La Mia Epifania Italiana

On the way to my epifania, that day in Spoleto.

One day on my first visit to Italy (the now 

famous one-time-only trip led by Tomie 

dePaola that included a stop at the Bologna 

Book Fair), our gruppo had gathered in a 

small piazza in Spoleto to rest and enjoy 

some gelato.

I began watching two old Italian men talking

to each other. The first ended his comments 

to the other with a poke in the chest asking, 

"Capisce?"

The other replied then poked  his comrade

in turn, repeating,"Capisce?"

In a flash it dawned on me...... capisce must be 

an ITALIAN word, not Yiddish as I had always

believed.

Now wait.... I came by this life long delusion 

honestly. My Grandparents' generation

spoke Yiddish to each other (especially when 

children present were not supposed to 

understand). I had the sounds of all the 

kinahoras, shana maidelas, zhi gazindts, 

zhi gezundts and mishagases planted 

firmly in my head.

It turns out that when my Mother was a girl 

and her parents ran a corner grocery in their 

immigrant neighborhood, my Grandmother 

freely added words she fancied from other 

people's languages to her vocabulary 

without attribution. 

Thus, in my late 30's, 3500 miles from home 

and anyone familiar with this back story, my 

dear grandparents long gone, I had one of the 

biggest heartfelt epiphanies and knee 

weakening laughs of my life.

Later, I asked Mom why she never told me 

about capisce being Italian. She replied, 

"You never asked!"  

Pardonnez-Moi

Yesterday, a neighbor stopped me saying, 

"You speak French don't you?"

Have NO inkling what gave her THAT idea. 

She needed something pronounced correctly. 

Yikes!! I can make true French speakers cry 

with my attempts.

Only on rare extreme emergency occasions

have I jumped a language barrier, tossed 

syntax, case, tense and shame to the wind. 

Like that day tour to Oxfordshire and Blenheim 

Palace from London some years ago. 

A French family, une grandmere, grandpere, 

petit-fils et une tante were on the bus

and clearly didn't understand an English word 

our guide spoke.

At first, I kept silent, only wanting to enjoy 

the trip. But the guide was brusque and 

increasingly agitated at French family 

members quietly chatting while she held 

forth about the sights.

When we alit just below Bladon Church, 

where Winston Churchill is buried.

The French folks were clueless. 

No idea where we were or why. 

Sidling up to the Aunt, as we walked up 

the hill, I tossed caution and pride to the wind.

"Excusez moi, Madame" I said. "Winston 

Churchill est mort dans cette eglise"

("Winston Churchill is dead in this church.")

OK, I just couldn't remember the French for 

cemetery -cimetiere - on such short notice. 

La Tante immediately spread the news and 

much to the disgust of our British guide, 

I became the French family's new 

best friend.

At Blenheim Palace I related how "La Reine 

Anne d'Angleterre a donne cet chateaux aux 

John Churchill, le premier Duc de Marlborough 

pour (hmm, how do I say "defeating"?) drawing my 

finger across my throat - les soldats de Louis XIV!!" 

My reward for courage and nerve was 

an ice cream cone avec mes nouveaux amis

and un grande "MERCI !" as I left the bus 

at Marble Arch back in London.

Who knew 2 years of barely passed high school French

would come in handy one day.

Wherein, Of The Green...

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face:

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until 

we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Old Irish prayer-

One of my favorites..........

Modern Life Lesson

Turns out the problem was not

the need of a new mouse.

Computer Mortis set in yesterday.

Do not ignore slowdowns and freezes.

Lesson learned.

Too late happens without further notice.

My unexpected contribution to the

struggling economy.

First post on my shiny new Mac.

A Cat & Mouse Tale

Sweet Fred to the Vet first thing this gray misty morning.

Not happy confined in his wheeled carrier.  

Plaintive cries advertising his misery through the town.

Stopped at the Apple store on the way home. 

"Need a new mouse," I told the man.

"Meow!!" wailed Fred.

A quizzical look.

"For my Mac, not my Fred".   ;-)

    

First Sign Of Spring

Hungry baby pigeon chirped loudly, giving away its

hidden nest among some pipes near the ceiling in the

Whole Foods parking lot.

One feathered parent fed the big noisy baby.

The other stood guard below.

Shoppers passed by, thankfully, paying no attention to all

the chirping.

