Sage Sisters

Sage Sisters

Art Gallery and Gift Shop

Like so many introductions these days, I met Joyce Peltier through the internet.  Joyce is the proprietor of Sage Sisters, a wonderful art gallery and gift shop at 1516 West First Avenue in Grandview Heights, an inner-city neighborhood of Columbus, Ohio.  She saw some of my artwork on Facebook and invited me to be a guest artist in her art gallery, specifically at one of Grandview’s annual Art Hops.  Since she contacted me early in her planning season, she gave me my pick of dates.  I am proud to announce that during the Grandview Hop on Saturday, June 30, from 5 to 9 pm, I will be the featured artist at Sage Sisters Art Gallery and Gift Shop.  I will present an exhibition of several of my paintings and prints at the artist’s reception that evening, a display that will be on view through the following month.  The music for the soirée will be provided by SmallTalk. 

Through my activities in the fine arts in this region, I was familiar with Joyce.  Her status as a staunch supporter of artists, artisans, musicians, and writers in our area preceded her, a reputation that has grown through her many years as an artist and art teacher, as well as in retail management.  Needless to say, I was thrilled that she was interested in adding me to her entourage of favorites.  Of course, since then, by and by, I stop in to say hello to her and usually to purchase an aromatic candle or two.  At times, I bring in a friend or family member to meet Joyce, and to experience her unique shop, a place replete with original artwork, an assortment of fabulous, one-of-a-kind handmade crafts, pottery, jewelry, accessories, decorative items, CDs, as well as books, and more, all the products of people from our local talent pool.

Joyce and I will look forward to seeing you during the evening of Grandview’s June Gallery Hop on Saturday, June 30 from 5 to 9 pm at Sage Sisters, 1516 West First Avenue in Grandview Heights.  It is just half of a block west of Grandview Avenue and there is plenty of parking in back of the gallery and along the street.  If you already own a copy of my new novel, GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS please bring it in and I will be happy to sign it.  And if there is anyone in your contact list whom you think might like to attend the gallery hop, please forward this notice to them. 

I thank you so so much.  This is going to be a very big night for me because it will mark the first time that I’ve had the nerve to step out and do an exhibition all on my own.  Heretofore, I’ve had the security of being in art shows where I am only one among many other artists.  Although I’m excited, I’m also scared, and I hope that lots and lots of my friends come out and support me.   

Transit of Venus

There is something infinitely intimate and at once utterly universal about the transits of Venus across the Sun, those twice-in-a-century matings of the principle of the world and the loveliest of his orbiting partners.  It’s like watching a love story unfold on the widest possible screen – The Same Time Next Year, the Ellen Burstyn/Alan Alda movie comes to mind, a star-crossed, but touching affair – inevitable, sanctioned by the gods, an irreplaceable cog in the wheel of the universe, but predestined to meet only briefly, a sweet and wonderful set-aside among the real workings of their daily lives. 

Venus and Sun, those ancient, but perpetually young lovers, get only seven hours together twice in a century – the last time was in 2004, and before that a hundred years ago, and back and back and back through unknown ages – and yes, although on June 5, 2012, beginning precisely at 3:09 pm in a spectacular rendezvous in the exquisite sky over the South Pacific, those hours will be a whirlwind tour above seven continents and even a splinter of Antarctica.  “Why do they bother when they know they won’t meet again until the year of 2117?” those among us with little romance in our hearts might ask.  And I rejoin, “How could they resist each other – Sun, wildly and reliably aflame with dominance and passion, and Venus, evolution’s main event of love; beauty; romance; harmony; prosperity?”  Love is not in our choice, but in our fate. - Dryden   

Use caution when viewing this coupling lest its lure bring harm upon you for it will burn your eyes and possibly blind you if you observe it directly.  Getting too close to any private love affair will have a similar influence.  These two lovers cloak their surreptitious trysts in protective, hazy cocoons of fire, never meant for the inferior eyes of mortal man.  In 2004, one photographer captured a ménage à trios taking place – that low-caste, corporeal interloper, the International Space Station was of a mind to join in on the fun, or perhaps split them up – one can never predict the runaway ambitions of humankind – producing an unparalled photograph of the spaceship and the circular planet linked in dark silhouettes against a swollen, an angry red Sun.  One wonders if Venus was up to no good eight years ago.  We’ll see if this year the immortal two have returned to the exclusivity of their relationship of former times.  But to find out, be sure to avail yourself of projection techniques such as a camera or other appropriate devices. 

