Weiser Idaho

My grandparents' home sits in state on Pioneer Road in Weiser, Idaho. Aptly named as my grandfather was a true western pioneer who arrived in this country at age 16 at the tail end of the Civil War and eventually became one of Weiser's founding fathers. He built that place for his bride and there they raised their seven daughters, five of whom survived childhood. My mother was the youngest.

Zinnia © Lissa Banks 2017
acrylic on canvas 36" x 24"

I can still remember the smell of hay drifting over the meadows behind the house and the slap of the wooden screen door as I scampered out the kitchen to the garden, barefoot and armed with a salt shaker to gorge on warm, red tomatoes, fresh off the vine. Adjacent to the rows of tomatoes and cucumbers and green beans destined for the cellar shelves to live on as pickles and relish, were beds the length of the house filled with zinnias taller than me, which wasn't that difficult to do, but impressive nonetheless. I'm sure there were other flowers there as well but the zinnias have remained in my soul to this day. I can still feel the sun on my nose as I squinted up at their majesty.

Only now have I had a home where they thrive. They signify so much to me. They are brash and strong and outlast all others that wither to mush in a heavy downpour. They are beautiful chameleons that can't quite decide if they want to be coral or pink so they decide to be both and then fade to a dignified mauve in old age. They endure beyond summer. Beyond autumn into the winter they give up their last seeds to hungry birds that rely on their generosity. I admire their altruism, their strength, their dignity. Last summer they were under assault by ravenous rabbits. Even then they outwitted their enemies and feigned defeat only to reemerge stronger than ever.

It must have taken gumption to come to this country and make one's own way. I can only imagine my grandmother's first impression of the wild west her husband brought her to from her sleepy shire in Scotland. Looking at my sisters and all our children I can see the Fisher strength and determination living on, I hope a little of that trickled down into me. At the very least they gave me a great gift, a deep appreciation for this glorious flower that endures against it all.


    For more about my work follow me on Facebook or visit my website Lissa Banks Paintings to learn how to purchase an original, a print or to commission a painting...or find me on Pinterest. Or you can find this and other this and other prints for sale at FineArtAmerica.com.

Hibernation

I do things a little differently. I hibernate come spring and emerge again in the fall. To my studio, that is. I suppose I just can't resist the urge to create on earth's canvas while the sun shines and the birds sing. It's about this time of the year that I succumb to a different itch, to dig into my boxes full of tubes of paint and rummage around a year's worth of stashed photos of warmer days seeking inspiration.

Hibernation © Lissa Banks 2016

Motivated by guilt that I've long neglected this room, I rearrange the shelves and scrub the floor while mulling the next project.

I can't really say I've been completely useless the past few months. I've pursued my interest in tulips with, I believe, good result. Regardless, I am marked by the lack of new canvases to offer up to show. It's a bit humiliating. Where did the summer go? Did I sleep through it?

As always, I resolve to do better. To paint more quickly, to seek the muse over distraction. I lack discipline, I tell myself. I will do better, turning to self-affirmations to move me forward.

I do have an ambitious project in mind. It will be large and very pink. It will take me back to the summer spent in my garden. The light of the sun will shine through the canvas and warm me as the days grow cold and dark, drawing me out of my summer hibernation.



  For more about my work follow me on Facebook or visit my website Lissa Banks Paintings to learn how to purchase an original, a print or to commission a painting...or find me on Pinterest. Or you can find this and other this and other prints for sale at FineArtAmerica.com.

Little Faces

Philanthropy

A while back my daughter-in-law gently asked me if I might donate a painting commission to my grandson's school's auction. Having been on her side of the philanthropy fence in a past lifetime I said "sure" and that was that.

A few months later I got the email. Suddenly I was filled with trepidation. Commissions are a mixed bag. It's flattering to be chosen. It's an honor to have someone have faith in your work. But it's also fraught with lots of uncertainties. What if the collector is hard to please? What if they insist on a difficult project? What started out as an act of generosity and love began to give me agita. 

We exchanged thoughts on the project. I sent her a long email detailing what I needed in terms of a source photo (or photos) and she sent me a delightful image of four small faces. It was going to be a gift to their grandparents. What's not to love? Then I saw it, the little face at the top, the baby. Oy. Babies are difficult. At least for me.

Nate, Callie, Christopher and Nicholas © Lissa Banks 2016

I am reminded of the muffled guffaws in art history class when viewing even Renaissance images of the baby Jesus. What were they thinking? Hadn't they ever seen a baby? If Leonardo had a hard time with the younger set, what was I going to do? Well, I worked my little tushie off and I had an unknown advantage. When time came for me to meet young Nate, now not such a babe in arms, he had miraculously grown into the little boy I'd painted. Divine Providence had offered a way. 

