NYC Pandemic Portrait

NYC Reluctant Quarantine No. 2

9" x 12" acrylic on paper

Prints in various sizes available here.

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NYC Pandemic Portrait

Pandemic Portrait No. 9

9" x 12" charcoal and ink on paper

Prints in various sizes available here.

 

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Pandemic Portrait Series

Pandemic Portrait No. 2

9" x 12" charcoal on paper

Prints available in multiple sizes here.

 

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Reluctant Quarantine - NYC 2020

NYC Reluctant Quarantine No. 1

9" x  12" Acrylic on Paper

Prints in various sizes available here.

Prints available in several flat sizes to matte and frame and also available mounted on a 6"x8" x 1.5" wood panel.

 

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Starting something, gotta be starting something

Inspired by the wonderful artist Nicolas Uribe. as seen here on Instagram and here on his  newly launched series on Youtube, Our Painted Lives, I decided to tackle a portrait using his some of his techniques. The result will be an oil painting on paper.

Following along with his first of 3 steps for a portrait I began with pencil drawing, using Faber Castelli, on a page of my sketchbook - Canson Multimedia 7"x 10." The sketch could probably have used some more detail but I was impatient to get to the paint. 

The next step consists of first preparing the paper by adding layers of clear acrylic binder to the surface of the paper.  I added  layers on the drawing side, letting each layer dry for at least an hour before adding the next layer, and then one more layer on the reverse. This immediately added more depth to the drawing as the pencil pigment spread slightly.

Next step is to create an underpainting

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Oil Portrait Study " Peter" with Process

This final 5"x7" oil painting came to be after a lot of stops and starts, scrape downs and wipe offs, re-shapes and adjustments but I'm content with this result:

First steps were sketches in charcoal and some light washes :

Gradually building up layers:

I was pretty happy at this stage, since it was very loose and expressive:

 I revisited it the next day because I wanted more detail and also felt there wasn't enough volume to the head, the darks and highlights weren't quite right yet - I wiped down the forehead and neck/shoulders:

And then attempted to bring the shadows/highlights back in but it was still a mess:

I also felt the likeness was off - I was working from my own reference photo and knew it was off. I took this last pic of the painting into photoshop and compared it to my source and could see where the position of some of his features were off and the width of the face was wrong. Had to wipe elements away - that was scary but I knew instantly that it was the right thing to do:

As I re-worked the face, I could see it coming together - the head was more of a 3/4 turn (as it should be) whereas the first efforts had mistakenly flattened the face to the viewer:

And done:

"Peter Study"
5" x 7" Oil on wood panel

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Dreadnought - Dread Knot - Dreadlock

Dreadnought: a type of battleship armed with heavy-caliber guns in turrets: so called from the British battleship Dreadnought, launched in 1906, the first of its type.

Yep, that pretty much sums him up.

Dreadnought - Dread Knot  - Dreadlock 
9”x12” charcoal on paper
Prints available here.

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Painting of a Painter

When in Negril, seek out Ras Husmo. He walks the beach with his rolled up canvases and will gladly sit and chat, buying or not, to discuss the arts........yours or his.

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Monday Morning Mashup #6 - Rastafari Gothic

See more dreadlocks and other portraits here.

"Rastafari Gothic", 10"x14" Mixed Media Collage

Hmmm, no pitchfork? 

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Monday Morning Mashup #2

"A Pirate of the Caribbean", 8"x10" mixed media collage SOLD

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Yuh Know Mi?

"Yah mon, yuh know mi. Mi remembah yuh. A lang time you a come a Jah-mey-ka, riiiiiight?"

I'm that smiling dread who Touch Fist with you the first time we meet because, "Yuh cool, seen?"

I'm that smiling dread who told you, "Yuh one Original Ragamuffin, a dat mi know," as I nodded to my bredren and we all laughed that knowing laugh, eyes wide. Made you feel like you were one of us, right?

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm that smiling dread who said, "Nuff respect, souljah, big up di EYE, seen suh?" as I effortlessly rolled you the fattest skliff you'd ever seen. But as I drew my tongue across the edge of the rizla and then twirled the tip of that fatty inside my mouth to seal it up tight, you wondered if this was really A Good Idea.

