You can probably see why I’ll never be a digital artist. Even with a precise tool such as a mechanical pencil, I turn in a wild mess of a drawing with scrawls and smudges. Experiencing the media by touch is part of what addicts me to the art process. As a child I was the kid who was packing mud pies in the back yard. When we had young children, we lived in a mobile home park, and I got to play mud pies again. (One of the benefits of living on rented dirt is that your neighbors are not judging you for digging a giant mud pit in your front yard.) Charcoal is the messiest medium in my experience, since it’s necessary to get it all over your fingers. With pencil, normally a controlled medium, I still love to smear the graphite with my fingers to create an instant mid-tone achieving softness to contrast with the sharper lines.

 

When my husband brought these flowers home for me to draw, I had recently completed “After the Hermit’s Woods by Corot.” Copying that master altered my thinking. I envisioned each flower as a mass of scribbles. Even though I could only draw for 15 minute sessions over several days because of back pain, this drawing was creative therapy.

 

Flowers, though bright and joyful, are always fleeting although the mums lasted far longer than the daisies.  Using my hands and fingerprints, my art bears witness to our humanity that flourishes like blooms erupting out of the mud briefly but beautifully.