Tag Archive | art show

Busy Bee Preparations

24x36 Bombus Flat

I’m coming up from the morass that is the inside of my mind ~ not that it isn’t sometimes a sea of serenity ~ but the past months have flown from winter to summer with my hardly noticing. I’ve been immersed in bees, pleasantly, putting together this show. The past week or two I’ve been repeatedly bowled over by unforeseen eventualities: printer challenges, supply insufficiency, poor prior planning despite my best efforts to think everything through well in advance, and not least simple operator error. But I’ve learned so much! About the big printer I keep upstairs and use so infrequently we have to become acquainted all over again every time I do turn it on. About Lightroom, and Adobe Photoshop, programs I’ve been slowly learning for years, but have immersed myself in since January. About my capacity for patience with myself, the incalculable value of dogs and cats, the benefits of meditation, and trust in the flow of life. Also learning that life’s a lot easier if I just don’t get mad in the first place.

Also, I keep learning more about native bees. With the help of this amazing app, Wild Bee Gardens, and an unexpected friendship found through it, I begin to grasp the parts of bees more deeply. As with my digital education, I’ve known the basics for a long time: head, thorax, abdomen. And wings, of course. Now I’m learning more details of their body parts, variations among which can help identify different species: the specialized pollen packing hairs called scopa, the three tiny “simple eyes” on top of their heads called ocelli, and the middle part of a bee’s face called a clypeus.

IMG_7528_GRC14752 x 3168

The clypeus on this male digger bee is the bright smooth patch between his eyes and above his labrum, or upper lip. Males of many native species have this brighter or lighter colored clypeus, which helps us know their gender.

As well as greeting cards... I also couldn't stop myself from ordering a fleece blanket with this adorable honeybee

As well as greeting cards, mugs, tote bags, posters, and dozens of framed prints, large and small, for sale at the show, I also couldn’t stop myself from ordering a fleece blanket with this adorable honeybee. If no one buys it, I’ll certainly enjoy its warmth myself.


Last week I finished the three-part banner of honeybees in comb that I’ve been dreaming for months, and installed it in the Hive. Below, postcard-size magnets of a segment of it are on order; I hope they arrive in time for the opening Friday night.


The breakfast table holds all the small frames as I fill them from the workshop in the sunroom.

The breakfast table holds all the small frames as I fill them from the workshop in the sunroom.

Downstairs has become an impromptu frame shop, the small printer humming, prints drying, tools on tables, frames in various stages on the way to filling up with bees. I’m recycling frames, partly to make these bees affordable, and partly because why not? I’ve got so many already; I’m emptying them of junipers and landscapes from past shows, pulling ancestors from old family frames, filling the assorted empty frames any family full of artists ends up with over years. Stacks of stagnant frames are morphing into stacks of vibrant colors; I can hardly wait to see them all on display at once later this week.


Upstairs prints hang to dry as the big printer keeps chugging away.

Some of the bees are framed in mats of willow rings woven by Ryan Strand, who will also have his willow sculptures on display at the Hive.

Some of the bees are framed in mats of willow rings woven by Ryan Strand, who will also have his willow sculptures on display at the Hive.

Turkeys held up traffic the other day as I drove to town, a big male displaying in the right lane for half a dozen hens milling around him. This morning as I drove along the Smith Fork, another big male down in the valley, tail feathers fanned, most hens up near the road but one watching him devotedly; all the apricot trees along the road in full bloom. My apricot not so much, though thoroughly pruned last week and ready to bear fruit. The almond tree, though: spectacular. Up against the house in a warmer micro-climate, it’s full of fragrant white blossoms. Bees and flies are drawn like me to the scent of them opening in the sun against the dun adobe wall.

At the end of the balcony I stand, looking down at this sapling’s grand florabundance; black flies, shiny tiger-striped native bees, fuzzy golden honeybees buzzing among the tree’s budding, blooming twigs; down on the ground along the path, pointed yellow tulips in dense clusters bloom, amid soft green groundcovers churning snowmelt and sunshine into foliage. All day, running up and down stairs between printing and choosing which images to print, I step outside frequently, enjoying the sweet sight, sound and scent. Last night when I let the dogs out, temperature dropping to freezing, the fragrance of the almond tree overwhelmed, so strong I didn’t immediately realize whence it came: in sun the scent wafts intermittently, you have to sniff to catch it. This wintry night it enveloped me, almost brought me to my knees with wonder, in the cold dark below the waxing Pink Moon.


