December 8th. On this day in 1930 my mother was born. And thirty years ago today I had to pull over as I was driving to school because I had burst into tears on hearing that John Lennon had been shot. In many ways today was a day that had me staring out the window to the snowy yard, reflecting on mortality, missing my mom, and missing John a little too.
So, I decided to go to the library to look for a little more jazz and electronic music for my painting play list on the iPod, and then actually sitting down to paint. I've been playing around with acrylics, really playing, just doing little exercises from Robert Burridge's website, except that it didn't take long for me to start branching out from his examples. I started playing down gel medium and pressing in plastic screening for texture, and also pasting down collaged elements, though they ended up disappearing under paint. I was using only a triad of red, yellow and blue, plus some white, and trying to be sure to get a strong sense of light and shadow, and good contrast. Finally I got out the oil pastels and adding that over the top of the acrylic. I'm not sure how effective it is, but it sure is the cure for a mild case of the blues.
I did about a half dozen of these, and none looks just the same. They're all 5x7 inches, which gave me a sense of being productive, if nothing else. I love pears, and tend to think of them as food, rather than stand-ins for feminine shapes, cellos, or some such nonsense. When I was in high school for several years one of Mom's school friends who taught in Oregon took to sending her a box of Harry and David pears every year. Mother didn't eat fruit, but I coveted those pears. She'd give me the box and I'd hide the fruit in my closet, and eat pears, one a day, until they were gone. Heaven.