The comings and goings of Venus took hold in earnest in the imaginations of scientists in the 18^th Century when astronomer, Edmund Halley suggested that the then- deep mystery of the distances between planets could be solved by observing the transits of Venus from widely-spaced locations on Earth and triangulating the distance to the planet using parallax.  To observe the transit of 1769, the legendary, British explorer, James Cook was dispatched to Tahiti, at that time a place as alien as is Mars in this day and age, an exploration that has been dubbed by some historians as “the Apollo Program of the 18^th Century.”  Unlike Apollo, Cook’s undertaking was deemed inconclusive, yielding little more than fuzzy sketches of the difficult-to-see phenomenon.  Real answers, and proof of Halley’s theory, had to wait for the following century and the invention of the camera.  Sealed orders urged Cook onward to search the South Pacific for the then- proposed rich-in-natural-resources southern continent of Terra Australis.  He found it as well as the Aboriginal tribe known as the Gweagal.  And the rest is yet another bloody history of the European expansion far beyond the borders of their homeland. 

Having grown during the following two-hundred years to a place nearly as diverse in population as is the United States, Australia produced, in 1980, a third occasion of a transit of Venus in the 20^th Century, but rather than astral in nature, it was in the form of a love story in a book by Australia-born author, Shirley Hazzard, and in its own way, as spectacular as its namesake.  Her The Transit of Venus, the winner of the 1980 National Book Critics Circle Award for fiction, is one of the best books I have ever read, and reread, and reread as is evident by the well-worn book cover shown in this piece.  It isn’t my favorite book by this, my favorite author, however.  That distinction belongs to another of Hazzard’s love stories, The Bay of Noon, her 1970 novel that was shortlisted for the Lost Man Booker Prize.

A New York resident holding dual citizenships in Britain and the United States, this 81 year old literary giant is proof that it is never too late to follow one’s dreams.  The Great Fire, her 2003 novel, a book on which she worked for twenty years and was published when she was 72 years of age, won the National Book Award for fiction.

Transits of Venus are very rare, as are authors of the caliber of Shirley Hazzard, a storyteller who writes blissfully intelligent prose as if it were poetry, and who invents plots that leave the reader breathless with every possible emotion.  Reading her is not only a primer of great writing, but it is also a seminar on human behavior; culture; history; geography; politics; philosophy, and with all of that, nobody tells a love story like Shirley Hazzard – Venus and Sun would be proud.                  

The following is the link to Linda's latest novel, GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS

http://www.amazon.com/Guardians-Other-Angels-Linda-Greene/dp/1897512562/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338336762&sr=8-1

 

                 

A World War II Soldier's Story

My novel, Guardians and Other Angels chronicles the lives of my maternal and paternal families of origin during the Great Depression and America’s early engagement in World War II. At its core, this is a true story, one evocative of porch swings and farm houses and barnyards and rural roads and people attuned to raw pure soul. However, I wrote it as fiction to accommodate interesting and historical events of the first half of the Twentieth Century, tandem events of the hard economic times and the war, events that in all likelihood did impact my ancestors directly, but have not been substantiated in family lore. In this way, I also filled in gaps and/or variances in family legends. In addition, writing it as fiction gave me license to illustrate the total complexities of the characters as I remember them to have been. Included in the book are transcriptions of authentic letters written by the principles of the story.            

          The launching of the book was to have occurred many months ago, but unavoidable glitches pushed back the date. I believe that all things unfold in their perfect time, often despite us, and now I see that nothing could be more appropriate than to have it make its initial public appearance in tandem with our country’s Memorial Day observance.

          The following is an excerpt from the novel centered on the Christmas holiday of 1941. Bob, the eldest sibling of my mother, wrote the letter in the piece while in military training camp in preparation for his several years in Patton’s Army during the war:

Ft. Knox, Kentucky

Dec, 24, 1941

Dear Mother: Will write to let you know I am well and hope you are all the same. I received your package and was glad to get it. I guess Santa Claus has come to me after all. Ha Ha. I got a package from Roma [the author’s mother], Mom. She sent a stationary pack and a towel set. I got a package from Dot [Bob’s girlfriend] too. She sent me a box of handkerchief’s and a nice pocketbook. All of the presents I’ve got are sure nice Mom, and that (B)ugler [a brand of loose cigarette tobacco] will come in handy. I can’t get it here at the canteen. I have been smoking (N)orth (S)tate [a brand of loose cigarette tobacco], since I came here. It rained all day yeasterday and most of the night last night. This place look’s like a young river. I’m not on duty today. I don’t guess we will have much to do till after Christmas. I may get to take three or four days off in January Mom. I hope I do any how. For when we get our basic training in here (3 mo.) we may be sent anywhere in the states, or to any of their possessions. We may eaven be sent to the Hawaiian Islands or the Phillipine’s. The German’s are kind of getting the worst end of it now Mom. They are being driven back on the 1000 mi. front [of the USSR].  And the U. S. A. F. brought down 30 planes the other day. Jap’s if I’m not mistaken. And they destroyed several sub’s. Winston Churchill has came to the U. S. to discuss a plan of Hitler’s early defeat the world over. I hope they get something definite worked out pretty soon. Hitler has taken supreme command of the German Army. I don’t think this thing can go on over a year or 2. Well to get back to more civilized things. Ha. You said something about what we would have for Xmas dinner. We decorated the mess hall all up yeasterday, and put up a tree and trimmed it. We are going to have turkey, pie, cake, and all the trimmings at dinner Xmas. So I guess we’ll have enough to eat. Well I was issued more clothes Mom. I’ve now got a locker, bed clothes, overcoat, raincoat, two wool uniforms, 2 suntan shirts & tie, 3 wool suits, underwear, 3 of cotton, 2 pr shoes, 1 pr overshoes, 6 pr socks, 1 combat suit, 1 pr gloves, 1 tent, 1 haversack, 1 first aid kit, 1 shell belt, 1 canteen, a mess kit, and toilet articles. Whew. Well I guess I’ll have enough to run me and there’s more to come. Tell the kid’s, dad and all “A Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year”! So be good. Till we meet again. XOXO Your loving son, Bob P. S. Did Tom and Archie [neighborhood friends] get mail from me? Tell Bus [his sickly, younger brother] to take care of himself. ByBy

