abstract painting by emily weil

daily painting | outdoor abstract

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Yesterday I so enjoyed meeting with fellow artists in my marina to create and chat and support one another. It’s been a roller-coaster week, and I knew I wanted to spend my creative time doing abstracts on paper as a way of sorting myself out emotionally. And, as always, it worked. This simple ink, watercolor and Inktense block artwork was one of the pieces. I’m constantly amazed at the therapeutic value of creating — whether it’s writing or making songs or producing visual art, these processes seem to be necessary for humans to function well. I’m remembering my teacher Leigh Hyams saying, “As artists we fertilize the world.” There are so many ways to make things — engineers build bridges, inventive programmers magically create video games. Carpenters build structures. Chefs put together delectable meals. We all have gifts to share. Another memory, of Red Skelton — a comedian and clown popular when I was a child (loved him, for he had a sweetness about him) used to say that we all have received God-given gifts. The way we say thank you is to use them.

9″ x 9″ watercolor, ink, Inktense blocks on paper = $115

 

 

 

painting of flowers by emily weil

daily painting | joan’s pitcher

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My mother-in-law, Joan Favors, had a birthday a few days ago. She’s been gone for awhile now but I always remember her day in August even though I divorced her son in the 1980s. We stayed in touch, and I knew she loved me. So when a dear friend gave me a bouquet of flowers on Joan’s b’day, I pulled out the lovely ceramic pitcher she gave me eons ago, as I wanted to honor her. Thus the subject matter for this painting. 

I can’t seem to help reflecting on my life and its various chapters and pathways, as I edge into my elder years. I feel like a freak most of the time as since the time of my divorce, when I was in so much pain I couldn’t sleep because of night terrors, I’ve been a devotee of therapy and spiritual searches and meditation, wondering how much healing was possible in one’s life after growing up in a train-wreck of an unhappy and abusive family.

Today I’m happy to keep working at it, and have had good results. I’ve been fortunate to have had many guides and therapists and healers in my journey. I’m thankful, and I also honor my own hard work and participation and devotion to becoming whole. Life is full of adventures and losses and joyful surprises, and I’m all in and grateful to keep showing up. “Life is a feast, dahling,” Auntie Mame said, “and most poor fools are starving to death.”

12″ x 10″ watercolor, ink, acrylic, pastel on paper = $170

 

 

 

abstract painting by emily weil

daily painting | shallows

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I’m feeling goofy-sideways on this weekend morning — fair warning. Does anyone remember the fabulous Russian ballet star, Godunov? His full name: Alexander Borisovich Godunov. He defected to the US in 1979. You may have noticed him playing a thug in the first Die Hard movie. [Where am I going with this, you may be wondering, rightly? Is she doing a bury-the-lead type of Rachel Maddow intro?]

Last week my Brushes by the Bay pals and I gathered in Holly’s magnificent garden to paint. She has 20-foot-high hollyhocks and dahlia blooms the size of cantaloupes and hummingbirds that dance in the water fountain. It is a private paradise, and I was happily enjoying it; I did several loose paintings of a dahlia bloom. Once I took the paintings home I decided to add background color to one of them. As I was painting, the neighbor’s cat decided to nose into my living room through my open deck door. I was startled and chased her out — she has eyes for my guinea pig. The interruption threw me and the painting got kind of wrecked. I swore at the cat, I swore at my paintbrush, I swore at myself. The painting had promise.

So… in the end, it wasn’t Godunov.

Ha. And apologies.

Soon after, I started up an abstract (above). It has many layers of paint and water soluble graphite and ink and inktense sticks and spattered acrylics, and is more in keeping with my allovertheplace emotions. I keep expecting to wake up one day to complete, all-encompassing, vibrating internal calm that will last forever. Pipe dream. Man-oh-man how grief and loss and family dramas stir up the pot. There’s a lot going on in my internal healing journey, and I’ll spare you the boring details. I’ll just keep showing up. And going to the beach.

12″ x 9″ watercolor, ink, water-soluble graphite, inktense sticks, acrylic, pencil on paper = $150

 

 

 

watercolor and pastel painting of calla lilies by emily weil

daily painting | kris’s lilies

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If you’ve read any of my posts these past few years you know that my soapbox is about making space to grieve in a culture that doesn’t allow it. So — fair warning — I’m climbing onto it again (turn off your hearing aids, pals, I’ve got my bullhorn).

I read a fascinating article about loss in the New Yorker. A woman lost her mom, and tried to function as she had before. It didn’t go so well. So as a journalist she set out to understand her experience.*

I’ve often pondered this experience of grief, and have been very frustrated by these cultural realities. One of the interesting ideas the writer posited is that our American “pursuit of happiness” emphasis may be a factor — no room for feeling bad as we pursue that ephemeral rainbow: “…the ‘pursuit of happiness’ having been turned into an obligation: the challenging aspects of life are now framed as individual burdens… The choking back of sorrow, the forbidding of its public manifestation, the obligation to suffer alone and secretly, has aggravated the trauma of losing a dear one.”

