watercolor and ink painting of rose by emily weil

daily painting | ripe rose

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Embracing what is in front of me is my lesson these days. Not resisting. Which I do with reluctance and no small amount of resentment. But the dear bro is continuing to fade, and he’s not done yet with his life, and there must be reasons why he, with that amazing brain of his, is soldiering on. And I love him, and he loves me, and that alone is a bit of a miracle, after our childhood experiences.

Some time ago I read the quote,“People are like tea bags — you don’t know what’s in them until they are in hot water.” It was Nancy Reagan who supposedly said it but I’ve heard that nugget of wisdom ascribed to various other folks, including Eleanor Roosevelt (my true hero). First Lady Nancy wasn’t my favorite person, but these days I’m thinking about this apt description of humans under pressure.

What’s in me? Is it strong enough to make a good cuppa? I guess I’m finding out. I think today of Turkish earthquake survivors and Mississippians who saw a tornado devastate their town and thousands of others whose lives have been upended. I feel like a heap of twisted metal (certainly with plenty of sharp edges), but something stronger will be rebuilt in the aftermath. I’m certain of this.  

And thank you for reading these posts. I know they are often dark. I appreciate your caring observations.
[This painting is of a rose I photographed at Aldersly retirement community where my brother resides.]

7″ x 7″ ink, watercolor, acrylic on paper = $65

 

 

 

watercolor, ink painting of flowers by emily weil

daily painting | march sunflower

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Recently I had an email conversation with a very dear old friend. He offered prayers of support to me as I “help my brother transition.” What a liberating concept! I have the western idea of the sad, painful, long road of sickness that ends in death (and then there is heaven or hell, in Christian traditions). To see this as my brother’s journey from his current state into another is rebooting my brain and adding some bright sparkles to my thinking.

Because I believe it’s true, about death being a kind of passage. I think he’ll go join my sisters and it will be good and joyful. And I’ve already asked him to look after me (I call on Kay and Diana for assistance, often). His death will be wrenching and difficult and it will be a great loss, especially since Jim and I have become close these past months. But I know I will be happy too, for his release. And I will see him again.

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor, acrylic on paper = $90

 

 

 

watercolor and pastel painting of red tail hawk by emily weil

daily painting | red tail

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Well, hell. That’s kind of my response to most things these days. But really I can’t complain — I’m safe, and now dry, in my home, my brother’s demise from brain cancer is slow, which creates room for lots of sweet and moving and healing conversations about family, and I’m getting a bit more rest which is leading to more energy for painting. Life is weird and strange and brilliant and wondrous and crazy and stormy and wrenching. All of that. I just want to soak it all up and experience everything, you know? Grief turns you inside and out and shakes you upside down, and the damn bitch has her own timetable. Which is frustrating. And today this is my life, and I embrace it. Often with resentment. But I’m learning acceptance. 

This carnival ride can be lonely. I love the response I heard recently from a counselor who several years ago lost her husband in a tragic kayaking accident; a year later her brother suddenly died. She gave me great comfort, as we talked about how our western world is deeply uncomfortable with the raw emotions that come with loss — you’re supposed to take a pill and chill out, as strong feelings make people squirm. She spoke of her experiences with some people in her orbit who lacked “emotional courage.” Someone told her that she should just “get over it; it’s been long enough.” And, “I’m sorry I didn’t call, I just didn’t know what to say.” Her reply to that was, “Google it! Takes 5 minutes!” which made me howl with laughter.

Giggling is good. Sometimes I seek out a comedy show, as I know laughing will make me feel better. Other times I watch a movie I know will make me weep. Both are healing. And necessary.

[This is a painting done for the president of the roofing company that replaced my roof; I bartered artwork for partial payment for the costs. This juvenile red-tailed hawk likes to hang out on the railing outside his window, hunting ground squirrels.]

30″ x 22″ watercolor, pencil, ink, pastel on paper

 

 

 

abstract acrylic painting by emily weil

daily painting | overflow

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Aahhh… back in the studio. I’ve been working on this small acrylic abstract on-and-off while also creating a larger commissioned watercolor piece. So I took out the acrylic paints while the watercolor layers dried. I’m really gratified that as I take a few days off in a row from brother-care, I have more energy for making art. Makes my heart feel better and gives me hope that I have a future that includes painting. Easy to get submerged as a caregiver; it makes my life smaller. But it won’t be forever, and I know that for now my dear bro appreciates my love and company. And the feeling is mutual.

