My parents had this redwing crock in our house when I was growing up. Not this exact crock, I don’t own it, not sure where it ended up, I wish I did have it, but one just like it. Inspiration is funny like that, where does it come from and how do we catch it? Of all the million memories, images, objects I could paint from, a beaten up earthenware urn demands my attention? And while painting this, I could close my eyes and see that crock. On the back porch with other pots of geraniums and pots, pre-Martha Stewart, my parents had this eclectic way of putting things together that were homey, folksy, stylish and warm. I didn’t know that then. But I can appreciate it now.
Painting this I slowed down, really remembered my childhood home, the back deck, the yard, the quirky things all over the house that I took for granted as normal but….really…mounted antlers pre-antlers being cool? That was a teensy bit weird back then in the age of Cyndi Lauper and Lacoste t-shirts. Today I so appreciate my roots. They serve as my memory bible for all things weird AND wonderful. It might seem like a small thing, an obscure Redwing crock with a bunch of peonies in it but for me, this is memory, a visceral incredible homesick memory that drives all that I paint and write today. I guess what I’m saying is that it all matters. All the stories, all the memories, the images, the dialogues, the good bits and the bad. You don’t know when they will present themselves as the perfect gift you never knew you needed. xo