"Bless up", I said as I handed you the sacrament. "Tek it, mon, tek it," I said as I waved away your offer of a few jays. "Jess gwan an' bun some weed, mon." After all, you're one of us, right? And after a few deep draws on that skliff, you decided it was indeed a good idea.

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm that smiling dread who told you, "Wi muss tek one trip inna de hills an' see deh ganja fields dem, cuz you a one-a mi I-dren, you a ragamuffin fi true, seen?" And then I told you where to rent one criss cyar so we could make a serious tour to the country and you could see the Real Jamaica.

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm that smiling dread who told you that tourists,"Couldn't hangle deh ruff roads" as I instructed you to slide over to the passenger's seat while I slipped behind the wheel. And then I said, "We muss mek two more stops fi pick up chree more bredren," before we pulled into the gas station with the "T+E+X__+O" sign to fill the tank. My friends and I share the wealth. When one of us hits the Tourist Jackpot, we all climb aboard the gravy train.

"Ragga, wi wan some Guinness fi di drive, seen?" I said. It took you a moment to realize I was speaking to you, calling you "Ragga". But when you realized you had acquired your very own yardie street name, you smiled a little smile. And moved quickly to provide me and my three friends with drinks. You didn't realize that I just had forgotten your real name.

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm the smiling dread who took you so far beyond the boundaries of Negril (or so it seemed) that you couldn't believe you hadn't had the courage to do so on your first three trips to the island. What a story you would have to tell your friends back home. You got so high you knew you could never find your way back to Negril if you had to drive yourself, so you were happy to have us guide you and show you the runnings and give us a likkle change when we brought you back to your hotel and buy each of us plates of brown stew chicken and a round of heinekens because we told you it was the right thing to do.

"Come I-dren", I reminded you, "We showed you the Real Jamaica. Yuh muss tek care a wi, a chru?"

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

But that's the sad part of this story. Yuh nah even know mi real name. Yuh nah really know me a-tall.

And I'm not really smiling.

Yuh Know Mi?
 Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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Grotesque?

I've got another version of this fellow which is much more conservative, with less of an exaggeration of his features. It is generally more precise but less interesting. I prefer this one, even tho it is a bit over the top. I'll post the other when it's finished and let the critics weigh in.................


Grotesque
ink and watercolor on paper

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No more unfinished symphonies

I didn't think I was going to find a resolution for this painting. I'm not crazy about the composition -- I'd intended to incorporate much of the environment around him but ended up going with a more abstract treatment instead. But I do love the colors. I glazed the shirt with a warm yellow to help integrate it with the other colors a bit more.

It's been an unpredictable progression....





Cropping can change everything. I think I'm going to experiment with framing this painting (cropping it) a few different ways. I like this view ............




"No More Unfinished Symphonies", 12"x16" ink and watercolor on paper $250

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Another portrait progression

Where have I been, where have I been!! ??

Just been preparing for our summer getaway to Jamaica and the watercolor class I'll be teaching. Sadly, that has taken quite a bit of time way from actually painting. And painting more and more is equally important in preparing to teach. So it goes.

Well I have yet another portrait in progress. I seem to have about a dozen or so that I keep shuffling around in my studio, starting one, putting it aside and starting another. I'm quite good at getting the first few washes and colors down on paper, and then I begin to get anxious. Finishing is the hard part. But I'm determined to finish ALL of them in due time.

So without further adieu, here's the latest, shown in two steps -- I began with a pencil drawing this time, rather than using an ink sketch..........

The colors are a bit bizarre, hmmmm? And I've avoided working up the background which I really need to figure out. Negative space is equally important to the positive space, yet I've given it short shrift. I"m liking the face, however -- here's close up....

Ok, more to come very soon!

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Jube Redux

I know I haven't posted much these past two weeks, because I've been spending time working on some much larger paintings than the typical 4"x6" smaller portrait series. They take considerably more time to complete.

