.  But she and her fiancé are very good together.  They're sure of what they want and have also made most of the decisions about the wedding.  Except for a few details and my dress, I think they have it figured out.  

 

Ironically, the talk of bringing up children and letting them go has me thinking about similarities in painting.  You start with a blank canvas.  You have (high) expectations of how it's going to go with your personal style and standards.  You start with a foundation to give you the basic composition and good values.  Along the way, the painting gives you "happy accidents", frustrations, and aHA! moments.  You persevere and don't give up. 

 

Before you know it, there is layer upon layer, some of those you can't see but you know are there somewhere!  Before you know it, it feels like it is near completion.  And you step back, and you survey it.  Is there anything more to do?  Will someone love it like I do?  And at some point, it finds a place with someone who appreciates it, loves it, and is thrilled to have found it!  What a great feeling!  One last glance tells you it would be so nice to keep it, but you know it really needs a fresh place to "hang".  And your realize your work is done.

 

 

I just read an article that said the little, single movie theater in my old Pittsburgh neighborhood is coming down. A few years ago, the private owner sold it to to Pittsburgh Filmmakers, then it closed for a while with the hopes of eventually reopening. The article says that the Concept art gallery, the longtime neighbor next door, will take ownership and expand into the space.
Hmmm. While I’m always excited for an art gallery (or any business) to need more space—especially in times of COVID—I can’t help but feel nostalgic for the memories of my first job there, selling tickets and concessions in the evening and on weekends.
Back then, premium tickets were $2.50. A large popcorn was $1.50. Of course, I think I was paid $2 an hour.
Over the course of three years, I saw ( and listened to) movies over and over there. The 1977 classic, Saturday Night Fever and American Gigolo (which I still have the huge marquee posters to). Star Trek, Urban Cowboy, Grease, The Blues Brothers.
All became the backdrop of my late teens years in dialogue and music.
The most ironic thing about working there was that I remember sitting in the cashier’s booth in between shows where I could do my homework. A small red truck would pull up to the art gallery next door, and an artist would unload several paintings at a time. Over those three years, I saw him just a few times, and I was intrigued by what he was delivering , but couldn’t leave my post to inquire.

In 1987, I moved to Charlotte, NC and, in 2010, finally had time to take oil painting classes. On my first day at Braitman Studio I was asked where I was from and when I said, “Pittsburgh”, Andy Braitman exclaimed, “Braddock Avenue!” Yes, he was the artist in the red truck that I watched longingly from the theatre window. He had his work in three galleries around the country then, and that was one. And now I was 470 miles away taking art lessons him thirty years later. It’s strange how things happen sometimes.

“Water does not resist.

Water flows.

When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress.

Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you.

But water always goes where it wants to go,

and nothing, in the end, can stand against it.

Water is patient.

Dripping water wears away a stone.

Remember that, my child.

Remember you are half water.

If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it.

Water does.”

~ Margaret Atwood

 

Earlier this year, I started having reoccurring thoughts and images about water.  When this type of thing happens to me, I don't ascribe it to any particular religious or worldly source, but I do think that it guides me to pay attention to possible meanings as it relates to me.  As COVID was thoroughly integrating itself into my daily routine and thoughts, it was a nice distraction.  I'm not into astrology, but as a March baby, I was always made aware of how Pisces are supposedly creative, sensitive and intuitive.  To me,  listening to that gut feeling or repeated image has always been a natural way to go about my decision-making or feel connected to the spiritual and natural world around me.  So when water images started coming at me, I paid attention, and I went with it. 

 

It seems a little "woo-woo".  But it started with a house leak...water from a blocked A/C drain.  Then the next day, when we had terrible humidity and rain, condensation "tears" crying down an interior wall.  What the heck?  Waterfalls in my house...not so great.  Then, a  trip to the grocery store and there it was...

 

I couldn't ignore this. Out of curiosity, I researched a bit.  

 

 

According to the What's Your Sign website, "In Taoist tradition, water is considered an aspect of wisdom. The concept here is that water takes on the form in which it is held and moves in the path of least resistance. Here the symbolic meaning of water speaks of a higher wisdom we may all aspire to mimic.

