Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…


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Cuts and trimmings.


She waited a long time to be framed. It wasn’t until I removed the existing panel to paint on the opposite side, that she had her opening. I did have to trim her ever so slightly, but she was more than willing. And now it’s her time. She’s not more important to me, I loved her from the first paint stroke, but now others perhaps can see her, for all that she is, ruffled and strong, worthy of framing. 

It’s something to be given first hand sight. To watch the becoming of another. I was given that gift with my mother. Of course I loved her from coddled elbow, to grabbing at ankles. From two stepping in her elongated stride. To catching scattered tears in chubby palms. Dancing under the umbrella of her smile. I never imagined that others couldn’t see it. 

She took her cuts and trimmings with a grace that I knew would one day be framed. And I watched her grow into that knowledge herself. I watched the fragile ruffles grow in strength every day. Simply. Beautiful. 

When she first saw this painting, she said, “Oh, I want that blouse.” And in that statement I could hear the confidence of the wearing. She knew she could hold up every curve, with an earned and glorious grace. It was her time. My heart will ever frame.

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My own paper.

She didn’t want to hear it any more than I did years ago, as she was saying, but you have the time to… 

Years ago, still in youth’s comparison, I was complaining about not having the time to do what I wanted, and more so, that other people did, and he said that every person is given the same amount of time each day. 24 hours. Do with them what you will. I imagine I threw in several “yeah, but…”s, to which he simply raised his eyebrows. I let it set in, and got up earlier the next morning. 

This advice has served me well for decades. I suppose it was no different from the “eyes on your own paper” that we heard in grade school. I guess I was just ready to receive it. 

As they say, comparison is the thief of joy. What someone else owns, gets, or does, is really none of your business, and has no effect on you. What determines your day, is simply set before you. 

So I ask myself, what are you going to do with your own paper?  I paint the eyes that smile back at me. No thieves in sight. 

Joy.

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And stuff…

It was his signature phrase. I knew quite early on, if my grandfather began to speak, he would end with, “and stuff…” I assumed it was because he wanted an out. An early exit. He wasn’t a big talker, like Grandma Elsie. It could have been the farm report. The forecast. Last night’s card game recap. A sensitive family matter. They all ended with “and stuff…” 

But that’s the thing. I see it now. It wasn’t an ending. It was his lifeline extended. And if you look it up by definition, these ellipses, they are soft pauses to the continuation. He could see that the story would always live on. And he offered a way to carry it. So I grab ahold of each dot. And begin again. The stories live on, holding, gathering and passing along the most precious stuff. 

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Apron up!

Unlike her delicious pastries, most of my grandma’s ideas outside the kitchen were, as one might say, half-baked.

Even the successes that she served were a little hard to understand. They were given names that I didn’t realize were made up until in later years trying to Google a recipe. And if there were in fact recipes, they were never followed. When asked, she would laugh and puff the flour from hand to aproned belly and say, “Oh, I started in the middle.”

Not really understanding, I still found it unconventionally delightful. As were the chinchillas in the basement. The Publisher’s Clearing house magazines spread across the table. The various plots of land underwater or undeveloped purchased from a roadside gas station. The grab bags from Ben Franklin. The constant thrill of simply playing, neither winning nor losing, just in the game.

In front of my newest sketchbook, I understand. I never start at the first page. I always begin somewhere in the middle — where the pressure is off, only the joy of being in it. I’m trying to allow myself more of that freedom in my day to day. Not worrying about what was or what will be, just allowing, just being… aproning up and dancing in the kitchen.

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Something sweet.

We weren’t allowed to use words like, “But she got…” or “But he gets to…” on my grandparents’ farm. Maybe it wasn’t a rule, but it was certainly ineffective. With 27 grandchildren, Grandma Elsie had neither the time nor inclination to keep track of who got what. So we learned quite early on to not waste our time either, but to celebrate when you did indeed get the last Slo-poke from the Lazy Susan, or the much sought after Sugar Babies. Life wasn’t fair, but it sure was delicious. 

When the two women came to my studio yesterday, their beautiful relationship of mother and daughter floated through our open gate. And to my joyful surprise, (I had been taught well), I didn’t feel jealousy or longing (for hadn’t I been given more than my share with my mother), but I felt truly happy for them. So I floated along. 

I can’t say the lesson came easily. Last to take the spin in the bottom candy cupboard, there were only Black Cows left. I hadn’t yet developed the attraction to the darker covered caramel. Not one to hide any emotion, even then, I suppose it was clearly written on my face. My grandma called me in with her two open arms. I went reluctantly. Not wanting a hug, but something sweet — I was too young to understand the irony of that. I kicked my bumper tennis shoes against the floor and made my way into her aproned embrace. How could I help but smile? Feeling better and letting go, she pulled me in tighter this time, against her pocket. Something square pressed against my face. A box? Was it? My smile turned to surprise, and she pulled out a box of Sugar Babies. 

