Making Art, Making Do

I think I need to mention something. The painting I made for Lauren’s auction--Blossom-- I painted in my kitchen. The kids were home for spring break last week, which means I had to clear out of my “studio,” aka Flannery’s old bedroom. So over the bricks of the kitchen floor I unfurled my big roll of plastic sheeting. Up went my paint-splattered easel. The talavera tiles of the kitchen counter I covered with a bunch of old Wall Street Journals. That’s where I mixed my paint, and while waiting for layers to dry, I prepared ingredients for that night's dinner.

The reason I feel compelled to mention this is that there was a time I felt a little apologetic that I didn’t have an official studio. Here in Santa Fe there are dozens of artists with well-appointed studios, replete with northern light. Me, I work in the corner of a polka-dotted bedroom with my high school prom dress hanging on the wall. And last week I was relegated to the kitchen. What kind of self-respecting professional would work under these circumstances? One who has promised she'll complete a painting and send it to New Orleans in two days!

I had been rather pleased with Blossom. As was everyone else. Flannery said she wanted it for college graduation. Bennie said he wanted to sell it in the gallery. I kind of wanted to hang it at home. Several of you kindly said that you would buy it were it not bound for the auction. Everyone was so pleased with Blossom, I was a little skittish about beginning a new canvas. But the next day I set a canvas four times the size of Blossom on my kitchen easel. 24" X 24" is about as big as I would dare in the kitchen. Again, I would be preparing dinner between bouts of painting.

I slathered down layers of paint. I left them to dry. I turned to the counter. I chopped onions. I chopped jalapenos. Back at the easel I scraped off the layers of paint I'd left to dry. I poured on more. I chopped garlic. I chopped cilantro and tomatoes. I gouged and peeled the surface of the painting. I peeled and mashed avocados. I squeezed lime. Guacamole was taking shape. I turned back to the canvas. A painting was taking shape. It was starting to look like an aged adobe wall against which someone has thrown a quart of guacamole in a fit of passion. I salivated. I could go for a jalapeno-induced endorphin rush right about now. I almost tasted it.

Instead, I brought Winds of Change into the gallery the next morning. I hung it on the wall. IT SOLD WITHIN 48 HOURS. Oh, if life always offered such immediate gratification, I would have a well-appointed studio replete with northern light.