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2006 was a big year. It feels right to end it with gratitude.

SNOW
Let’s start with snow! I’m thankful for all the white, cushion-y, beautiful snow we got this last week which allowed for nearly two weeks of blissful, house-bound puttering. I baked more cookies, watched more DVD’s, and organized more stuff than in any other ten-day period in recent memory. Hmm… Yum.

SISTER BEE
I feel profoundly grateful for everything related to SISTER BEE. To everyone who contributed to its creation. For the friendships that were forged or deepened during its making. For the extraordinary opportunity to present SISTER BEE at the IFP Market in New York. For the experience of premiering SISTER BEE in Boulder. For the conversations it inspired. And for the sense of can-do-it-ness I feel now that it’s complete.

SISTER BEE’s life as a finished film has just begun. I look forward to seeing what 2007 brings.

OPEN STUDIOS
I’m perennially thankful for the opportunity to participate in Boulder’s Open Studios. For the work it inspires. And for the people it brings into my life. 2006 was my best year yet for connecting collectors with paintings (eight paintings met their new owners at Open Studios this year – a record for me). Again, I look forward to what next year will bring.

HONEYBEES
I’m thankful to the honeybees! For the joy and curiosity and adventure they instigate. For the hard work they do. And the beauty they create.

FRIENDS
Last but not least I’m thankful to all the friends both old and new, near and far, whose presence and thoughts have enriched my life. I’m thinking of you with love. Happy New Year!

The Maine landscape around where I grew up is endlessly inspiring. The thickness of the trees. The prickers & briars. The way in the winter you rarely see the sun overhead. How the sunlight’s always filtered by tree trunks and branches. Always over there. Far away. A little lonely feeling.

I drove up to Maine from Rhode Island in a rental car over Thanksgiving. It was fun watching the landscape change. From the soft brown deciduous trees in southern New England to the tall, spiky evergreens of Maine. Route 1 in Massachusetts plastered (as always) with billboards and businesses. A cardboard canyon of advertising bordering the highway. So much to look at! The Hilltop Steakhouse, Pizzeria Uno, that old diner on the east side of Route 1 (closed down for renovations), funeral homes, wedding stores, shoe stores, nightclubs. Trashy, crowded, noisy and ugly-beautiful. It was a relief to cross over into New Hampshire. And then Maine where all you see from the highway are trees punctuated by an occasional low-lying structure off in the woods to the left or right (the trees are always taller). No billboards. No come-ons. Just brown and green.

The isolation I felt growing up in Maine was depressing. In the past, when I’ve visited, I’ve been reminded of all the reasons I left. This time I saw only beauty. The landscape seemed unusually inviting, special. A little dark (as always) but enchanting too.

On Colorado’s Front Range, and in other places I’ve lived, humans dominate the landscape. There are buildings, roads and people over every horizon. In Maine nature dominates. Sure, there are buildings and roads there too. But the trees grow in so thick they seem inexorable. Inevitable. Ready to take over the world the very moment someone stops clearing brush. A great subject for painting.

The most surprising question to come up during Open Studios was this:

IS IT HARD TO LET YOUR PAINTINGS GO?

Selling paintings is sheer fun. Especially at Open Studios when I get to meet the folks who take them home. This is the first year I remember this question coming up and I heard it a few times. The bold assumption it implies – that I feel an emotional attachment to my paintings – is interesting.

I do feel a strong personal connection to my work while I’m making it (a lot of learning takes place during the process of making a painting). But once a painting’s done (from a few hours to a few days to a few weeks after completion) I feel ready to move onto whatever’s next. Some paintings take longer to be ready for sale than others. If I ever feel unsure about selling something I just hang onto it until I’m clear.

I especially love selling paintings to friends and acquaintances who’s homes I know I’ll visit. It’s a neat experience to run into an earlier painting in an unexpected place. It feels a lot like running into an old friend. “Oh, it’s you!” I think. “I haven’t seen you in FOREVER!” And “My, you’re looking good these days.”

Whenever I sell a piece of art space is created to make more. So selling paintings feels like an important part of maintaining a healthy creative flow.

The SISTER BEE premiere was overwhelming in the best possible way. Thanks to everyone who showed up. The show sold out before 7:00 and we had to turn many, many people away. My sincere aplogies to those of you who didn’t make it in. I’d LOVE for you to see SISTER BEE. A second screening’s in the works.

The singing ladies of The Flowering Bones Vocal Ensemble (directed by Joanna Lynden) opened the show with a 4 song set (3 songs & one improvisation). What a gift! Their voices filled the theater with warmth and humor – the perfect setup for SISTER BEE. The lights dimmed. The film screened. People laughed and sighed. Sweet relief.

We did a little Q & A at the end of the film. Four of the beekeepers (Julie, Marge, Mery and Suzanne) joined me on stage to answer questions about beekeeping. They did a beautiful job being themselves – as funny and grounded as they are in the film. All of us five years older than we were when we shot SISTER BEE in 2002.

We wrapped things up with an after-party at the St. Julien. Diane French, who composed all the guitar music in SISTER BEE played the after-party. Her song, “Confectioner’s Town” is one of my favorites and it was a delight to hear it played live. Thank you, Diane.

After hanging out in the bar for an hour or so we sat down for dinner with the Flowering Bones & friends. Two of the Flowering Bones had birthdays. We celebrated with a gigantic cake. Home by midnight. Too wound up to sleep.