Terrill Welch by herself - Issue #1 Before the Beginning
Sometimes a new beginning is more like a middle or it might even possibly be near the end. We never really know do we? We do know that this is the first issue of Terrill Welch by herself in our new paid subscription offer. This first issue is available before the beginning of the initial subscription issue on Friday, January 20, 2023. It is a bonus issue for Early Subscribers. I do hope you enjoy the read over the holidays. Winter Solstice and fresh snow are a great time for storytelling. We shall start there and then go on to other studio reflections and information about new paintings and the new series Thriving in Place. Are you ready? Let's begin...
OPENING REMARKS ABOUT TRUTH VERSES FACTS
In these notes, reflections, studies, stories and paintings that develop as part of Terrill Welch by herself, there will be many truths and a few facts that may or may not be possible to independently verified. In a exemplary story there is an unbreakable truth. That said, please do not confuse this with accuracy of humans, time, place, context or sequence of events. I will do my best to keep these elements as close to accurate as possible. However, there are many unforeseen and impossible to reconcile mysteries that plague stories when told about a painter by herself. It is not that I intent to mislead. It is just that when I determine aspects such as a date based on - that was the summer I fell off my horse after gallbladder surgery - well, things can get a bit adjusted in the history of facts. Here are some clues that I might be guessing “it was about…” or “I think it might have been...” or “I am not sure but…” and so on. Therefore, if for some reason, that makes no good sense to me, you want to do a forensic review of my accounting of my life and my work in these missives, good luck! Consider yourself dismissed while the rest of us settle in for a grand adventure!
MEMORIES - The Christmas Tree that Grew Up
Temperatures are hovering around -6 degrees Celsius as I look out at the drifting snowflakes that haven’t amounted to anything but an icy sheet with a skiff of white stuff on the sided roads that haven’t yet been sanded. The southwest coast of Canada is not really built for real winter snow conditions. It is just a fact. No matter how much winter driving experience a person has, there are too many individuals that insist on venturing out with less than suitable tires or vehicles. This happens because snow and freezing temperatures are rare and never lasts long. The risks are not worth it. I cancel an afternoon delivery of my last 2023 calendar and put a beef stew on the stove instead. The next night it really snowed and we ended up with 14 inches of a dry blanket of white powder. An infrequent occurrence but not unheard of.
This got me to thinking about the first Christmas tree I picked out all by myself. We were living on a ranch somewhere around 97 km from Williams Lake (if you went to Horsefly first instead of taking the logging road shortcut, which we mostly needed to do). It was during the summer at a point near my seventh birthday. I had wandered out back from our two room cabin near the McIntosh Lakes into a small poplar grove set off by vast stands of lodgepole pines. Wading through the wild paintbrushes, asters, and buttercups stretching up between the grasses and wild rose prickle bushes, I came to a beautiful small young pine tree in an opening between the poplar trees. It was gorgeous! Standing about as tall as I was with a long lean top stretch up and two additional generously spaced rows of branches. Even on all sides I noted. Perfect I said to myself and the humming bees in the wildflowers.
Sitting with this tree in the dappled sunlight, I sing it a song and make a promise that it can be our next Christmas Tree. But being seven, I already knew that things looked very different in the winter with a foot or so of snow on the ground. I thought for a minute and came up with an idea.
Running on my fast, long, spindly almost seven year old legs, I raced to the cabin, push open the door and between gulps of air tell my mother that I needed a piece of bright yarn to tie onto the limb of our next Christmas Tree. My mother frowns, something she did often when I came bursting through the door with my latest request. Then, without a word she went into our bedrooms and pulled down her flour sack yarn bag from a hook on the unpainted plywood wall and selected a short piece of wool yarn and handed it to me.
“Thanks!” I yelled grabbing it and starting for the door while only dismissively hearing her reminder…
“Keep your eyes open for bears and remember to sing! The blueberries are almost ripe” she shouts while she punched down the bread dough for its second rise.
