The original concept of this painting came from a photograph I found in a religious text that discussed mysticism and related beliefs. The photograph was composed of a collage of pictures, one of which showed the palm of a hand with astrological signs and tarot card images with the fortune teller in the middle. I focused on the gypsy.
The glow of the crystal ball that illuminated her clothing was what caught my eye. I played up that look to coincide with the power emanating from the crystal ball by making her eyes glow as well. I also changed the color of her clothing, gave her new clothing and added the curtains in the background. The only original material from the photograph was the woman's face and arms.
There are perhaps over thirty different colors in the painting, half of which are in the gypsy's skin. I achieved the glow of the crystal ball shining on the skin by applying thin layers of zinc yellow and white mixed with a glazing medium called "Liquin." Most of the painting's look has been achieved through a careful blending ~f the colors applied.
I've always wanted to paint a gypsy; however, maybe next time, I'll paint one with a little less jewelry! ·
The truck returned, but I was hid alone among the damp weeds
To alleviate their worry
I hurled a flurry
Of sticky mud balls thud, thudding against the metal.
My actions seemed silly, impulsive and dangerous
Like love or leaping from a speeding truck.
Sean Aden Lovelace Knoxville,
Tennessee
THE DEAF COLOSSUS
Look at this deaf colossus joined to me at the liver my monstrous Siamese twin my dream.
What a freak of nature a dying thing sucking a woman dry and she all the while praying for strength as the heart of the twin pumps the last of her into its maw.
Anonymous
Left: THE TRICKLING DOWN OF THE TODDMEISTER
Sherri Bolden, Portsmouth , O hi o
This painting is about a man, a teacher and a friend who has surpassed all of these worldly roles. It is a tribute, really , to one whom will always be thought of with fo ndness. My little girl, Destiny, you see, does not have a fathe r in any real sense of the word, and Todd Reynolds became her pseudo "G odfather ." For her, he has been a big brother, an uncle, a best frie nd and a mentor rolled into one. Todd has pro vided a benefic ial male role model for her during her forma tive years by helping me to teach her right from wrong, to think of others, to give unselfishly, and to delight in the little things in life. The contributions he has made to her life have meant a great deal to me, thus the painting .
Destiny started calling Todd "The Toddmeister'' from the beginning, and the nickname held . I painted the background in cotton-candy colors to represent the innocence and the playfulness of childhood. The han ds reaching skyward represent Destiny--and all of Todd 's students-grasping for knowledge . The drops of know ledge are those he spreads while journeying through his life, as well as the knowledge gained by those who have grabbed hold of those drips.
While I know Destiny and I will never forget our fortuito us meeting with Todd, I wanted to expre ss visually my belief that there are still good people on this earth. They exist even d uring this "me generation," when most of us are so cau ght up in the business of our own lives that we can 't seem to find time to reach out to others.
GRUBBING OUT
I saw a sprite in the woods today, At least as much of a sprite as may be seen through Spring's first sweat And a net of sour gnats singing. Grubbing out those maple sprouts Keeps one bent low, And winter slackened muscles Take a set that makes it hard to bend Or rise (and slow). Just from the corner of my eye I spied her By that thicket of young hemlocks Up above the orchard. I wouldn't straighten up and, Like a French Farmer, crooked As a stump and leaning on his hoe, I Glanced her way. She stood fem-young, green, Relaxed, foresquare Against the sun and wind. She smiled, I guess at me Or what I did. I straightened, Tried to push the pain out of my back, Knew that it would hurt as much To bend once more. I smiled, bent back to my work. If you don't get all the roots They sprout again.
Richard F. Jennings Portsmouth, Ohio
HOME
When you have come to know yourself by this or that place or another you will never leave or you will leave and never again stop moving .
Michael Foster Avondale, Georgia
Left: KATY DAZE
Terri Crothers, Portsmouth, Ohio
Given the right combination of light, film speed and image, one can create a work 1:1?-at is unique. When the shutter snaps at just the precise moment, a once-in-a-lifetime image can be captured. The image becomes a part of one's personal history or, perhaps, it is viewed by the world and made a part of our shared history.
While creating a photo that becomes famous is an exceptional achievement, one's personal work is no less important. The perfect image created in obscurity is just as significant as an award-winning photo. Each frame shot captures the image and circumstances of a moment that will never again repeat itself. With photography, it is possible to immortalize the moment.
