All summer long we’ve been enjoying the hummingbirds that have been coming to the hummingbird feeder. At any given time we seem to have at least two birds vying for the chosen spot, and the bigger one will sit on top of the shepherd’s hook and chase the other away. For a long time it was a chunky male (if hummingbirds can be called chunky) with a copper-colored throat, but recently we’ve had two female ruby-throats as regulars. One is a slim little bird who gets chased away by her larger competitor, but she still manages to sneak her way onto a perch and have some nectar. I didn’t see much of them this past week, but they are back today, even though it’s been raining steadily. The larger one sits on top of the hook and is quite damp and ruffled, both literally and figuratively. For such tiny creatures, they can manage to look quite fierce.
They don’t seem to mind the fact that they’re watched by both humans and interested cats, and will occasionally hover right in front of the window, as though they’re watching us too. It’s possible to stand there and see them up close, with their minute feathers and impossibly tiny feet, and as they sit still they seem to almost vibrate with suppressed energy. I have a hard time imagining them making the long migratory flight to southern Mexico or Costa Rica, which they’ll probably embark on any day now. I wish I could keep them indoors all winter long, and have them buzz about and brighten the long winter days. (The cats wouldn’t have a moment of peace.) But they have to continue their journey, and I hope that next spring they remember us and return to our sheltered spot.
My family and I recently returned from a week in Estes Park, Colorado, home to Rocky Mountain National Park and one of our favorite places to visit. My husband and I love to hike, and we did five good hikes, or a total of about 30 miles of trail. The number of miles walked is a way to quantify it, but I like to think of the things experienced along the way as a bigger part of the adventure.
The mountains received so much snow this past winter that the streams and rivers were higher and faster due to the amount of snowmelt coursing down the mountainsides. My favorite hike was to Black Lake, a place we’d never been before. The trail climbed to Mills Lake (a popular destination) but then continued on through wetlands and a beautiful forested area where you might fully expect to find fairies among the ferns and moss. The trail grew wetter and wetter until we were finally met with snow, and had to find our footing in the slush as we kept ascending in the direction of the lake. (It was a little surreal to be hiking in a T-shirt, in a snowbank, without being cold). Luckily there were a few people ahead of us, so were able to follow their tracks. At last we came up over a rise and there was the lake, dwarfed by massive piles of rock and glaciers coming right down to the water’s edge. A cold wind was blowing across the water, and then it was time to put on a fleece.
This year for the first time we saw sage grouse with their chicks (three times) and encountered a few mule deer along the trail. We met someone later in the week who had seen a bear at Ouzel Falls, where we’d hiked before getting caught in the thunderstorm. We’ve never seen a bear or mountain lion at RMNP, but are just as content (maybe more so!) with all the small wildlife and the flowers we find along the way. For a nature artist and her science-loving husband, it’s the best place to be.
Artists are always happy to sell a work of art. A sale is a sale, right? Well yes, but I think there’s more to it than that. As an artist I create things that I enjoy, and then I hope to find the right people who enjoy them too, enough to purchase them. Creating art is a very personal thing; artists put so much of themselves into their work, and that drawing/painting/sculpture etc. in essence contains a piece of their soul. That may sound a bit dramatic, but I know that I have paintings I’ve created that I become very attached to. For example, I keep all of the paintings from my ongoing Luna Cat series, simply because it’s very personal work. (There was one early painting from the series that I did sell, and I regret it now.) But even though I form this attachment with my work, I know I need to part with it at some point, and it’s important to me that the pieces go to a “good home” so to speak. I want to know that they’re appreciated and cared for, and I imagine most artists feel the same way.
On the last day of the event a woman visited my booth to look at this series of paintings, and she was disappointed to find that two out of the three were sold. But she bought the last remaining piece, along with the last two prints I had of the other works. In that way she could own the whole series, even though they weren’t all originals. She asked me to sign the backs of all three, because she said she always liked artists to do that when she bought their work.
I also like to learn about the people I sell my work to, because it makes the whole experience just that more meaningful. I may not always meet or get to know every customer, but I enjoy talking with them when there’s the opportunity, learning a little about their background or interests, and finding out why they respond to a particular work. Sometimes I find that we have a lot in common. In talking with Elaine (the person who bought the Prairie paintings) she told me that whenever she buys original artwork, she thinks about who she might bequeath it to, because she wants to make sure it goes to someone who will enjoy and value it. What more could an artist ask for?