 

The ever-observant ancient Greeks understood the power of transition water holds. From liquid, to solid, to vapor – water is the epitome of metamorphosis and philosophical recycling.

 

Among the first peoples of North America, water was considered a valuable commodity (particularly in the more arid plains and western regions) and the Native Americans considered water to be a symbol of life (further solidifying the symbol affixed in many creation myths). 

 

So it is also with the ancient Egyptians as we learn their beloved (and heavily relied upon) Nile river is akin to the birth canal of their existence." 

 

Traveling to the beach was not a possibility yet, but I felt the need to be near it.   So we started with a trip to Pilot Mountain, North Carolina and Hanging Rock State Park.  Hiking the trails, hearing the roaring waterfalls, and putting my feet in that cool water, made me feel as though I was forgetting the stresses of modern day and living the moments of centuries past, when Native people had probably walked these same trails and experienced these places to refresh and sustain themselves. 

 

I had a strong desire to paint water--waterfalls, streams, waves.  Cascades, flowing and still.  Finding the shadows in it, the "anatomy" of it, the light through it.  I painted a wandering stream and a rushing creek. Then a large still marsh.

 

Eventually, I had an opportunity to be at the Carolina coast for a week.  I felt blessed and grateful.  THAT'S the place that I had been longing for in my heart.  To connect to that primordial spot by just sitting a watching it, by smelling the salt in it, hearing the rhythmic roaring and feeling that refreshing coolness wash over me.  Here are a couple of paintings that have resulted in that trip, so far.  

 

  

 

 

 

What do I think all the water imagery meant for me?  I can go on and on philosophically about all its possible meanings, of course.  But I think that in this particular time of adaptation and change, it was a reminder that I can work around the whole COVID isolation issue.  To not fear the changes life brings to me right now.  That I can find a way, if I persist.  I like how writer Margaret Atwood suggests that we be like water, and go around an obstacle.  I'm OK.  I'm being patient and I'm still painting.  

 

Stay healthy.

 

Mary

 

I have a fig tree growing in my front yard and they are almost ripe, but it seems as though the deer get to the figs before I do. But, when a neighbor gave me a time-tested recipe for the most delicious, decadent fig cake, I got ahold of some beautiful purple figs at Trader Joe's and got to work. I tried to make use of the them in every way I could before I losing their sweet, delicate flavor and jewel-like color. Of course, they became the subject for a quick still life, as seen below. But the best part of all was researching a bit about figs and what I found out was more than I could have imagined!

 

Did you know that it is generally understood by historians, that Eve did not tempt Adam with an apple?  The apple has gotten a bad rap all this time just because the word for "evil" and the word for "apple" are very similar.  From my research, I found a theory that the Latin words for "evil" and "apple" are so similar that St. Jerome, while translating the bible from Greek to Latin, decided to make a joke and say that Eve ate an apple, instead of correctly saying that she ate an "evil". Since every educated Christian in St. Jerome's time (the late-fourth and early-fifth century) knew Latin, people back then may have understood the joke. But, almost no one does now.  Looking at early paintings of the scene in the Garden of Eden, we can check out one in the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, by Michelangelo.  There, when you look closely, the tree is definitely a fig tree, with the unmistakable round-edged leaves.  And apples were native to Asia, not the Mediterranean, it makes them unlikely to be Eve's weapon of choice. So what fruit was really responsible for all the trouble? The Fig.

 

 

Temptation by Michelangelo

 

More research into Michelangelo and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel tells me that Michelangelo, who considered himself primarily a sculptor not a painter, was "commissioned" to paint the ceiling of the church for Pope Julius II. During the Renaissance, painting a ceiling was not a great job. His contemporaries were painting walls, and unlike common thought, he did not paint it on his back, but did it by reaching overhead while standing on scaffolding---Hard, arduous work---And for a terrible boss who he disliked immensely.

 

Michelangelo had done prior sculpting work for the Pope and was not paid, and this powerful pope could not be refused. In addition, Michelangelo was not in agreement with the Catholic Church and it's hold on the people. He felt that people should have a direct connection to God (Humanism) and not through an entity,  like the church. So, way up there, 68 feet above the ground, Michelangelo painted his distaste of the Church and the pope.  