                                                                                  ***

Although he told his family that he had borrowed the money, in truth Bob sold the stationery, the towel set, and other Christmas gifts he had received. In that way he raised the $20.00 required of him by the Army to get a four-day pass, and he went home for Christmas – surprising his family.

           As his younger brother, Bussy’s new fighting rooster, Ranger, named after the Lone Ranger, Bussy’s favorite radio character, coaxed the sun to rising with his ringing five-note greeting, and the cows bawled in the field as if in welcome to him, the gravel on the road leading to the farm of his parents crunched beneath Bob’s boots. At that hour, only his mother would be up; his father and his many brothers and sisters would still be sleeping. He adjusted the small duffel bag slung over the shoulder of his new Army-issued wool overcoat, and bent down to straighten the creases in the immaculate wool trousers of his spiffy new uniform.

          His mother had been right, it was bleak in Southern Ohio. There was an eerie mist hovering over the land, a fuzzy band of fog like a shimmering boa hugging the neck of the earth. As far as the eye could reach, dense bare trees, their feet cloaked in the mist, seemed lonely and unsupported, their jagged and raw heads, unprotected, piercing the top of the mist. The silver conditions of the morning seemed to mirror a shift that was occurring in Bob’s soul: an aloneness he was coming to know all too well; clear colors and details formerly sharp and contrasting, fading to gray and merging, transforming everything, often to unrecognizable states, a wary feeling of exposure to an ineradicably new life, where, not only his surroundings, but he was becoming unfamiliar to himself.           It had been difficult for him to articulate the specifics of the issues that were needling him, and part of the problem was directly tied to the impossibility of finding that voice in the environment where he was being trained to be a killing machine. Although in the beginning he had spoken with such bravado about being ready to go to any lengths to protect his country and family, as well as Dot, the girl he loved, as the reality of his being involved in the actual fighting approached, methods of killing and maiming and destroying that nobody on the outside of it could possibly anticipate or comprehend, his sense of purpose was becoming blurred, like that foggy landscape.

         Bob had naively played with the idea that he had a kind of affinity with the ways and means of war, for as a backcountry boy he was familiar with the natural cycles of birth and death of the animals on the farm, surrounding forests, and countryside. He had euthanized sick animals, shot hogs in the head in preparation for slaughter, and he knew guns, the feel of them in his hands, their kick against his shoulder, the real damage they did to animate and inanimate objects alike. Guns had long been a hobby for him, actually. In his creative mind, he had even begun to design guns. As a matter of fact, in his spare time at the training camp in Ft. Knox, Kentucky where he was stationed, he had made some rudimentary sketches of a canny little gun he planned to someday fashion out of a Zippo cigarette lighter.

         Hunting had been nearly a daily activity for him since his adolescence, and he was learning that his experience in that regard gave him a decided advantage over many of the other boys at Ft. Knox, town and city boys whose experience with guns extended no further than toy guns, or perhaps B. B. guns, boys who had never held real guns in their hands, or tracked down living prey in their sights, and once positioned in the crosshairs, squeezing the trigger, and killing that prey. But that nagging voice inside of him was urging him to pay attention to the fact that killing an animal was a whole other matter than bringing a human being to its death. Despite the fact of his believing in the necessity of the war, for after all Japan had attacked the U. S., and Germany had aggressed against his country as well, his being away from Ft. Knox for only a few hours now had helped him to see that he was wrestling with that moral dilemma, the first and most serious moral dilemma of his life.            His was a tender society that believed in goodwill toward all people. He had been taught that “Thou Shalt Not Kill” his fellow man and it constituted a basic tenet of his very soul. How am I going to kill another human being? he worried as he sauntered in his usual loping fashion toward the farmhouse. He decided he would try to find time to talk to his favorite preacher, Harley Ward about it before he returned to camp. Perhaps the man of God could help to lift the mantle of confusion weighing so heavily on Bob’s soul.

