Gallery Tours

On Saturday, December 1, gallery tours at the Ned Smith Center for Nature and Art started early. I'd never led a gallery tour. I gathered that I was supposed to go from painting to painting, talking about them. So that's what I did.
photo by Bob Zickefoose
There are so many stories behind paintings, especially when they're done from live creatures, that it wasn't hard to do. I had about ten minutes in between tours.photo by Bob Zickefoose
My brother Bob and sister-in-law Bonnie drove up from Virginia, too, and it was so great to see them. Bob reminds me so much of my dad that I had to duck out of the tour for a couple of minutes to compose myself. It's funny how people live on in their children, and beautiful, too. That simple fact knocked the wind out of me. There was Dad. I mean Bob. I gave him my camera and he took about 50 pictures, glad to be given a job. That's a Zickefoose thing.photo by Bob Zickefoose

I'm pretty sure that Chet Baker is the only dog who's ever set foot in the Ned Smith Center gallery. It's a nice gallery. Dogs aren't allowed. But over the course of the weekend, Baker wormed his way into the hearts of the staff and board of directors (who already loved dogs anyway), and because there were so many blog readers present and paying for the tours, it was decided to allow Chet in the gallery to meet them. Nobody objected to his puppyish affection. Here, he pesters Derek, the all-purpose graphics and computer dude at the Center, who is trying to videotape the tour. Derek is a big-dog guy, a Lab guy. But he "gets" little dogs now, thanks to Chet. I think he likes Chet a whole lot. Here, he looks like he's worried I'll drop Bacon.photo by Bob Zickefoose

Being "on" for an entire weekend isn't easy for me. I can do it, and find myself working festivals where I have to be "on" for field trips and keynotes and signings and meeting people. But it's an effort, because I spend so much time alone. It was great to have Bill and the kids there to keep me grounded, even though I couldn't spend much time with them. Baker was there for me, and being able to cuddle him and just inhale his scent truly helped get me through. Thanks so much, Ned Smith Center, for understanding just how vital Chet Baker is to me, and making room for him, too. He's like my mental health guide dog. I understand that there are some people trying to make a case that they have to have their dogs with them at all times, because the dogs prevent panic attacks. So, like, they have to have Fluffy on the plane or they'll go all postal. Hmmm. Mental health therapy dogs. It's a scam I could work. Baker's essential.
When I wasn't meeting people, I was busy at a little work station in the Center's office, cranking out color remarques on books for special donors and sponsors of the show. See Baker curled up on his chair?

I got a little carried away on this one. It was for someone who had bought the chance to commission a special remarqued copy of my book at the silent auction. The gentleman loves box turtles. I do, too. I've found that the flannel-textured endpapers of Letters are much better for painting on than the title pages. Painting on coated stock is like painting with a banana on glass. Lotsa cussing.

Chet Baker commandeered a seat in the Center's office, right by a window where he could watch for me coming and going. He kept me company while I worked, and circulated the office for pats and hugs. It has never occurred to Chet that he might not be allowed on furniture wherever he goes. He is blissfully innocent of such rules, a perfect little heathen, but a clean one. He does not really know he's a dog. He thinks he's part of the social scene. I can't imagine where he got that idea. Give Chet a table with chairs, and he'll claim one right away.Mether. Are you almost done? I am popping. Take me out for a walk, please!

Saturday afternoon, after the gallery tours and book signing, I gave a two-hour seminar on how I paint. Well, sort of about that...it was more about why I paint. There was some brass tacks instruction, but it was really more about how I learn about birds and animals, and how that comes out in the paintings and drawings. I figure you can learn about mixing colors in any book. My family and friends stayed for it. That was the most I could have hoped for. photo by Bill Thompson, III

There was another book signing afterward. Kathy B. requested a Baker pawdyprint in her book. Baker hates doing that, but he was a gemmun about it. (Dogs hate to have their paws handled.) Look at that face. Mether. Must I?
Yes, you must. We all sacrifice for art. photo by Bill Thompson, III

He loves Kathy, and spent a lot of time on her lap, and that of her husband. At first, he thought the Center's office was some kind of fancy kennel, and he cried a little bit when we left him there. Then he figured out that Mether would be dropping in regularly for visits, and got into the swing of things. I think the Center needs a staff Boston. Just as a greeter. I realize that not everyone is going to take my suggestion, but I'm just sayin'.photo by Bill Thompson, III

One of the great highlights of the weekend was a visit from Chet's breeder, Jane, who hadn't seen her boy since February 17, 2005. Oh, oh, oh. It was so wonderful to see her again. She couldn't take her eyes off Baker. Little wonder; he had his Velcro bow tie on and looked verra dapper. We took him outside, and he struck a pose looking for bunnehs, and Jane blurted, "He stacks so nice!!!"

