I NEED SPRING!

It’s been a prolonged winter where I live, and ennui is setting in. It’s also been six months since we returned from our trip along the Norwegian fjords. These seemingly unrelated thoughts bumped into each other this morning while I was rereading the journal I’d kept during that trip.

There was so much that grabbed my imagination as we slowly cruised past snow covered mountains enshrouded in clouds. It was easy to see how the Norsk myths evolved. Stories of Thor, the tales of the Tomten, other beings who may be friends, lovers, foes or family members of the gods — there’s no doubt in my mind that these stories, like those of other cultures, served a purposel beyond explaining nature's mysteries. They also entertained on long, lonely nights in isolated communities. 

My own imagination was fueled by the many small villages we passed. What must it be like to be a young wife here? So much of what I take for granted — easy access to coffee shops, theaters, parks, bookstores — are hundreds of miles away for families who live along Norway’s  fjords. Before the advent of the internet, email and Skype, how did these folks get flour? toilet paper? meds? I know supplies were brought in by packet boat on a regular basis, but what did the housewife do when she discovered she needed (fill in the blank here)? They didn’t (and still don’t) have the luxury of a grocery store 10 minutes away.

So what has this to do with my ennui which, I’m certain, is directly related to our currently unforeseeable spring? Why can’t I be like those stalwart Norwegians? I can’t imagine them sitting in front of a gas fireplace reading for four hours at a time or, even worse, staring into space while chores pile up. But then, my chores are hardly anything that have to be accomplished before the end of the day…or even the week. Prep a canvas? Clean my studio? Not likely; not right now. Even dinner can be put off; after all, I live within a 15-minute drive of some darned good restaurants, and area grocery stores have remarkable deli's.

I’m certain that not all of those hardy fjord-inhabiting folks soldier on with no complaints, but obviously enough of them do in order to keep the fish farms, etc. going. Perhaps their secret lies in the fact that what they do is essential; I’m not so sure that what I do fits that category.

There’s an answer here somewhere; with any luck I’ll find it when I’m no longer living in Narnia. (By the way, I’ve been looking up the temperature in Kirkenes, Norway, which is within the Arctic Circle. It’s been warmer there than in Minneapolis. Go figure.)

ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER

Warsaw's Old Town: watercolor collage

A few months ago I wrote about "personal shrines and where they can lead". In that post, I talked about my maternal grandmother and what must have been for a very young, single woman a harrowing journey from pre-WWI Poland to Minneapolis. Where that all led was a trip to Poland and some new art work.

What a remarkable country, what a remarkable trip! I went with some vague questions about my ancestry and the post-WWII Slavic northeast Minneapolis culture in which I grew.  I came back with some answers...all of which went a long way to heighten my pride in my Polish heritage.

I'll not bore you with a narrative of my trip. But I would like to share some new work which is the direct result of that trip. The piece above is a water color adaptation of a photo I took in Warsaw's Old Town. It's one of a number of paintings in a similar style that I'll be showing at November's Art Attack at the Northrup King Building in Minneapolis (more about this in a later post).

By the way, if you're thinking about a visit to Poland, I highly recommend StayPoland. Excellent service, excellent tour (small groups!). Best part (from an American dollar point of view) is that Poland is quite affordable. (We paid more for our flight than we paid for the tour.) Warm, friendly people, amazing history. Go!

THE MAID, THE PAINTING, AND ME

Philodendron
all rights reserved
by Judy Westergard
Watercolor on Fabriano 300# hot press
5" x 5"

My husband and I returned recently from 11 days in Puerto Aventuras, Mexico. We suspected a great trip when our 1/3 full Delta flight afforded us a change from row 43 to the bulkhead. (Gotta love that extra leg room.) Our pre-arranged driver met us promptly at the Cancun airport with a brand new Peugeot van. (Gotta love a clean new car.) When we arrived at our condo, Dive Aventuras, which manages the condos there, upgraded us from the small one bedroom/one bath unit we’d rented to a three bedroom/four bath condo. (Gotta love a place that’s larger than our house.) Maid service was included regardless of which unit we were in. We unpacked and headed for a walk around the small village to see dolphins, yachts, and one gorgeous ocean view. Day 2--I pinched a couple of plants from one of the myriad and lush gardens that surround the area and readied them for a small water color. Got the lighting just right. Paper was prepped. Paints and brushes were laid out. The basics were blocked in. I was excited and ready to dive in for real when the maid came. No problem, I thought. I’ll leave this for tomorrow. The light will be the same 24 hours from now so, per custom, we left for a walk while she took care of her duties. We returned to sparkling patio windows, a shining shower, and the one water glass we'd used washed and put away. But my painting? my paints? the brushes? All closed up and carefully replaced in the kitchen. And the plant? There it was in a glass of water, no longer in its just-so, eye-level arrangement. Significant Other and I laughed hard when we saw the unit, sans still life but once again looking like a potential photo shoot for "Better Homes and Gardens." But I really cracked up when I relayed this story to good friend Roz: “OMG! A maid with OCD...now that’s my idea of heaven!”
Puerto Aventuras addendum:
For the hands-down, Olympics gold-caliber brownie, it's Cafe Cafe. That, along with a cup of their Illy cappuccino, enjoyed on their patio under their cheery red umbrellas, will be the perfect start -- or end, or middle -- to your day. What the heck; why not three times a day? Chocolate prevents dental caries; make your next check-up a great one!
There are lots of fun shops in the area, but my favorite was Flamingos Crossing. Recently opened by a woman from Boston, this airy, friendly place held just the right collection of great looking summer wear that would look just as good in the upper Midwest as it did on the Mexican Caribbean. Looking for a good "how I reinvented my life" story? Ask her about her reasons for moving from Boston to P.A.
Significant Other and I aren't divers but our daughter and son-in-law are. They've been down there many times and speak highly of Dive Aventuras. "Great dive shop, great diving area." Their under-water photos are so good that I'm tempted to try a test dive myself when we return next year, and return we will.

