A Broken Painting Arm

Two weeks ago I had a fall on a small patch of ice in my driveway and badly broke my left wrist. I'm LEFT-HANDED!

I can't begin to tell you how upset and frustrated I was to learn that I could not/should not paint for perhaps two months. I have shows coming up, and workshops to teach. It changes my world. At least temporarily. Not only is the break still painful, but there is the scare of surgery hanging over my head. The orthopaedic surgeon told me on Friday that he still has to see how it's healing in another two weeks. If it's healing well, he says, I should be out of the woods. Otherwise....

I am feeling very sorry for myself. I'm frustrated that I can't paint and that I can't even drive. I live in the country. I can't walk to a store or even catch a bus or get a cab.

Someone once said that there is a lesson in everything. Although I would still like to get my hands on the person who said that, I have to admit that, after two weeks into this experience, I have begun to learn some lessons.

I find it a huge challenge to ask for and to accept help. I'm not sure which is the most difficult of the two. I feel that I don't want to bother anyone. I try to do things myself.

My daughter and her family have been my bedrock. I can't begin to describe the support they give me.

The most difficult thing for me has been learning to accept the outpouring of generosity by my friends. It's much easier to accept from family. One friend came and stayed with me for a few nights. Another comes nearly every day to give me a Therapeutic Touch treatment. A group of old friends chipped in to buy me 10 deli frozen dinners and a bouquet of parrot tulips. One friend spent several hours helping me photograph the work for my upcoming show in Vancouver. Neighbours down the road have dropped off soup and cake. Other friends are driving me to appointments and for grocery shopping. Another has offered to change the sheets on my bed! And there are more offers daily.

I feel humbled and vulnerable and I'm learning that the best thing I can do is to accept their gifts wholeheartedly and graciously. This continuing generous outpouring often has me in tears. I think that this will be a lifetime learning for me.

Meet the Owners of a Scottish Castle

Anne Tristine Nguyen, Ali Orr Ewing, their children, Ava, Atticus and their dog, Harriet Beecher Stowe. Dunskey Estate, Portpatrick, Scotland Anne Tristine Nguyen and her husband, Alistair Orr Ewing are the owners of Dunskey Estate near Portpatrick, Scotland where I will teach a painting workshop in September. Dunskey is a splendid Edwardian castle on 2000 acres of ocean-front land with miles of walking trails. As well as daily workshop sessions in the studio on the top floor of the castle, our small group of artists will enjoy breathtaking hikes, superb accommodation and fabulous meals. Not having met owners of a castle before, I asked Anne if I could interview her to hear a little of their background story and that of the castle. Can you tell me a little of your personal story and that of your husband, Alistair Orr Ewing? Anne emigrated to America when she was ten years old, but it was at an art gallery in Saigon, her birthplace, where she met Al

The Importance of Silence in Art

Gathering Light 60x60" Oil on canvas © 2014 Janice Mason Steeves Michael David Rosenberg, the musician known as Passenger, sings, "See all I need is a whisper in a world that only shouts." In the workshops I teach, I find that one of the most common problems with paintings is that they shout. Most have too much going on: too many small shapes, too much texture, extremes of colour, too many lines, too much, too much. One thing I say most often as I walk around the classroom working with students individually, is 'make bigger shapes'. But not only bigger shapes. Quiet shapes. Where can your eye go and rest in the painting? That isn't a consideration in much of contemporary painting or much of contemporary life. Ours is a noisy world both visually and auditorily. Ours is a world that shouts. People are afraid of silence. I wrote a blog post 3 years ago about planning a retreat in my own home, where I shut off the computer and the phon

Liminal Time

The word liminal comes from the Latin, limen meaning threshold. an in-between place, a place of transition, a time of waiting and not knowing. Dawn and dusk are considered liminal places. Crepuscular animals, like foxes and coyotes are most active at this time of day, a time that is considered a magical time in Celtic spirituality and to Indigenous people which is perhaps the origin of their designation as tricksters. As I write this, the northern hemisphere has just passed the vernal equinox, where day and night are of equal length.We are in a liminal space between winter and spring right now, unsure if we will have one more storm or snowfall before spring finally settles in. We're also in a liminal place as we live through this pandemic with the anxiety and discomfort of not knowing. A time of great transition for the entire world, wondering what we've learned from this and what lessons we'll carry forward. Author and Franciscan friar Richard Rohr describes limi

Janice Mason Steeves

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