 

Enter:  the Fig.  This time, though, I'm not exactly talking about the fruit.  This is more like a hand gesture.  An obscene hand gesture back then that would have been similar to flipping someone "The Bird" today.  Without giving you an image, let's just say that if you ever played "I've Got Your Nose!", then you've made the gesture.  (Not a game to play in Italy.)  In any case, Michelangelo used his opportunities of scaffold draperies and distance to hide the gestures in his panel paintings from Julius II.  One of them is of prophet Zechariah, painted in the pope's likeness and incorporated puttis (angels!) giving "the fig" behind Zechariah's head.  

 

 

 

 

 

If you are curious about seeing more of fig gestures and other possible "hidden" images painted into the Sistine Chapel, here is a quick article that mentions a few:  https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/italy/2163492/Michelangelo-hid-secret-code-in-Sistine-Chapel.html  It really is incredible how genius Michelangelo was...and how much thought he put into this huge protest work.  I love the thought of art-activism, and this, to me, is quite mind-blowing!  So, the next time you have an opportunity to eat a fig, think of it's role in art history.  And if you would like the recipe for the incredible Fig Cake, see below:

 

 

 

 

Fresh Fig Cake  (thank you, Ms. Darlene!)  

 

2 cups sugar

1/2 c. oil

3 eggs

1 1/2 c. pureed fresh figs (about 6 large)

2 cups all purpose flour

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. nutmeg 

1 tsp. cloves

1 tsp. baking soda

1/8 tsp salt

1/2 c. milk

1 c  chopped pecans (hold off 2 T. for garnish)

  

Combine sugar and oil and beat well.  Add eggs one at a time.  Add fig puree, spices, soda and salt.  Add flour and milk alternately.  Mix well.  Stir in nuts.  Pour into tube pan sprayed with cooking spray.

Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes and 325 for 20 minutes.  Remove cake from oven and pour glaze over cake.  Sprinkle reserved pecans over the top.  Let stand in pan until just warm before removing cake.  (Do not turn upside down!  This is a soft cake!)

Glaze:  Combine in saucepan:  1 cup brown sugar, 1/4 c milk, 1/2 c butter.  Bring to a boil and simmer 2 1/2 minutes.  

 

Till next time!

 

Mary

  

 

 

 

I'm always grateful for the birds that have made their nests in my paper box for the last three years.  Once you get over the shock of having a mother bird fly out at you at the mailbox, it becomes a ritual of watching and waiting, and a good bit of caretaking.  I think it reminds me of the baby birds we would find growing up and got to nurture until they could fly off on their own.  This year's nest started out as a few leaves, which I mistakenly thought was just some caught-up debris, so I pulled them out.  The next day, it was a full nest, and there was no mistaking it for a determined homestead of some sort.  Within a few days, there were eggs, and my nurturing instincts took over.  One afternoon, a small, speckled egg was out of the nest and not seeing either parent around, I picked it up and gently tossed it back into its home.  Maybe I shouldn't have done that.  Did my touching it make a difference?  Was there a problem with that "bad egg" that I couldn't discern with my human senses?  In any case, I never saw the birds in there again, and after weeks of no activity, I knew the nest was abandoned, leaving three eggs.  While I am sorry that the eggs didn't hatch, I always feel privileged to receive the nest as a still life subject, and honor the handiwork of the birds that made it.  Since this nest was quite long and narrow (like the mailbox), the oil painting is nearly life-sized at 12" x 24".  I've had clients tell me that birds' nest paintings are special to them because of the number of eggs in the nest...it corresponds to their children. While I never made that connection before, I love that idea...even after the kids are grown, it's a subtle reminder of a loving home, and the nurturing that goes on there.  

 

Just as I enjoy seeing the baby birds start their journey from our mailbox, I have enjoyed seeing our two grown children grow and leave our nest.  Well, maybe "enjoyed" isn't the right word.  My husband and I know they needed to move out of the nest for everyone's normal development. (We do not really want a "failure to launch"!)  We've been really fortunate in that they both went to college (the same one, actually) that was within a few hours' drive of our city. 

