Sunflower Love in Memphis

Sunflowers are blooming in Memphis.  It's an annual tradition for many, especially professional photographers, to visit the fields on the grounds of the AgriCenter International and Shelby Farms. Results of my first visit have been added to my Fine Art America site. Please visit www.veronica-batterson.pixels.com to view high resolution images. Purchases are always appreciated.

Views from the Passenger's Seat

Grizzly mama & three cubs - Alaska 

Early in my marriage, road trips were predominantly the way my husband and I traveled.  Since we made a few moves across country, much of the car journeys involved packing up the kids and seeing family in other states, getting to know the areas in which we settled, and taking advantage of the freedom traveling by car (and mini-van, and SUV) brought us. Fortunately, my husband enjoyed being behind the wheel, and I was content to let him take it.  I prefer looking at the surroundings and absorbing as much as possible (a lot of what I write comes from being able to do this, especially if I’m listening to music). 

As with most things, there are always hiccups that find and surprise you, sort of like potholes as soon as you hit one.  Whether it’s forgetting to pack those extra shoes, remembering something you didn’t do, or taking the wrong exit (we relied on road maps until recently), it jars you.  But it happens to be those little occurrences, memorable or forgettable (depending on the point of view) that add to the trips. While I’m a “it’s time to fill-up even though I still have half a tank” kind of gal, my husband enjoys living life on the edge and sliding in at the gas pumps on that last gasp of fumes, then looking at me with defiant eyes, saying “made it”.   

One particular event many years ago caused neither one of us to speak to each other for quite a while, and that’s hard to do when you’re confined in a moving vehicle for hours on end.  About sixty miles after making a pit stop, I glanced down at my hands and my engagement ring was missing.  Saying I panicked was an understatement, and I remembered taking it off in the ladies’ washroom when we last stopped.  So back we went, retracing those sixty miles.  Once there, I jumped from the car and reached into my pocket for no particular reason.  Facial expressions give much away, and mine were obviously loaded.  “In your pocket?” he asked.  “Yep,” I mumbled, slinking back in.  I don’t remove the rings anymore.  Stone cold silence and a wasted 120 miles will do it.

That incident was brought to mind recently with something similar though.  I thought I’d lost the lens cap to a new (and expensive) camera lens until I remembered “the ring”; panic, worry about retracing steps (in the dark this time around), then the light bulb moment.  Pocket!  The back one this time.  I didn’t even have to tell him, as we continued traveling down the highway.  I smiled a little with relief. 

My camera has caused a few memorable travel incidents.  I wouldn’t have believed one had I not seen the evidence; it will forever be affectionately referred to as “the bird incident”.   On one excursion, I wanted to get a few quick shots of something, so my husband pulled into a parking lot and waited for me.  There is much debate as to who was at fault with this one: me for leaving the car door open, him for looking down at his cell phone.  I suppose that the phone wouldn’t have prevented what came at him, but how was I supposed to know that a seagull wanted to take a ride in the car? I was gone mere minutes, but when I returned I was greeted by my husband, wild eyed, wiping his brow with one hand, while wiping the dashboard with the other.  Fortunately, he had more than one handkerchief; all of the spare napkins in the car were used as well. 

His account of the incident included many words, some of which were: minding his own business, looking at cell phone, foot on brake, swooped in, attacked, never put it in park, accidentally stepped on accelerator, then slammed on brake, choked by seatbelt, Alfred Hitchcock movie, you left the door open, why did you leave the door open, crazed bird, bird blank everywhere, thought I was going to die.  I’m pretty sure profanities were intermixed and woven through these fragments of expressions, too.  Sometimes the bird gods give us laughter, I just regret my camera was turned elsewhere at the time.

We have spent hours on the road trying to find (and succeeding) an obscure cemetery that’s part of a ghost town in the middle of Illinois cornfields so I could write about it; finding and observing wild horses in New Mexico for research (again for my books and photography); breathing wild fire smoke and seeing the devastation it caused; enduring an outlandish stop in Connecticut that my daughter can fondly recount verbatim; fourth of July in Boston (the best city to celebrate the holiday in my opinion); driving over so many mountain passes in this beautiful country (accompanied by colorful commentary from my mouth during these spine-tingling journeys); seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time made me cry (the sheer beauty of it is overwhelming); the same happens whenever I visit the Lincoln Memorial in Washington (even though I’ve seen it numerous times); city lights and urban areas; rural towns and natural settings; desolate terrain and lush beauty; extreme poverty and enormous wealth.  

