He’s also a poet, a cartoonist, and a lover of the “wild west” of his imagination. He’s read every Larry McMurtrey novel ever written. Ditto for every Elmore Leonard western. Double-ditto for Cormac McCarthy.
Half a ditto for A. B. Guthrie, Jr.
Maybe that vein of wild-west yeehaw! is merely resonating with his artist/philosopher/cartoonist self.
Nobody else paints like this.
In one horse’s head, you can see just a handful of the many Ricks that live in those curly white locks.
There’s Rick, the grade-school daydream doodler… sketcher of form.
There’s Rick, the confident manipulator of texture and stroke and chroma, whose seemingly effortless precision with a flick of white highlight captures the soft orb of a horse’s eye with such gentleness and love… That one is where Rick, the student of art for five decades, meets Rick, the complete mushpot lover of animals.
And who uses the color and contour of the underpainting to craft a believable shading of a horse’s neck?
Never seen that one before.
That seems to be one of his own personal magic tricks: knowing when leaving something out—a “helpful” comment, a glance at my ridiculous morning hair, paint—can make a moment more, not less.
Like choosing to leave the strong “earth brown” horizontal stroke of the underpainting to anchor and nourish the bold uprights of mountain sage green—and yellow, and robins egg blue. And just in case the brown needed a little help, let’s lay in some brilliant violet to add some color weight to the blue of that shirt…
There’s Rick, the cartoonist, who believes people can be trusted to fill in the lines for themselves.
It takes a man confident in his inner ‘toonist to pull off a painting technique that allows a galloping horse to escape gravity.
Good guys wear white… unless it’s just a smarty-pants perfect highlighting of the dang hat, and using the tumultuous underpainting stroke direction to indicate both believable arm muscle flex and cloth folds, accurate at a gallop.
I used to ask him if he did things like that on purpose. (That, and outrageously insightful puns, and intelligent questions that jump you directly to the end of the conversation, where the Big Questions of Life live.) He’d humbly answer, “I don’t know how come I come up with these things, honey… I just do.”
I’ve stopped asking, because I believe it now.
Like, he just knew how to encourage the horse’s tail to use pressure against the perpendicular angle energy of the underpainting to help with lift off…
… and how six apparently random skinny white lines above his signature that looks like part of the painting would move the whole thing to “the wild west” in my imagination.
I’m out on a walk on a day sometime shortly after the warm spring winds begin to blow and the mud appears, and I think, “You know, most people think this is an ugly time of year, but if you pay attention, there’s a lot of prettiness.”
At the time, this strikes me as an original thought, worthy of a blog post, even.
Is it just me, or is it repeating itself in here?
Who can blame me, though? When you first look down an unplowed section of shadowed, dirty-ish snowbank, it’s not all that appealing. However, when you know that you are walking on top of four feet of most excellent igloo-building snow, there’s something cool and unique about that. For one thing, it makes you wonder: how do they build igloos, and what it’s like to call such a place “home”?
This is the sort of snow that I affiliate with the stirrings of maple sap, and this is also lovely.
The crust on the snow crystallizes, throwing off colors you can only see out of your peripheral vision (they disappear when you look at them directly) or through a polarized camera lens.
This is not only stunning; it’s downright psychedelic.
Of course, the big picture isn’t too bad, either.
Snowplow blades have created the illusion of multiple geological eras, which, depending on how long a winter it’s been, isn’t too far off the mark.
There’s a simple joy in hunting the sides of the roads, anticipating the first blade of really green grass amongst the dead. This is a small pleasure denied to those who live in chronically verdant locations.
By the way, I told Winston he could come on my “camera walk” only if he promised to stay out of the photos.
He agreed.
What dog? I don’t see a dog.
I believe in giving the benefit of doubt.
The runoff creates winking streams in the road. This one actually burbled.
And when else in the year can you see this kind of mud pattern in nature? Or all across your living room hardwood floor?
Even the mud itself can be beautiful.