For those of you who read my blog often (despite my sporadic entries), you'll know I'm a fairly dyed in the wool religious skeptic. But there is little else to explain how beautifully it all turned out except my deep desire to make some strangers happy. Maybe that desire is what kept an angel on my shoulder.

  For more about my work follow me on Facebook or visit my website Lissa Banks Paintings to learn how to purchase an original, a print or to commission a painting...or find me on Pinterest. Or you can find this and other this and other prints for sale at FineArtAmerica.com.

Roots

Despite the snow falling outside on this blizzardy day, I'm thinking back to trips I took with my dad to the garden store; him passionate about plants and gardening, me loving sunshine, mud, worms and such. We would return home with flats of annuals and bags of cow manure and my dad would fill pots with petunias and geraniums. The station wagon would stink for days.

Red Geranium © Lissa Banks 2016

I remember my otherwise upright, Republican, pillar of the community father discovering creeping Charlie (aka glechoma hederacea) at a swanky garden party at an Admiral's home on Coronado Island. He surreptitiously pinched off a stem, hoping to coax some roots. I imagine him stashing his pilfered cutting in his pocket and feeling a little bit guilty at the transgression. As I recall my mother was not amused.

That little bit of green did take root. As my father learned, given the right conditions it really takes off. We had it cascading down walls, crawling through planters, threatening to take over our patio. His experiment was an astounding success. His shame melted into pride.

On spring days when I stroll the gravel paths between flats of annuals dripping with water, I find myself gravitating towards geraniums and petunias. But then I remember that maverick corner in my father's soul that led him to pinch a plant at a party. So I try new things. Sometimes they threaten to take over my garden, sometimes they wither and die. Sometimes they become my new favorite thing.

But always, ever constant are those old favorites, the stately red geraniums, the cheerful marigolds, the fragrant and delicate petunias. I imagine they are earthly reminders of lessons learned in the garden with my father.


  For more about my work follow me on Facebook or visit my website Lissa Banks Paintings to learn how to purchase an original, a print or to commission a painting...or find me on Pinterest. Or you can find this and other this and other prints for sale at FineArtAmerica.com.

Painting is Terrifying

A sage teacher once told the class that you had to be brave to paint. As she passed on that terrifying concept, a loaded palette knife hovered over my painting. No truer words were spoken, I thought, sizing up my next move. Each moment your hand touches the canvas, the clay, the wood, the metal, you risk totally screwing up what, until that very second, you might have been pretty happy with.

There is a certain agony that goes along with the creative process. Unbidden, self-doubt joins me in the studio, freely critiquing my progress (or lack thereof), never holding back a negative opinion. Colors are scrutinized, shapes are criticized, brushstrokes are deemed too tight, too loose.  Focus is lost, meaning becomes foggy. Step by step, lessons, experience, choice and instinct are called into question.

My current project, eventually four pears will emerge on the windowsill.

So when I come to this point in the evolution of a painting I gird myself against this commentary and look for the silver lining. Yeah, I think I'm pretty happy with where I am. It'll do for now. There's a lot yet to do. I can always change course, change colors, start over. Sometimes the cheerleading works, sometimes not and I walk away feeling a failure.

It's a life lesson too, you know, being brave. Living a meaningful life isn't for the faint of heart either. There are choices to be made and, sometimes, bonehead decisions to be reckoned with. And you never quite know how it will all turn out, until it does, or doesn't. We harbor self-doubt and listen to critics whose opinion may or may not be valid. We often make decisions that are self-destructive or hurtful to others. And we suffer the consequences. We don't always have the luxury of a do-over. We can't just paint over our mistakes.

But the sun rises the next day and again we face the shaping of our lives. If we're lucky we can stand back and say we did something right. We can look for a way to shape a new existence or at least better an old one. We can mend relationships, we can mend ourselves. We can learn and grow no matter how much we already know or how big we think we are. Life is like that. But it's sometimes terrifying and courage is almost always something you need to have on your palette.


  For more about my work follow me on Facebook or visit my website Lissa Banks Paintings to learn how to purchase an original, a print or to commission a painting...or find me on Pinterest. Or, you can find prints of my work for sale at FineArtAmerica.com.

Iconography

In college I loved to decipher, or attempt to at least, the symbolism in the paintings we studied. The musical instrument, a cabbage, a recently extinguished candle, the little dog underfoot, a unicorn in the distance, a map of the world, all spoke volumes about the main characters and the drama unfolding in tableau.

We studied paintings depicting the Virgin Mary as the archangel Gabriel tells her of God's plans for her future. In most cases she takes the news pretty well.

