Provision
The Olmsted Plein Air Invitational just ended, and I want to record some things before they slip away.
This year was different. Three other painters and myself were hosted in the North Georgia mountains just outside of Dillard, very close to the North Carolina border. That alone was the best part of the whole event. I have never had that kind of prolonged company while painting, and it made all the difference. The host, Ginny, was the core and her in-law, Emma, was also central. Emma provided the subject matter for Kelley (Mogilka) as well as fine company for the rest of us. A good sense of humor goes a long way, and all involved had one.
The painters were Kyle Stuckey (Charleston, S.C.), Mason Williams, Kelley Mogilka (husband and wife), and myself. I introduced them in the previous post (and newsletter). The hosts were Ginny and Emma.
I showed up to the area early because I can drive to the event and my family life allowed it. So, I had an AirBnB in Dillard on Betty’s Creek, and I drove around from there.
Very early on and close to the North Carolina border, I found a place to pull off the road near a church parking lot.
It was mid-afternoon.
The sun was in my face, backlighting new leaves against the shaded hillside, chartreuse against shadow.
There was a woodpile.
(Have you ever considered all it takes to make a woodpile? Think about it. Then think about someone just giving all that to you.)
I saw it first as a glowing shape against the darkness, but I soon started thinking of my grandmother’s house. I was basically raised there. She heated her home with a wood-burning stove, and the smell and sounds will never leave me. The pops from the wood, the water pan on top, the sound of the door and the prodding of the interior are all as much a part of me as my skin. Even during holidays when the house was full of people, the stove was a main character, its heat driving many out of that room. At Christmas, we’d come in, screen door popping behind, and immediately have to toss off our layers because the room was just so warm. Hot, even. Other times, while walking up the road, I’d see the smoky trail rise into the sky, and a strange, large, unworded love would fill me. Not the feeling of butterflies and fairies, but a heavier love - one of recognizing that a space had been made, the kind of feeling that feels like you’ve glimpsed something from the grown-up world that was real, an uncompromised sense of family, of “this-is-what-you-do”. Even in my youth, I knew that this place was a stitch holding things together.
Mutts like us don’t have family crests, but if we did, an ever-burning, never-brunt woodpile with its grey-blue smoke just might be the perfect centerpiece.
It may be obvious, then, how I began to see the trees behind it as veiled images of those who have stood behind us, watching over us, caring for us, sacrificing for us in shadow while we glow. In the strange way that visions can, I would concurrently think of the woodpile as being an example for those younger trees - an example of sacrifice and how the sensible world is held together, and what a life well-ended may look like if we live well.
That led me to consider Ginny and Emma. Emma giving herself - entire days - to be available to Kelley, and Ginny, buying snacks, making meals for everyone for all times of day - not to mention providing the cabin - all the while being an excellent mother to her son, Richard. Ginny’s husband, Robert (Emma’s brother), came up for a couple of days and added to the all-around goodness. People being good to others, providing for them selflessly.
Translucent layer over translucent layer of wavy, oasis-like thoughts coming together while standing at a woodpile - an overlapping image becoming a single thing, like the parts of a reflection on a pond.
I learned at the end that the woodpile was provided by the church, Betty’s Creek Baptist, for anyone who needed it. It was an offering of sorts.
(North Carolina or Georgia, it didn’t matter. All true and manageable care is local, it seems to me.)
That detail was the last layer on this painting. The painting itself is the residue of a hazy, dreamlike mystery that held my soul’s attention and collaged past, present, and future. It’s just a painting and the woodpile is just a woodpile, but
the Oracle of Delphi would have appreciated it.
She would have understood its glowing silence.
She would have seen the backlit new leaves as fire-lit, as prophetic pictures of the embers that were to come in an ongoing, perpetual drama constantly played out for the benefit of mankind.
Perhaps someone someday will find an overlooked log that tumbled into the weeds and see the words “KNOW THYSELF” carved into its split face.
Perhaps someone someday will see a painting and be still for just a minute as they sense the need to listen and consider their lives.
Apologies for the poor photo quality. It was hastily made with an Iphone and submitted for competition. It sold, so I could not get a better image.
To be recognized by Nelda Damiano was … amazing (an overused word, but…).
See https://georgiamuseum.org/georgia-museum-of-art-hires-nelda-damiano/ for more.
She was so kind to speak with me during the event, and I truly appreciate getting those dialogues in.
It was awesome.
I would like to say more about painting, showing a few in-process photos (I only have a few…), go over materials and such, and share snapshots from my time during the Olmsted event…a kind of painter-specific post not so interesting to some readers here. (Heck, I don’t know what is interesting or not, but I just want to get things down for the record…)