I’m still working my way through these ideas and aspire to accept them. My moods are all over the place, but settling down some; it’s been 10 months since my brother lost his fight with brain cancer. “I’m glad to see your moods are getting lighter!” is something I hear sometimes and it makes me want to scream into my pillow (which I do sometimes). I just want to be myself and feel what I feel on this roller coaster of sorrow and loss. I get frustrated when I’m being monitored to see if I’m starting to feel better as it feels patronizing.

OK that’s my rant for today. Take what you like and leave the rest.

[This painting was done from a lovely photo of calla lilies a very dear friend sent me who knows I love them.]

*The New Yorker Daily: “It’s Mourning in America”

30″ x 22″ watercolor, ink, pastel on paper = $925

 

 

 

abstract painting by emily weil

daily painting | belly band

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Today’s blurb is for Mike. I found out today that my childhood neighbor and pal died, and I am grieving him. Mike and I played and climbed trees in our little Mill Valley hillside world. I spent hours and hours in his home, which had a friendlier vibe than my house. Debbie, his sister, was my best friend, Rhonda was the oldest with her magnificent flaming red hair (so compelling to me, this older teenage girl with mysterious ways) and baby Jimmy came along when we were in grammar school. I think we had a Bluebirds meeting in their house, and I held baby Jimmy and then dropped him on the floor (short drop from the couch, no harm but I still feel bad). Mike, my crush, was a sweet boy who loved motorcycles and news of his death is hitting me hard. This happens as we enter our later years. Peers and childhood buddies and family members die. Their lives are done. I am keenly sensitive to my choices here — to be sad, to be depressed, to be bitter as I sort through loss. Or I can keep my heart open, committing to live as largely as I can regardless of my age. I think I’ll do the largely part. 

[Working on this today in my studio was great therapy]

12″ x 12″ acrylic, oil pastel on claybord = $200

 

 

 

watercolor painting of magnolia bud by emily weil

daily painting | magnolia bud

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Lucky me to have time with my dear friend Claire, visiting from WA! We visited my brother and afterward we headed over to Uncle Fuzzy’s yard in Mill Valley to enjoy some Chardonnay and chat. Claire and I (90% Claire, 10% Emily) looked after our old friend as he was dying of cancer two years ago, and the house is still in probate and not yet up for sale so I pulled my camping chairs out of the back of the car and we watched the woodpeckers and crows in the nearby trees and reminisced. During those months in 2020 Claire and I sat in the yard many times, sipping wine and laughing and shoring each other up while Russ (his given name) napped, as we loved him and he was soon leaving. So in Russ’s back yard is a gorgeous blooming magnolia, and this bud was just peeping out and getting ready to pop. 

I feel immersed in death and dying, and that sounds darker than I feel. Death is a fascinating part of life, and yes I will be shattered after my much-loved brother leaves the planet a few months from now. You get up in these years and loss is a part of the landscape. As one writer opined in an NPR interview, once you get past 60 you constantly carry a 100-lb sack of grief on your shoulder, as loved ones grow old and die. Yes, exactly. And there’s a magnificent beauty to that natural unfolding of things, though our hearts break daily. And this is a part of life, and how glorious to fully live, which is my response in the midst of all this. I want to live as largely as is humanly possible until I, too, get ready to leave the earth. I want to skid into that moment, waving my freak flag and laughing and rollicking with irreverence and giddy with joy at having been given this amazing gift of life.

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor on paper

 

 

 

watercolor and ink drawing of hollyhock by emily weil

daily painting | peralta hollyhock

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As I left my therapist Lucy’s office on Peralta Ave in Albany the other day I noticed this lovely hollyhock towering in a yard across the street (snapped a photo). There’s something about these flowers — I only see them in the summer, and they seem quite accessible and almost pedestrian but also very gorgeous. They are not sophisticated or aloof, like a perfectly grown rose or an elegant lily. Which is why I think they are magnificent. Lucy is helping me walk through this very difficult chapter in my life (and in my family) — death, dysfunction, addiction, estrangement, cancer and suicide lurk. And death is a natural — even miraculous — part of life. And those of us left behind get out our mops and try to clean up the bloody bits of our beat-up spirits. Lucy advises me to keep my heart open. Which often seems impossible. But when I do, and choose to see the love and magic in the world that surround me, my steps are a bit lighter — I appreciate the red-shouldered hawk that flies overhead when I have conversations on the Mill Valley patio with my brother as we sit under a huge, blooming magnolia tree. Bright scarlet dragonflies zoom around outside my houseboat, skimming the estuary waters. Red tail hawks in a nearby Monterey Pine dodge dive-bombing crows. I get to see golden eagles have kids in the Sunol hills. Finches and sparrows mob the bird feeder on my deck. And, best of all, I absorb the warm hugs and loving affection from my brother. It’s a beautiful world.

