Orange is The New Black is The New Art Opportunity

One of my paintings appeared on the set of the final season of Orange Is The New Black.

In the 4th episode of the season, Gloria's final flashback finds her speaking on the phone with one of the daughters she left behind in Puerto Rico after having left for the United States many years ago.

If you don't blink, you can catch a glimpse of this watercolor on the rear wall of the set!

Thank you again, #ladyprisonproductions !

Bromeliad No. 1 

12" x 15" watercolor and charcoal on paper

Print available here.

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Another Take on a Palm Tree

Seems as if people all over the world love this drawing -- I get visits to this page literally every day from every continent on the globe.

Someone in Jamaica told me that my ink drawings of palm trees were "scary." Made me wonder if that is the feeling I must be having as I draw them.......why would that be the case?

They are beautifully graceful. They grow in sand. They are watered by rain but also by the relentless washing of salt water from the sea. Hardly scary, they not only survive the relentless heat of the sun and ocean, they THRIVE.

But their roots are like the up-ended head of a dreadlocked monster. They are a purplish red, more plentiful than their swaying leaves, and stretch for several feet beyond the surface trunk in all directions. I got a good look at those roots, after the hurricane-driven waves washed away the protective sand of the many trees lining the shore. I was stunned.

Perhaps I did find these beauties quite scary after all.

See many more of my palms here.

Prints available here. 

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A Change is in the Air

And no, that doesn't mean I've switched to painting plants.

I came back like gangbusters after my holiday break, churning out 5 new portraits and stories that first week, but I hit a bump in the road again last week with family commitments. I got back to my studio this weekend and I now have many more Jamaican portraits in progress, a series of subway portraits in the works and plans with a collaborator to add some original music tracks to the images I post.

So, please bear with me.

I expect I will be reducing my output to 2-3 paintings per week, rather than one each week day, but the the results will be more satisfying, I hope. I'll be back with a new portrait very shortly.

Always a good idea to sign up for a subscription to the blog -- this means you will receive an email only whene there is NEW material on the blog, with a link to the page. You won't miss a thing!

As they say in Jamaica, soon come , likkle more, walk good or my favorite, "lend me a nanny,
 nuh!"

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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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The Mango Doesn't Fall too Far from the Tree

It wasn't an expensive ring. Not at all. Just right for a ten-year old girl, a small silver band with the carved figure of a turtle at its center. I don't even know if it was real silver.

But that's not the point. The point is it was a gift to my daughter from a classmate. A classmate who was leaving New York City for good, much to her dismay, and gave her two closest friends matching rings for all of them to wear. That's the kind of thing girls do.

My daughter treasured this ring. And she took great care to place it on the bedside table each day when she got ready to take a swim. She wasn't taking any chances of it slipping off her fingers and drifting away in the caribbean sea.

So it was more than disconcerting when she noticed the ring on Natalie's finger.

We'd known Natalie and her little brother Simon for years. Their father, Donald, worked in Negril, and she and Simon were frequent playmates of our girls during our long summer stays. Like many Jamaican families, I'm sure life was a struggle, but their father worked hard and provided for his children.

Still, they were happy to join us for a meal at a beach-side restaurant, Simon was excited to receive a real soccer jersey from the girls' soccer league in NYC, and they both graciously accepted our offers to "take charge of" our beach toys at the end of our summer. We knew the toys might be gone by next year, but that wasn't the point. Why haul them back home to sit in a closet in New York City for nearly a year when these two kids could continue to use them everyday? It was just the right thing to do.

So, you get the picture. We didn't shower these kids with gifts, but we liked them and shared what we could, just like you would with any of your children's playmates.

And when the rain fell, as it often did during midday in the summer,all the kids ran to our cottage to escape and find something else to do to pass the time.We always brought down rainy-day activities just for that purpose - art supplies, dolls, the occasional craft project, that sort of thing. Ours was a good place to hang out when the rain put a halt to swimming.