This reminded me of the incredible hand-made fudge-ripple mocha ice cream we had in Key West last August. What else in my day was likely to remind me of that?
The wind and sun conspire to drill mysterious caverns and tunnels into the banks. How, exactly, does this work?
And where does that blue, green, and lavender come from? On the surface, it all looks very white.
Don’t stare at this too long… You’ll see a face, an armchair, and a sci-fi snow monster in quick succession, and then it gets weird.
Oh, Winston… for the love of all things shiny, will you MOVE, please?!
I think I was setting up the shot to make a point about repeating cumulus shapes in nature, but now I forget where I was going with this.
Brace yourself: this post contains another parcel by mail, more shots of the damn dog, some very old news, and the extraordinary and entirely unexpected gift of healing and hope from someone I didn’t even know.
This could get weird for some of you before it gets better.
To set some context, this is as good a time as any to let you know that my employment situation with my company in California has evolved into half-time so that I can spend more time writing. I have a book underway called “The Accidental Speaker.” It’s about how to think about business presentations, and how they differ significantly from professional speaking gigs, and why knowing that can really help make the whole thing more comfortable and effective. It will be a fun book and the writing is coming along, but it’s difficult because it involves taking what I know and packaging it in text in a way that makes it accessible for other people. For me, this feels more like administrivia—organizing, cataloging, etc.—than it does writing. Still, it’s not horrible, and I think it’s necessary.
But in the last couple of weeks, I have also been exploring the idea of a parallel project of what feels like a more creative bent: a book that will be a hybrid of selections from this blog woven together with an easy going essay-style narrative of observations and musings on life, truth, and reality. Think “Travels with Charlie” or “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” except with photography, like here, and a storyline of two ridiculously happy fifty-something artists and their pooch moving full-time to a renovated 95-year old farmhouse in Teton Valley and figuring out what that looks like.
It’s the kind of writing that only happens in a flow, where I don’t really know what will emerge until I sit down, hands on keyboard, and just start. It requires the partnership of the Creative force, and looks more like a conduit than it does a file cabinet. It’s a decidedly un-corporate way to write, and while I’m familiar and comfortable with the bloggy part of the project, this other thing, this opening myself up and jumping into the stream, trusting that something interesting and engaging will emerge, is brand new, exciting, and frightening,
And my ability to leap thusly, it turns out, hinges on my being able to think of myself as a legitimate creator of valuable things that wouldn’t exist without me… an artist, and more specifically, a writer. This is not nearly as easy as one might think. A workbook called “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity,” by Julia Cameron is proving very helpful… life-changing, even. It’s about how to swap the “it’s too late…,” “you’ll never ‘make it’ as a real artist…,” type voices inside your head for ones that actually help you to get the work done.
Rick and I had just finished Week One in the program when this parcel arrived in the mail.
The return address said it was from Mary in Oregon. As I don’t know a Mary in Oregon, I opened it carefully and with a great deal of curiosity.
The note read:
“Hi Kathy, I know you don’t know me so I hope you don’t mind that I have been reading your blog since Kylie posted on Facebook about the SecurID that Winston chewed up. Your stories and photos are so creative.
I’ve enclosed some of the dog toys that I make for our company craft fair in Hillsboro for Winston. He looks a little pampered and I’m sure he must have a few toys already, but what dog doesn’t need more?
I hope you have a wonderful day.
Mary”
Mary, there are just so many things about this that make me puddle up in a super-sized flood of gratitude, I can’t even begin to tell you. But let me start with the obvious:
Your following the blog at all. Seriously, there isn’t a blogger on the planet who “minds” if someone they don’t know reads what they write. In fact, the first time you get a comment from an unknown reader is a moment of pure disbelief and excitement. Your family is obligated, BY LAW, to comment once in a while to let you know they’re still reading it, but a stranger?! The completely voluntary comment lands in an entirely different place.
Your spontaneous generosity and for all the effort it took to actually act on it. Anything that requires finding the right box, getting it wrapped, labelled, and schlepped to the post office, then finally paying for the postage represents a serious intent to do good.