 

Natalie's education took her to a variety of places:  Copenhagen, Vietnam, New Hampshire and then Florida, and now she is starting her career just over the border into South Carolina.  After completing her Master's, I'm really relishing the time that she is home while she gets settled in her job and finds her own apartment.  It's been quite a while since she really lived here, and I know this is extra time that parents don't usually get.  The best part, though,  is seeing her with her brother.  

 

Nick also works within an hour or so of home, but his career (coaching college football) is such that he might not work at the same place for very long.  I can see that, having gone separate ways in the last few years, they are appreciating the moments when they are together.  These are becoming fewer and further between.  When we are all together, I can feel the energy in the room change.  They are laughing.  Someone is singing.  They are excited to see each other.  It makes me think of my mother and her siblings who, in the days of the Great Depression, would sing, dance and entertain each other.  I totally understand it:  they sent brothers off to the war, and now they were together.  They celebrated the good times while they could.  Of course, sending my children off now is not nearly as precarious as when my grandmother did it.  But I still want to appreciate my intact nest every time I can.  Thank heaven I can do that here. 

 

Those birds? They rebuild a new nest quickly and relentlessly. And they send their young ones off season after season.  Those babies aren't in the nest for more than a few weeks.  How brave!    "Thank you" to those birds in my mailbox for reminding me of that.  

 

Until next time!

 

Mary

 

 

 

 

     You've probably heard about David Hockney's contemporary painting, "Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)", selling recently for an unprecedented $90.3 million. I'm probably like you--wondering how a work could garner so much interest and value. It's more than just the esthesics of the artwork on its own. Yes, it's a huge work and beautifully painted, but there's much more to it. In this case, Hockney introduced the style of 1960's California into the art world. He was one of the first artists to use acrylic paints, with their bright colors, to capture the sunny California climate and lifestyle of swimming pools and split-level homes in a variation of Cubism. He also defied the traditional macho artist archetypes and painted men (who were often personal friends) in "feminine" colors, embracing his own sexuality. In this regard, he is a major artist of the Pop Art movement. But given all that, one would hope that the buyer felt that the painting resonated with them. It is this connection that gives me the most gratification--that something I've created touches a viewer in some way that brings them meaning.
     I've had this experience several times in just the last few weeks. (No, not by selling my art for millions!) In one instance, one of my Butterfly Series paintings was used for the cover of a local publication, Ballantyne Magazine. That alone was definitely an honor and a thrill to see how the creative staff incorporated Charlotte Ballet's dancer with my painting. But what really floored me was encountering two people who had their own connections to the butterfly...one was a woman whose mother painted and had a fondness for butterflies in particular. We had a chance meeting at a local kick-off event that she attended at the last minute, and we found we had many things in common and hope to collaborate in the near future. She ended up purchasing a small butterfly painting from me in honor of her mother.

     Another is a man who contacted me because he and his wife have a personal connection to the Monarch butterfly since the tragic and sudden loss of their daughter. He had seen the magazine cover and expressed an interest in the painting. To know that my painting reminds someone of a loved one or a special time is the very best reward. Of course, not all are dramatic--I recently had a gentleman tell me my mixed media barns remind him of his teenage years in eastern North Carolina, arduously working summers to harvest tobacco before he went off to medical school. I was surprised to learn that and felt honored he was able to share that story. Both of us looking at those barns brought his memory to life for me.

     Some new small works I've just completed are of a bird's nest, abandoned at the end of summer in my mail box. It contained two eggs, but I have painted variations of it with different amounts of eggs, since some people connect the eggs in the nest to how many children they have.  That never occurred to me when I started painting them!  What a sweet connection!  

      I think art SHOULD be like that. Whether it is abstract or realistic, you should find pieces that give you some feeling. It can be what image they portray, or it could be how the colors excite you. But as an artist, it gives me great pleasure when someone tells me how my work connects with them. When I hear that, I am glad to see my art go off, knowing that it's treasured.  

 

 

Till next time!

 

Mary

The sour and the sweet, the highs and the lows, the light and the darkness:  Life's dichotomies.  Sir Francis Bacon said, "In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present."