Left: THREE LADIES OF GRACE
Sandra Addis, Ports mouth, Ohio
The total look of the three ladies in the great hall puts me in mind of a time gone by . The ladie s suggest for me a time when style and grace were worn like the lace and satin trim that adorned the Spanish ladies in the great hall I have pictured.
The great hall was a haven for these ladies of culture; they walked among the works of art it housed not knowing that they, themselves , were art incarnate .
I painted my "Three Ladies of Grace" in oils. Aside from painting , I am interested in photography and ceramics. Really, I am so very lucky to be able to do the things I love. I thank all the people of Shawnee State University for their support, and I thank God for the ability to practice my art.
PLANTING TREES
The day we saw the helicopter we were out together, that day driving in the car and it rose straight up out of the trees and sat on nothing, on air, puttering slowly across the sky over us and we followed to see why the suspended rope dangling was attached to nothing special but we were together that day, driving, and we turned into the parking lot where the crowd was thinning and the Friend of Trees footnote to friend of trees; lady in the parking lot who told us a tree had just been delivered by air to be planted in celebration, to be planted on anniversary number two-hundred of this grand city and the Friend of Trees gave us her program, saying let me share this with you
Enoch Fannin Springboro, Ohio
THE STREETS OF DOWNTOWN HOUSTON
Hot sun sets over towering skyscrapers. Sights and sounds of the streets of downtown Houston come to life.
Heat and humidity radiate from dirty concrete. The smell of urine reeks from the alcoves of empty storefronts.
Street people choose evening's cuisine from flyinfested garbage barrels.
A woman waits for the bus, gasps as a man takes a drink from a half full carton still dripping with garbage.
Several people holding bus tokens and jingling change stand against a building as if positioned for a lineup.
The crowd laughs when the police van arrives to arrest the man across the street, naked except for his cowboy hat and boots.
A child cries.
An old woman, frightened and tormented, cowers against the building.
Two men on the corner eye the ladies' purses and discuss their next victim as if no one can hear them speak.
Noise, at times, is deafening as sounds of car horns honking and tires squealing emerge from hazy-gray parking garages.
Stench of exhaust fumes and smoke from arriving buses stings eyes and nostrils.
Passengers, appearing more like robots that humans, enter the bus door as if being transported from their daily prison. The last one enters the bus, as the sun ceremoniously dips behind western skyscrapers.
The day is done.
Jennifer L. Moore Portsmouth, Ohio
Right: CURIOSITY: BEHIND THE DOOR
J.R. Tindal, Lucasville, Ohio
• On a calm night with heavenly bodies winking to the universe, he found a small frightened and hungry creature under a parked car. It was a shadowy silhouette of a kitten, and he rescued her.
"Cassiopaea" was the name he gave her, and she brought laughter and friendship into his life. She expresses all the traits of her unique personality with pride, sometimes by seeming a creature from the past or an animal of a foreign culture. She seems to have just emerged, at times, from a deep and wild jungle. At others, she seems an Egyptian statue that has just appeared out of thin air. Just as quickly she transforms herself into the gentlest children's pets.
Lying in the window with the warm sunlight illuminating her back is her favorite past-time. Then she awakens, emerges from her tranquil sleep and peaceful cat dreams, and curiosity takes over her mood. With still sleepy eyes, she ventures into the . yard to explore every newly fallen leaf and flower; the yard is her territory.
An artist would see in the coat she wears the sepia tones of a palette; in her tan, brown and orange fur, a cluster of autumn leaves and the glint of sunlight on summer trees. I see, in the one hundred and sixty-eight black spots that cover her, a flock of crows feasting on a field of ripe wheat. Her eyes are as green as springtime, and the white spot on her chest seems to symbolize winter snow flakes .
Cassiopaea was left in my care whilst my son, Brad, studied in Asia for a year. I have a note book of stories about her that have yet to be written stored out in the cosmos.