          Barely glowing from the moisture-streaked window closest to the cook stove in the kitchen of the farmhouse, was a sole low light. In the thick mist, a plume of white smoke billowed delicately, charging the air with the scent of wood smoke, a scent of home, and sparks in the smoke twinkled like stardust shooting from the chimney at the top of the peaked roof. As he neared the back of the farmhouse, he took note of its slick moisture-sodden clapboards. It was a house weeping from the melting icicles along its eves, weeping like those damp and lonely trees, weeping like the boggy fields, as if in an act of complicity, they collectively wept, as if the whole of nature and his home grieved an inapprehensible and ill-omened fortune laying in wait for him, his family, his girl, his country, laying in wait like the hidden land mines he would encounter on the beaches of Southern, Italy in the not too distant future. Shuddering like a threatened animal in the few minutes that passed, he worked at shaking off his paranoia as he entered the perpetually unlocked back door that opened to the kitchen.

          At the cook stove, her back to him, his mother stood in the arc of light from a kerosene lamp, her body noticeably weary as she bent to her duties of stoking her cook stove with her poker.  At the sound of his footfalls that she knew so well, but dared not believe were real, and visibly shaking with fear that they would prove to be products of her imagination, she turned to him. Her empty hand flew to her mouth to stifle her cry, and tears spilled from her eyes.

          The changes in his mother in just a few weeks took his breath away. It was as if the changes in him were manifestly reflected in her, as if by some means of osmosis beyond the natural connection between parent and child, his experiences and fears and bewilderments also were hers, only exaggerated and accelerated. She seemed already to have endured what he was facing; she seemed to have already passed through, and had been permanently altered by, the ravages of war: the superhuman demands on one’s body and heart and mind and conscience; the depleted stores of psychological reserves; the lifetime of recurring night terrors. In her rote movements as she had bent to stoke her stove, in her turning to him, and in her covering of her quivering mouth, a rigid choking anxiety afflicted her.

          He lowered his duffel bag to the linoleum-clad floor while concurrently she dropped her poker with a crash. That emptying of their hands was the prelude to the opening of their arms. As she swayed weakly in his embrace, Bob’s dilemma was erased from his mind. In that moment, his conscience split into two expedient parts, and in a reversal of roles, he became her personal protector. He knew then that to keep his mother safe, he would kill their enemies, and without hesitation, if not with relish, at least with the automatic precision of the professional soldier he was learning to be, and as grievous as they might be, he would live with whatever consequences his choice quickened in him…

                                                                                 ***

I am very happy to announce that my novel, Guardians and Other Angels is currently available in hard copy and in eBook format at www.Amazon.com. Hard copies are also available at all other booksellers on the web, as well as at www.sagabooks@shaw.ca.

Massachusetts and More on an Ohio Street Corner

There are many ways to travel:  in dreams; in actuality; in books; in songs; in films, but on the breezy and chilly night of Saturday, April 21, 2012, other patrons and I visited many places that were new to us by way of an exhibition of photographs.  Snapshots by the brilliant eye of Rebecca Cummings, behind her Canon 5D Mark II SLR, this photographic tour was on view at Dreaming Tree Galleries (www.dreamingtreegalleries.com),  located on the corner of Broadway and Columbus Streets in historic Town Center of Grove City, Ohio.

 

Having operated the gallery since 2006, Rebecca and her partner, Rod McIntyre opened it initially as a venue to show and to sell Rebecca’s photography.  While this remains a vital aspect of the establishment, over the years it has evolved into a contemporary art gallery servicing photographers and artists of the area—exhibiting their work, making art prints, and teaching classes in art and photography.  The space is also available for special events.

Included in the fabulous exhibition of April 21^st were many bests of the USA, a dog-leg tour featuring city views of Ohio’s capital, Columbus, to breathtaking vignettes of Ohio’s Hocking Hills nature preserve, to incredible, interior shots of abandoned Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia, among them an award-winning photo of a rusting and pitted, red-leather barber’s chair beneath a dust-misted shaft of sun from a skylight in the deteriorating ceiling of the space.  On to New England the colorful portals on this world led us, where in Plymouth, Rockport, and Provincetown, Massachusetts, we saw the trappings of this seaboard state:  buoys, nets, and other fishing gear; boats in abundance; “No Fishing” and “No Docking” signs on the sides of sea-worn shacks; seagulls on rocky shores; a lighthouse in Gloucester, and a summer courtyard in Salem, all of them infused with the astonishing light Rebecca manages to capture in her images. 

Next, we traveled to points south where we witnessed from a bird’s eye view, a breast stroke by a lone swimmer in Webb Pierce’s guitar-shaped pool in Nashville, and we climbed a stone staircase in Savannah, Georgia, the palms of our hands nearly tingling with the texture of its black wrought-iron railings.  And my favorite, of which I purchased a print, a red door viewed through four swirls of a black, wrought-iron gate in Charleston, South Carolina.  When later I showed the print to my cousin, Christina, her eyes misted with feeling.  This is a typical reaction to the photographs of Rebecca Cummings, photographs that are just that titillating to one’s senses and imagination.

