I’m not sure where my love of landscape paintings began. I have a vague memory of my grandmother cutting out pictures of American landscapes from her mail order magazines. I assume she did that because she couldn’t afford to purchase a painting or perhaps, knowing her, it was because she would never consider spending money on something so frivolous when a cut-out picture would do. Looking back now, it seems sad to me that she wasn’t able to travel in her lifetime. The one exception was when she and my grandaddy drove from Kentucky to California, to pick up their son, who was returning home from Vietnam. I am left wondering, aside from the fact that her son was coming home safe and unharmed, if that trip was for her the trip of her dreams, as my trips to France were for me. In that single trip, she was able to see much of the country that meant enough to her that she literally tacked those cut-out pictures into the cedar walls of her home.
I have another childhood memory of going into a back bedroom of my wealthy Aunt Ruby’s home in Illinois, just to stand and stare at a couple of landscape paintings. Oh, how I wish I’d been able to purchase one of them when her things were sold off after her passing. I hope whoever purchased them stands gazing into them as I once did.
My family likes to visit Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee, a quaint little town with a handful of shops, a couple of country cafes and a decidedly impressive art museum. It was there that I fell in love with plein air painting. Jason Saunders was the artist in residence at that time. The museum featured his practically life-sized oil paintings of round hay bales scattered in golden fields set against dreamy cloud filled skies. But like my grandmother before me, I was unable to afford his lovely works. One autumn, my son told me that Mr. Saunders was offering a plein air painting class the following spring at a price that I could afford. I spent the next couple of months gathering up courage then talking myself out of it. Eventually, I signed up for the course. I purchased the easel, the brushes, the paints and the canvases and showed up for the class. The only thing I failed to bring was the slightest bit of knowledge or talent. A small group of us met in the conference room of the museum where Jason showed us some of the basics of plein air painting. Then we all headed out to nearby Leiper’s Creek to set up our French easels.
He instructed us to get started and told us that he would be around to give us each individual instruction. As I watched everyone else begin, it was only then that I realized my naivety. Every other person in the class was an artist who had signed up to hone their skills under the tutelage of Mr. Saunders. As I stood staring at the blank canvas, holding the paintbrush up in the air, he must have seen the fear in my eyes. He moved over to me, gently pulled my hand down, releasing my pencil-like grip then placed the brush correctly in my hand. He showed me how to begin by laying in the dark colors first. With his constant help, I surprised myself by painting a couple of wall-worthy (in my house, at least) oil landscape paintings of the creek and surrounding hills of Leiper’s Fork. One of the paintings is of the backside of The Judds' farm.
On the drive home after the third and final day of class, it occurred to me that this was the first thing I had ever done solely for myself. I married young, had a baby right away and spent my adult life doing for others. Tears of appreciation and prayers of thankfulness flowed on the two-hour drive back home to my family.
On one occasion, while shopping for artwork for my home, I came across a large painting on a folded canvas, thrown between a stack of prints for sale. In the creased areas, the paint was peeling off and some of the painting had been left unfinished. It was such a rich, gorgeously detailed painting that I could not imagine that someone would leave it unfinished or how it came to be in that stack, but I was happy to be the one to find it. I repaired the damaged areas, taking care to match the existing paint color and then completed the unfinished areas. I plan on adding more detail to the seemingly unfinished stained-glass window in the painting.
In 2008, another one of this landscape lover’s dreams became reality when I was invited by my daughter to tag along with her and her rockstar friend’s European tour, which would end in Paris. No, not Paris, Kentucky. Paris, France! The home of Cezanne, Monet, Matisse and Van Gogh. Our just two-hour trip to Montmartre, the highest summit in Paris, was the highlight of the entire week for me. The Place du Tertre is a park in the little town square where artists set up their easels, paint and sell their works. What a dream to be shopping for paintings while overlooking the city of Paris. We didn’t have much time to spend there, as we had a train to catch, but I was able to purchase a single painting. What a treasure! I am so very thankful to my daughter for letting me tag along.
During the 2008 trip, I had journaled our daily experiences and printed the few pictures that we took, but they didn’t accurately tell the story of the trip so I decided I would attempt to paint a collaged history of each memorable detail. I made a list of what I wanted to include and drew it out on paper, overlapping the memories. I drew many sketches, using colored pencils, until I was satisfied with the composition. Only then, did I attempt the painting. I love looking at it. It brings back to life such wonderful memories and reminds me to be thankful for the experiences in my life.
While riding the Eurostar during that trip, I got a 180-mph glimpse at people moving about the French countryside. Wondering about their lives, who they were and where they were going, was the inspiration for my trip back to France in 2012. I had enjoyed Paris but wanted to experience living in the countryside of France.
My 2012 trip to France included, of course, another trip to Montmartre. I had described this magical place to my sister, Kathy, and we decided it would be our first stop when she and my mother arrived in Paris. Yes, before the Eiffel Tower. Yes, before the Louvre. As soon as the luggage was placed in our tiny hotel room next to the Arc de Triomphe, we started the upward journey of 300 steps. But it was worth every single solitary step, at least to Kathy and me. Our mother wasn’t quite so convinced. After resting our calves for a bit on a half-stone wall, we continued to the square where we met the artists and browsed their works. After looking at hundreds of paintings, we made our purchases before starting the downhill trek.
One would think that the descent would have been easier, however, we were tired and were forced to walk briskly to avoid ruining our newly purchased paintings in the coming rain. We had barely made it through the door of our hotel when we heard the downpour outside.
The following day, we visited the Eiffel Tower then walked to the Louvre. During the 2008 trip, I had fallen in love with the Histoire du Louvre section of the museum because it is full of paintings of people throughout history, dressed in period clothing, visiting the Louvre, enjoying some of the same paintings that we were. So, of course, it was the first exhibit I wanted to show my family.
After a couple of busy days in Paris, we headed south to the countryside. One of our favorite things to do was to stop at every open brocante we happened upon.
One of our many stops included a large depot vente where we spent hours combing through mountains of junk, inside and out. I had placed quite a stack on the counter and was preparing to pay when my stooped-down mother held up a couple of dirty paintings and said she was surprised that I hadn’t wanted them. I had overlooked them as they were under a table, buried in a box of junk. They were everything I love... Old. Landscapes. Sheep. Cattle. And cheap! Only five euros each! Those paintings are my most prized purchase from my trips to France. The frames had been damaged through the years, but I think they are perfect. Thanks, Mom.
We met such interesting and accomplished people during that trip. One of our neighbors was a painting restorer who had worked on Picassos. As we were packing to leave, he offered us some boxes from his barn to protect our paintings. I sometimes wonder if my paintings may have shared a box with a Picasso.
My husband and I travel to many small towns with our business and like to spend an extra day or two seeing the sights, visiting local shops and restaurants, but my favorite thing is to seek out local artists, supporting them when we are able.
I discovered my love of art later in life and get enjoyment from trying new things. I recently took a free online course on painting portraits, something I never dreamed I’d be able to do. I was able to paint a couple of faces, though they don’t resemble their subjects much. But I'm learning.
There are those that are born with natural talent in whatever form and there are those like me that are born with simply the desire to paint or sing or write. What I have come to learn is that unless you are trying to sell your art, what does it matter if it pleases anyone other than yourself? So, I’ll keep trying because I love the art of creating. When I am gone, my children can use them to start a fire, if they so choose.
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