Last night, in my pocket of something sweet, I spent two glorious dreams with my mother. Life is, in fact, delicious. 

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Swish.

She always wanted to be a dress designer. And but for getting paid as such, she was. 

My mother loved all things fashion. Clothing was an experience — she didn’t have to say it, I knew it from the way she moved in front of the three-way mirrors. I was determined to be part of the reflection. A part of the magic.

As I began to paint, it was what she always noticed first. The ruffle of the blouse. The cut of the pants. The movement of the fabric. And the more she noticed, the more I painted. Her best compliment was, “I want that blouse.” Even a country away, my smile danced between three mirrors. 

Yesterday my friend complimented the woman in my newest painting — “That dress in the painting has such movement, I can almost see and hear it swish. Beautiful. I want that dress. Madewell?”  I’m still smiling. That’s the magic, I suppose, of love, of friendship, to put us all in the dressing room, to shine the light that is the best of us, and continue the dance. Swish!!!!

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Choosing my market.

We went to market yesterday. We bought a few plants and flowers. Bouquet in hand, wearing my mother’s top, they both felt, not like trophies, but certainly signs of my good fortune, as I stepped lightly through the streets of Aix en Provence.

It’s because of her that I held the belief for so long. It wasn’t until last year that I learned (I don’t want to say truth) the alternative meaning to “this little piggy went to market.” From the time she pinched each of my toes with the verse, throughout our days of wandering all of the Dales, it had been about shopping. Never the horrors of the butcher.

Not to say we didn’t live in the truth. Oh, the truth was very apparent and ever near.  But it was more of a decision, I suppose, of choosing how to see the day. How to see this life. Choosing my market.

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Bread and quilts.

It’s more of a joke really, but not untrue. I make the bread so “we’ll feel safe.” There is comfort in the scent that wafts through the house. And I can feel it, like a cartoon hug that wraps around my shoulders. Not to mention the healing power of the toasted breakfast. 

My grandma wasn’t a painter, but she did make quilts. And it’s not lost on me, having them here still, I can feel, not just the warmth they provide, but the hug that wraps my wanting shoulders – shoulders that are the conduit for the heart, and I am saved. 

I didn’t think about it then, mostly because I was given the gift of not having to, but wasn’t she doing the same thing? When she made the quilts, kept the Lazy Susan stacked with candy, bought the individual cereal packs — it was more than just fun, it was our safety net, our assurance that we could count on her. It was the steady of her Thom McCann’s beneath her aproned belly. And we weren’t just safe, we were saved.

Bread is rather sacred here in France. Just as the quilt would be to a Minnesota winter, I suppose. At the breakfast table, I wrap myself in it, this small taste of blessed assurance, with just a hint of blueberry. 

Good morning!

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C’est vivant!

Yesterday he asked me if I enjoyed it more while painting or when the painting was finished. It was a good question. The first time I had been asked. I explained that at the start, it can be difficult, clunky even. This is the process of just getting some paint down. But if you keep at it, I said, one day, “C’est vivant!” — it’s alive! And with that life, things move very quickly. I suppose it’s like reading a really good book, I continued, so eager to get to the finish, but never wanting it to end. 

I recall Sunday afternoons of youth’s winter in Minnesota. In the darkness of 4pm, time crawled. We perched beside the stereo console and listened to the same record again and again, amid her promise that one day things would be so good, time would seem like it was flying. I smiled under the wing of promise. 

I’d like to think I thanked her for those clunky times. For the process. But I’m not sure that I did. I do now, covered in paint and beginning another canvas. Not waiting for the joy of completion, but relishing the paint on my hands and joy’s wind speeding through my hair. It IS alive! And so am I!

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The squirming memory.

There was a time when “hold still” meant something unpleasant was going to happen. A shot from the doctor. A peering dentist. The brushing of tangled hair. Even the application of unwanted socks. 

I can’t say the moment it changed. It could have been gradual. But as with most things that turn with time, it felt sudden. And without my knowledge or permission, I often begin sentences with “Wasn’t I just…” 

And as I struggle to hold still the squirming memories of loves passed, I have to laugh and acknowledge, that I was never one to do it. And in the recognition, I think, maybe we are never meant to stop any of it, but simply keep dancing through. All of it. Partnering with the comfort and the uncomfortable — the warmth of sitting in mother’s lap as she wrestles through the nest of your hair.

Time continues to change meaning and tempo, but love remains, not still, but strong. So I keep dancing…

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