This is another portrait of our friend, Jube. I'd painted a portrait of Jube when I first started the blog back in September. It was a 4"x6" and was quite somber. I think this larger portrait, 12"x16", captures much more of the light and colorful energy that typically surrounds him.

At least on his good days......................

Jube No. 3
Ink and watercolor on paper
Prints available here.

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Iyah, the Roots Doktah

Roots Doctor
Ink and wtercolor on paper
Purchase a print here.

Shelley was feeling miserable. She had just arrived on the island the day before, after a two-week trek through Italy. She was tired and looking forward to just sitting on the beach for a week. She needed a vacation from her vacation.

And somewhere between Milan and Montego Bay, she'd wrenched her shoulder. I expect she'd hefted a too-heavy bag one too many times in the past 48 hours and winced with every movement of her hand. I fetched two bandanas from our cottage and tied them together, an impromptu ragamuffin-stylee sling. It eased some of the downward pull on her strained muscle. I bought her a gin and tonic at the Whistling Bird bar and she gingerly sat herself down at the nearest table.

And as things often mysteriously transpire in Jamaica, I soon spotted a small, spry elder dread trudging up the central path of the WB property, heading for the bar. He looked to be close to 70, with salt-and-pepper stringy dreads to his shoulders. He'd clearly taken time with his attire that morning, wearing freshly-pressed trousers, a clean white tee shirt topped by a bright tomato-red vest. A bowl-shaped caramel brown felt hat threatened to tumble off the crown of his head with each step. He carried a heavy backpack over one shoulder.

"Have you had the pleasure of meeting Iyah, our favorite roots doctor?" boomed Jim, as he followed Iyah up to the bar. Nope, we have not. But how fitting that a Roots Doktah should appear in Shelley's hour of need.

Iyah removed his hat briefly to wipe his brow and nodded in our direction. He asked Miss G for a glass of water and dropped his backpack to his feet.

"Got anything in that bag for a sore shoulder?", asked Shelley, grimacing. "I could sure use some kinda nice bush salve. Whatcha got in there Iyah?" Shelley had been traveling to Jamaica for nearly 20 years and was well acquainted with the wonders of the bush.

Iyah shook his head slowly, smiling. "But mi haff da ting fi heal yuh sed weh." He reached into his pack and pulled out a gallon-sized plastic jug, filled with the requisite murky brown roots tonic.

Oh no. Not the roots tonic. We'd all tried the roots tonic, that fermented mixture of a dozen different roots, barks and leaves that "purified the blood." And tasted like a compost heap.

"Mmmm, no disrespect, Iyah, but mi nuh really wan' the roots right now, seen?" said Shelley. "Mi no teenk dat can fix what ails mi." Iyah bristled visibly at her characterization of his elixir as simply "roots." He stepped closer with the heavy jug, lifting it up to her face. The jug's murky contents sloshed up and down the inside, leaving a filmy residue.

"Dis nah jess roots, miss," sniffed Iyah. Jim nodded approvingly from the bar. "Dis yah a mi own speshal tonic. Dis yah tonic a cure evry-TING."

Shelley gave him a cool nod. Nobody wanted to insult the elder but she knew the roots was not what she wanted right now, no matter how unique the recipe. She had no doubt of the curative powers of certain roots, but knew its limitations as well.

Iyah continued with his spiel. "Dis yah tonic a cure headache, it a cure cough, an it a purify deh blood." We nodded, we knew the reputation of the roots.

"An' it a cure CAN-SAH." What? Hmmm, that's a new one.

"An' it a cure deh AIDS dem!" Well. THAT certainly was a new addition to the miracle healing power of roots. Shelley glanced at me, raising her eyebrows.

"Cancer? And AIDS?", asked Shelley. Iyah nodded knowingly at us, fools that we were, apparently unable to appreciate the value of his wares.

"Well, that sure is some powerful tonic yuh got there, Iyah, but right now I'll just settle for the tonic that comes with mi gin, seen?"

Iyah shrugged, put his jug back in his pack, gave us a slight bow, and moved on up the beach. There was no doubt another sufferer in an hour of need.