KITE FIELD
Golden dragon breaks gem-studded leash escapes into the sun
Bonnie Newton Yuba City, California
FOR GRANDMA
When we went to Grandma's funeral, I had the flu and didn't talk much on the way down
My sister drove her van and took some pictures on the way of the covered bridge and the roadside park where Betty got stung by a bee thirty years ago, on another family trip home
And as a pall-bearer I rode with the coffin in the four wheel drive up the mountain toward that place of peace and the rained grooved ruts refused passage for a while and the vehicle bounced almost over the edge as we hit that hard spot again and again, wheels spinning engine crying and David Ray got out to lighten the load and Jimmy said we'll make it for Grandma and I hung on to that coffin as we bounced, heads bumping the ceiling and said yes, we'll make it for Grandma
Enoch R. Fannin Springboro, Ohio
Left: TIMES OF DESPAIR
Mary Hess, Portsmouth, Ohio
Today is October 2, 1995, and I am sitting in ceramics class. Thanksgiving is fast approaching, so I work steadily on the platter I'm making for my dad's always wonderful turkey. I'm sure he will like it. The clock indicates two O'clock when someone at the door catches my eye. It is my cousin--who also talces classes here--and she is motioning me over her way. I walk to the door to find a second cousin and an uncle waiting. They all have horrible expressions on their faces.
I grow nervous; something bad has happened, but they won't tell me what. I ask again and again, yet nothing. "Tell me what is wrong!" I demand. Then they tell me. "No! Oh, God! No! God, no! No!" I cry.
My older sister, the sister I have grown up with, the sister who always took up for me, my sister is dead. And my father--my father who has always loved and provided for me--is being life flighted to a distant hospital.
"No! No!" My heart pounds; tears are flooding my eyes. I run back into the class room where my friend is sitting. "Leslye, Leslye, Leslye" I cry to my friend. "Leslye is dead! And they are taking my dad, my daddy, he's .... " I fall to the floor of the spinning room sick to my stomach. The faces around me blur as I pray to God to let this not be true. My heart hurts; it has become an empty hole.
At 56 and 23 my father and my sister were killed at a railroad crossing. For me, the pain remains and has found expression in my artwork. Perhaps putting my feelings on canvas will help me to face reality. This work depicts the spiritual, emotional and physical qualities of my struggle. Coping is tough at times, but I feel that fighting the emotional battle I am fighting has made a difference in my artwork--a difference for the better.
LINES FROM LOVERS' LEAP
I neither love nor leap today I shall not take that route of such despair not that I do not love nor want to take a flying leap at times but all at once from here the mind the air are clear the cries forsake my voice I love the view
I've tom myself to get up here and here I stand no tears or vertigo so no thank you old deatharrow I'll take the pathway down
Joyce Odam
A SILENCE
There was a silence between them, a wall that neither wanted,
yet they had built it together, rock upon hard, uncaring rock. And now, from opposite sides of it, he watched his coffee cooling off, she used her fork to turn a cold remnant of fried egg on her plate, quietly examining it like a fine jewel.
Robert L. Brimm
Dayton, Ohio
Right: GREEN GODDESS
David Tindal , Portsmouth, Ohio
I am inspired by many things . Spirituality, Music, History, Magic, Language and Science Fiction are the main influences in my work now.
In painting, the concept and the medium itself allow me to travel to the very center of those things . Exploration of these elements entails researching taboo images and even inquiring into perverse psychologies . Mostly, I think my inspiration comes from worldly beauty, exciting places and interesting people .
I believe the creative process is a supernatural vehicle in communication. You go somewhere; you imagine something. Then you organize your ideas and materials in order to create something that had never existed before you put it here in this world . It's like magic.
Right: SECOND PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH
J .R. Tindal, Lucasville, Ohio
The Second Presbyterian Church, located on the comer of Eighth and Waller streets here in Portsmouth, Ohio, first opened its doors on February 9, 1875.
The old church has undergone many traumas and many changes. On July 18, 1896, for instance, a mysterious explosion blew out many of its windows. In 1910, a temporary tabernacle was erected while the original building was replaced by the current Hummellstone brownstone edifice.
The new church, which is English "Collegiate-Gothic" in design, was dedicated December 3, 1911. The brownstone tower of The Second Presbyterian Church has dominated the skyline of Portsmouth ever since.
The now familiar sound of its bells can be heard every Sunday morning announcing the beginning of services. I find great beauty and majesty in the lines of this church. With its tower reaching into the sky to claim its place there, it seemed a wonderful thing to capture on canvas.
Right: COURTHOUSE CLOUDS
Kendra Arms, Portsmouth, Ohio
This photograph is a "combination print" and is achieved by using two separate negatives to form one picture. There are many ways to make such a print.