Jim and I both were challenged for several weeks, navigating his roommate situation. Peter, with Alzheimer’s, occupied the 2nd bed in Jim’s room. It was temporary, as yesterday we moved my bro into an Assisted Living studio apartment (for which he’s been on a waiting list since last Sept). The sad, demented roommate often urged my brother to make phone calls and write letters for him; Peter was convinced he was being poisoned and held against his will. My dear bro felt bad about the guy’s tragic situation and tried to help, but Peter was manipulative, and Jim’s cancer prevented him from clear-headed perspectives. The brain cancer may bring increasing confusion and fatigue, but Jim is still his lovable old, compassionate self.

12″ x 12″ acrylic, pencil, ink, oil pastel on claybord = $190

 

 

 

watercolor of dog by emily weil

daily painting | daisy-may

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I really like my Sunday mornings. I watch the news shows because I’m a junkie, sip my tea, watch Buster, my guinea pig, chow down on his morning salad and delight in the dancing shadows on my living room curtains of finches at the bird feeder. I’m getting more skilled at self-care, allowing myself to rest after almost 11 months of looking after my bro — his brain cancer is advancing, but slowly. He is in good hands; I don’t need to be there every day. I feel guilty, but am noticing how beneficial it is to not be so worn out. I’m no good to him if I’m a wrung-out old dish rag.

Jamey and I often have amazing conversations. Last week we had a difficult discussion about the secret abuse my little sister and I suffered at the hands of our fury-spewing dad. Jamey is 9 years older, so he was mostly gone, doing teenager things, when I was a kid. He wasn’t home when dad would go into his rages — he was worried he had been there but either didn’t realize what was happening, or chose not to intervene. I am certain my funny, kind older brother wasn’t around, as I don’t think Dad would’ve dared the abuse if he’d had witnesses. These hard facts weigh on my brother. He’s an engineer, not exactly conversant with his emotions, but his love for me is clear. I believe that more than anything he wishes he could have prevented those horrors experienced by his two little sisters.

Phoo, this is heavy stuff. My apologies. My point is that I am grateful for the sweetness of my times with my only remaining sib. These incredible moments would have never happened but for his illness and being confined in a nursing home where I can visit and spend time with him. He often surprises me, bringing up family topics I assume he would rather avoid. These exchanges heal us both. Isn’t that somethin’?

[About this painting — a dear friend’s sweet little Daisy May moved on to happier hunting grounds recently and this is a tribute to her.]

6″ x 6″ ink, watercolor, acrylic on paper

 

 

 

watercolor of flowers by emily weil

daily painting | february bouquet

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There was a promo on the other day for an upcoming show; something about a TV personality having a bout with cancer and recovering. The celeb said, “My mom said to ‘make my mess my message.’ ” So clever! On the outside chance you are not bored to tears with my current posts about loss, here’s my mess today: I’m still showing up, and have come to accept — maybe even make friends with — my boiling brain that bounces around in the early mornings. So I just say Good Morning to my scary thoughts, do my meditation and get up and make tea. I often wonder what the insides of other folks’ brains are like. Calm? Serene? Adult-like? Confident? Am I the only one who feels wobbly? Unlikely. 

I’m 70. Does everyone who makes it into these later years review their lives and have regrets and ponder the crazy side trips and wonder What-The-Hell-Was-I-Thinking? That’s why I love books and poetry. Literature is a reveal into a writer’s thoughts and feelings. I’m not so peculiar. So today’s commitment to myself is to sing my song. It doesn’t matter if it is harmonious with other folks’ songs. I don’t care if it’s pretty. It’s mine. It belongs to me. Grab your earplugs — I’m getting ready to belt.

[Painting is of a Trader Joe’s bouquet; the way the sun flowed into my living room and lit the sunflowers was lovely.]

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor on paper = $90

 

 

 

watercolor of black and white cat by emily weil

daily painting | benny

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I woke up this morning with a revolutionary thought. What if, just for today, I believed that everything I was doing was right and good? If, instead of constantly doubting and criticizing myself, and thinking I should try/work harder, I practiced having complete faith in myself? Now I know from books I’ve read and interviews I’ve heard with brilliant creative folks and personal conversations I’ve had that I’m hardly alone, questioning who I am and what I do. I know an artist who is that rare combination of being both brilliant and financially successful and I heard her mutter to herself words of self-criticism and self-doubt (I don’t think she knew I could hear her, it was a group setting). I was amazed that she of all people questioned herself. So it’s kind of a chronic condition of being human, I think. Especially for someone who bares all, exposing him or herself whether on stage or as a writer or a visual artist. It’s risky. It’s an act of vulnerability, and most of us humans avoid it, creating clever facades of protection. I aspire to embrace the experience, though. To have an open heart and to honor and accept and trust myself and create art from a place that’s deep inside. That’s a helluva thing, isn’t it? Takes ovaries. Wish me luck. I can always pull out my trunk full of Halloween masks if needed.