Bush Doctor
Ink and watercolor on paper.
Print available here.

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I Heard It Through The SeaGrape Vine

"Yuh lookin fi Peter, right?"

I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at him. His face looked familiar but how could it be, really? I'd been to Jamaica just once before, a month earlier, and didn't recall meeting him. He was tall and thickly built, his skin an inky black, and his sun-bleached dreads gathered high up at the back of his head. I had no idea who he was. But he knew me.

I nodded, yes, I was hoping to find Peter.

"Yuh jess miss him, gwan and check pon di beach, check fi him at Club Kokua."

I stared at him. He smiled slowly and said, "Yuh nah remembah mi?" Nope. But there was something kind and gentle in his face, I knew he was just trying to help me out. I thanked him, and walked out of Xtabi on the cliffs, and hailed a taxi back to the beach. I was mystified.

I'd spent only one week in Jamaica on my first visit and let Peter know I was coming back, we planned to link up. I wasn't sure where I would be staying and so counted on the small-town nature of Negril to make sure our paths crossed. These were the days before every Negrilian carried a cell phone in their pocket, these were the days when nobody needed a phone to get a message out or to find a friend. And these were the days when everybody knew everybody's business -- or at least thought they did.

It was many years later, after Peter and I were married, our eldest daughter was two years old and we were expecting our second child, that I re-told this story to Cleveland. We'd become good friends over the years and he always spent time with us when we returned to the island. He smiled and nodded, yes, he remembered seeing me step onto the terrace at Xtabi and searching the crowd. He remembered me and knew Peter was looking for me, too.

That day was one of many that made me realize what a small town Negril could be and how closely people pay attention to who you are and how you move and how very tough it can be to slink below the radar.

Cleveland motioned me to follow him as he stepped off the verandah, away from the crowd that always gathered at our cottage. He walked slowly across the grass and stopped, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket. He pulled two, slightly worn color photographs from deep within it's folds and handed them to me. One was of a dark-haired, smiling girl with coffe-color skin. She looked to be about 4 or 5, and the other was a very young baby, clearly the other's sister, with a shock of black hair on a tiny wizened face.

"These are my dawtas," smiled Cleveland. I was stunned.

"What?? I had NO idea you had kids, Cleveland. They are beautiful. Peter never told me you had kids."

Cleveland kissed his teeth -- "He nu know 'bout dem." Stunned again. Peter, one of his closest friends, didn't know Cleveland had kids? How could that be?

"Their mom live in the States, mi know her lang time, he know she. But mi no tell everybody 'bout mi bizness." He then permitted me to share the pictures with everyone else and happily soaked up the delighted responses and smiles they elicited from the group.

So, I wondered, why tell me? And why now? He'd sure manged to guard that secret for a long time and from a lot of people. The SeaGrapevine never picked up that scrap of news.

I think because we were so happily returning to Jamaica with our daughter, who brought such joy and laughter wherever we went, and with a second child on the way, it gave Cleveland pause.

He'd mastered the art of subverting Negril's CIA-like informers, the SeagGrapevine that carried everybody's stories up and down the beach. But at what cost? Thankfully, he'd paid the price long enough and finally found the pleasure of sharing his secrets.

Well, maybe at least one of them.........

I Heard It Through The Sea Grape Vine
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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Alphonso and the Coconut

She was a little firecracker, that Maxine, ready to party before the plane even touched down in Mobay. She left her husband at home in their small midwestern town, said Jamaica just wasn't his thing, he wouldn't be comfortable.

And she did behave herself.

She had a husky voice for such a petite woman, a testament to too many smokes. And a laugh that burst out of her like it was shot from a cannon. I enjoyed her company during the day, sharing cocktails in the afternoon, but I always begged exhaustion when she tried to coax me out after dark. The beach night scene just doesn't appeal to me. I'd rather sit on the verandah with a book, listening to the gleep gleep of the tree frogs and dodging the smoke of the "destroyer" I had to place at my feet. Party on.