I was use to being in the woods. In fact, I spent most of everyday there if I was able. Of course by seven, I knew I was suppose to make at least some noise to scare the wild animals away. My mother might as well have said - look both ways before you cross the street… like in the story books. I didn’t have time to be indignant. I was on a mission.
I followed my trail of bent grasses back to the chosen Christmas Tree. There were no bears and worse, no blueberries. Darn!…Shit!…Poop!…Crap!….. Unable to think of anymore swears, I tie the yarn to that skinny long top that would for sure stick out of the snow come Christmas time.
For the next few days, I went back to check on the Christmas Tree. I sang songs and told it how beautiful it was and left each time satisfied with my decision. Then I forgot about the tree and Christmas for that matter.
You see, it wasn’t a great fall for me. I had been struggling with tonsillitis for the past couple of years and often had missed big chunks of my first year of school in Horsefly that required, mostly my mother, to drive 30 minutes each way on an active logging road. The combination of circumstances had forced my parents to make a decision. I would be homeschooled for grade two. During the summer they had registered me for correspondence and my lessons would come in the mail and be returned by mail. Then the lessons would be marked by a teacher far away and returned once again to me. It would work they thought. It was the same way we got library books. However, neither of them had the heart to break the news to me in advance of the beginning of the school year.
I loved school and had been known to cry huge rolling tears when told I couldn’t go even though my throat was so sore I would be running a few errands and unable to eat my breakfast. I loved to learn of course but mostly I loved being with the other children and having friends! Most of my life until I went to school was spent playing alone or sometimes with my younger brothers. But they mostly played with each other. There were no neighbour children my age except several miles down the road on another ranch. We were only able to play together if our parents happen to visit each other which happened just a very few times a year. Believe me, no one had ever heard of a “play date” and if they had, they would have just shaken their heads at such foolishness.
To avoid what my mother well knew would have been a full blown uproar from me, my dad watch me and my brothers while she went to town and picked up my first lessons from the post office and my school supplies. Then the next day, she sat me down and told me I wouldn’t be going back to school this fall. I would be doing my school lessons at the kitchen table during the normal school hours instead. She explained how she would help me and my lessons would then be sent away to be marked.
I am not sure I can fully convey how devastated I was as I imagined my friends, who I hadn’t seen all summer, lining up outside the school and filing into our new classroom after having played jump rope and tag in the field before the bell rang. I am so shocked I didn’t even cry. I just sat there knowing there is nothing I can do. I couldn’t believe I was never going to see those friends again… and I didn’t. Not even once to say goodbye. That was that.
From September to December my mother did her best to “catch up” this stubborn child on her reading, spelling and math skills. I swear, if I saw one more flash card or problem where the number of apples, orange and bananas left in the basket didn’t add up to a fruit salad, I was going to scream and eat the paper! Now I know that there were a series of factors that made this learning difficult. Such as, I didn’t go to kindergarten and my mother didn’t want to teach me my letters and numbers ahead of time in case she did it wrong. I had also missed a lot of school in grade one. Finally, on top of all of this, I tended to not have visual pictures of letters in my mind to remember how words looked and sounded. Hence, letters were mixed up and numbers reversed. I was failing miserably. Except for Art class. I was doing great in Art and Creative Writing, if you didn’t count my spelling.
Let’s just say I was rather too miserable and preoccupied to check on my chosen Christmas Tree. In fact, I didn’t even remember it until my dad came in from outside and asked if I wanted to go with him to get a tree for Christmas. He had probably been instructed by my mother to get me out of her sight before she did me bodily harm. But if this was so, I was blissfully unaware of her request.
It was when dad asked me about going it get a tree for Christmas that I remembered the chosen Christmas Tree. I rambled on excitedly, hopping from one foot to the other while waving my arms around. I kept talking in this run-on-fashion until he put his hand up and said “okay, let’s go take a look.”