For The Birds

This charming Russian folk art bird house 

found while I was preparing to illustrate

The Little Snowgirl.

An enchanting home for any little bird that fit 

through the hole under her chin. 

 Pavel, the Woodcarver, made one of his own.

Then the birdhouse stood outside his and 

Caterina's house and a bird moved in.

None of this is in the written story. 

Something to entertain myself and maybe

the reader.

 

I made these "Little Snowgirl" matrioshka dolls.

They go with me on school visits. 

Starting with Pavel, the children like 

to guess who is the next doll nested inside. 

The last 2 are the hardest to guess. 

The birdhouse and the little bird.

Kitty Crochet

I should be writing, but I've been crocheting.

Something I haven't done for a long time. Very Zen.

Here's my attempt at a little cat for a new baby

I know who is on the way.

I could do this every day............

What Is It With Cats?

Need to catch a cat? - lesson #1

Place some clean laundry (you don't need much)that needs folding on any surface, a bed will do. Turn away for just a second. Voila! A cat will be sleeping on top of the pile when you turn back.

Speaking of cats, English artist Judith Glover just sent Tizzy, Fred and me this charming piece from her new collection with Paper Rose. 

They Grow Up So Fast

Fred at 4 mos.

Frederico Feliney is 6 years old. 

Freddie is a very sweet and helpful cat. 

He taps me on the knee or arm when he 

wants my attention. 

If he draws blood and I leap out of my seat, 

I also know his nails need clipping. 

Many mornings at 3am he'll gently tap on 

my shoulder, asking if I'm not quite asleep 

might I rub his belly? He walks round and 

round till he finds the right position to 

flop down, over and belly up. Too funny 

and sweet. OK, so he's trained me perfectly!  

 

Fred is also interested in Physics. 

Not a day goes by that he doesn't 

experiment with gravity, pushing 

objects off flat surfaces with his nose,

filling the newly created vacuum 

with himself. He will also go to any 

lengths (and/or heights) to explore 

the mysterious moving light reflected 

from my watch face in late afternoon 

when the sun is in the west window.

Freddie is modest. Never seeks 

the limelight, just a few Whisker Lickins 

crunchy snacks. When not in scholarly 

pursuit he can be found sleeping in a 

window high above the city or beneath 

the fold where the bedspread meets the rug. 

His retreat revealed only by an exposed tail. 

Buon Compleanno, mio gattino!!  =^..^=

Pam And The Tizman

Speaking of my talented friend, Pam Newton and portraits........

I love this portrait she did of my boy Tizzy Cat.

Just One More..........

I really thought I'd come to the last of the P-J Redoute portraits, when this popped up. Haven't yet identified who painted it but this one is from Redoute's home town of St. Hubert, Belgium.

It is hung in the Centre Redoute across the Rue Redoute from a small empty lot where Redoute's childhood home stood until 1944. During the Battle of the Bulge, Americans fired on the German headquarters. Missed by about 200 yards leveling the Redoute house.

Redoute's childhood home

drawn by Abbe P. Chalon

Feeling I ought to apologize, I was assured

with great bonhomie that we had been forgiven long before.

The Centre Redoute is now housed in

the old German Headquarters across the street.

One of the best "portraits" of Redoute I found was in the person of the town historian, Abbe Prosper Chalon. Abbe Chalon, my guide, a Roman Catholic priest, art historian, artist and a descendent of Redoute's mother's family.

. Remarkable resemblance.

See What I Mean? (see Jan 25, 2009 post)

Portrait of many (but not all) of Napoleon Bonaparte's

artists, painted by and including Louis-Leopold Boilly

as well as Redoute, Gerard and Isabey.

I rest my case.

Tricks Of The Trade

Early in elementary school, my favorite (and ONLY) niece, Anna asked me how come her water color paintings got all wrinkley while mine were flat? 

So I introduced her to good watercolor paper, coldpress (rough texture) and hot press (smooth texture) and showed her how I tape or staple gun down the edges to a board before beginning to paint so the paper dries tight like a drum.

The only kid in her class to know how to stretch watercolor paper.

Nothing's too good for my favorite niece. ;-)

My illustration from Questions, by Lee Bennett Hopkins,

HarperCollins

A Love Story

Spent Valentine's Day at a Memorial Service for noted Children's Book Illustrator and Teacher, Beth Krush. 

