It’s a good thing when you share your spouse’s particular brand of weirdness. The other night at dinner when my husband described to me a giant tumbleweed he saw on his bike ride home and suggested he might like to go pick it up and photograph it, I didn’t think this was weird at all. My main comments were various suggestions on how we could get it home. “We could drive,” I said. “I don’t think it would fit in the car,” he said. “Could we put it on the top?” I questioned. “That might work,” he replied. In the end, we decided to walk.

It was dark by that time, so the actual size of this tumbleweed remained elusive to me until we were upon it. As we walked alongside the large field this tumbleweed was said to inhabit, I began to make out a giant orb. The plan was for Mike to somehow hoist this mass of viney limbs on his back and carry it the 10 minutes back to our house, while I managed the dog. I wish I had had a camera. The sight reminded me of a Diego Rivera painting, with one of those enormous bundles of flowers on someone’s back. I couldn’t help myself from giggling all the way home. Towards the end, the tumbleweed began to catch on too many trees, so Mike began to drag it. What a sight he must have been to innocent bystanders, walking along the side of the main road with an enormous ball of limbs.

We decided, as we discussed how he would photograph it (he wanted to take it out of its context and create kind of a “studio portrait), that even if the photos didn’t work out, it was a really interesting natural sculpture on its own.

It reminded us of Andy Goldsworthy—such a perfect sphere that it almost looks man-made, or perhaps it is what man would try to create in order to imitate the perfection of nature. We plopped it in our front yard, and it nearly took up the whole space. Mike quickly dragged it to the back yard to try and capture it with the black backdrop of night.

Now, when I look out my office window, I see it sitting there, like a giant guffaw from nature. Even more, it reminds me of Mike, and how I love our brand of weirdness, and I hope we just continue to get more joyful in our weirdness as the years go on.

Check out Mike’s Post on the tumbleweed. Also, Happy Thanksgiving to all of my fellow countrymen.

[in case you didn't know, this is me being silly with the tumbleweed in our back yard]

As the holidays approach, I’ve been working away in my Etsy shop to get all of my art in there. I just added the remaining eight framed originals from my How to Save the World series. I’ve shown these pieces in a couple of local shops, but this is the first time I’ve made these original drawings available online, so I’m pretty excited.

I spent yesterday afternoon searching my house for good lighting to photograph in. As I’ve mentioned before, I think photographing my art is one of the hardest parts of selling online. I’ve begun to realize that the number one thing that makes photos look good is good lighting. Natural filtered sunlight seems to work best.

I live in a duplex that could also be known as a cave, so I have often resorted to going outside to try and get hold of good lighting. This proves difficult when you are trying to show how a drawing will add to someone’s interior. Also, my yard space is not so beautiful—we rent our home, and don’t plan to make this our permanent residence, so we haven’t spent the time and money to beautify the yard.

Complaints about my house aside, I’m pretty happy with the photos I took yesterday. I ended up working in my bedroom with a little folding table as my “set.” I’m getting to the point where photographing the work is becoming even a little fun—big improvement from how I’ve dreaded it in the past. Now, I have the urge to go back and retry many old photos (perhaps even the very recent ones I took of my new miniature white framed drawings), now that I’ve found a lighting sweet-spot in my house. Ah, if only there were more hours in the day!

Here’s a peek at some of my favorite photos from yesterday. All of these pieces are available in this section of my shop, if you’d like to browse.

Eat Well & Slowly

Grow Your Own Food

Try to Understand Other People

Value Your Time More Than Your Money

Although I couldn’t think of something for all of the pieces, I tried to add some other items to the photos. I’ve found that the photos are more interesting if they put the drawing in some sort of context. I am thankful that my artwork scans well because most of the images I put online are just direct scans that are really able to show the artwork itself, but again and again I see and hear people say how important pictures are for selling online. The more good photos, the better. This makes sense because people can’t touch and see the items in person.
Slowly, as with everything, I’m learning how to do this part of my job. It’s a great learning experience, and I’m glad to be having a little fun with it.

Do you have any great tips about photographing artwork? I’d love to hear them! Post them here!

I just wanted to give you all an alternate perspective on yesterday’s post about my hike with Mike (my husband) in Desolation Wilderness this past weekend. My husband started a blog a little while back to chronicle his love for the outdoors (specifically rocks and rock climbing) and photography. His blog is called Inspired Stone, and his most recent post is about our hike.

Although I know there is no way to not be biased, I think he’s a very talented photographer. He is also a scientist (in graduate school right now for Materials Science), so he has this extraordinary combination of scientist and artist (and outdoorsman) that come together quite nicely in photography. Check it out. There is even a very silly picture of me.

The first day of November here in northern California, was a beautiful sunny day, and we thought it called for a hike—so we headed up towards Lake Tahoe for some natural inspiration. My husband (who is an outdoor guru) chose the location: we started out at Wrights Lake in the desolation wilderness and hiked up to two nearby lakes called Grouse Lake and Hemlock Lake.

What a gorgeous day—the temperature was just fine—t-shirt and pants weather with open blue and sunny skies. Perfect for lying on a rock and letting the breeze and sun carry you into a nap (one of my favorite outdoor occupations). The thing I noticed most was the expansive amount of quiet. I live in a pretty small city (Davis, CA), so I can’t complain about big city noise, but I must have needed the quiet because I really felt the luxury of it. Here are a few pictures that unfortunately, don’t really capture the feeling of walking outside in the quiet sunny afternoon, but isn’t that always the way.

