Painting Sarah

Painting Trees, Painting Flowers, Painting Sarah

Sarah finally celebrates what she paints by instilling how she feels.

Sarah Simoni-Laughton's favorite holidays were obscure ones compared to those who loved the bright, colorful lights of Christmas or the explosive fireworks of the Fourth of July. The theme of her art befitting her favorite season, both of her holidays were a bit more than a week apart in April. They were Earth Day and Arbor Day.

Except for the fictional characters of Robin Hood, who lived in Nottinghamshire's Sherwood Forest, and, perhaps, Rubeus Hagrid from Harry Potter fame, who lived somewhere deep in the enchanted mind of J. K. Rowling, not many people celebrated Earth Day and Arbor Day in the way that Sarah celebrated them. Without parades, lights, and fireworks, without people wishing her happy this day or happy that day, she celebrated them quietly and privately by painting landscapes of the Earth and by painting trees. Ever since she was a little girl she felt a quiet connection to the Earth and that connection inspired her art, so much so that she seldom wore shoes, that is, of course, unless she was walking the dirty city streets.

In tune with nature, it wasn't unusual to find her with her arms outstretched and her head tossed back allowing the cool breeze to float her long, curly hair so much like the loose leaves of fall. While she watched the clouds float by and listened to the gentle rustle of the leaves of the trees, the warm kiss of the sun on her face was one of the things that grounded her. The juxtaposition of the Earth, the moon, the sun, and the stars made her feel so much like the ant that walked across her toes; one infinitesimal part of the whole. Much like an American Indian asking her God to smile down upon her this day, this was the preferred posture she took prior to painting and this was how she focused and connected with the earth to inspire her art.

"I love the feel of the brown, soft earth beneath my feet and the deep, green grass between my toes while staring up at the white, puffy clouds in the big, blue sky," she said smiling and ready to share her love of life with anyone there watching her enjoying nature before setting up her easel in preparation to paint.

An easygoing, happy, free spirit, she was a nice girl. Most artists she knew were moody, volatile, self-absorbed, and angry. They captured so much of their angst in their paintings that their art was too violent for her to enjoy. Unlike Sarah, they weren't very nice people. Generally, they were too angry to paint landscapes and still life or so she thought. Certainly, how can you paint something as beautiful as a flower or a tree if you are so angry with the world?

What was a struggle for them was easy for her. She loved to paint and wasn't tortured by the experience of it before, during or after painting what she saw and what she imagined. Unlike so many struggling artists, she never stared at a blank canvas wondering what to paint and unlike so many artists she knew, she finished every canvas she started.

Imagining trees with angry faces and branches that threatened anyone who passed nearby, she imagined hostile flowers with teeth that bit the shins of those who dared trounce them as they walked. Who would and why would a painter want to paint an angry landscape when nature was so very beautiful? Besides, she'd laugh, she didn't want angry paintings of the beautiful landscapes of the trees and flowers that she painted. Certainly, that would contradict what she was trying to paint and counteract the peacefully happy mood she was intent on instilling in her art.

Yet, even though, oftentimes, angry, emotion filled art is better than nice, emotionless art, because of what she painted, her art didn't require that kind of hostile emotion, or so she thought. Anger was detrimental to her style of painting, she assured herself. Instead, she worked at meditating and remaining calm to clear her mind, focus her energy, and to channel her creativity from her brain to her fingers, before even picking up her paintbrush. She wanted nice paintings and what she lacked in angry emotions and what her paintings lacked in fire and intensity, she more than made up for it with her raw, artistic talent.

She loved painting pretty landscapes with healthy trees and colorful flowers, especially trees. She loved trees. Trees supported live. Trees produced oxygen. Trees gave shade. Trees offered themselves up to make houses and furniture and the paper she used to create her paintings of trees. Inspired as a little girl when having to memorize and recite James Kilmer's poem, Trees, she's had a love affair with trees and has been painting trees ever since.