One afternoon, Maxine was sitting out at the beach front of the Whistling Bird, chatting with Alphonso. Well, actually, Maxine was doing most of the chatting. Alphonso was quietly nodding and handing her pieces of his jewelery for her to examine. Alphonso is an elder dread and a master craftsman. He works primarily in tortoise shell and black coral, but also often adds in pieces of silver, gold and occasionally slivers of bright scarlet or turquoise corals.

Earrings and bangles, pendants and combs, guitar picks and rings, his inventory is always changing. The work is exquisitely crafted by hand. He carries them all wrapped up in a bright white towel, tucked into his backpack. He won't sell his wares to just anyone, the vibe has to be right, he doesn't walk the beach and unroll the towel at every place he visits. His work is a part of him, he once told me, his art is his life. He'd rather not sell a piece than let the wrong person haggle him down to a price that disrespects his craft and his sensibility.

He'd rather go hungry.

By the time I reached the table and sat down, Maxine was wearing a pair of tortoise shell hoop hearings, a thick black coral bangle bracelet on her left hand, a slender tortoise shell bangle on her right, and the showstopper around her neck -- a luscious globe of lignum vitae, or ironwood, carved into the shape of a voluptuous coconut and wrapped with a tortoise shell coil at the crown, threaded through a black leather thong. Lignum vitae is such a slow-growing, hard and dense wood it will sink in water. I don't know how Alphonso managed to carve it into such a beautifully curved orb.

It made me drool.

I always tried to purchase something of Alphonso's each summer and I was envious of Maxine getting to that piece first. But it looked perfect on her. The creamy caramel color of the wood, its slightly oval shape, nestled in Maxine's cleavage - it oozed femininity, fertility.

Alphonso stepped away from the table, letting Maxine just sit with a mirror and admire herself with his wares. Alphonso never gives anyone the hard sell. It is almost as if he'd prefer you didn't buy anything, as if he's reluctantly parting with his children. Maxine whispered to me that she really wanted to buy them all, but he was asking for about $500 for the lot -- the earrings, the two bangles, and the coconut pendant. She ticked off the individual prices he'd quoted, which came to slightly higher than that amount. He was willing to trim the total since she'd buy all four items.

Maxine winced. "Do you think he'll knock off another fifty bucks?", she whispered. Alphonso stood well away from us, gazing up the beach.

"I dunno," I said, "that's a pretty good price," knowing how Alphonso felt about hagglers. "Maxine, he does have a whole buncha kids," I said. "If you can afford it, I wouldn't try to get him to go even lower." She looked back in the mirror, softly caressing the coconut.

"Couldn't you just DIE for this piece?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"Yeah," I sighed. "It's just beautiful. You gotta buy it, Max." Maxine called Alphonso over to the table. He slowly ambled over to where we were sitting.

"Wha' chew think, Maxine?" he said, softly.

"I just LOVE them ALL," she gushed. "I'm just not sure."

Now Alphonso may have scruples but he's also a wise businessman, he's practiced in the art of the soft sell.

"You don't have to decide right now," he told her. And he started to pack up the rest of his pieces. "Wear them for a bit. I'll check back with you tomorrow." Smart move. He let her keep all the pieces, no money exchanged hands, and he offered to meet her there again the next day when she could purchase what she chose or return them all.

Maxine was delighted. She had accessories for her evening ahead. Alphonso knew that after "owning" those pieces for 24 hours, Maxine would be less likely to give them up. But, he later told me, he never considers a sale a sale until he's got cash in his hand. It's always a gamble.

I didn't see Maxine that night or the next day. I caught up with Alphonso at the Whistling Bird bar the next evening.

"Hey," I said, "did you see Maxine today? Did she come through for you?" He gave me one of those quick chin-up gestures, and looked at me sideways. "She give them all back to me," he smiled, "said she couldn't come up with that much cash, she only have credit cyard. She nuh buy nuttin. So it go."

"Wait a minute," I said, "she could always get a cash advance on her credit card, or use the ATM over by the Hi-Lo. And I KNOW she could afford it." He shrugged.