I got dressed quickly into long-johns, then my jeans and snowsuit. I pulled on my handmade wool socks with a pair of my dad’s wool socks pulled over these. There were no winter boots and only rubber boots which were cold. So we often went out in just wool socks if it was cold enough because this way our feet stayed warm. Lastly, I pulled on two layers of wool mittens and refused to wear my toque. I didn’t like to have my ears covered and it was too hot over my mass of fine but thick, mostly left uncombed, hair. Out we went to where the young pine tree drooped in the heavy snow with its long lean top bent to the side. I brushed the snow off and found my yarn still in place and gave it a shake. The two rows of generously spaced branches sprang into place and all its beauty was shining waiting for my father’s approval.
He looked at the tree. His gazed steadied and every muscle in his face became still, except for a slight tightening in the corners of his eyes. I looked up grinning in anticipation. It was such a worthy and beautiful tree! Slowly, in what seemed like several distasteful oatmeal breakfasts long, I could see him preparing to speak.
“Well,” he says and then pauses again. It is at this point I knew in my bones that my young pine tree was not going to be part of our Christmas.
My dad begins again “It is a great tree.”
He shift his weight to his other leg… “Has a nice even shape.”
Then he looks me straight in the eyes “It will make a good Christmas Tree someday. But not for this year. It needs to grow for a few more years yet.”
“Oh” I comment and looked long and squinty at my chosen Christmas Tree. It seemed perfectly big enough to me. But I was in the habit of unquestionably believing anything my father said… unlike the words of my mother. I let out a long sign and stood there. My dad gave me a moment as I fought back tears and wiped my snowy wool mitten across my face.
Dad lightly squeezed my shoulder and asked if I wanted to help him look for another Christmas Tree that was already big enough for this year. I did and we came home with a bushy spruce tree that was as tall as he was. He took the axe to the bad side branches so it could be squished into a small corner space between the folding couch and our enamel table in the tiny cabin where a child’s outstretched arms could touch both at the same time. With the back of the axe, he hammered a couple of nails into the wall to tie up the tree and another couple of spikes into the bare plywood floor to hold it in place. The tree was ready to let dry before decorating. It was a great tree!
That spring, sometime during break-up, likely late March, we moved to 150 Mile just outside of Williams Lake. I finished the year with new friends learning to play marbles and jacks. I was pretty good at both and could read and do math just below grade level by then. Spelling however, I never did get a very good handle on until I was an adult and we had a household computer. Autocorrect is the best even with its flaws.
I often think of that young pine tree. It has been my life long strength and nemesis to be able to see the potential in someone or something. This is the first memory of such a profound example. I wonder how big that pine tree is today? Did it even survive the potential for wildfires and pine beetles? At the very least, it was a Christmas tree that grew up, as did I.
NEW PAINTINGS and the start of Thriving in Place
These two new paintings are the first in my new series Thriving in Place. They are smaller works and studies that could be used for large paintings later on. Or this might be it. Just a study and no more. I never really know for sure and it is not particularly important either way.
This arbutus tree painting started with references gathered during a morning hike. I wanted to give us the sensation of being this Arbutus tree, dug into the edge of the cliff. The shelf was narrow and I had to carefully place my feet and reach way out with my phone to even get close to the angle I wanted for my references. When it came to the painting sketch, I adjusted it so we had a little more room to take in the view.
Artist notes: The early morning, soft, winter sun was brilliant and warm after the rains. I had gone out early and taken the cliffside trail. Keeping my head mostly focused on the trail to keep from slipping on wet roots, this Arbutus tree was a true gift for raising my gaze.
This is the first painting in the Thriving in Place series. It is about digging deep into a sense of place and peeling it back to its essence. I expect be doing more of this. I am not sure how it will impact the look of the finished paintings. Instead, it might impact more what I choose to paint rather than the outcome. We shall see.