Trees by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

Equally inspired by the impact that Joyce Kilmer's poem, Trees, made on her, modern times showed the necessity of people to take more of an active role in ecology and conservationism to save and protect the planet. Her art was just as inspired by a stanza she read from Ogden Nash's poem Song of the Open Road that parodied Joyce's famous poem, Trees.

I think that I shall never see A billboard lovely as a tree Indeed, unless the billboards fall, I'll never see a tree at all.

She had hundreds of canvases of trees, of flowers, and of flowers and trees. Everyone who saw her paintings loved her landscapes. Yet, after buying her art, living with it, and staring at it for a while on a daily basis, if there was one common constructive criticism about her work, it was that it lacked movement and motion. It lacked emotion.

Her art didn't shock the viewer by grabbing them, pulling them in, and moving them with the scene. Her artworks weren't paintings that viewers couldn't stop themselves from staring at nor were they paintings that every time the viewers looked at them they noticed and felt something different. That wasn't her intention to paint scenes that were so intense, so moving, and so touching that they hypnotized the viewer making the viewer unable to look away. Her inspiration was to paint calm, relaxing and nice landscapes.

Only, her paintings were stagnant and didn't invoke the curiosity and interest of what else was to the right, to the left, or behind what she painted. Much like a one dimensional photograph taken by an uninspired photographer, her paintings represented a moment in time, a snapshot of what she saw, and nothing more. Imagine Claude Monet's paintings, especially his famous Water Lilies, without movement and without emotion. His ghostly images of trees and the colorful lilies that the shimmering pond water reflected back gave depth to those otherwise flat landscapes that Sarah so enjoyed painting.

That is not to say that her work was not good. It was very good. Her paintings were marketable, as the colors she painted somehow always complimented someone's living room furniture or contrasted someone's grand design plan. Yet, as marketable as her work was, it was unremarkable. Her paintings were much like her. Without provocation, they were nice, too nice to be considered of importance.

The type of person who always saw the glass as half full and who only saw the good in people instead of the bad, her character and how she felt about people and life colored her landscapes, as much as her paintbrush. Painting landscapes relaxed her and made her feel as one with the Earth, yet those emotions of serenity and inner peace were those that came through and derailed her paintings from spectacular to just good. Certainly, her paintings would look great in a bank, a doctor's office, and/or in someone's home. Yet, even though the beautiful scenery she painted was good for her soul and the souls of others, it did little to spark the flame of interest for her to be more noticed. Her paintings didn't stoke the fire she needed to have internally lit inside her for her to be a successfully renowned painter. To take her to the next level, her art needed more agitation to not only set it apart from the others but also to draw the attention necessary to make her work great.

In juxtaposition of the beauty and to the tumultuous turbulence that was the earth, instead of being so complacent and nice, she needed to be more like so many of the angry artists she knew. Before she painted her beautiful landscapes of flowers and trees, she needed to feel the rage that came from the Earth's inner turmoil when it created the lands from the depths of the vast oceans. She needed to enliven her spirit with fire and explosiveness, as would a volcano erupt spewing out lava and an earthquake rumble and breakup the ground from below.

There seething in the background of her mind's eye, much like the dormant volcano ready to erupt at any moment or that threatening earthquake that occasionally rumbled and vented on the Earth's surface from deep down below, is the rage she needed to capture, possess, and to transform her paintings from nice to spectacular. To color her artistic creations with vibrant feelings and the power of pure passion, she needed her strokes to show the sideways rains of a gale force hurricane. She needed her brush to be an extension of the wind of a cyclone to show the power of movement and rage of motion.

Her paintings, as flat as the canvas they were painted on, lacked depth. Not depth of field or depth of perception, they lacked the depth of the behind the scenes and inner thoughts of the artist, combined with the violent mood, that is the backdrop of the earth that she paints so well and that supports all things living that are bad and good, but seldom nice. As a writer must have a back story to ground and develop his or her characters, her paintings needed foreshadowing to make them come alive. Then, once she feels the rage that is the Earth and that explosive environment that is the universe, with those feelings in her mind, in her heart, and in her soul, before she paints with her brush, she can put those feelings aside, let them go, and continue to paint her nice paintings. Much like the masterpieces of the great artists, now her innermost feelings will show through her trees and color her flowers.