When I had decided upon the image I wished to create, I thought it would be impossible to find a room to photograph which would allow the combination to look natural.
Then one day, I just happened to walk in the Portsmouth court house with my father. I knew instantly that I had found the perfect interior space for the picture I had in mind. So, I went home, grabbed my camera, went back and took pictures from a variety of angles so that I could pick the perfect perspective. Taking a picture of clouds wasn't a problem.
With all my pictures laid out in front of me, I began working and, two days later, had what I wanted. The process is quite time consuming and demands accuracy because you are working with negatives. First you have to 1) cover the portion of the print you don't want to develop with a cut piece of matte board, 2) develop the first portion of the print, 3) cover that portion with a matte board cut to fit it, then 4) develop the second area using the second negative.
It is hard and time consuming but worth it when you create an original photograph.
CLOUDS
· • I could lie here on my back and stare up at each of you, roving like albino buffalo across a blue plain. Then several of you gang up to form the face of God, sternly surveying the fallow, ruinous land, ready to blast and pave the new expressway to heaven. A breeze comes, and some of you dress up as centaurs, dragons, oceans, lotus blossoms, winged nudes, a sky full of Rorschachs, dreamscapes and legends, hinting at what I find wrong with the more implacable substances of being.
Alan Jeffries Shadyside, Ohio
THE LAST DAY
As I watched the burning sun set red with rage, the heat from the pavement waved transparent flames between the two of us.
The grasses stood listlessly. The wind did not rush through the now lonely fields. As if breathless, it did not know what to say.
Beads of sweat, (or were they tears?) dripped from my face, as I watched the last sliver slip behind the tree tops.
This too, shall pass. I finally knew what those words meant. Why then, was there no comfort? No blissful peace?
A piece of my soul was buried today . Anonymous
Right: ARBEIT MACHT LEBEN SUSS
(Work Makes Life Sweet)
Marian Fischels, McDermott, Ohio
Happening upon this picture in a National Geographic, I fell in love with the Amish man picking com by hand.
I cropped the photograph in order to capture what I feel is revealed: a deep appreciation for hard work and for the land and its beauty .
Memories of having grown up on a farm in Iowa helped to make creating this painting fun for me. I come from a German family. My dad worked the land his entire life. I miss the farm and miss doing hard work with my hands.
RETURNING
Home from vacation, you unpack everything. The answering machine has messages. As usual, You owe more money. You go through the mail, Resume the paper, and start cutting The grass, first collecting fallen branches That would clog the mower. You pile them for the stove You have not bought, and mow in patterns, Cross-cut. Always, when you leave, However briefly, you alter the tidy land. Night falls as it has fallen, but a little Later, or perhaps much earlier. Rewind A program taped while you were gone. It all Went on. You move in it like a turtle. You call this carapace, its layers Built around you, chitinous with years.
W. Dale Nelson Keedysville, Maryland
LIFEWORK
He wonders what she does each day-his time compressed by crises, faxes, meetings here, hearings there. He forgets to eat until he's home, his sudden hunger stirred by sight of her arranging supper in her way.
He imagines her hours stretched moment by moment: she changes diapers, scrubs floors, does the dirty work of marriage. She lives in slow motion, filing images of childhood, seasons he will never know.
He senses there is more to her, secrets deep in denim pockets, mysteries put up in mason jars. How else to explain the geography of her desk-strewn with glacial mounds of quartz, timbered pine, russet leaves, poems that nest in curved hollows of down.
CathyLentes Middleport, Ohio
Left: TYGER! TYGER! BURNING BRIGHT
Fran Newman, Portsmouth, Ohio
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake, "The Tyger"
I made the cat's ears, eyes and nose of this photogram with cutouts of construction paper. I achieved other effects using feathers, fems, lace and Saran Wrap all glued on tracing paper.
When I saw the finished print, I immediately thought of William Blake's poem. I first read "The Tyger" in a class taught by Betty Hodgden at Shawnee State University.
SOLSTICE
Now the cold light falls full at my front door. Throughout summer and into late autumn a stand of tulip trees east of here have shaded the morning window
Where I stand squinting into the sun toward the trees, toward the road by which you left. You are not there,
You will not be there again. Looking for you is a failure in the comprehension of place, . an error in the ciphering of time.
December's moon glazes the window in silver. The window is a frozen pool etched with the cold yearning of other winters.