I suggest that you log onto the gorgeous website indicated above just as quickly as your fingers will get you there.  Set up in eight galleries of photographs:  Architectural; Cars; Cityscapes & scenes; Eastern State Penitentiary; Flora; Gadgets & Gizmos; Landscapes; and Massachusetts, it will take you on your own mini retreat right there in your chair in front of your computer screen, a short break in your day you will savor, and never forget.

An award-winning artist, the online gallery of Linda’s artwork can be viewed at www.gallery-llgreene.com.    

A best-selling author, Linda’s next novel, Guardians and Other Angels will soon to be available in book form and digitally at www.Amazon.com and at www.Barnes&Noble.com. 

Cedar Woman by Debra Shiveley Welch

Cedar Woman, the winner of the Book and Authors Best Native American Fiction 2011 by Debra Shiveley Welch, is a beautiful book that combines a novel about a contemporary woman of America’s Lakota Indian Tribe, an addendum of Traditional Indian recipes, and a dictionary of Lakota terms.  Believe it or not, until midnight, Wednesday, April 9, 2012, it is available free of charge if downloaded onto your Kindle.  You will find it at http://amazon.com/Cedar-Woman-Ebook/dp/B0053ZL54W/ref=Sr_1_1?s=digital-text&i.e.=UTF8&qid=1336332853&Sr=1-1.

 
Why would anyone wish to offer his/her work for free, you are asking?  It is an age-old marketing strategy built on the premise that more is better in terms of getting the word out about certain products, a strategy that has been adopted by booksellers.  Think of the sample cereal and detergent boxes that show up in your mailbox and you will grasp the concept.  Once you have received the products, used them, and liked them, don’t you buy more of them, and also tell other people about them? I feel confident that once you sample this lovely book, you will recommend it to members of your family, and to your friends, especially the young females within your circle.     

Cedar Woman is a story rooted in the heroine’s love of family and dedication to her culture and to her religion.  However, I find its greatest strength to be in the faith that Cedar Woman has in herself.  A strong woman of impeccable character, she cares for her family and loved-ones against all odds, and in spite of many hardships. 
    
Flawlessly written in an easy and flowing style typical of Debra, I highly recommend this award-winning, Amazon best-seller.

Garnering awards for her literary accomplishments is not new to Debra Shiveley Welch.  Two of her previous works, A Very Special Child and Son of My Soul – The Adoption of Christopher have won numerous awards, the former, the Faithwriters Gold Seal of Approval –  Outstanding Read; best-seller on Amazon and Amazon Japan; the latter, the Faithwriters Gold Seal of Approval –  Outstanding Read; Books and Authors Literary Excellence; Books and Authors Best Non-Fiction Book 2007; Allbooks Review Editor’s Choice 2011; and best-seller on Amazon.

An award-winning artist, the online exhibition of Linda’s artwork can be viewed at www.gallery-llgreene.com

A best-selling author, Linda’s latest novel, Guardians and Other Angels is in the printer’s queue.  Stay tuned for the announcement of its launching.

For the Sake of the Kids

The arrival of spring not only heralds the rebirthing of plants and animal, it blossoms in a whirl of human activities, among them the restocking of garden centers, the reappearance of farmer’s markets, the return of festivals and fairs, the flourishing of craft shows, of art shows, and to my mind, one of the most delightful of them is the burgeoning of children’s art, an aspect of the rich and complex world of aesthetics often overlooked and marginalized. 

Dunedin, Florida artist, Steven Spathelf (www.stirlingartstudios.com) told me of a young person’s art show in Crystal Beach, Florida that he recently judged.  I would have liked to have attended that one.  Steven and I agree that this type of art is among our favorites.  My most recent experience with the genre came about as a result of my involvement with a fund-raiser in the form of a spaghetti dinner, an auction, and musical entertainment, an event held in mid-April, 2012, and specifically put together to support the art department of Sullivant Gardens Recreation Center.  It is one of several such public institutions under the auspices of the Parks and Recreation Department of the City of Columbus, Ohio.  Sullivant Gardens services an area of the city that is primarily low-income, and as such is a field of dreams for the young people who frequent the establishment, and as in every field of dreams, mentors abound.  In the case of this recreation center, there is an entire staff of them.  This particular communiqué, however, will address the art teacher of Sullivant Gardens, Kristen Leigh Brown.     