"She's just not the right person for my pieces, that's all."

Damn straight, I thought.

"Hey, 'phonso, lemme see that carved coconut pendant." He smiled. He opened up his back pack, and unfurled the white towel, letting all of his pieces spill out onto the table top in front of me. He plucked the pendant from the center of the mass of tangled pieces and handed it to me.

"How much you want for this one, 'phonso?"

"One-seventy-five," he said, and he started to explain how he caved the lignum vitae and how he softened the tortoise shell into a coil.

I stopped him, shaking my head. "Two hundred," I said, "and not a penny less."

He nodded slowly and smiled. "I guess dat's the piece for you."

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Clash of the Not-So-Very Titans

I've always had a soft spot for Flash. We've had our squabbles, our out-right wars, but in the end we know that we're stuck with one anudda. He's my brother-in-law. And after 15 years I think we've finally settled in to an easy, warm friendship.

And Flash has also become a steady fixture at our cottage when we spend time in Jamaica. Much to Rudy's dismay.

Although Flash lives in the family yard in Sav La Mar, he is often stationed on Negril beach, "a werk 'im a werk". Lord knows where he sleeps at night. All I know is that when I get up early in the morning to make myself some coffee, Flash is already out on our verandah, heating up a pot of water for morning tea or cleaning callaloo for our breakfast. Rudy, on the other hand, will still be asleep on a beach chair that he'd drawn up in the shade, still wearing his shoes.

They each adore Peter, the definite alpha male of the larger community of bredren. They are his foot soldjahs and, I think, silently vie for top lieutenant status. Ok, well maybe just reaching the rank of Corporal is the most they can hope for. In typical yardie fashion, each receives a verbal bashing at full volume for the slightest infraction -- not setting the fire right, not cleaning the pots thoroughly, not sweeping the verandah first thing -- the list is endless, perfection is always beyond their grasp, at least in the eyes of their commander.

Yet they each know they will be well cared for under the commander's watch -- food in their belly, the occasional fresh shirt, jeans or new shiny boots hurled at them when they least expect it or the invitation to hop in The Unit for a drive to 'town. Life is fresh and exciting when we come to visit and they don't want to miss a moment.

But they still have to "werk."

One morning, a fellow guest at the Whistling Bird was up at the bar getting coffee. Rudy overheard her complain of an itchy skin condition, whether it was from sun or bug bites, I can't quite recall. Seeing an opportunity to assist AND earn, Rudy offered to make her up a special Natural Salve to cure her ills. She gratefully accepted. Rudy hustled back to our cottage and asked Flash if he knew how to whip up some special Aloe and what-have-you concoction for the specified ailment.

Flash, after all was the real country man who knew the how-to's of bush medicine, and Rudy, well, Rudy was more of the advance man, as it were. Flash offered his own suggestions and went about collecting the appropriate bush with which to make the medicine. He whipped up the salve, in a gooey aloe base, poured it into a jar and gave it to Rudy. Flash went back to working on our breakfast while Rudy casually strolled back up to the beach front.

You can see where this is heading.

Rudy helped the woman apply "his" miracle medicine. It provided much relief and the woman graciously offered Rudy 500 jays, a little less than ten bucks. A werk 'im a werk, every dollah helps.

And Flash felt the same way. Flash is no fool, it didn't take him long to figure out that Rudy was sure to come into some cash for the miracle medicine and he wanted his cut. That's when the fireworks began. A cut of ten dollars may not seem like much to you or me, but to the hardscrabble hustle on Negril beach, that is apparently something worth fighting for.

The shouting and the cursing escalated, the "bumbaclaats" lobbed back and forth, followed by threats, insults, the usual. The melee traveled out to the beach front of the property and, unfortunately, dear Jim, the owner of the Whistling Bird, finally had to step in. He's always been gracious about accommodating the cluster of bredren that typically spend time on our doorstep throughout our stay. They, in turn try not to step on any toes or hassle the guests.

Except for that day.