But when my daughter saw Natalie wearing her ring, it gave her pause. She first made certain that it was indeed her own ring (it was) and she asked Natalie to please remove it and put it back on the table. Natalie obliged, just saying that she thought it was pretty and wanted to see how it looked on her own finger.

Sure, ok. And they continued to play in the cottage until the rain passed. When the sun finally returned, they ran for the beach and jumped back into the sea for a swim. My daughter noticed that Natalie again had possession of her ring. This time it was threaded through the shoulder strap of her bathing suit, bobbing in the water as she swam. Alarmed, my daughter asked Natalie to please give her the ring back. Surprised, as if she'd forgotten she'd even picked up the ring, nevermind taken such pains to thread it through her suit strap, Natalie again obliged, returning the ring. My daughter brought it back up to our cottage for safe keeping and shared with me her concern about Natalie's obvious attraction for it.

It wasn't until the end of the day, when it was time for Natalie and Simon to go home, that the ring finally made it's last appearance. Or, better said, disappearance. Natalie had gone to our cottage to change out of her swimsuit. Alone. My husband let her in, she retreated to the girls' bedroom to change, and quickly ran out, making hasty "good-byes". It wasn't until she and Simon had gone home with their father that we learned the ring had apparently gone with her.

Crestfallen, my daughter recounted to her dad the events of the day, and her certainty that Natalie had finally successfully absconded with her precious momento.

"Hmm, a one likkle teef, eeenh?" mused my husband."Mi talk to her fadda tomorrow." The question was, just what would he say to Donald in the morning? We agreed that the best thing to do was not to accuse Natalie of outright theft. The following morning, my husband spoke with Donald and said only that Natalie had "forgotten" to return a ring that she'd been "permitted" to try on that day and could he please get it back from her?

"Donald a gwan a BEAT 'im, if 'im teenk she one teef," chuckled my husband. Many Jamaican children are raised with an iron fist, physical punishment can be swift and brutal. My husband thought Donald would certainly beat the daylights out of Natalie if he thought she'd stolen something. Best to imply that it was simply an oversight and let Natalie explain herself to her father.

Later that evening, Donald sought out my husband and spoke quietly to him. Yes, he said, Natalie did have the ring. So far so good.

Then Donald smiled and whispered, "So, mi bredda, give me five U.S. dollahs an' you can haff back da ring."

My husband just looked at him. He paused and shook his head.

"Fuh get it, mon," he told Donald. "Keep it." He turned and walked away.

The girls don't play with Natalie and Simon any more..................

The Mango Doesn't Fall Too Far From the Tree
Ink and Watercolor on paper

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Rasta Boy - Painting in Progress- 11"x15"

This is a departure from the usual daily painting portrait. This is a much larger work in progress, based upon an earlier study posted on the blog. Now that the holiday season has descended upon me, I'll be taking a brief respite from the daily 4x6 paintings as I work on pieces for friends and family and commit more time to larger works such as this one.

I'll still be posting something fresh every weekday, but will be mixing up the material for the next couple of weeks. Don't know what the new year will bring but the daily painting blog will continue.............stay tuned!

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The Ubiquitous Marina

I'd never seen one of these before going to Jamaica. You know what I'm talking about: those cotton mesh tank tops with the deep scoop neck. More than any Name Brand, this is sufferah's uniform, a Jamaican phenomenon not even made in Jamaica.

If you're slender and not too tall, the marina will swing low over your booty, nearly engulfing your cargo shorts. Stylin. It's the shirt that's not a shirt when shirts are required.

It's cool. On several levels.

But I particularly appreciate the cool-as-a-christmas-breeze marina when it is paired with tailored woolen trousers. Or wide-wale corduroys. Top off the look with a freshly-polished pair of Clarks your sister sent you fram farrin and you're ready for the ghetto runway.

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My Bodyguard

This is Antsman, one of my bodyguyards. Heh.

