Inspiration & Imagination

Painting on rocks is fun! I have created a handful to date. I couldn't afford to buy a book on the "how to's " of painting on rocks, so I figured I'd just give it a go on my own. Since I was not sure of the type of rock to paint upon, this entailed a trip to the rock store. The rock store turned out to be a landscaping sort of place with large round tall containers holding all manner of large rocks. I could never find those kinds of rocks in my own yard. The large rocks around my house have extremely rough surfaces. The rocks at the landscaping place had rocks with smooth surfaces, much like the two prized river rocks I keep for myself (unpainted) that I brought back from my birthplace in WVA.. the New River, actually the oldest river in the world after the Nile. Those I will never spoil with paint. Mother Nature did a fine enough job on them without my input. So I picked through a number of big ole honking rocks at the landscaping place, then put them on the outdoor huge honking scales for them to be weighed. Price depends upon the weight not how many are bought. The total cost was around $25.00 for a about a dozen large rocks. Cool! I lugged them home and there they now sit gathering dust in the studio. So when will I bring out the life of the rocks? That depends. A rock will have to speak to me and tell me what is inside it. Then I'll translate that into something.. be it turtle, bird, dog, cat, fish.. whatever the rock says. I can tell it is going to take some rock bottom rock to rock communication to find out what they will be.. because I've been drawing a blank more often than not. That leads to subject of inspiration and what sparks it? What sparks your inspiration and ignites your imagination? I've found that thinking too much about anything simply results in a headache. So for me at least, the answer may lie in allowing, creative juices to flow, not in trying to push them or pull them into manifestation. I think I might try meditation. If I can just quiet that barrage of continual self talk.. that crazy talk in the head, it would be easier to create. It may be time to revisit Eckhart Tolle for his concepts in quieting the inner voice (ego). Let it flow....let it flow...downstream is easier than paddling upstream.

shown.. painted Great Dane Rock & Pembroke Welsh Corgi Rock by Lyn Hamer Cook©

Does exercise enhance creativity? I've read about it, and yeah I believe there is something to it. I've seen a difference in the studio on the days when I don't get on the treadmill and when I do. It also helps to get outside and walk in the fresh air and sunshine...even on days when the sun is a no show. Wally is a big help in that department. I don't have any human companions to accompany me on walks. Wally is my trainer. He does not allow me to slack off when we're walking. He pulls, tugs, jerks on the leash, launching me into roadside shrubs and weeds along with him. He's quite strong for a 55 pound fella. The moment I begin to daydream and ponder about the bigger picture of the Universe truths ((yeah right))... Wally gets inpatient and jerks me awake so that I have no choice but to join the NOW.. the Moment. Wally is a great example of living in the moment. He does it with gusto. Every scent is a mystery to unravel. Every carcass we happen across, from squirrel road casualty to dead bird in the field is a treat. I have to watch him or he would bring them all home to add to his collection. And so, it's time to hop on the treadmill, then later let Wally take me for a drag up the road. The plan for the rest of the weekend is to work on commissions and the next Pet of the Week contest running on my Facebook page. Check it out and you could be chosen to have a painting of your pet.. all pet photos welcomed. Have a great weekend in whatever you do.

I can already tell that summer will pass far too quickly. Just yesterday it would seem, the Redbud was in flower, the pretty blossoms covering the limbs in a lacy lavender show against the brown landscape. Always the first to burst out in bud, the Redbud is a favorite tree of mine. This week in June, the Mulberry is already at the end of berry season. The squirrels and birds, even a raccoon have enjoyed the thousands of sweet berries. The tree was not planted in the backyard, but came up of its own accord. It has been a blessing to wildlife and I continue to enjoy its beauty. The warmth and breeziness of today gave rise to thoughts of the beach. Fond memories surround the North Carolina coast. With that in mind, I just finished a painting of Corgis going deep sea fishing. It's on a canvas sized 24" x 12". I love painting underwater scenes.

back to the world of the almost living

Long time, no post! The winter was a long one. Like a bear hibernating, the warmth of the Spring seems to waken my spirit. Birds are singing, sun is shining, and the old Maple tree has seen a Mommy squirrel raise a brood. Life begins anew. And over the Winter, I have put on a few extra pounds I had lost. I think it's fairly normal.. must be the Seasonal Affected Disorder I have.. dark winter days just begs for more bread & soup .. (and pizza). I've been delving into oil painting very heavily and I love it. Visit my Facebook page to see the pet portraits I've been painting since September 2012. https://www.facebook.com/PetArtbyLyn Once there, click on Past Competition Paintings. Now, I need to get busy in the studio. Just wanted to update this blog for who knows who. I know nobody is reading it, so I can post anything I want to..PFTTTTT so there!