Your attitude that a dog can never have too many toys.
Your kind, kind words. You will see in what follows how they mean so much more to me than you can ever have imagined. Thank you.
Mary sews labels into her creations, identifying them as “Merry Bears.”
(Ready? More weirdness just around the bend ahead.)
In the early 90’s when I was busily employed mothering my kids, I had a Christmas craft business that made enough money to finance our annual family vacation for the years I did it. I made salt-dough teddy bear Christmas-tree ornaments, and for five dollars, would calligraphy people’s names on them with a fine-point sharpie, right there at the craft fair. People snatched them up as affordable gifts for music teachers, favorite aunts, etc. My mom helped out at the table, taking orders, getting the bears lined up with the names on little slips of paper, packaging up the completed ones and distributing them to their new owners while I churned ’em out.
I called them “Merry Bears.”
I remembered I had a newspaper clipping from those days in a scrapbook buried deep somewhere in one of the three huge, stuffed attics we have.
I hope you enjoy this photo. It came at a great cost of digging through mountains of old flotsam and other surprising and completely distracting finds of jetsom along the way.
The point here is that Mary’s gift, a token of appreciation and support of my writing and photos, pointed me directly back to a time when I did consider myself to be an “artist.”
There are still a few of these little critters that show up every year on our tree.
I was so excited by what was coming together that I did what I always do: yelled, “Where’s the camera?!” I wanted to set up a beautiful photo shoot for Mary’s creations so that I could blog here about how sweet and “coincidental” it all was.
And that’s when I learned that Mary puts intoxicating doggy-squeakers in all her toys.
Winston’s a sucker for a squeak.
I grabbed all three at once, and amazingly managed to connect with all three squeakers, simultaneously. Winston responded with enthusiasm to the sirens’ calls. Every time I’d get set up, he’d sneak up and slide one of the toys off the table, wrecking my photo shoot.
After five minutes of this fun game, I gave up and told him to pick which two he wanted.
Mary, I hope you don’t mind, but he left the blue one, and I’m keeping it for myself.
I wanted to have something to remember your kindness by, and W. has an intense focus on finding and removing the squeak. Death by nibbling, we call it, and he’s relentless.
Is there such a thing as “dognip” that they put inside those things?
Anyway, he settled in with the red one. I told him to lick it.
Dog slobber is a guarantee of permanent ownership granted to the slobberer. No one else even wants to touch the slobberee.
He seemed pleased with his choice.
In fact, eventually he took such umbrage at my own relentless camera work that he decided to seek more private quarters to bond with his new buddy.
Look out… comin’ through….
(Ready?)
Remember I said above that in the search for the newspaper clipping of me at the craft fair, I came across some surprising finds?
One of those was my third grade report card.
In the first term, Mrs. Eglington reported that while I was A-okay on the basics, she felt that I “…daydreamed tremendously.” This apparently did not bode well for my future, especially when combined with a tendency to be “…too self-assured for her own good.”
I now take the “daydreaming tremendously” comment as a compliment. I only wish I could grab back some of that assurance that my eight-year old self had in the possibility of those dreams when the unison droning of multiplication tables I already knew weren’t enough to hold my attention.
I wonder what happened to that pure confidence that anything was possible, not just for me, but for everything and everyone?
Ah… I see where it went. It came down to earth.
Well, Mrs. Eglington, in the spirit of “better late than never,” I’d like to respond, if I may.
Leaving aside your own inability to stay within the lines and a questionable subject-verb agreement choice there, I beg to differ with your conclusion about both my downfall and where I need to be.
I’m still skipping along just fine, thank you, and sometimes my feet don’t even touch the ground.
Your report on my prospects is returning to the back of the attic where it belongs, and Mary’s blue Merry Bear will stand guard over my keyboard, with her encouraging note on my bulletin board above my desk, where they both will remind me that I’m not in this alone.
What is it that makes humans crave the experience of hanging on to a rope on friction-reducing platforms behind something that has at least one horse power?