I swear he remembered Jane--he certainly remembered the smells on her shoes! But as Jane says, "Bostons never met a stranger." So it's hard to tell if he remembered her, or if he was just being his effusive self.
photo by Bill Thompson, III

How much joy this woman has brought into our lives, and the lives of so many, with her power-packed black-and-white capsules of love and hilarity! Thank you, Jane. Love you. BFF.

Thus ends the report on the show. I have to admit, it took some nudging from people for me to write this up. There is something in me that shies away from self-promotion. It makes me feel icky. I'd so much rather hole up with a computer and my drawing table, and just make some product. Cranes and woodpeckers are so much more interesting to write about. But thanks to the folks who emailed me to ask about the show, gently urging. Done now. On to the real work.

My Show of Shows

photo by Phoebe Linnea Thompson
All right, then. About the show in Pennsylvania. I hadn't had a one-woman show since 1993, upon moving here to Ohio. There were about 70 works in it. I took it to two venues, one in Marietta, and one in Parkersburg, WV, and I sold two small works. And decided that was enough of that. I folded my showtent.

This one was different. It wasn't my idea; it was the idea of people who think a lot bigger. Scott Weidensaul, who is on the board of the Center, asked if I'd like to do a show there, and I didn't hesitate to say yes. The Ned Smith Center for Nature and Art knows how to put on a show. That's what they do. So all I had to do was get our good friend John to frame about 60 pieces, and the Ned Smith Center did the rest, including some fabbo signage, labels, and even outtakes from the text of Letters from Eden, right there on the walls along with the art. They hung it in their beautiful gallery and invited a bunch of people, and the people came. They planned a huge Friday night gala/auction at the Harrisburg Country Club, with a keynote by me (including music with Bill); on Saturday, two gallery tours, a book signing, and a two-hour art seminar. There were radio and television interviews, newspaper articles, and 170 books to sign (and a bunch to paint original color remarques in). It was different from my show in 1993. It was a whole lot different from that.

David Sibley showed at the Ned Smith Center last year, and had a wonderful series of events. When asked whether he'd ever had a weekend show like that one, I'm told he said, "Well, I've given talks, and led field trips, and had book signings, and done gallery tours. But not all at one time." That's a wonderful little Sibleyism, and it mirrors my experience, too.photo by Bill Thompson, III

It was so strange to walk into the august surroundings of the Harrisburg Country Club, hear the muted roar of many, many voices, sneak around with a glass of merlot in my hand, and think, "Who are these people, and why are they here?"photo by Bill Thompson, III

I knew one person there, besides the Center staff and my immediate family. An old friend from high school in Virginia came up to see me, and he helped get me through the cocktail hour. It became clear in a sudden flash to me that everyone else was there to support the Ned Smith Center, and I was just the entertainment. I hadn't really grasped that before I walked into the country club, but realizing that helped me handle the scene, which is somewhat removed from my usual habitat (cluttered studio with kids and pets underfoot, or quiet woods), and put it in perspective. photo by Bill Thompson, III

Bill and I got the kids all cleaned up, and Bill set about documenting the event in these photos. Here, Phoebe and Liam do the Vanna White thing with one of the beautiful placards prepared by the Center. No, I didn't get to keep them. Rats!
After drinks and lots of conversation with a lot of nice, well-dressed people, it was upstairs to the banquet room. Zow. Double zow. That's a lot of people at $150 a plate. No, we are not in southern Ohio anymore.
The auction and talk went well. I had three pieces in the live auction and several more in the silent auction. I'm told they went well. I was barely there, thinking about what I was going to say. Did some reading from Letters from Eden, some poetry, and a couple of songs with Bill. They seemed to like it. By now it was about 10 PM and pretty well past my bedtime. There were some books to sign. Kathy B. kept me company, and Phoebe assisted. She loves to assist at book signings, but she is starting to make me look bad. She can wear Limited Too duds better than I can wear Coldwater Creek. Oh, well. We can't all be budding supermodels.photo by Bill Thompson, III

Liam was a Very Good Boy all weekend. The Center staff was great at keeping him in paper and markers and computers to play on. photo by Bill Thompson, III

By the end of the gala evening, along about 11 PM, poor little Liam was reduced to a puddle of sleeping boy, first on Bill's lap, and then on the floor of the dining room, and finally on a couch downstairs near the fireplace. Thanks to Bill for not only masterminding the AV needs of the evening, but tending the kids while I did my thing. I was so proud of my little family. Those kids are troopers.That was Friday. On Monday, I'll write about Saturday. Thanks to the folks who emailed and pestered me to prepare these posts in a vaguely timely manner. You know me...the blog ant, still talking about cranes and New Mexico, while the world spins madly on.