I’ve always loved wind—it’s so transporting and sensual. It really fills almost all of your senses—there’s a sound, feeling, visual, and even smell. I would love to make art that somehow captured wind—I think the only way to really do it is with art that addresses at least hearing and touch—like some more contemporary pieces I’ve seen that really create an environment. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to walk into a room that transports you to a breezy summer evening? I imagine it would be dark, and there would be a warm breeze and the smell of some fragrant flower or cut grass. The air would feel a little damp, with the heat of day just lingering.

But maybe these things are best left to reality—why recreate this through art? Perhaps it would push the viewer (or experiencer) to understand what elements are at play, or I suppose just to let themselves be transported and appreciate the feeling. This could get into a much bigger philosophical discussion about the point of any art. I won’t go there, but I was just out trying to photograph the wind, with little success (especially with my silly digital point and shoot that won’t let me adjust shutter speed).

I’m not sure a photograph, or any two-dimensional art could convey the wind, or maybe the whole thing is in the viewer’s mind—if you create a vivid and truthful image or series of words that makes them conjure the moment, then you would have succeeded.

As much as I love traveling and seeing exotic places, there is something to be said for staying in the same place—riding the same stretch of road, walking the same loop—through all seasons. You begin to really notice things.

It was hot here this weekend—100 degrees hot, but this evening, the breeze came in from the coast, like a breath of fresh air. Riding my bike home, appreciating the breeze like I had never felt one before, sitting up, riding no hands (something I just learned to do this winter), I was glad to feel a bit cold.

And then, the clouds started to put on quite a show. I never get tired of looking at clouds, as you may well know if you’ve been reading here for a while.

This furry beast is Lance, my high energy mutt. Some of you may already know Lance (from personal encounters, or from seeing him on this blog), but I will be mentioning him again today as my faithful walking comrade.

In fact, I must now point out that having a dog is the best motivation I’ve ever found for exercising. He is relentless—every afternoon when I get home from work (and even on the weekends) he begins to sigh and stir if I delay taking him out. And so, Lance and I walk (and occasionally run when I’m feeling extremely motivated) every afternoon.

Truthfully, I love to walk—I’m not talking aggressive power walking here, I mean I love to stroll slowly through the neighborhood looking up at trees. Next to writing in my journal, walking is the single best way I’ve found to think and calm down. It is a way of working things out while moving my feet, and being outside really puts things in perspective.

So, I got to thinking the other day, while walking in the fine Spring weather, a light breeze blowing white blossoms down onto the path, what if we all lived our lives from this place–from this calm place of walking slowly in the sunshine on a March afternoon, instead of living from the frantic place of trying to get the next thing done, trying to fit everything in? Wouldn’t our quality of life be so much greater? Wouldn’t it be so much easier to follow our hearts if we took the time to listen?

I know we all live from that place of pureness, at least sometimes, but the thought of living from that place all the time is inspiring and freeing to me. I am thankful to Lance for taking me out every day, so I can find it, at least for a moment. It helps me work my way through life, learning and remembering what matters. In the end, it’s all about sunshine, good company, and calm expansive thoughts.

I was happy to wake up and see sunlight this morning after a rainy last couple of days. I am getting so spoiled here in California—more than three days without sunshine, and I really start to get disappointed.

So, I was ready to take advantage of the weather this morning, and with even more encouragement from my rambunctious canine Lance (who will pace the house, sighing until I take him out), the two of us set out on a run/walk armed with my pocket-size digital camera.

I had no intention of photographing anything in particular, but unsurprisingly, I turned my camera to the clouds.

What is it about the sky and clouds that makes me so captivated? I think I will soon have to ban this word from my blog due to overuse, but the sky is another infinite landscape, and I think I am bound to photograph it my whole life. It is open and expansive and full of possibilities.

I’ve been out and about quite a bit this season, hence the thin number of posts over the last couple weeks. But I took the art on location again this past weekend on a trip back to a former haunt.

I suppose photography is my portable medium. I used to be a lot more serious about it, but lately, I’ve just been taking along a pocket digital camera because I just can’t seem to shake the need to capture things.

Now, I’ve been writing on this blog quite a while, and I can’t quite remember what I have and haven’t said (and am a bit too lazy to search back through all the old posts), but before we lived in Davis, we lived in Bishop, CA, a great little town on the east side of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Many people ask why we would ever have lived in such a place. Only around 3,500 people live there, and driving through, the town looks like little more than a selection of gas stations and fast food restaurants. Well, in as few words as possible, here’s your answer:

Sure, there’s not a lot of nightlife and quite a limited selection of jobs (part of the reason we decided to move-the jobs, not the night life), but quite frequently, I would look up at the mountains and feel knocked over by them. While living there, I also discovered that I love the desert. The tiny plants with their subtle coloring are endlessly beautiful to me, especially when they repeat and repeat and repeat across the valley, leading your eye to the mountains that seem to jut up out of nowhere.

I am endlessly inspired by nature, especially the idea of infinity—the wide open spaces of the desert, the mountains leading your eye up into a vast sky, and the ocean reaching out to the ends of nowhere. I like being able to feel the vastness of things—I think it allows me to get out of my narrow thoughts into something much grander.

More clouds for you today, taken with my Holga, like I talked about in this post. I seem to be obsessed with the sky—this morning, riding my bike to work, there were these two jet streams zooming upwards and crossing in the sky, and I was mesmerized.

Actually, I saw this interesting documentary about the great photographer Alfred Stieglitz, and they mentioned a gorgeous series he did on clouds. They are amazing.

I am putting all of my cloud photos, and other Holga photos of everyday things, in this pretty little album my cousins got me for my birthday last winter.

The album is very fancy—it has heavyweight organic-y paper and wax paper between the pages. I bought some black photo corners to go with the rustic look of the photos.