OK now I am going to follow the steps a counselor suggested years ago when we experience hard times: Dial 911, step over the body, and do the dishes.

10″ x 7″ ink, watercolor on paper

SOLD

 

 

 

watercolor painting of tennessee valley trail by emily weil

daily painting | tennessee valley trail

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After visiting my brother in Mill Valley the other day I headed to the Tennessee Valley trail not far away, a spot I hadn’t visited in several years. The fog was roaring in and I knew my afternoon hike would be breezy and deliciously cool. My walking sticks helped me along the way and at one point I stopped to listen to at least five different species of birds calling, including a Swainson’s Thrush, who sings a lilting, gorgeous song (I’m not so savvy about identifying birds by song, but since I bugged GGRO’s Allen Fish about this mystery birdcall a few years ago I knew this one). A wildlife photographer was trying to spot the bird for a good photo but it was elusive visually; its song, however, filled the valley. That lovely walk soothed my heart. As nature always, always does.

So. Time on my hands? Seriously? What IS that? (I’m adapting, however — now in its ninth week, this brother-brain-cancer crisis has consumed my life). But with Covid roaming the halls of James’s nursing home I’m at home for now (no argument there). So the paints are coming out. And the laundry is done. The dust on my bookshelf is wiped clean (it was practically sprouting seedlings). I’m still tired, but I think that is a fact of life these days. And I am learning that I need to call by name the sadness that sits next to me on my couch every day. To welcome it and not ignore it. To embrace it, even. Loss is a central ingredient of my life for now. I accept it.

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor on paper

 

 

 

watercolor and ink painting of leaf

daily painting | feather river leaf

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The class I taught at Feather River Art Camp for which I created this quick demo was Watercolor and Ink. The week at camp was such a blast — I can’t believe I actually pulled it off without a major crash-and-burn after seven weeks of brother-brain-cancer crisis (and I was quite pooped once I returned home). Really had fun and was thankful for the schedule that allowed me to teach in the mornings and nap in the afternoons; luckily the weather didn’t get hot until the tail end of the schedule, and it was also fortuitous that the cunning Covid bastard didn’t ambush us until two days before we were set to go home (thankfully I dodged that infected bullet). 

These days I mostly feel upside down, as with great difficulty I embrace the reality that my brother is soon leaving the planet but for now he’s stable and more or less lucid; the hospice folks are supportive and professional and he’s got such a huge fan club he has frequent visitors. And I also enjoy just hanging out with him as we read the newspaper together or watch a Giants game. My emotions are a pinball machine, and I accept that (and I keep Kleenex close by at all times). We have tender moments and he still cracks wise and makes me laugh. I am deeply grateful for our connection and my heart will shatter when he dies but that’s the way things are as you get up into these senior years — people we love leave their bodies. And hopefully that passage into whatever follows death is the terminus of a rich life that was well-lived. That’s my goal in however many years I have left — to live with cheeky gusto and large portions of saucy irreverence. Because! Yes!

7″ x 10″ ink, watercolor on paper

 

 

 

daily painting | sibs

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Here is Quinn, one of three sisters I was commissioned to paint. It was a gift to their mom, who recently had a big-zero birthday (I am told she loved the paintings). A sibling-palooza! 

Sisters is the ongoing theme of my life these days. I have friends who have precious relationships with their “womb-mates,” and these connections my friends have with their girl sibs comforts me greatly. I was not close to my two sisters who have recently died, and that’s OK. It was more or less the result of growing up in a troubled, cold family. We all tried. Did our best. No lack of love there, but the bonds were thready.

I find this process of grief and loss a jumbled stew — it’s painful, excruciating, fascinating, illuminating, healing and deeply depressing. I know I am shedding things no longer needed during this crucible-like process. I will become clearer, more alive. I’m certain. But for now, the fog wafts around my brain and obscures my vision, for the pain of this loss is unspeakable, after my sister Diana’s violent act of suicide. I am showing up for this process, though. That, I feel, is very important and I think shows courage. Because I often feel upside down (though I mostly stay strapped in).

I loved a phrase I read in a book last night, “holding oneself… in the face of some emotional wind,” describing a character who had survived an intense and threatening experience (Peter Heller, The River). We are frightened, in our culture, of strong feelings. We want them to go away, and soon. But they need to be here, with us, moving around our hearts and minds and bodies until they have exhausted themselves (particularly since we’ve just been through a nightmare pandemic). I often have a hard time allowing myself to feel the grief — my brain says, “Buck up. You’re wallowing.” Or, “This is taking too long. You’re stuck.” Or, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” But reality is I am steeped in a profound process of loss, and it will take however long it takes, and I will stay present with the sorrows. I’m OK with that. And I side-step the harsh criticisms in my head that say I’ve lost my way. Because I haven’t.

7″ x 7″ watercolor, pen on paper