Meanwhile, it’s been during this frenzied time that the kittens turned one year old, and learned how much fun it is to get me to let them in and out. And in and out. And in and out. My eyes cramped up last week: I drove out to buy ink, and overnight my Rx sunglasses were worse than nothing! It turns out that yes, your eyeballs can cramp; the doctor told me the 20-20-20 Rule: For every twenty minutes that I’m looking closely at the screen, turn and focus on something 20 feet away for twenty seconds. Most days during this project, I’ve been up that often to let a dog in or a cat out, or a cat in and a dog out, or to fill their bowls, or to fill mine. So until I became addicted to building the banner in Photoshop, I gave my eyes a natural break often enough for the focusing muscles not to cramp. Days like today I need to set a timer to remind myself. It’s cold and gray again, and none of us want to be outside. We’re warm and well-fed, and while the other mammals nap I keep printing and framing, the big push in the last week before the opening five nights hence.



One of the year's first bees midst the yellow and white crocuses which have already faded away.

One of the year’s first bees midst the yellow and white crocuses which have already faded away.

Or specifically, Bee Obsession. While I’ve only seen a few bees so far this spring, mostly honeybees on the crocuses and miniature irises, I’ve been obsessed with bees since mid-Winter. On Earth Day I’ll be opening a show at The Hive in Paonia, called A Thousand Bees. This idea has been in my head for a couple of years, and the time hasn’t been right for one reason or another to manifest it, until this winter. And it’s perfect that I’m still working on bees inside, it keeps me occupied during this windy confusing season of early spring, when I tend to get too excited about the garden and start seeds way way too early.

Beautiful blooms have already come and gone in the spring bed, with miniature and regular tulip greens triangulating their way out of the ground, mini irises already faded, their strap leaves growing tall and green; the white grape hyacinth are up, never very many, and the snow-in-summer is spreading far and wide. This morning I sorted and arranged hoses, aiming for the least drag factor with the most coverage for hand-watering and sprinkler attachment. Over the years I’ve accrued quite a collection of hoses, ultimately ending up with half a dozen Gilmour Flexogens. These are great, flexible hoses with a lifetime warranty. Last winter I snipped both ends off of three repaired Flexogens and sent them back to Gilmour, and three brand new hoses arrived in the lengths I specified. These are grey and blend much better with the landscape than the original mint green hoses, so I’m using them in front. With half a dozen in a mix of 25-, 50-, and 75-foot lengths, I think I’ve finally got the yard covered, like spider legs out from the house. Is it the most efficient ever? We’ll see.

Where do hoses come from, anyway? I don’t even want to know the nature and extent of the resources involved in getting the best garden hose to my yard.

Why I have disappointed myself in my resolution to post Morning Rounds at least once a week is this:

This poster holds 156 (of the thousand) images, and will be printed poster-size. I've also made a poster of 54 native bees, and one of 54 bumblebees. So there's sure to be some bee for everyone to love. 

This poster holds 156 (of the thousand) images, and will be printed poster-size. I’ve also made a poster of 54 native bees, and one of 54 bumblebees. So there’s sure to be some bee for everyone to love.

Since January I’ve culled around 1200 images of native bees and honeybees from the startling eight thousand or so I’ve taken over the past four summers. I continue to cull, and to perfect each image. Some of them will be mounted in round willow frames made by a young man who is sharing the Hive space with his own exhibit featuring woven sculptures. Some of them will be huge in regular frames, some will be in small frames, some on mugs, tote bags, and greeting cards. Altogether I intend to show in one space a thousand unique images of bees. A thousand different bees? No. A thousand images. Some are the same bee on the same flower, at different moments. Still, a thousand images I think will give quite an experience of bees!

But why? That part is not clear to me yet, but has something to do with celebrating the fleeting beauty of our fragile planet. I’m happily driven to spend hour after hour, day after day playing with my images of bees, wallowing in the certainty of this one beautiful thing in this one moment, in this enervating erratic weather. I want people to learn to love bees, people who don’t already love them; and those who do I want to give this joyful experience of color, light, and life in a form they can take home with them.

So this is the world in which I have dwelt more or less full time since late December. And my little world continues to spin around me. The kittens now dwell from early morning til mid-afternoon outside; when they come in they eat their fill and go right to sleep. I rarely see them again until they jump up at bed time.

Little black panther in the juniper woods, alternately leaping up trees and chasing his sister as they leapfrog along on our daily walks.