Well, at least I didn't realize he was one of my bodyguards until several years later. It didn't occur to me that a 30-year old woman would be assigned a 13-year old bodyguard but I see in hindsight that was the intention. He and his 14-year old cousin Zeelo, stuck to me like glue whenever Peter wasn't around.

I thought it was just because they liked me.

In retrospect, I believe they were under strict orders to:

1. Keep me company,

2. Keep me comfortable and

3. Keep the wolves away

Funny, I enjoyed them immensely and I think they really liked hanging out with me, assignment or not. We were windows into one anothers' worlds. Not too many New Yorkers set up camp in the yard for extended lengths of time, of that I am certain.

Likewise, he and Zeelo were my interpreters for all manner of "flexin'" in the yard. I got the susu and backstory on every character who passed through as well as the origin of their nicknames. They provided me with rudimentary patois lessons and were willing runners to the distant shop for a cold drink or snack -- "I'll buy, you fly" was understood. They were funny and curious and kept me from going crazy during those long, hot afternoons when "nuttin a gwan" in the yard.

Antsman was the quiet, sheepish one while Zeelo was the older, confident leader. They were an inseparable pair in those days but their paths have diverged significantly since.

I think Antsman could have used a bodyguyard of his own.................

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Meeting Miss Una

I checked myself out of the Black River clinic against the advice of the sole doctor in attendance. They had no x-ray equipment and no plans for treating me that day so I wanted out and I wanted to get to an actual hospital.

Or so I thought.

No ambulance service was available so Peter hailed down a local driver who insisted on the incredibly acceptable amount of $5 U.S. to transport me to the hospital in Savanna La Mar, some 40 minutes away. I had a makeshift splint on my leg, a shot of demerol, and delictately-split designer jeans, so we were off. Before we were allowed to depart, the nurse insisted on a $3 U.S. payment for services rendered. Done.

The hospital in Sav was not what I expected. I was wheeled in on a gurney, along a sidewalk lined with what seemed like hundreds of people, all ages and sizes, and all curiously interested in the white woman being wheeled past to the ER entrance. I guess it is human nature to stare down into the face of someone on a gurney as they pass, but it is downright bizarre to be on the receiving end, with stranger after stranger just staring you in the face.

After a long wait, various questions and inspections, I was admitted to the women's surgical ward and ascended to the 2nd floor in a rickety freight elevator. I was to spend the night; there were no x-ray technicians on duty on a Sunday so I would have to wait until morning to get a diagnosis for my shattered right leg.

The ward was large and full, with nearly 50 women occupying the narrow beds. An aisle ran down the center of the building, and there were several clusters of 4 beds on either side, broken up by low dividers. The walls were a bright, gaudy turquoise blue. The windows were not windows at all, but slatted wooden shutters, open to the outside, without screens. Remind me to tell you of the bird which flew in one side and out the other, the next morning.

I saw the bed reserved for me, but it had no sheets. It seems we had to provide our own. As I lay on the gurney by the nurses' station, a cockroach crawled along the guardrail. Hmmm. I wasn't certain that I had improved my situation.

Peter had disappeared briefly after I was admitted and suddenly re-appeared, bearing in one hand a small plastic bag filled with peeled oranges and cut-up pineapple and in the other, a small neat suitcase. Behind him stood a tiny, older woman with a cluster of short braids peeking out from under a turned-backward baseball cap. She wore a delicately flowered short-sleeved shirt, and a dark cotton skirt which hung below her knees. I couldn't see her feet.

"This is my mother."

Oh my. I offered my hand and introduced myself. And she shook it with a shy smile. I was surprised to see that although she had most of her teeth, several were black and rotting. A few had long gone. But Miss Una had packed me some sheets and proceeded to help make my bed. After the orderlies gently moved me from the gurney, I made room for Miss Una to sit near my feet. She gently smoothed the sheets but didn't speak much, except for a single word or two, and only when Debbie or I spoke to her.