Then from the trees comes a fluttering of wings, comes a beating of night wings, an ascendance of shadow, a bending of time as if to say:
With an event of this moment nothing is the same again, It is not the same again forever
In time, with the bending of time, I'll recall how you warmed winter nights, your body cool as moonscape. Now, after all, now after all, it's the heart that sings.
Michael Foster Avondale, Georgia
UNTITLED LIGHT ONE
Steve Skaggs
Wheelersburg, Ohio
This painting was a study in light and in the difference between the shaded glass and the harsh sunlight coming into the room through the open door.
Left: ESCAPE ROUTE
LeeAnn Shultz, West Portsmouth, Ohio
I have always wanted to be an artist. Even as a young girl, I wanted to do it all: to draw, to paint and to write. Now, even though I am in the art program here at Shawnee State University, I do not consider myself an "artist" I do consider myself a creator.
The medium I love is ceramics, but there are limits to what ideas and feelings can be portrayed in clay. Shapes can be created with clay, but the emotion I want to evoke does not always come through. This is why I began painting. Creating images with oils allows me to express my ideas in a way that clay cannot. This difference can be seen in my painting.
I saw this picture in a magazine and felt compelled to put it on canvas. I saw such a peacefulness in the picture that it instantly had a calming effect on my soul. The image reminded me of vacations at the beach. I could hear the water lapping the shore and feel the ocean breeze against my skin.
Although these images could have been cast in clay, I doubt I could have portrayed in clay the feelings I hope to have captured in my painting.
Right: . STONE HOUSE ON ROUTE 40
Tiffany Vincent, Portsmo1,1th, Ohio
It was one of those situations: I'd seen it about 47 times in passing before I decided to stop. Because of the house's uncanny resemblance to my grandmother's old house, I wanted to take a snapshot of it. However, the house was not what it had appeared to be from the road.
I had envisioned an older couple living there with a dog, perhaps, and potted plants and wind chimes on the front porch. In reality, I found a rusty bike, dirt-encrusted plastic FisherPrice toys and various other yard-sale candidates. Next to the house, hung with a basketball hoop, stood an attached garage built in a style that contrasted sharply with the stonework of the house. Luckily for me, the family wasn't at home, and I wasn't asked to leave. Given the scene, I decided to photograph the house from the side. I was forced to move my car to the berm of State Route 40 to avoid including a badly dented 1978 Caprice in the shot.
The hood of my Caprice served as my tripod, and I shot the photograph on 400-speed Ilford Black & White using my dad's old 35mm Minolta camera (the one he always said I would break). I had to dodge the offensive looking porch by using the large tree in the right foreground as a screen, and I had to burn in the touch of sky that shows at the top. I made (and remade) the print in Shawnee State University's excellent photo lab.
THE PARKING LOT
He sits in his Dodge pickup, His bare hands oblivious To the frozen vinyl steering wheel. He watches the others, Co-workers getting into Their cars, vans, pickups Lined up beneath sodium lamps, Some talking but most leaving, Slowly, in a mild state of shock Or a beginning depression.
The announcement came across Scattered loudspeakers like an evil angel When all the machines suddenly stopped, The juice deliberately cut at the source. They were closing down the plant Without any forewarning or rumor.
He felt like a discarded mannequin No power to rebel against the oppression, No voice to cry out his rising anguish, No ability even to determine who to hate. All he could feel was the emptiness. He started his truck, jammed it into gear, And drove through the wooden lot fence. Lowering the snow blade he'd bought last year He plowed through the landscaped bushes on the lawn Leaving a witness, a testimony to his hurt.
K.S.Hardy
Bowling Green, Ohio
Back cover: UNTITLED
Timothy Gampp, Portsmouth, Ohio
I feel, as an artist, that I am inspired by a multiplicity of stimuli-nature, the works of other artists, music, literature and images that develop in my subconscious.
The human figure is the most important element in my work; anytime I stray from the figure, I am eventually pulled back to it.
I believe that my attachment to the figure stems from it being God's ultimate creation. After looking around this -world and seeing the beauty of it, I can say that I am inspired by the ultimate artist.
Usually my work remains untitled because, by not naming it, I allow for more viewer participation. Viewer participation is very important to me, and my art serves as a conduit between me and the viewer.
At this point in my art career, I feel that I, too, am a "work in progress" and am constantly working to hone my skills as a painter and to develop my own language as an artist.