For this next painting study, it started as a plein air in the fall of 2021 and just never made my final cut. I kept looking at it on the studio window and puzzling over what I might be able to do. Every time I looked, all I could think about was how much the sandstone reminded me of serpents. as they had when I was standing on rocks painting this view. A couple of weeks ago I gave in to this notion and started working the painting up more towards my inner magical experience of the moment. It is painted in acrylic with some pencil crayon marks to get the exact mark making I desired for this experimental painting study.
I was keenly interested in the repeating shapes and how they worked together from the sandstone, across the sea to the sky. The rhythm of the shapes was as important as the subject to get at what it is like to be in such a place where a person's imagination takes over from observation.
Artist notes: The longer I stood there, the more alive the rocks became. I thought when I left it would be better. I thought my imagination would give way to less fanciful notions. I was wrong.
Here is the private viewing room for both of these painting sketches, giving you exclusive purchasing availability until January 1, 2023. After this, they will become publicly available to everyone...
THRIVING IN PLACE - What does it mean to thrive in place?
There are good environmental reasons for finding ways to thrive in place. Only a small percentage of the world’s population has ever even flown in a plane. Flying is not generally a necessity for quality of life. Yes, planes flying people and goods can save lives. I do not disagree with our need for planes or for travel. The question for me is more - why am I traveling? What need is it fulfilling and can I fulfill this need in another more environmentally friendly manner? As responsible global citizens, we should always ask ourselves these questions because there is definitely environmental cost for travel and in particular air travel.
However, as virtuous as it sounds to take on a practice of “Thriving in Place”, environment kindness is not the driving force behind my decision. To stay mostly close to home on our small island on the southwest coast of Canada is primarily because my husband David’s health and well-being requires us to do so. It is simply a fact. Travel is more of a mental or cognitive challenge for him than a physical obstacle. To travel has become an overwhelming burden that he only does out of love for me. His personal costs of fatigue and disorientation during travel are high. More recently, even with slow travel and rest days, I feel like I am torturing him, unless there is a really good reason - like visiting my parents or my children for a few days a few times a year.
You might suggest I leave David at home and go places anyway. For several years after his partial recovery from a severe bleeding stroke in 2009, I did travel on my own and we even did some major traveling together, including three months slow travel by regional train in Europe. Now is different. I am no longer confident that he is safe or can manage completely on his own overnight. He no longer uses his phone and has difficulty signing into his devices and laptop to check email. He frequently misplaces his emergency contact card. If he was hurt or there was a fire or an earthquake, I can no longer trust that he would be able to respond even if he could physically manage to do so. We have talked about having someone check in daily if he where stay at home while I was away. We keep this idea as a possibility. However, the reason would need to be warranted. But it is more than this. This is because David’s ability to communicate with others is quite challenging. We have developed a way of speaking in a descriptive code to overcome his loss of nouns from his stroke. This he can mostly manage with others as well but it is exhausting for him. Even more so now that his memory is also failing and it is no longer as reliable as it was even two years ago. So when I walk out the door, so does one of his most reliable interfaces for his physical, mental and emotional daily life. Therefore, out of love and simple basic human caring, I am not going to leave him for more than a few hours at a time unless it is absolutely necessary.
You might ask, can our family shoulder some of these caregiving responsibilities? It is a reasonable question. My daughter has encouraged me for several years to move closer to her and her family. The things is, what makes our lives rich, engaging and manageable right now is what living here offers us. Our children have growing children and busy lives. Even if they were right next door, instead of living off island, other than dropping by to visit more frequently, not much would change. And we would be without easy access to nature and hiking trails, the familiarity of our small community of acquaintances and a lovely low maintenance accessible house and yard with great neighbours where I can run my art business at our front gate. For now, the advantages of living on our small island far out weigh the challenges. I can still drive us for groceries and when we need to go off island for appointments or anything else we want to do. I can do almost everything locally or online. Being here, close to home, is not an obstacle at this time. Going anywhere else is the challenge.