Little black panther in the juniper woods, alternately leaping up trees and chasing his sister as they leapfrog along on our daily walks.

Bedtime finds me trapped like a pencil between cats on one side and dogs on the other.

Bedtime finds me trapped like a pencil between cats on one side and dogs on the other.

Meanwhile, seismic changes seem to be shifting inside me. We’ll know more later.



Neighbors, Strangers, and Friends

PR 2 Invitation Image

Setting aside bugs and bees for awhile, this summer I spent a great deal of time preparing a show for the Creamery Arts Center in Hotchkiss. Over the past two years, as Senior Outreach Coordinator for the non-profit artits’ cooperative, I have accomplished two things. Initially I set in place a rotation of Creamery volunteer artists to visit various senior centers and homes, coordinating with their respective activities directors, and bringing demonstrations and workshops to location bound seniors. Earlier this year, I gave up the coordinator position to another volunteer in order to pursue the second facet of the Creamery’s outreach program, honoring and showcasing some of the community’s senior citizens through art.

Now through October 7, the Creamery features an audio-visual installation, “Neighbors, Strangers, and Friends,” celebrating the rich history of the North Fork Valley through the voices of nineteen community elders, and their portraits by me! I had so much fun doing this project, and I want to thank everyone who consented to be interviewed, and everyone who helped and, especially North Fork Valley Heart and Soul for their support. A year and a half ago, I put the word out that I wanted to interview people over sixty-five who had lived in the valley all their lives or who had chosen to come to it later.  At first I didn’t get a lot of response, and I also felt kind of awkward asking strangers to open up to me like that. It took awhile, but eventually one person would suggest another, who would suggest another, and so on. I enlisted a few friends. I heard a lot of wonderful stories. Everyone has stories that other people can enjoy and learn from. Sometimes it just takes someone wanting to hear them.

The exhibit includes a soundtrack that loops from the introduction of these unique voices through their stories of pioneer days, the Depression era, fruit history, historic floods and fires, and more, to thoughts on life, love, aging, dying and death. Individual voices and stories are woven chronologically and topically through a two and a half hour trajectory that is a work of art in itself.

I hope people will bring their knitting or a cup of coffee, or get an ice cream up front, and come set a spell in the gallery; listen to these stories of valley lore and unique personal experiences, and enjoy looking around the room at these wonderful faces so full of life. You’ll see some of your own friends and neighbors, and probably some strangers as well. The soundtrack plays through a vintage-looking Cathedral radio, and if it’s not loud enough, please turn it up so you can hear it comfortably. The volume is the round knob on the left front. There are plenty of comfy seats.

We all have stories. Some of us have a lot of stories, and some of us have one defining story, but all of us have stories within the stories of our lives.  I feel like I’ve helped some people to tell their stories. I hope they’re happy with the results. These people started out for me as neighbors, strangers, and friends. Today, I feel so honored that these women and men have entrusted their stories to me, and so grateful for their candor, their humor, their trust. I think of them all as friends, those I’ve known for 20 years, and those I recently met through this project. Each person who participated will receive their portrait from the display, and also a DVD of their video interview. A common refrain in the interviews was, “I wish I had asked mama (or dad, or grandmother…) about that.” Now the families of these elders will be able to learn from and celebrate them and their wisdom for years to come.

Throughout human existence, elders have been revered for their wisdom, the insights that simply being human for a long time has given them. We’ve lost some of that reverence in our culture over the past half century or so. I’ve seen it go since I was little. Our parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, neighbors and friends, when they get old, they sometimes get forgotten, and they have so much to offer those of us coming up after them, learning what it means to be human, which is a long, complicated endeavor; whether we follow in their footsteps or outside their boxes, our elders have a lot to keep giving to our community. Here, everywhere in our country, older people get forgotten in our culture. The wisdom and the being of people in their seventies, eighties, nineties, is such an important balance to the energy we focus on youth and doing. Our culture focuses too much on youthful beauty, on spending energy externally in getting and achieving.

Please come to the show and join me in celebrating your friends and neighbors, none of them really strangers, just neighbors you haven’t yet met. Please ask your parents and grandparents, if you are still able, about your history, your own story. Please pay attention to your elders, all of them, your family, your neighbors, your friends. “Neighbors, Strangers, and Friends” is on display at the Creamery Arts Center, 165 West Bridge Street in Hotchkiss, Colorado. Summer hours are Monday – Saturday from 11 a.m. – 6 p.m.