Creativity Coach

I am now a member of the Creativity Coaching Association. I’m accepted, and when I get the time, will fill out my forms to be listed as a Creative Coach on their website. I had a good conversation with Beverly Down who is the President and CEO of the association. While talking to her I realized how much we had in common. It was uncanny. I feel like I’ve finally found my tribe. At least I know it’s another tribe to add to my existing ones. (Painters, Artists, Instructors, Counselors, Mothers, Mexico Lovers, Students, Fans of Mad Men, etc.) As we all get older our tribes seem to multiply as the years go by. But I’m excited and proud of myself for becoming a member. I hope to get more clients through the connection and also learn more about this strange new community of creativity coaches. The ideas never stop.

Yes, to those who are asking, I am giving a workshop this weekend at The Dalles Art Center. We will be learning watercolor skills while painting fruits of all types and hearts (because love and Valentines are in the air). I know this sounds a little crazy but it is going to be fun. We’ll be working and playing from 11:00 to 4:00 both Saturday and Sunday, January 23rd and 24th. We’ll go crazy with color and insane with insight. Lots of famous stars from my class will be there. I think it will be a great way to spend a weekend.

Also, I’ve just finished my two pieces for The Red Show at Columbia Arts Center in Hood River. The images are small, 10” x 14”, but will be framed. They are juicy, fruit watercolors based on some of my favorite poetry and embellished with a little collage.

This first piece is titled from a poem written by Sylvia Plath called Metaphors.

Metaphors

By Sylvia Plath

I’m a riddle in nine syllables,

An elephant, a ponderous house,

A melon strolling on two tendrils.

O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!

This loaf’s big with its yeasty rising.

Money’s new-minted in this fat purse.

 I’m a means, a stage, a cow in calf.

I’ve eaten a bag of green apples,

 Boarded the train there’s no getting off.

 

The second piece is titled from William Carlos Williams’ poem This is Just to Say.

This is Just to Say

By William Carlos Williams

I have eaten

 the plums

 that were in

 the icebox

 

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

 

forgive me

they were delicious

 so sweet

and so cold

Poems can really inspire the writer and the painter in me. I would love it if some of you could send some of your favorite poetry to me and I’ll print some poems here for all of us to enjoy. It tells a lot about a person if they share with you their favorite poetry, books, music or visual arts. Feel free to send some of your own poems if you’re not too shy. I have at least one excellent poet that reads this blog (Victor).

The holidays are over and it’s time to take some risks in the New Year. Try some new things but stay safe.

4 thoughts on “Creativity Coach

  1. Sue Martin

    This poem is not original and I don’t know who wrote it, but it’s been passed down in the family (from my Dad):
    Good ol’ Pet Milk,
    The best in the land,
    Fits right in
    The palm of your hand.
    No teats to squeeze,
    No manure to pitch,
    Just punch two holes
    In the son of a bitch.

    (If it doesn’t inspire a painting, it will surely bring a laugh.)

    Reply
  2. Virginia Maxfield

    ELLEN BASS
    Gate C22

    At gate C22 in the Portland airport
    a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
    a woman arriving from Orange County.
    They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
    the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
    and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
    the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
    like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
    like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped
    out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
    from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

    Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
    She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
    her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
    kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
    the way it gathers and swells, sucking
    each rock under, swallowing it
    again and again. We were all watching–
    passengers waiting for the delayed flight
    to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
    the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
    sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could
    taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

    But the best part was his face. When he drew back
    and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
    as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
    as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
    what happened after–if she beat you or left you or
    you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix
    not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
    as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
    The whole wing of the airport hushed,
    all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body,
    her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
    little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

    Reply

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