I Got a Bomb Cyclone for my Birthday

In return, I will art-bomb you.

A photo of our pool bubble completely deflated, using Prism app.

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Dear Beautiful Friends,

Let’s take this one stepping stone at a time, yeah?

1. On Tuesday, the day I turned 61, a “bombogenisis,” aka BOMB CYCLONE in civilian terms, hit the Seattle area. Power outages, downed trees, roofs smashed, schools and offices closed. Our house was untouched, our cedars held strong, but limbs and tree parts were scattered all over our suburban island. The streets were streams of green. Nothing disastrous, a bit exciting, a pain in the ass. Worst of all, our pool was out of comish!

2. The morning after I turned 61 was calm, the sun shone through high clouds, there wasn’t a lick of power on the entire island, and there was nothing to do in the skin of my new age but—

3. —sit in front of the fire with stovetop coffee and flip through an artbook I’d placed on a side table, a gift I’d virtually ignored. It was an accordion book called “Kingfisher With Lotus Flower.” I pulled it out of its slipcover…

   

   

   I spent minutes staring into these images. The more I stared, the more beautiful they became.

   “Steve, look,” I held the pages out to my husband, who sat in a chair drinking his coffee, staring into the fire. “Aren’t these colors exquisite? Look at that blue, how sublime it is in this field of blue! Look how it pulses against the red, the delicacy of the drawings. I can’t believe I haven’t seen how beautiful this book is until now. LOOK!”

   
   “Very nice,” he said, in his steady WASP-y way.
   
   I turned the page, to a pair of bird paintings. “Oh wow, wait. Look at this one.” I held the pages two inches from my husband’s face. We’re both farsighted, I should have known better. “Are you really looking at it?”

   

   “Not so close, yes it’s AMAZING.” He pulled his head back, noticed me glaring at him. “What do you want me to do?”
   
   

   
   

4. I stared into the fire and back at the birds. How about you tear off your clothes and run wildly down the green streets yelling to the neighbors, “Hark, there are beautiful colors and exquisite shapes happening on pages of a book held in my wife’s freshly manicured hands, such birdies of beauty let’s exalt, EXALT!”

   

   Chagall, who’s up next.

   Everyone would come running, line up at our front door, and I’d spend the rest of the electricity-free day showing the book to every one of the 24,000 residents. What else was there to do? Steve would stoke the fire and make stove-top cocoa. Every time I went through the book, the birds became more beautiful.

5. That’s what I wanted.

6. And still, it occurred to me how perfect this morning was: to wake up, sit by a fire and let my senses be exalted by art. It felt so RIGHT, like what my animal-body longed for in this digital-addicted world.
   
   ”A Poet With the Wings of a Painter”

7. Let’s move on to Marc Chagall. I’m a big fan. And yet, I use a Chagall book to cover a heating vent in my bedroom. (I like an Arctic bedroom.) On one hand, I’ve put Chagall on the floor, how rude. I also sleep with him every night, how devoted.

   

   The Morning After (the storm).

8. If his art doesn’t scream this fact, Chagall was a vivid dreamer. The artist lived through several wars, and was relentlessly lyrical and swoony, even during cynical post-war times. Check out this art tour of Chagall by Google Art.

9. After the bird book, I picked Chagall off the floor and took him to my fireside viewing table. I turned the pages, took in the prints, read some of the text. “A poet with the wings of a painter.” The slower I turned the pages, the longer I stayed with each painting, the more the images glimmered.

   

   It’s not just the *colors* but how he renders them so lyrically and sensually on the page. You can FEEL them.

   

   Who wore red better: Chagall’s canvases, or my nails?

   Last month, a dream came true, and I went to the Chagall Museum in Nice, France. There’s nothing like seeing great works of art in person and being surprised by how ENORMOUS they are. Do you love giant canvases, too?

   

I’m going through a huge pink phase, which I don’t think I’ll ever surface from. Check out the golden crescents.

It’s Day Three of no power. It’s Day Three of being 61. I’ve been driving around town charging my phone and meeting friends. I’ve been cranky, out of sorts, and then saved by moments of awe. Up at 3 am, reading a strange & seductive novel about a woman who commits to sleeping for an entire year. I wanted that. I exposed myself to very little news, heard lots of generator sounds, walked around in the rain, blue sky; delved into Chagall prints, ate popcorn, wore wet running shoes, snuggled with a sweet husband.

What’s around the corner, who knows. Am I ready for it? Yes, no, who knows. But when I admire the work of a painter like Chagall, he reminds us that we are all MADE for life and living, no matter what the canvas of our experience brings us.

Tell me, how are you? Where are you finding glimmers of beauty and life-worth-living? (And if you’re not, that’s ok too, we don’t force things here at BH.) xo

• Take a Google Arts Tour of Chagall.

If you tap the ❤️ icon at the top or bottom of this post, you’ll make my day and help more people find us.