This then got me thinking - what if I simply removed the challenge of going away except for very minimal travel like we have been doing for the past three years? What if I turned my focus towards opening up my immediate surroundings in a new way? What if this became my travel adventure and my way of being curious about the world? What would this look like, feel like and be like? How might I practice thriving in place? Could I possibly meet some of my traveling desires by thriving in place? These questions released a tremendous amount of energy even without many immediate answers. This is how I ended up developing a full-time landscape painting business in the first place! It was the only reasonable activity available to me in 2009 and 2010 during David’s stroke recovery. During that first year, he also was not able to be left on his own. A “Thriving in Place” series painting practice could work I think. Don’t get me wrong. I love to travel and go places. However, to be inspired by travel doesn’t have to be grand. A new hiking trail or an unfamiliar road or a small town nearby can be most satisfying to explore. I am intrigued to explore this idea. I know it is also going to be a perfect fit with my semi-retirement plans. My 65th birthday sits on the horizon line of August 2023. At the very least, “Thriving in Place” is worth a try. The past few years has given us a good test run. This approach definitely has some familiarity to build on. We shall see how it goes.
What am I giving up for now:
Attending Artist residencies,
Taking my paintings to private gallery or public gallery shows off island,
Going to Art Fairs and Art museums,
Travel.
What am I gaining for now:
More time to paint,
More time to read, study and think about painting,
More time to write and distill my thoughts
More freedom to experiment and experience life’s hidden gifts through observing what at first feels familiar,
More meaningful time with the person I love.
And so Thriving in Place begins!
WHAT I AM READING
Several people, including one of our avid "A Brush with Life" readers, have recommended Braiding SweetGrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, 2013, Milkweed Editions. I was able to get a copy from out local Books on Mayne bookstore a few days ago. I am just getting started and find it beautifully written. If you haven't heard about this book, I suggest looking it up and reading a few reviews to see if it is something you would be interested in reading. Personally, a book that braids together Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge and the teaching of plants has my attention.
The second book I am reading is a Kindle copy of Margaret Wise Brown: Awakened by the Moon by Leonard S. Marcus, 1992, Beacon Press. You may remember her by her children's story "Goodnight Moon". She is a writer with a fascinating life as well as great children's stories.
Lenard S. Marcus’ response to “Goodnight Moon” by Margaret Wise Brown was “poetry of a kind I prized: accessible but not predictable, emotional but purged of sentiment, vivid but so spare that every word felt necessary.” (Introduction)
"An emotionally resilient, sanguine young child, Margaret discovered a refuge of sorts in nature. Deep-seated affections were transferred onto the landscape, to the small animals she observed and kept as pets, to wildflowers, trees, sky, and water. As a writer she would describe the natural world with an intensity that, in Proust’s words, 'makes us not merely regard a thing as a spectacle, but believe in it as a unique essence.'” (p. 34)
From these brief quotes, I think you can understand why I might enjoy this biography about Margaret Wise Brown.
Both books will make excellent holiday and winter reading. I highly recommend you give each your consideration.
WHAT I AM WATCHING
I have been watching some rather fascinating films about art and artists. I will share just one with you as I always find it interesting to view art and paintings through the eyes of other painters.
Chantel Joffe, born in 1969, is a well known contemporary figurative painter. Her work is often ill fitting on the canvas and yet somehow oddly just right. After watching her explore Titian's painting "Diana and Callisto" I was curious to learn more about her and her own work. Below is the best link I found that will give you a start...
UNTIL NEXT TIME
Well, this is about it I think for this first bonus issue of Terrill Welch by herself. Hopefully by next issue, I will be able to take you on a long hike as well. It will depend on the weather but I should be able to make it happen. If you are reading this bonus issue then you have taken a risk on my paid subscription offer. I look forward to sharing my latest stories, writing, musings and painting practice with you. Welcome! Let me know if there is anything in particular you would like to see me cover by either leaving a comment or writing to me privately via email at tawelch@shaw.ca
Thank you!
Terrill :) ❤🎨
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