Under the circumstances, small talk was virtually impossible. She was inscrutable. I offered her one of the oranges Peter had brought me. We both chomped away on them, it was a good alternative to conversation.

Meeting Miss Una
Ink and watercolor on paper
Purchase a print of this painting here.

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The last in the chair, at the end of the day

And I think this concludes the Amazon series for a while........

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Domino theory in action

Caroline just won those girls over, braid by braid. No sooner was one little girl sauntering through the bush with her new from-foreign-hair-do, then the next sister had plunked herself down on the stool for her turn.

Nary a word was spoken. At least nary a word that could be understood.

But really, what needed to be said?

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The way to a girl's heart...

--- is often through her hair. Just ask any woman who's suffering through a bad hair day.

We were a group of 6 in all:

Myself and my friend, Ali

A married couple from Swizterland, Ursula and Jorg, who spoke very little English and so were just as isolated from the rest of our tourist group as they were from our Brazilian hosts

A twenty-something single woman from England, Alexandra, also known as Ali (source of some confusion), who'd been traveling solo for nearly 5 months

And a pair of twenty-something single women from New Zealand, Caroline and Fiona. They'd been away from home for nearly two and a half years. They alternated between working in whatever country they happened to be in at the moment and then shooting off on a traveling adventure. They'd just arrived in Brazil after living and working odd jobs for five weeks in Venezuela.

And it was the evervescent Caroline who warmed up the girl children in our host home. She whipped our her comb, brush and some colorful hair elastics and was an immediate superstar.

Solange is delighted with the french braid Caroline meticulously created for her.

No, really. I know she's not grinning from ear-to-ear, but, well, I don't think that she grinned form ear-to-ear very often.

She was shy and slow to smile, but delighted nonetheless.........

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No sad stories this morning --

Just a hot cuppa minty tea, while sitting in the shade at Alfred's Ocean Palace.

There's no better place to watch Life's Rich Pageant come strolling by under a Caribbean morning sun,than Alfred's.

Breakfast At Alfred's Ocean Palace
Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Chud, Chud, stop tawk an' siddung Chud

This is Chad.

Tho' to hear the older children call him, it sounds like "Chud". Stop talking and SIT DOWN, Chad.

He is full of beans, as are most little 7-year old boys. He is Shara's little brother -- likkle brudda. Last year's school report said that Chad was "very intelligent, with great potential for high achievement, but he must not miss so many days of school......" Chad is full of questions and answers and funny faces and uncanny observations.

But he cannot always afford lunch money.

Or books.

Or school fees.

Or a pair of shoes and a uniform.

So Chad misses too many days of his public school.

It seems I unconsciously chose a rather "high-key" color palette for this painting of Chad. Almost-electric colors -- perhaps that is because Chad is FULL of ENERGY. He doesn't stop moving nor mugging nor chatting. Not a shy nor sad little boy --- or as they say in patois, one BRIGHT likkle bwoy.

But I caught him in a moment where all of that seemed to hang in the balance.

Chad could end up squandering all of those brilliant qualities because the system requires shoes over curiosity, a uniform over enthusiasm and lunch money over a hunger for knowledge......

"Chud, Chud, Stop Tawk an' Siddung, Chud"
Ink and watercolor on paper. 
Purchase a print of this painting  here.

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Rasta Pickney deh deh...

This is little Ichamar (EYE-kah-mar); he's about 6 years old and lives in a small wooden clapboard house with his father in rural Jamaica. Quite often, just the expression on someone's face will tell me what hues to use when painting their portrait. With Ichamar, I think it's pretty clear that he exuded an air of sadness and melancholy, but tinged with hope.

I never saw Ichamar smile -- " a serious pickney dat", they would say about him in his yard, or "he is a serious child" -- but I think life was just very hard for this beautiful little boy. The boy with the sad face, but the dreadlocks tinted with gold.

"Rasta Pickney Deh Deh"
Ink and watercolor on paper.
Purchase a print of this painting here.

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