Alas, much of the emotion she needed to harness and use to benefit her art came with age and from living life, no doubt. At only 29-years-old, she was still so very young. Obviously, she needed to live and experience more of life. Her life had been too nice for her to feel those emotions she needed to enliven her paintings for the viewer to remember them.

Notwithstanding her talent as an aspiring artist, and typically what colors an aspiring artist for the good or for the bad, Sarah didn't have any money, but she had something more precious than gold. She had Michael, 6, Ashley, 3, her God given talent as a painter, and Domenic, her Maine Coon cat. Domenic loved her children nearly as much as she did. She named him Domenic because she was Italian and she always thought that was a strong name, even though she didn't know anyone named Domenic.

Living up to his Italian name and perceived heritage, Domenic preferred pizza, spaghetti, lasagna, and ravioli with meatball and sausage to canned cat food. He even had a fondness for olives. Playing with them before eating them, rolling them around the floor and swiping at them with his big, dog sized paws, he loved olives.

The size of a Cocker Spaniel, Domenic weighed a hefty 35 pounds and had a disposition as mean as a junk yard dog. Yet, around her and her children, he couldn't be sweeter. Never has she seen a cat so protective of the kids, so much so that she had to leash the cat whenever a stranger ventured near her children. Strangers, especially men, brought out the worst in him. She figured something must have happened to him early in his life.

Domenic was a feral cat and a killer cat that learned early how to hunt to eat. A voracious eater, judging by his weight, he must have been was a successful hunter and killer. When she was painting her landscapes in the hills of Vermont, this strange looking animal appeared from out of nowhere one day. She figured he lived in the abandoned barn that sat in an overgrown field a quarter mile away. Whenever she was there painting, he ambled along content to sit by her side for hours purring and licking his fur while she painted. In conflict to his enormous size, scary appearance, and wild instincts, his gentle nature surprised her.

She found the odd companionship of him soothing and rather enjoyed talking to him as she painted. Knowing he was there by her side somehow relaxed her and helped her to paint better. The wild, untamed nature of him contrasting with the gentle nature of her gave her a more daring brush stroke. He inspired her. He'd stare up at her with his big, green eyes making her feel she was under the watchful and critical eye of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderful, and, in that regard, by the beautiful, lush, and enchanted scenery of the Vermont Hills that she painted, she felt a bit like Alice. Certainly, when she first met Domenic, before she had any kids; thus far, her life had been fairytale like in being able to sell enough of her art in neighboring New York to support herself while pursuing her passion of painting.

Never having seen a Maine Coon cat before, her reaction was the same as everyone's reaction who sees this type of cat for the first time. She was afraid. She didn't know what it was. It was so big and with its wild, puffy and fluffy fur that it appeared even ferociously bigger that it was. Approaching her through the tall grass from a distance with its bushy tail peeking up over the overgrown flora, she thought it was a raccoon, only bigger. Yet, as it neared with its multicolored brown fur, it resembled more a fat, albeit taller beaver. Except for the immense size of it, once she brushed and untangled its matted hair, he was an extraordinarily beautiful cat.

It wasn't until he came right up to her and wrapped himself around her legs purring, that she realized this monster was merely a cat, a giant cat at that. After the third consecutive day of his appearance, with the promise of a rainstorm for the next three days in the forecast, she couldn't bear to leave him out in the elements to fend for himself. She coaxed him in her car with her leftover lunch, pasta with meat sauce, and took him home. That was seven years ago and they've been together ever since. Only, never having had a cat before, she didn't know that he was the one who adopted her and not the other way around.

