Painting Through Grief

I’m often asked if I have always painted. The answer is no, I haven’t always painted unless you count art class in the 5th grade. And as a youngster, I would wander the hills at home with my sketchbook and pencil, but as an adult, no, I have not painted.

That all changed a couple of years ago. I was pouring my morning cup of coffee, a routine day ahead, when the phone call came. That’s how it happens, right? Out of the blue comes a knock at the door, a phone call, or a message that shatters life as you knew it.

And just like that, it happened.

My baby sister was dead, said the voice on the other line. Suicide. Last night. We tried to reach you, but your phone was turned off. My knees buckled and there I was, staring at a cup of coffee as time stopped.

Through the days, weeks, and months ahead, life was no longer normal. I worked, I did what I was supposed to do, but it was as if I were on autopilot, numb. Suicide. No one talks about it. Difficult for others to acknowledge it. Dad cried every day. It was the beginning of Covid times, there was no funeral, no goodbyes, no celebration of her life, nothing.

She was cremated. Just gone.

Work was sporadic and I knew I had to do something to occupy my time and my mind. Sister always liked photography. She had an eye for getting that perfect photo. We spent many a day hiking the hills in Colorado searching for trees, lakes, flowers, and waterfalls to photograph. My beautiful, artistic sister. Gone.

I began to spend more time in nature. I bought a sketchpad and started drawing. The first thing I sketched was a set of railroad tracks, disappearing into the distance.

A 4b pencil worn down to a nub, then a second one. But now I needed color. With her passing, the world had gone gray. I needed color in my life, and that’s when I discovered the world of watercolor.

I happened to be showing a house to a young family in the week after her passing and a cardinal had flown in. The house was vacant, so the only way it could have got in was when we opened the front door. One of the children noticed it as we came back down the hall from the bedrooms. A beautiful red cardinal. Flying silently around the living room. Without making a sound, it flew back out the door as easily as it had flown in. I had been in constant torment until that day, but seeing that cardinal brought a profound peace over me. I cannot explain it, but it settled over me in such a way that I can still feel it today.

Red.

The bright color of that cardinal stayed with me until it dawned on me.

Red watercolor.

I painted cardinals. I painted everything I could think of. Every morning while the house was quiet, I studied. I painted. And that is how I got through the first and then the second year of grief.

Many people have reached out to me to say that a particular painting touched them, invoking a memory in such a way that they felt they had to share it with me. That brought such comfort to me and continues to do so. I don’t paint for commissions. I paint because I must. It gets me through the tough times. It helps me celebrate life. It brings me joy. It connects me to her and to all who see it. It truly is just ‘art for arts sake’. I have had people ask for paintings and I try to do that when I can. Especially when I know it means so much to them. I get that. I understand. I believe it is like that with any form of art, whether it be a story, a quilt, a recipe, a painting, a sculpture, or anything that evokes a memory and brings a loved one to mind. It is all important. It keeps us connected, past, present and future.

I have sold paintings of:

old autos,

horses; one horse for someone who was sure that I had painted the likeness of her childhood horse, another horse to two young ladies who love horseback riding,

a butterfly painting to someone who said that her mother loved butterflies and it reminded her of her Mom,

dragonfly paintings for daughters that reminds them of their Mother, cardinals for the same reason and the list goes on.

I paint for me, but as it turns out, I paint in many ways for others as well.

And for that, I am eternally grateful to everyone that has liked my work.

I thought of my sister as I read about three trees in the book, ‘The Science of Storytelling’ by Will Storr. I could not help but think of how she would have loved to see these trees. I would have loved to have seen them with her. Sister and her camera, photographing from every angle, looking for just the right spot. Speaking the language of sisters, no words needed, just us being in the presence of nature…together.

I will visit these trees for us one day sister.

I will look for you there.

For more information on mental health and suicide awareness, visit: National Institute of Mental Health