And the shouting and yelling and overall carrying on was beyond the pale. When it threatened to turn violent, it frightened the other guests. And remember, this was all about splitting ten dollars. Who deserved it, the hustling salesman, without whom there would not have even been a sale? Or the knowledegable bush doctor, without whom there would not have been a cure? It's not for me to say.

I'd gladly give them each ten bucks to just be quiet and stop them from pummeling one another or drawing blood. But this was Jamaican male turf and I knew better than to stick my nose into the middle of their business.

Thankfully, in every Jamaican tragedy, there often lurks some comedy. A bit of black humor, as I saw it. Jim later told me, after sending both men on their way, unbloodied but with the issue still unresolved, "One was waving a knife, and the other was swinging a plastic soda bottle."

He sighed and shook his head, "It just wasn't a fair fight."

Souljahs in Jah's army, still Privates, first class.

Clash of the Not-So-Very Titans
Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Shades of Grey

"Mi cyan't find mi sista cell phone. A wheh it deh?"

We were driving back to Negril after spending the day in Sav La Mar. I had no idea where the cell phone could be. I had no use for it myself. This was the first year cell phones began to pop up all over Jamaica and I hadn't quite gotten used to the idea that you could actually reach someone without resorting to the rural grapevine. Which was, incidentally, a remarkably reliable method of contacting folks.

Frighteningly reliable, now that I think about it.

But cell phones had arrived. We'd actually brought this particular cell phone down for Felicia just so that we could stay in touch with the family directly, rather than depend upon the sole neighbor who owned an actual land-line phone. A cell phone became THE prized luxury accessory of the season, better than a gold chain. Even if you had no battery charger to keep it functioning, hell, even if it had no battery aTALL, wearing a cell phone prominently clipped to your pants waist was even better than a new pair of Clarks.

And ours was missing.

"I dunno," I said, "are you sure you left it in the car?"

"Yeah, mi leff it dehsoh," my husband said, pointing to the well behind the gearshift box, between the seats. "An mi mine tell me," he said, tapping his finger against his temple, "NAH let Sticks inn a mi cyarr -- { sound of kissing teeth} - but mi let him a move it, mi let him put di cyarr inna de shade," {more kissing of teeth} "mon, mi know 'im a tek mi phone outta mi cyar."

"Sticks? But I thought he's one of your friends? He wouldn't take your phone." I was a little puzzled by this conclusion.

"Yeah, mon, mi know Sticks lahng time, he a grow up amongst we, mi know him since we a likkle yewt. And he's a teef. He always been one likkle teef."

We drove silently for a few minutes.

"Mi guess he the man who tek the cigarette lightah fram the cyar, too." We'd noticed that the car's cigarette lighter was gone after our last trip to the country. " Mi nah know what he cyan do wid dat lightah, it cyan't werk pon it's own, not widout de cyar," he chuckled.

"Well," I said, "perhaps he'll steal a car to go with it." I rolled my eyes.

I was still trying to digest the fact that my husband was so matter-of-factly accepting the notion that his friend stole from him. It annoyed him, but didn't seem to surprise nor upset him much.

"But we just spent the better part of the day with Sticks", I said. "We fed him and the other guys, and we all sat on the verandah eating a meal together, and now you're telling me he's a thief? But he's your friend? He's a thief AND he's your friend?"

Although my husband knew better than to call me "one eeediot", he shot me a look that said essentially the same thing.

"Mon, sometimes you look like yuh jess nah know wha-gwan," my husband said -- {more kissing of teeth, which is the equivalent of a new yorker rolling her eyes}.

I had to admit that, frankly, he was right. When in Jamaica, I just never really DID understand what was going on, particularly when it came to the rather fluid boundaries of friendship.

"Next time, jess nah let Sticks inna de house, seen?". Next time? So we were still friends with Sticks, but with necessary precautions. Alright.

Sometimes I just wished the good guys would wear white hats and the bad guys would wear black, just like in those old politically-incorrect westerns. That's me all over, I'm afraid. I've been told I tend to see things in strictly black and white terms, but Jamaica, contrary to it's turquoise waters and emerald hills, is really just a whole heapah shades of grey.

Shades of Grey
Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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