I thought I was familiar with most expressions of this compulsion: water-skiing and wake-boarding, tow-surfing (or is that “surf-towing?” I mean the one where the hero on the jet-ski tows a long-haired lunatic seven stories up the side of a wall of water, so said loony can careen her way down and across the wave, Maverick-style), chuckwagon races (shorter ropes, but still…), and so on.
(Does anyone remember me making a New Year’s resolution to use more precise punctuation and fewer parentheses in my writing?
No? Good.).
We enjoyed the full spectator experience of skijoring on the last day of the first annual Great Snow Fest of Teton Valley. (Oddly, there are no skijoring photos in that link. Good thing we’re here.)
Skijoring is an up-close spectator/photographer sport.
It’s as close as I’ve come lately to having an excited beast with sharp hooves and wild roving eyes come charging at me as FAST and HARD as it can go, steered by a guy who’s NOT watching where he’s going, while I hunker down in a snowbank, right about horsey knee-level, so I can get a good angle on the shot.
(As part of my writer’s resolutions for 2012, I was also going to avoid excessively long sentences.)
While much of the standard equipment is about as straight up as it comes — horse, rope, skis, DNA that compels you to seek thrills, partnerships, and ponies — there were a couple of examples of the long-armed reach of Silicon Valley. This guy, for instance, with a live-streaming webcam on his helmet as he goes over the final jump.
Skijoring finish-line judging, also for instance. Of course there’s an app for that, Silly!
(I was also going to mix up predictable word order as a way of keeping my writing fresh.)
Just like the rest of life, the secret appears to be communication, partnership, and trust. This young man in the blue coat, for example, seems to place an almost inordinate amount of trust in the belief that should his partner on the skis fall on impact, he will have the presence of mind to LET GO OF THE ROPE, seein’ as how the other end is attached firmly to the saddle. Which is attached to an excited beast with sharp hooves, etc. (See above.)
Is it just my inner scuba instructor speaking, or does this orientation of anchored rope, delicate spines, beast at a full-gallop, and serious air not strike anyone as a bit risky?
There were emergency vehicles standing by, mind.
This young “no guts, no glory” competitor sailed “pour-spout over tea cozy” in an attempt at a full-rotation flip off the last jump, and landed it at about 342 degrees, rather than the more physics-friendly 360.
And this is the quintessential pose of a “freaked-out sports mom” trying really hard to find out if there’s a concussion without further injuring an already banged-up ego.
(Did I also mention that for 2012, I was going to make a diligent effort to avoid “quotation marks for emphasis,” as it runs the risk of reading like Steve Martin “air quotes.”
Sigh… )
Dogs are welcome everywhere here, as long as they are sufficiently controlled.
Makes you wonder what kind of temper this little controlee has. He’s probably a sweetie, but we know for sure that the controller is a mountain climber. Who else here would have a rope, a carabiner, and know how to use them? That’s one sweet knot.
We love Teton Valley.
Yes, we do. My choices in footwear and overall fashion style fit in very well here.
The community is friendly and supportive, the sun shines in January, and the women are just as likely to be driving the heavy machinery–and watching where they’re going.
These events are fun. And besides, it’s always good to get out for bit of air.
Too bad nothing exciting ever happens around here.
Maybe we should get a TV.
Then we’d at least have something to watch.
All we get off the north porch are these ho-hum half-hour docu-dramas.
Although I must say, while the plot is a little predictable, there is a modest amount of entertainment to be derived from wondering just how wet you’re about to get…
… and how close the action might land.
Still, I find myself wondering if there are any decent new shows on these days.
Because, seriously… the only redeeming feature of having an entire rainbow humming from end to end in the field directly across the road is that it comes without commercial interruption.
… a July early morning wander through the front yard to see what amazing things happened overnight.
… a perfectly seasoned iron skillet, farm fresh eggs, and a willing chef who knows how to use them.
… watching the other guy work.