Armed with inside information regarding the dedication of Ms. Brown to her young students, I was determined to meet her personally, and I chose a Thursday evening prior to the fund-raiser to call on her at the recreation center.  I had begun my day, however, in the office of my Orthopedic Surgeon, there to receive the results of an MRI on my injured left knee.  As I sat in his reception area awaiting my conference with him, I picked up a copy WebMD magazine, a glowing photograph of actress/singer/dancer, Jennifer Lopez gracing its cover, an article within its pages recounting Lopez’s newly appointed position as the spokesperson for the Boys & Girls Clubs of America, the first female to fill the spot in its 152-year history.  The piece states that, “’Jenny From the Block,’ as [Lopez] once dubbed herself in song, is from a hardscrabble stretch in New York City’s South Bronx.  In the halls of her local Boys & Girls Club, Kips Bay, Lopez found a mentor who recognized and encouraged her love of music and dance.  I didn’t think it coincidental that I found that particular story about Jennifer Lopez on the very day that I was to meet Kristen Leigh Brown, a person on whom I was prepared to lay odds was cut from the same piece of priceless fabric as Lopez’s girlhood advocate.

               Like one of the Three Kings in the Bible story, it was as if I were also following a star, and like the three of them, I arrived unannounced and bearing gifts.  Rather than gold, frankincense, or myrrh, however, my offerings were a signed print of one of my paintings to be auctioned off at the fund-raiser, and plastic flatware, plates, and cups enough to accommodate an army of dinner guests.  The place was a beehive of activity—I had to nearly shoulder my way into the front door that opened onto the reception area, and I’m sure the disoriented look on my face inspired a man in athletic clothing to immediately come to my rescue and inquire of me if he could be of any help.             

               “Is Kristen Brown here, by any chance?” I asked the nice man, a person to whom Ms. Brown later introduced to me as “Mr. T.”, Michael Terlecky, he turned out to be, the person who is the director of the recreation center.

               “Yes—she’s back in the art room.  Do you know where it is?” Mr. T. inquired.

               “No, I’m afraid I don’t.  This is my first time at the center,” I replied, my over-stuffed plastic bag by then dragging on the floor.

               “Follow me,” he said cheerily.

               I fell in behind the man as we wended our way through the crowd and down a couple of short hallways, the walls plastered with posters of various kinds, the unique cacophony of a lively basketball game on the large inner court resounding through the perfect acoustics of the brick building.  “This lady is here to see you, Ms. Brown,” Mr. T. informed her as he led me through the art room door, and then he vacated the place. 

Three or four children ranging in age from six, to perhaps ten years of age, were busy with one art project or another, various art supplies ranging the tops of the five banquet-sized tables that dominate the space.  A typical domain of aspiring young artists, not unlike the art rooms of my elementary school years, it features a large and deep, paint-scarred sink; floor-level, built-in cabinetry, the countertops littered with art supplies, art projects, both completed and still struggling toward completion; and several fantastic pieces of children’s art decorating the walls.  The only atypical aspect of the room was Kristen Leigh Brown, a tiny and bright redhead in her very early twenties, a person not much taller than her young wards.

               Ms. Brown approached me joyfully from the middle of the room as I entered her sanctuary, a sacred place to her and to me, we two who resonate from our artist’s hearts.  I extended my hand and said, “I’m Linda Lee Greene.  Have you had a chance to read my email that I sent you yesterday?  I’m the one who inquired if I might write about you.”

               For a moment Ms. Brown’s soft, kind eyes glazed over in embarrassed ignorance of my identity, and she replied apologetically, “I was only able to skim my emails…but, oh yes, now I remember,” her eyes lighting up in recognition.  “You want to write about Sullivant Gardens in your blog.”

               “Yes, I do, and I also want to write about the people behind the scenes—about you and your efforts for the center.  I hope that we can schedule time to talk, but in the meantime, I’ve brought some things I think you might be able to use for your fund raiser,” I said as I pulled out the art print from my huge plastic bag.  “And see, I’ve brought lots and lots of tableware for the event.”

               “Oh Kids, come look…look!  This is Ms. Greene and she’s a real artist!” Ms. Brown exclaimed as she held up the art print in her hands for her kids to see.  The children all scrambled around us, in unison their voices emitting in “Ooohs” and “Ahhhs,” as, for the first time in their young lives, they scrutinized a real piece of professional artwork.  “See—this is what you can do if you work for it,” Ms. Brown instructed her students.  “Ms. Greene has brought other things to help us raise money for our art supplies.  Say ‘Thank you’ to Ms. Greene.”

               “Thank you, Ms. Greene,” dutifully the children responded in a loud chorus, their beautiful faces alight with bright smiles.

               We discussed the pending fund-raiser, and I commented on the wonderful artwork done by the children that graced the walls of the room, walls painted in bright and cheerful colors by Ms. Brown, one wall in purple, still another in blue, another in green, the fourth in red.  Scanning the room further, my eyes were drawn to the blackboard at the head of the space, on it in huge and fancy block letters in a precise hand, the hand of Ms. Brown, was my guess, was written:  DREAM BIG!  LIVE BIG!  “Yes, this is a born mentor of young people,” I said in my mind, and knew that I had followed the right star.    

An award-winning artist, the online gallery of Linda’s artwork can be viewed at www.gallery-llgreene.com.