The Silent Tree

There is seems to be a love/tolerate/hate relationship between a lot of folks and gray squirrels. At best, humans enjoy their antics, mischievousness, and agility, and even feed the critters so they will hang around their homes. More humans simply tolerate them, and pay them no heed whatsoever. When a car squashes them, nobody morns. At worst, they are considered an abomination to the suburban yard, and people use bb guns on them or other lethal methods to get rid of them. Recently, I heard a news report about a man in Florida who despises them so much, that he traps them, and then delights in drowning them. I fall into the category of love. I mean, I would never want one as a pet, and I don't feed them, but I really enjoy watching them, and having them nearby. They bring a little wildlife to suburbia. There is a large maple tree on my property that has for years seen generations of baby squirrels and families living there. It has a large cavity midway up the large trunk. Many a spring, while washing dishes (as the kitchen window faces Squirrel cottage), and cooking meals, I've witnessed the babies first steps onto a tree limb, anxious Mom nearby encouraging them to be careful. After a fantastic spring with lots of baby squirrels bounding through the treetops chasing one another, I noticed a decline in the squirrel population. Where did all the babies go? It took a drastic dip and today I learned why. The neighbor across the street was watering her plants, and came out to chat as I was walking Boz, the Papillon. As we chatted two of her 7 or 8 cats (I have lost count) demurely sat nearby. As she was talking, she happened to say that she guessed she was going to have to put bells on her cat's collars. I asked why, and she replied that they had killed four squirrels within the last four days. My heart sunk. I like my neighbor, but when will people understand that cats are lethal predators? I love my 10 year old cat, but he is not allowed outside. For one thing, the roadway in front of the house is a ticking time bomb for cats. Cats do not see boundaries. Boundaries do not exist in the feline mind. More than that, I realized a long time ago that leaving a cat out of doors does not pay any favors to wildlife, especially in the Springtime when songbirds are on the nest and helpless squirrel babies are in the tree. Sadly, I expect the tree will remain silent this winter. I have seen two squirrels in the last few days. Hopefully, they are the Adam & Eve of squirrels and will soon repopulate (not until Spring) the area. But if the cats have their ways, they will decimate the rag tag remnants of squirrel-dom. Between the owls, foxes, and primarily the suburban tigers, there isn't much hope. They are outnumbered.

I've been busy in the studio creating sculptures. These are so much fun to create! I've just completed two new ones; Tinkerbell the pot bellied pig, and French Bulldog the Ballerina. I'm happy to report that both are going to their new home in Florida this week! Pictured left to right: Frenchie Ballerina, Tinkerbell the pot bellied pig, Hilerie the Great Dane, and Paris, the French Bulldog. If you are interested in having a commissioned one of a kind sculpture, don't hesitate to email me.

The view from the front porch has been sticky hot during the daytime. 100+ temperatures are even a bit much for a summer lover like myself. But then, late night summer evenings are the best times for porch sitting anyway. Who needs television or the computer when the front porch is calling with the lure of a soft breeze. Back in the town were I was born, almost every home has a front porch. Some of them have two or three porches. The New River, really the second oldest river in the world, runs below the town. I have wished many times that I had been raised there. But the parents had to find work to support the family, so it was necessary for them to strike out and leave the Appalachians behind. That took a hell of a lot of courage for a young couple with two kids to do. While I was growing up, we made many trips to those ancient hills to see the grandparents, aunts, uncles, and old friends. My Dad would talk about his growing up on the river, and how he would swim across it. He was an admitted river rat. Across from my Aunt's house (which had three porches) was an island in the river. It had a sandy beach, just like the ones along the North Carolina coast. Summer trips back to Hinton would always require Dad borrowing a rowboat for the sojourn across to The Island for a picnic. I was given the important job of being the lookout, sitting in the prow of the boat, watching for the huge rocks that would have surely caused grief if the boat hit one. Once we had arrived on The Island and secured the boat, Mom would set out our picnic of sandwiches, watermelon, tomatoes, and iced tea on a quilt. There was a huge tree that leaned out over the water. Some limber and athletic soul had climbed it and secured a thick, strong rope to the upper part of the trunk. My Dad and brother would hold onto the rope, run, and then swing out over the river, where they would loudly splash down into the water with a rebel yell. Afterward, Dad would float serenely on his back in the water like a happy river otter.

Those days are shimmering jewels encased forever in the amber of my mind and heart. Summer evenings on the porch I find myself taking each memory out of safekeeping to savor it moment by shining moment. The Island, which back then was owned by the Hinton's, the founders of the town, was eventually purchased from them for a measly sum and a cabin built upon it. But in my memory, it remains the place of pristine beauty and precious memories. And I can see Dad laughing and swimming across the New, forever young. (Painting by ©LynHamerCook, Welsh Corgi, No Gurls Club.)