And yes, those are tiki lights he’s cleaning up. Are they so retro they’d be fun and funky strung up on the porch? Or would they be just one more opportunity to amuse the neighbors as they drive by, like the time they saw us vacuuming the lawn?
We’re in negotiations about those tiki lights.
… being overly blessed by an abundance (four) of kamikaze robins who all decided to raise their babies in the eaves of our porches this year.
In hindsight, we probably should have anticipated the maternal scolding, dive-bombing of Winnie’s head, and poop. However, by the time we had fully wound in the reality of the situation, there were already about 20 hungry chirpers in residence. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to give them the boot.
Instead, we rearranged the deck furniture out of the flight paths, and Winnie learned to duck, which, when you think about it, is an odd thing to learn from a robin.
… when the last baby bird is coaxed off the rafter, and you can once again enjoy an evening glass of wine wherever you want on the porch without substantial risk of poopage.
… meaningful work with a very short commute.
… sharing a bona fide Canadian butter tart with new friends.
Thanks for the photo, Peter Ernst.
Here’s the recipe for the “butter” part, and here’s the recipe I use for the pastry. Plan on at least two per person. These puppies are world-class table bangers.
… a happy, healthy canine companion…
… who’s remarkably flexible and is apparently not afflicted whatsoever by claustrophobia.
… a beautifully wrapped, spontaneous gift of her art from a talented and dear lady, just because.
Thanks, Liv. It’s going to be a cherished addition to my “every January” reading list.
… walking through our meadow after dinner…
… and marveling at evidence after evidence that none of this is an accident.
… watching a thunderstorm build.
… the first local tomatoes showing up at your front door, hand-delivered by a neighbor, lightly drizzled with olive oil, and graced with a little creamy blue cheese, salt, and pepper.
Oh. My.
… a quiet dinner, listening to the gentle rain on the porch roof, at the end of a busy day with your best friend.
If you ever get an email from us that says, “Hey, are you up for dinner tomorrow night? We’ve got some great pork tenderloin…” check your calendar and come on over. We’ll look forward to your company and try not to burn anything.
If, on the other hand, you get this same message from Chef Rick Sordahl and his talented and charming wife Dana, CLEAR YOUR CALENDAR AND SAY “YES!!!” BEFORE THEY CHANGE THEIR MINDS!
ç They create a lovely sweet energy together, are interesting and informed conversationalists, and share their toys well. (After dinner we played their PS3 snowboard game: awesome graphics, and much easier on the knees than the real thing on a full belly.)
When you also know that Rick is the executive chef at Amangani (an enchanting Aman resort in Jackson Hole) and has an upcoming invitation to cook at the James Beard House in NYC, and really knows a good pork tenderloin when he sees one…
… well… you understand our enthusiasm. When Chef Rick cooks, people become lost for speech and must resort to banging the table in appreciation.
He once cooked and served duck breasts that our neighbor Scott had shot and cleaned that morning that was so good it gave me the sniffles.
Sometimes it’s the food that makes one cry, and sometimes it’s the laughter.
And sometimes it’s just watching Dana and Rick move as a team in their home that brings a wee lump in your throat.
Their space is full of thoughtful, beautiful, yet accessible and friendly details.
Tableware, lighting, pottery, textiles…
… and a thousand other aesthetic choices that both evoke and invite creativity and spontaneous fun.
The pencil crayons on the counter beside the black truffle cheese plate should be your first clue.
There be magic there. This particular jus magic featured red wine, local huckleberries and secret chef stuff. (I’m not completely crisp on the secret chef stuff — I was kinda focused on the black truffle cheese at the time.)
The bulk of the magic, though, is in the unconscious emphasis Rick and Dana place on hospitality versus entertaining.
It’s the difference between entertaining to impress and hosting to embrace.
They are all about the embrace of hospitality.
Of course, what shows up on your dinner plate is always a once in a lifetime experience.
And when you step out into the cold winter air after a night like that and see a full moon like this coming up over the ridge of Darby Canyon, table banging gives way to a full-blown howl.
Thanks again, Rick and Dana… and Happy Birthday, Chef!