A best-selling author, Linda’s latest book, Guardians and Other Angels will be available in the near future at www.Barnes & Noble.com and at www.Amazon.com. 

Noah's Evening at the Artist's Reception

Noah with S. Betz Gallagher's painting of Roscoe

This chilly Saturday evening in late March of 2012, while doing double-duty as babysitting grandmother and artist, and the hand of my seven-year-old grandson, Noah in mine, we enter Cobenick Studios/CS Gallery in Olde

Towne East, a historical inner-city neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio, and only two blocks from the city’s prestigious, Columbus College of Art and Design.  As part of the artist’s reception, artists and visitors will chit-chat and munch from large plates of veggies, fruits, and cheeses, and sip beverages while viewing paintings and photographs adorning the walls of the place.  While four

of the paintings are mine, the others are the creations of some of my fellow members of the Grove City Arts Council, a body of work that is evocative of the far-reaching artistic talent to be found in the vibrant arts community of Central Ohio.

               Aware that the little one will become restless long before the official hour of closing, a circumstance that will lead to our early departure, I make a point of arriving just as the doors of the establishment are opened.  My hope is that it will also give me an opportunity to talk privately with Daniel Colvin (WWW.COBENICKSTUDIOS.COM), the owner of the studio/gallery for the purpose gaining more information about him to include in this commentary.  I load up a plate of munchies for Noah, find an out-of-the-way place for him to sit, and keep my fingers crossed that
he will remain content while I speak with Daniel.

               I am always impressed with how much Daniel Colvin reminds me of a young Peter Sellers, but unlike the actor, Daniel sports pitch-black hair bundled into a ponytail beneath a canny Fedora.  Tonight, as always, his goateed face is open and welcoming, his manner friendly and effusive.  An artist in his own right, a small corner of his gallery is reserved for his handmade paper creations, the impressive collection separated from the larger gallery by a screen of his own making, a screen with an Oriental flavor fashioned from his handmade papers and painted black wood.  Son of a
local musician, Daniel’s love of all things creative began with that influence from his father, and as a young boy, Daniel loudly demonstrated his characteristic enthusiasm for the aesthetic side of existence on a set of drums.  As maturity wrought a subtle quieting of his nature, he chose to pursue fine art instead of music.  A graduate of the Columbus College of Art and Design, he is now a substitute art teacher in the Columbus Public School System.  He also teaches ballroom dancing among the artwork in his studio/gallery, having honed his chops on the dance floor at Fred Astaire Dance Studios.

               Daniel’s artistic flare is evident in the manner in which the artwork is displayed on the four walls of his studio/gallery—they are hung asymmetrically and carefully grouped with compatible pieces.  Displayed all alone on the wall at twelve o’clock high as you enter the place, a perfectly lit space that harkens, “Hey!  Look at me!” is a fantastic pastel.  My chat with Daniel concluded, I quickly look over my shoulder to make sure that Noah is alright and I approach the piece.  A shining rendition, it is a flawless blend of warm and cool tones on a slope of a mountain reflected
in a body of water drawn by Edith Dinger Wadkins (http://edithd.wadkins.carbonmade.com).  After a perusal of the other pieces, I cast my vote for Edith’s pastel as the Best of Show, but at the end of the evening when all of the votes are counted, my acrylic painting of a restaurant scene in New Orleans will win the prize.

               Seldom am I presented with a clear-cut choice as to the best piece of art, and this night is no exception.  The paintings executed by Mary Ann Riggle and Rose Motsch always capture my
eye and vie for my vote.  Biological sisters, as well as sisters of the soul, they also share an artistic sensibility—both of them are accomplished interpretive/abstract artists whose vividly colored canvasses fairly jump from their respective places on the walls and dazzle you.

               Septuagenarian, Betty Dingledine, the perpetual correspondence secretary of our organization, as well as a young-at-heart artist, takes continual art classes and paints at a feverish pace, exhibiting works of art that sometimes almost blow my mind.  This night an abstract of geometric shapes that is a departure for her, I find particularly appealing.

              Husband and wife team, European-born Hans and American-born Kathy Pearce-Mueller,
his descriptive Old World photographs and her sensitive watercolors, are a perfect amalgamation
of this good-natured and talented couple.  It is my first time to view their work, and I hope not the last.

               Botanicals are the theme of the watercolors submitted by Sommer House Gallery owner, Rebecca Sommer (www.sommerhousegallery.com), each painting so delicately and precisely rendered by her steady hand that they appear three-dimensional, deceiving your eye into
believing you can reach into them and pluck their petals.  Rebecca and I stop to chat although by now Noah is tugging on my jacket and asking what it is we are doing here.  The introductions accomplished, Rebecca inquires of my grandson, “Which piece is your favorite, Noah?”  He looks
at her as if she has just sprouted two heads, his quizzical eyes darting to mine.  I realize some interpretation is in order here.  “Which picture do you like best?” I add.  A shrug of his shoulders is his only reply.  “I think I’d better get him another plate of food, Rebecca.  Hopefully it will occupy him for a few more minutes.”   