 

These past few weeks were a lot like that for me.
Like most of the people of the Southeast,   my mind was on hurricane Irma. Our daughter just started graduate school in southern Florida and now had to evacuate. Although she is a careful person and responsible driver, it was quite nerve-wracking for me until she could get to our home in Charlotte. As that was happening, I was participating in a workshop with Australian impressionist painter, Colley Whisson, in Raleigh, North Carolina.  I had lived through hurricane Hugo in 1989, so even though our daughter was home, I was on long-distance high-alert, imploring her to pro-actively fill a bathtub with usable water in case Irma ruined our water supply (and I swear, I'm not as neurotic as that sentence now sounds.)  She laughingly refused.
Even with impending storms, I was able to relish the workshop. It was a thrill for me to finally meet Colley Whisson in person and hear about his approach to capturing light and shadows in his landscapes and still lifes. I had been following his work for some time now and had taken a quick webinar with him earlier this year.  His technique exaggerates the lights and shadows (something I sort of personally relate to) and it's those high-contrast areas which make his paintings "pop". You can take a look at his work at https://www.colleywhisson.com
Spending those days there, listening to his quiet, composed demeanor as he demonstrated putting in his darkest shadows and the bright Australian sun on boats and rolling fields, reminded me that we MUST have the darkness, the shadows, the stormy times to appreciate the brightness. If everything were to be the same bright value in our paintings and otherwise, would life be nearly as interesting? Of course, no one wants a hurricane, but the occasional stormy day does make me admire a Carolina blue sky even more!

 

Before we left, I asked Colley for a quote that sums up his approach to his work. He told me, "To be a great painter of light, we must be even a greater painter of shadows." I am keeping that in mind as I go forward with my own work, and you can see it in my daily 30-paintings-in-30-days challenge postings on Instagram (Instagram.com/maryckamererart). I'm trying out going darker with my shadows and lighter values in my sun-lit areas. Outside of the studio, I also am very conscious of how lucky we were in that our daughter was safe, but not everyone experienced good fortune in the storm.  My thoughts are with them.  Those dark days are certainly more than necessary to appreciate the days of clear skies.

Until next time!

Mary

PS. An extra-sunny moment for me was that my two submissions to the Matthews Alive Art Festival were given Honorable Mentions! ("Waiting for the Morning Rush" and "Sea Terns"). That was a nice surprise for sure! You can see the exhibit until the end of September. Check out my website for info on location details.

 

 

One of the issues I am trying to refine in my painting is the narrative. What feeling am I trying to convey? What IS the story? I mentioned in my newsletter about how, in my mixed-media barn series, "Finding Your Homestead", I am trying to share my thoughts about the solitary life of our nation's farm families. The wide open whites, or vast skies, of the paintings emphasize how isolated these places can be. It's up to the viewer as to whether that feels appealing or not, but it should stir an emotion.
I took a photo while in Venice of the scene in front of a bustling cafe. The waiters in Europe are often at their jobs as a lifetime career, and there is a finesse to their routine. I wanted to capture the attentiveness and professionalism in a common scene.
Painting the posture of the waiter as he appears with his tables full of people, did not quite tell a story. In fact, it asked more than what it answered. Why isn't he getting their orders? What is he leaning in for? What is he looking at? The tables are full, so why does he have his hands behind his back as if he has nothing to do? Folks should interpret art they way they want, but I don't want them to feel confused.
Initially, I did the underpainting pretty true to the photo, with the tables full of customers. I thought that the stance of the waiter was interesting and wanted to keep that intact, but something didn't "work". Having people sitting at the tables felt too cluttered and blocked the visual "flow" of the painting. Removing the patrons closest to the waiter and making the tables empty seemed to do the trick. Now, the eye is led along the table edges from the lower left to the upper right area where the light values are. No sitting customers break that movement. And the viewer can focus on what the waiter might be leaning in and looking at. I added an ambiguous figure to the upper right to give depth and increase the narrative. It has rained this morning, but the sun and customers are out, and this waiter is looking up the street for people to fill his tables.