[This is Benny, commissioned by a friend as a gift to his wife for Valentine’s Day. Benny thinks he’s a dog, has a hilarious parallelogram mustache, goes with the family on neighborhood walks and jumps into the car with mom and dad to go to the drive-through coffee shop where the baristas give him kitty treats.]

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor, pastel, pencil on paper

 

 

 

watercolor and pastel abstract painting by emily weil

daily painting | butterfly party

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I woke up this morning feeling lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon-wheel rut and then I got up and sat on my couch with my Earl Grey tea marveling at the manic energy of the house finches and sparrows outside my window mobbing the bird feeder. Their lives are precarious — huge amounts of birds of all species don’t survive their first year. Obviously I think a lot about life cycles these days. And my discomfort in this time of loss is huge. And is nothing in comparison to the catastrophe in Turkey and Syria as those losses are incomprehensible and shocking. Yes, my roof leaked and now I have a new roof and a smaller retirement nest egg. And I have a house. With a roof.  

So, back to my bed (where I do my morning meditation). The conclusion I landed on is to accept what is. No resistance. This calms me and helps me not go down the self-pity rabbit hole.

[You might want to skip this next bit as it may sound preachy.] I recently had a conversation with my lovely niece who also seeks healing and wholeness and self-knowledge (we certainly relate to each other, having grown up in desperately dysfunctional families; her mom, my sister, was severely mentally ill). We talked about the wondrous and mysterious process of a caterpillar that is transmogrified into a butterfly and how, once in the cocoon, it somehow morphs from a little wiggly, crawly thing into goo and then into a glorious creation with painted wings. It’s amazing! From squishy glop! As we talked together about the discomfort of transformation, she noted, “Cocoons are narrow.” So brilliant! As my life feels very confining right now. And my goodness I hope I am changing into a splashy creature that can fly and help make my corner of the world a bit more colorful.

[About this painting — I was rooting around my files for Feather River Art Camp, where I will be teaching a Mixed Media class this June, and found the start of a watercolor of a lily that wasn’t so great so I added pastels and worked it into an abstract.]

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor, ink, pastel on paper = $90

 

 

 

abstract by emily weil using pastels, watercolor and ink

daily painting | tempest

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I think mourning doves have the prettiest colors. Did you know that they have turquoise eyeliner all around their eyes? I learned that because of the suction-cup birdfeeder on my kitchen window they visited, where I could take a close look (which I had to stop supplying with seeds as the pigeons were clutching onto my window screen, ruining it). I suppose it makes sense I’m fond of a pretty, taupe-colored bird with mourning in its name these days. But don’t get my neighbor started on this species as she hates it when they nest on her front porch; I saw a photo of a dove that had built its nest in the windshield-wiper well of a Honda.

I’ve been pondering the powerful forces of grief and loss (well, duh). Life-changing, for most folks. And no one is exempt from this experience. We are reshaped by deaths and painful losses — for some into despair and bitterness and rage and for others into growth and clarity and greater strength. This fascinates me, how we develop and evolve both as humans and as a country. I want more than anything for the deaths and losses in my life to make me stronger and more resilient. And kinder. And more compassionate. And less encumbered by childhood pain. Losing my sibs has upset my apple cart forcefully, affecting everything. Everything. Last night I couldn’t sleep and was mentally acknowledging various shipwrecks in my life — in my family, in my relationships — and visualized climbing into the lifeboat, rowing away, finding solid land. I can’t imagine feeling dry and safe again, but I suppose I will.
[Did this abstract in my kitchen today.]

9″ x 12″ ink, watercolor, pastel on paper = $140

 

 

 

watercolor, ink painting of dog by emily weil

daily painting | jake

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Sometimes the world is so gorgeous it makes my eyeballs hurt. Driving from Alameda to San Rafael the other day, the east bay skies were a dark, cold gray. But as I drove up I-80 through Berkeley I could see Mt Tam and the greening Marin hills across the bay, covered in a sunny mosaic and it made me appreciate the delightful surprises that photo-bomb my days. When I returned back home, it was a beauty sandwich — the entire bay had become quite cloudy, but again from the Berkeley freeway a stunning orange-peach sunset developed on the other side of the Golden Gate bridge — like someone used an exacto knife, slicing the clouds to let the beauty spill out.

This is quite a journey. And I am proud of myself, and I hope not in a smug way, of showing up for this colorful, painful, baffling, aggravating, glorious, heart-searing, soul-healing, psychedelic passage.

So about this artwork — Jake was great fun to paint. Jake’s daddy is Michael, my brother’s best friend since 3rd grade. Michael has had wrenching physical challenges for months now, and I thought since I’ve done a few pet painting commissions I’d do Jake as a get-well present. When Michael returned home from one of his many surgeries, Jake was nervous about the walker his dad was using. The photo he sent me really captured Jake’s uncertainty.

10″ x 10″ ink, watercolor, acrylic on paper