Lily Mae © Lissa Banks 2015

In these paintings, there's usually a representation of the holy spirit somewhere, a beam of light, a glowing dove. Often an open book, conveniently turned to Isaiah 7:14 ("therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: the virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son...") which might be why Mary hasn't fainted dead away...she saw it coming. Sometimes there's a vase or another vessel of some sort symbolizing that Mary will carry the yet-to-be-born savior. But perhaps the most common is the lily, symbol of purity.

I remember the day my drift away from religion really picked up speed. Ironically, it was at a church retreat. Searching, like many of us do, for some sort of spiritual ballast, I was attending classes at a local Episcopal church which brought me to the retreat. A small group of us sat on wooden chairs near the altar of a small chapel. The priest confessed to us that he had a hard time swallowing the virgin birth story. I was astounded! This guy? How could this be? The validation I was searching for dissolved faster than the host on my tongue.

Since that day I've come to describe myself as a "cultural Christian" which basically means that I celebrate the holidays and still find my moral compass in the Judeo-Christian tradition. I'm just not that keen on the whole organized stuff. And I'm highly suspicious of a book written by men who claimed God whispered in their ears. I think God, if there is such a being, has a whole lot more to do than ghost write a book for a few carbon units on one of a gazillion flecks of dust blowing through the universe.  But I digress.

When I see a lily I can't help but think of Easter, or of Mary's world being knocked off its axis. But I also can't help but think about the loving touch of a mother and of the sacrifice and servitude that goes along with that territory. I think about a warm and loving woman named Lily Mae -- long, long since gone -- who made my sometimes lonely childhood days a little less so. I can't help but think about the miracle of healing that happens at the kiss on a skinned knee. Lily Mae kissed quite a few.

People turn to the Virgin for intercession, for compassion, to hear their small woes. I talk to my beautiful sisters and the many women who have made my journey lighter by carrying some of my troubles in their pockets. And so, for Lily Mae, and for all of my miraculous sisters who carry on after receiving unwelcome news, whose kisses heal, who persevere, who laugh and stumble and ache and triumph, I dedicate this painting. I love you all.


  For more about my work follow me on Facebook or visit my website Lissa Banks Paintings to learn how to purchase an original, a print or to commission a painting...or find me on Pinterest. Or you can find this and other this and other prints for sale at FineArtAmerica.com.

Mistaken Identity

I thought I knew him

A good friend of mine, a former good friend of mine, someone who I once believed I loved, did something really stupid one day and ended up in federal prison. He told me he took the bribe but it only happened once. He was caught in a trap. His life was upended.

I stood by him. Helped him out. I was furious at his greed and humbled by the quick turn of fortune. I visited him during his incarceration.

The federal prison he was placed in is a minimum security facility out in the middle of nowhere. There are no fences to keep prisoners in as they walk from building to building but if you are stupid enough to try to escape they don't bring you back there. You go somewhere much worse.

Taft is a hard scrapple place. Not much grows unless someone helps it along, a lot. Oil pumps, giant steel grasshoppers, nod to drivers along the road now and then. Trucks blow past tumbleweeds and stir little else. On my way back from visiting him one February morning this sky presented itself. Inspiration, and something good out of a very bad situation.

Taft © Lissa Banks 2013

Lessons learned

The other day I got an email inquiring about this painting. I'm not sure why, but I didn't do my usual "WHOOP" in response. Instead I went for my morning walk and dealt with it later, with a clear head. Maybe I sensed something was afoot.

The buyer wanted to give it to his wife as an anniversary gift. He wanted to know what inspired me. I demurred, saying that the landscape was striking in its starkness, desolation. After I hit send I thought to my self, "nice sell for a romantic gift!"

Over the next few mornings my buyer peppered me with questions about the purchase, which I readily gave. I also noticed that as days went by, his grammar became odd. His punctuation and syntax uneven. Who forgets to capitalize part of his own name? I became suspicious and began investigating fraud. Then came the kicker...he would pay by check and since he was moving to the Philippines his "shipping agent" would contact me to arrange for delivery. A classic scam. They send you a check, which you deposit and the bank initially clears. Buyer has a change of heart and wants his money back which you oblige. Only later the bank finds it's fraudulent and you're out cash.

I declined the sale and pointed out to the gentleman that he was indeed a scammer. No argument there. Never again heard from the guy.

But it struck me that of all paintings to try to scam me on, he chose this one. The one whose genesis was an equally unsavory act. Could he sense the vulnerability I felt as drove down that road? As I bought the lies told to keep me close at hand? Did it reveal me to be the mark that I had once been?

At least this time I saw the con coming.

  For more about my work follow me on Facebook or visit my website Lissa Banks Paintings to learn how to purchase an original, a print or to commission a painting...or find me on Pinterest. Or you can find this and other this and other prints for sale at FineArtAmerica.com.