                The pictures submitted by four brilliant photographers make a dynamic showing on this festive evening, the style of each one as distinctive as if they had been rendered line-by-line by precise hands of fine artists rather than captured in the lenses of cameras.  Dreaming Tree Galleries owner, Rebecca Cummings (www.dreamingtreegalleries.com) portrays symbols of life in her work:  dreamy interiors, quick or tucked-away or secretive glimpses of cultural artifacts of humankind made immortal by her Canon.  Long and color-saturated views of spare landscapes against
dramatic skies fill the acid-on-metal photographs by Randy Vermillion (WWW.RRVIMAGES.com),
his larger-than-life images mirroring his towering and lean persona.  A more traditional approach
is taken by Mark Marshall (http://markmarshallphotography.zenfolio.com) whose photos of
rugged old mills and peaceful country lanes are the type of images people like to hang on their
walls to evoke pleasant childhood memories.  Lenny Gerstein (find him on Facebook under Picture-It-Through-Windows) seals his photos of lighthouses and other structures, as well as landscapes,
in salvaged window frames, some of them still adorned with original hardware—a unique and ingenious display.

               Young Austin McClellan, a recent honors graduate from the Columbus College of Art and Design, is represented by an artful quadtych—this submission is just one more example of her clever artistic eye.  One of the four small canvasses is of a little bird.  “Look, Noah!  It’s a cute little bird.”  “Oh yeah.  It is a cute little bird.  But Grandma…what’s that?” he inquires, pointing a grubby finger toward Betty’s neighboring abstract.  I hurry him to the restroom and wash his sticky fingers and crusty mouth, feeling remorseful over the strawberries I had piled on his latest plate.      

S. Betz Gallagher, Suzanne to us, (www.TheRoscoeRoom.com) is a full time artist specializing in portraiture and figurative paintings in oil (of humans and of animals), although she excels in any genre that she tackles.  Early in May opening her own studio/gallery two doors north of here on the corner of Oak Street and Parsons Avenue, this is a fulfillment of her lifelong dream.  Stay tuned for my official announcement of the opening.  This night, however, Suzanne still occupies a small studio/gallery that is an anteroom to Daniel’s.  Recalling Suzanne’s several paintings of dogs and cats adorning the walls of her space, I hurry Noah to the back of the building where Suzanne, in her characteristically charming and gracious manner, is holding court.

I am so relieved to see that Suzanne’s space also features a wicker settee decked out with copious decorative pillows, the perfect spot in which to ensconce my grandson for a few minutes.  Within arm’s reach of the settee are three more platters of finger-foods:  nuts, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, little cookies and cakes.  Noah’s pristine fingers immediately begin to probe their contents.  “Okay, honey.  Grandma will make a plate for you in a minute,” I tell him, pushing his fingers away from the juicy little tidbits of gastronomic delight.  “But first, let’s look at the pictures of the little doggies and kitties.  And look at that great big one over there!” 

“OH…MY…GOD!” Noah yells, the heel of his hand slapping his forehead.  “I’ve never
seen anything like this in my whole life!” he declares, his arms thrusting into the air.  He rushes to Suzanne’s huge installation piece, a torso of her dog, Rosco, a work of art executed on forty-two
12” x 12” canvasses.  Again, Noah’s fingers begin to probe…he needs to touch this piece of art.  “Don’t touch the art, please, Noah,” I instruct him as I snap a photograph of him with Rosco.             

Noah’s third plate of food consumed to the smallest crumb, and his voice beginning to whine with his entreaties to go home, it is apparent that it is time to depart this artist’s reception.  We say our goodbyes and as we emerge onto the sidewalk of the street, I say to Noah, “It’s a good thing they had all of that food to eat or else you wouldn’t have been able to get through this evening, isn’t it?”  “Yeah, it’s a good thing, or I would have been bored out of my mind, Grandma!” 

Worried about his consumption of so much food, I inquire, “How does your tummy feel?”  “It’s okay,” he replies off-handedly.  He climbs onto a three foot high wall of brick and concrete that borders the parking lot and scoots along the top of it on his backside.  “Maybe a little hungry,” he adds as if he’d given the matter serious consideration.  “A little hungry?” I retort in disbelief.  “Yeah…a little hungry.  I’m just a growing boy, Grandma.  I just don’t ever stop eating, almost,” he explains as he jumps from the wall to the pavement.  I hold my breath as I always do when
witness to his daredevil pursuits. 

The moment we arrive home, he heads for my refrigerator.

All of the above-mentioned artists and photographers can be reached through the Grove City Arts Council (www.grovecityartscouncil.org).   

To view the online gallery of Linda’s artwork, log onto www.gallery-llgreene.com.

Linda’s next novel, Guardians and Other Angels is almost ready to print.  Stay tuned for the date

of its launching.