A sad way to spend the day set aside to celebrate romantic love. However, the day turned out to be a profound celebration of enduring love, romance and devotion between Beth and her adoring husband and professional partner of 66 years, Joe Krush. 

Joe, in his inimitable way, told of their romance from when their eyes met the first day of art school in 1935, the first time he kissed her (on an outing to paint watercolors near the Delaware River), through 66 years living and working together, raising their son, Jay, then kissing Beth for the last time February 2, 2009 the day she died, age 90. Emphasizing many fortuitous coincidences in their lives over the years, ending with this farewell service on the most appropriate Valentine's Day.

Not a dry eye in the house.

Happy Valentines Day!

Trying to tie up loose ends, I suddenly ran out of January.

So, before February disappears under similar circumstances, I am sharing this Valentine I made a while ago, but still like.

Love, C

   

Sherlock, Nancy, Dick And Me

When I began my illustrations for REDOUTE, The Man Who Painted Flowers, there was no Google. Only encyclopedias, libraries and museums. (It wasn't that long ago, but writing this suddenly reminds me of horses and buggies - ;-)

First of all I needed to know what Pierre- Joseph Redoute looked like.

As Empress Josephine's flower painter, Redoute was one of a gathering of distinguished painters serving Napoleon's court including Jacques Louis David, Francois Gerard, Jean Baptiste Isabey, Louis-Leopold Boilly, Theodore Gericault among others.

It dawned on me that even though Napoleon kept them all pretty busy with imperial portraits and heroic battle scenes there had to be a little down time once in a while.

And what distinguished painters might do during slow days is paint each other!

I spread the word to friends and colleagues. Somewhere, in a museum or catalogue was a portrait of Redoute, by one of Napoleon's portraitists, David, Gerard, Boilly, Prud'hon, Isabey.......

Almost instantly, an English friend working in Belgium reported a small portrait, possibly by David, in the Musee des Beaux Artes in Brussels. Thrilling! (Though it turned out to be by Francois Gerard).

Next one, by Louis-Leopold Boilly, showed up in a book on Napoleon.

Recently I discovered the one on the left, attributed this time to Eugene Isabey, on the web at the W. Graham Arader Gallery www.aradergalleries.com

Especially charming, as it appears Redoute is thumbing through his book of Lilies.

S. Holmes, N. Drew, D. Tracy and me.

One Small Step

Though only a two-fingered typist, at the beginning of my career, the technology I longed for was an IBM Selectric typewriter. The one with the silver ball covered with raised alphabet letters. It typed so evenly. Unlike the typewriter I could afford. 

Today, for the first time, I sent a finished full color illustration to a client over the internet. The original art remains with me. 

Hats off to the inventor of the ftp file, not to mention jpeg, tiff, pdfs and all the rest. Your folks must be so proud!

One enormous step for book illustrator kind. 

One teensy step for me to begin to comprehend any of it.

And I still type with the same 2 fingers.

New Year 2009

Health, peace and joy in the new year!

Beads In History (My Version) -Part I

Antique glass trade beads photo copyright 2008 native-american-market.com

Shreve (The Daily Coyote) Stockton talking  about making jewelry from Porcupine quills on her latest BlogTV video reminded me. I've been wanting to write/right my own take on Beads In History. 

In olden days before Europeans began landing in North America in droves, Native American beading women made beads from Porcupine quills. 

Just obtaining a Porcupine was an undertaking.  

Then removing, trimming, washing and dying the quills. 

Pricked sore fingers and aching muscles, so much tiring work even before beading could begin. (Let's not even get into cooking Porcupine.)

Then one day word began to spread that the Europeans had something new and amazing, long strings of glorious glass beads in many colors. 

No plucking, no pricking, no washing no dying. Straight to sewing and stringing.

There would be no peace at home until the crafty women had those beads.

Soon the ambitious Dutch, anxious to settle the island between 2 rivers, they called New Amsterdam, offered to buy the island from the local Native Americans for a cache of those prized European beads.

The Native American men knew they didn't own the land the Dutch wanted nor any other land. 

Believing land was for everyone's use. 

But they thought about returning home to their beading wives and mothers without the shiny glass beads and they wanted peace.

So shaking hands, they took the Dutchmen's beads and hurried off  leaving the smug settlers thinking they had just pulled off the real estate deal of the ages. 

History for true beaders.

Little Star learning to bead from her Grandmother

from my book, LITTLE STAR.  (note: They are Plains Indians,).