--Mary

You can see this piece at the Matthews Alive! Festival in Matthews, NC over the Labor Day weekend, September 1-4, 2017.

https://www.matthewsalive.org/

With my son moving into his first apartment and my daughter heading off to graduate school, I thought it would be the perfect time for one last family vacation. We decided to bicycle a route my husband and I had done several years before and that we loved for the spectacular views, incredible food and easy segments--northern Italy's Dolomite valley--Venice to Verona.
The first time we bicycled this course, we were with other couples who were all in great shape and gave a competitive edge to the week. This time around, I decidedly reminded myself that it is the JOURNEY, not the destination that is the vacation. Spending time with my family, the conversations we had, the vistas we saw together, the meals we hungrily scarfed after 25 miles of biking--that was the stuff to relish and not rush through.
Except the uphills.
I distinctly remember one particular sharp uphill when we first biked the Dolomites where I had to get off and walk my bike. I wasn't the only one, but I was embarrassed especially when I realized that I had a few lower gears I could have used. This time around, I was determined to manage my cycling better, to be prepared for it beforehand, to pace myself and bite off inches at a time till I reached the top.
Lately I've been trying to challenge myself in my painting too. I completed a series of seven paintings (so far) called, "Finding Your Homestead". The thought of doing seven paintings of one subject would have felt daunting to me several years ago, but finding a subject matter that resonates with me, a technique that intrigues me (collage and textured mediums), and an unusual canvas size (24" x24"), let me feel that many of the paintings just painted themselves.
I've given myself another challenge--painting on larger canvases. My last piece, from my time in Italy, is a 40" x 30" "Waiting for the Morning Rush". Like taking on the uphills, I find I can't rush through the painting. It came in several layers, working on different areas, and RE-working areas. I remember master artists and teachers telling me to slow down and not rush to the end so quickly. I think I'm beginning to get that, especially on a large undertaking. Enjoy the process.
So, if you are wondering how I did on that hill...I STILL HAD TO WALK MY BIKE!! C'mon, I'm six years older than I was before! But that was the ONLY time, and while others complained of sore knees and two guys had to be hospitalized for a heart attack and a concussion, I fared pretty darn well. I'm trying to approach the uphills as best I can--accepting the challenges and taking them bit by bit till I've reached the top. That's where you find the best views!

“I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June.”


― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island


Lucy Maude Montgomery, author of Anne of Green Gables, had it right, June is a wonderful time of year. Here in Charlotte, it hasn't gotten too hot yet but the flowers are in glorious bloom!
As a painter, you start to look for complimentary (opposite on the color wheel) and analogous (beside each other on the color wheel) color combinations in your surroundings. I absolutely love hydrangeas and all the nuances of blues and purples they can display in one bloom! Their colors vary so that in the mountains, they can be a vibrant lime green and near the coast, almost a navy or cobalt blue.
When we moved into our house, I decided that I wanted to stick with just a blue/purple and white garden theme to compliment the sage green trim on our house. I pictured a yard full of sky-blue blooms, sage foliage and a bit of white here and there. (Does everyone think this way or is it just me?)

Anyway, I learned soon after, that most blue-flowering plants do not take full sun and that is what we have on most of the front of the house. By August, when the sun is at it's most intense, that becomes a real issue. But I persevered, adding plants every year in my color range--Veronica, lavenders, irises, white daffodils, pansies, lobelia, salvia and a couple of varieties of my beloved hydrangeas. Some make it and some (many) don't. I even painted my two iron porch benches purple to match.
A couple of years ago I visited a nearby yard sale. The owners were two men who walked the neighborhoods every morning. I recognized them, but they didn't know me. When they asked which house was mine and I started to describe it, they simultaneously blurted out, "Purple flowers!" We all nervously chuckled, and I've wondered since if I've needed to add a complimentary color to my landscape so as to not be the crazy "purple flower lady"

It's been fifteen years since moving in, and my hydrangeas have been relegated to the shady parts of the back yard. I was lucky to cut a few blossoms for a still life in the studio the other day and titled it after the variety, "Endless Summer". That bush will bloom all summer long. And as a change of pace, I joined our local plein air group which arranged to paint in a neighbor's beautiful garden along a lake this week. Where did I find myself? You guessed it--near the blue hydrangea, incorporating it into my quick 8" x10" before a light summer rain started.