At the time, having just graduated from art school, young and carefree, at 22-years-old, she thought her life was perfect, especially now that she had Domenic, the perfect, albeit super-sized pet. Mice had a liking for gnawing on the bottoms of her canvases, that is, until the arrival of Domenic to her loft. Consumed by her art, she had no time for anything or anyone else. There was an Earth Day show at the open air market coming up next month and she needed to make ready her paintings to attend the huge fair. She had already paid her deposit and reserved a booth and was hoping to earn enough money to get her through the slow summer time and leave her enough money, until she showed her art at the big holiday fair beginning in November and going on until January.

She was doing what she loved to do. She'd wake up early each morning and make herself some coffee and a light breakfast of toast and strawberry jam before she started painting and before heading off to setup for her art show. Sometimes, she'd forget to eat. Except for momentary bathroom breaks, she could paint twelve hours and when inspired, longer without stopping. Her life, she imagined, couldn't be any better.

It was at the Earth Day show where she first saw him. She was successfully selling her paintings and, as so many customers had that first fateful day, he had walked into her booth. He was as beautiful as one of her paintings. With the sight of him, she wished she had taken as much time and care with her appearance, as she had taken with her artwork.

Dressed in a paint spattered, flowered peasant skirt and a paint spattered, white peasant blouse, as every piece of clothing she possessed was paint spattered, her long, curly brown flowing hair appeared so much like an extension of the leaves of trees she painted. Poised against a man of substance, an iconic symbol of business, greed, power, influence, and industry, suddenly made her feel Bohemian. As much as she laughed at her attraction to him because of their obvious opposite ends of the spectrum, she laughed at her sudden insight because, certainly, in her lifestyle, in her appearance, and in her chosen profession, she was as Bohemian as he was Mister GQ.

He was wearing an expensive suit with a tie that cost more than all that she was wearing, no doubt. She pegged him for a lawyer. Normally, she's attracted to more of the creative types, writers, artists, and musicians. More than his good looks, there was something about him that not only made her notice him but also that made her want to know more about him. Only, she knew someone like him would never be attracted to someone like her.

Notwithstanding their obvious class differences, that didn't stop her from fantasizing about him. He had thick, blonde hair that she imagined running her fingers through before removing his Harry Potter style black, frame eyeglasses and kissing his full, red lips. Catering to his every sexual whim, exploring every part of his manly body with her hands and mouth, his bright blue eyes would make her sacrifice her life for his. Tall and thin with rosy cheeks, she couldn't help but imagine him naked and, being the visualizing artist that she was, she could tell that he had a hard, muscular, and toned body beneath his business suit. Standing there so smartly dressed, he appeared so much like a Ralph Lauren Polo advertisement.

When he was flipping through her canvases, she noticed his long, graceful fingers. His fingers reminded her of the fingers in Michelangelo's painting, "Creation," that he painted of God's fingers touching Adam's fingers and she immediately transposed her fingers with his. Reaching out and touching fingers with one another, imagining the electricity of their first touch, a believer in love at first sight, she imagined this day as the creation of the rest of their lives. Then, sacrilegious in thought, she imagined his long fingers exploring every inch of her naked body and touching her where no man has touched her in so long. Locking herself away in her loft, content to paint day and night, it had been awhile since she had been with a man. She's been so involved with preparing for this show and busy making a living with her art that there hasn't been time for a relationship sexual or otherwise. The only male in her life was Domenic.

His hands were as big as they looked strong. She assumed that he was probably a runner or a rock climber. She imagined them climbing the hills of Vermont together before stopping to have a picnic and before making love at her favorite spot, by the hill that was crowned with the big, old, oak tree she so loved to paint. Only, he'd never be interested in someone like her. She pictured him being with a woman who graduated from Wellesley or Barnard or Bryn Mawr College and who lived a charmed life and having as much idle time as her Daddy had money.

"Hi, I'm Jeffrey," he said interrupting her sexual daydream. When she looked up at him, she couldn't believe he was standing next to her. He was even taller now that he was standing beside her, at 6'2" or 6'3"; he dwarfed her 5'3" frame.