ON INSPIRATION, INTIMIDATION, AND DETERMINATION

"Contemplation"
by Judy Westergard
pastel on suede paper
available as giclee from
Fine Art America

My husband and I returned a couple of days ago from a two-week road trip to New Mexico. Along the way we realized our 3500 mile drive would become our own personal American Icon trip. South Dakota’s Wall Drug, Corn Palace, and Mt. Rushmore saw us checking off three “gotta see” stops that, as kids, our respective parents didn’t have the money, patience, or air-conditioned cars that would have allowed them to tolerate even a Minneapolis to Mitchell drive. With a nod to those good folks, we motored on. Carson National Forest shared its buffalo, wild turkeys, and wild burros; we saw more wild life in one hour’s drive than we’d seen in the past 40 years. Following the mountain road into Taos on a gray, drizzly day was breathtaking. I apologize for that cliche, but there’s really no other word that best describes the glitter of lime-green aspens against rain-darkened firs and deep sienna rock faces. But as much as I enjoyed those icons, it was the art and the artists in Taos and Santa Fe that captured my imagination. Weavers, potters, sculptors, oil painters, water colorists...inspiration and excitement and eagerness to wet my brush dominated my thoughts. Now I’m home. The washer and dryer are finally quiet. My camera has finished regurgitating 150+ photos into the computer. The Oaxacan hand-woven rug is hung on the wall. And I’m ready to paint. But I can’t. All that inspiration and excitement that captured my imagination only a few days ago have turned on me; all I feel now is intimidation. Even on my very best days, could I hope to come close to the quality of the work I saw? Do doctors and lawyers feel this way, too? Do politicians and clergymen look in awe over their colleagues’ abilities to solve problems judiciously and elegantly? When I’m not feeling sorry for myself, my guess is yes; they probably do. This sense of diffidence is part of the human condition and, since I’m human, I guess the only way to conquer it is to get off the computer, go to my studio, and wet that damned brush.

ON THE JOYS OF GETTING LOST

Blessing of the Vintners
oil on canvas
by Judy Westergard

Certainly circumstances exist when traveling by tour makes a lot of sense. But the best trips I've been on have been those in which my favorite traveling companion (read husband) and I have mucked through on our own.

Midnight, hollering out from an empty train car as we traveled through southern France, "Pardonez moi, monsieur, est Cannes?" only to be answered with a heavy Brooklyn accent, "No, lady; dis ain't Cannes. Ya want da nex' stop." Sharing a belly laugh with a Parisian over our inability to find the Eiffel Tower. These are the kinds of events that you don't forget.

London is a wonderful city in which to get lost. I always think that something's about to happen. London rarely disappoints.

It was on one of our first trips there that I fell in love with getting lost. We'd been wandering around London for an hour or so, looking for a particular shop that specialized in detailed replicas of old automobiles. We turned a corner and walked into what looked like a scene for a movie. Twenty gentlemen, all dressed in Victorian robes, walked in solemn procession. Leading them were two elderly men, sweeping the street with twig-and-branch brooms. Next came two top-hatted and robed gentlemen, each carrying a small bouquet and a staff. And they in turn were followed by 16 more, all similarly robed and, except for the last fellow who winked at me, equally serious. I grabbed my camera and snapped like a mad woman. "What have I just taken pictures of?" I asked the Londoner next to me. "Ah, madam," he answered with that lovely British dialect that always makes me embarrassingly aware of my flat midwestern vowels, "this is the annual blessing of the vintners. They're on their way to the church across the street where their new president will be inducted." It wasn't until a year later while I was working on the painting that I wondered...wine? England? who knew?!?

ON THE TRAIN FROM HAMPTON COURT TO LONDON

Spring on a London Canal©
pastel on paper

There are a lot of things to love about traveling. For me it's the people I meet. Among the most memorable was the high school teacher from Germany whom I met on a train from Hampton Court to London. I don't recall who opened the conversation...I probably said something about our shared vocation. He moved from his seat across the aisle and joined my husband and me, apparently grateful for the chance for some adult conversation after a day of escorting teens through Henry VIII's digs. After a round of those brief breezy introductions one makes on planes and trains, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, blue eyes bright with curiosity, and asked us a question I'll never forget. "What should I know about where you come from?" My travel fatigued brain jolted awake. "Do you mean my country? My state? My city? My neighborhood?" I asked. "Pick any one of those," he said. "What should I know?"

This was almost 10 years ago and I continue to use that fellow's question. It led to an eye-opening conversation with a woman from Amsterdam about the Dutch resistance during WWII and to a poignant conversation with a woman from Israel about living in a violent society. The real gift within that question, though, is that I have learned that in reality I know very little about where people come from...because after all, where we come from is colored by who we are.