Sea otter - Glacier Bay National Park - Alaska

Our travels have allowed us to see many things, and it obviously hasn’t always been by the road; planes, trains and automobiles have figured equally.  In May, the views for both of us came via a cruise ship to Alaska that offered some of the most stunning vistas imaginable.  It also provided special glimpses of wildlife in their natural habitat: a grizzly bear and her three cubs wandering along the shore, herds of mountain goats grazing on the slopes, a pod of orcas, humpback whales, sea lions, dolphins, dozens of sea otters (many carrying their babies), bald eagles everywhere and ravens (hearing one screech is rather startling).  

Orcas - Alaska (from the distance I initially thought dolphins)

Visiting Alaska meant one more thing to us: it was an accomplishment.  We have now traveled to all fifty states in this country.  Yes, all of those little side trips, jumping in the car and driving trips, hitting the road and going trips have added up.  I have been asked more than once:  which state is my favorite?  My answer would be: many.  I think it’s easier to answer which states I like the least but I won’t offer that here.  Some have wondered where we’d like to go next.  I’d say seeing things we’ve missed, visiting more national parks, and doing much more international travel.  Of course, revisiting the places we love.

Wherever we head, I’ll have my camera, take my notes for research, daydream, observe, and brace myself for those surprises that make memories.  

 

Rainbows changed and reappeared within minutes - Alaska

June is Slipping By...

The month of June slipped up on me, rushed by and is now ready to usher in what I call "the fireworks"...loud, nightly celebrations that terrify my dog, go on too long and cause me to wish for two consecutive weeks of rain (probably the only thing to keep folks inside). At any rate, I spent some time in Alaska (and the Oregon coast) recently, and I'm slowly adding photos to my Fine Art America and Pixels sites. I'd love for you to take a look.

In addition to wall art, which includes regular prints (framed & unframed), canvas, metal, acrylic, wood and poster prints, also offered are (deep breath): greeting cards, phone cases, throw pillows, duvets, shower curtains, tote bags, round beach towels, yoga mats, fleece blankets, carry-all pouches, bath towels, weekender totes, portable battery chargers, apparel, mugs and spiral notebooks (exhale). All of these feature my art (or art by anyone else on Fine Art America), all with money back guarantees if you aren't satisfied. I'm pretty sure you will be though.

Below are some images I've added, but the higher resolution ones can be viewed on the site, and there's a lot to see. Keep checking in because I'm always adding and there's more to come. Alaska is a beautiful place and I've got plenty. Many thanks for looking at www.veronica-batterson.pixels.com.

It's Too Hot for the Pets Also

I'm not one to understand why people choose to adopt dogs and/or cats, only to make these fur angels live outside. They're part of your family, and wonderful companions, so why aren't they living indoors with you? At any rate, many people choose outdoor living for their pets.  When temperatures soar, as they are now in the Memphis area, those animals should be brought inside where there is air conditioning, and have plenty of water available to them.  If you're hot, they are too. Try putting on a winter coat, hat, gloves and boots, then step outside in 90-plus degree weather. You wouldn't last long.

Be accountable and responsible pet owners. Bring them inside; it's the humane thing to do.

Overcoming Obstacles

Opening a box and seeing some old art supplies prompted this blog post.  For weeks, I’ve thought about it and worked on it: editing, deleting, rewriting, setting it aside, then coming back to it.  I decided not to share several times, but the need to do so wouldn’t leave.  This volley of back and forth indecision is really explanatory of the whole thing; it is controlling.  So, why not?  They say release is good.

In the fall of 1980, I was a naïve eighteen-year-old college freshman attending the largest university in the state.  At the start of the school year, I was clear-eyed and trusting, excited to be away from home and looking forward to meeting new people; studio art was my focus.  By the end of the year, I felt defeated and demoralized due to the actions of a teaching assistant.  One class.  One graduate student.  Unfortunately, I’ve allowed him and my experience with him define too much of who I am today; I haven’t put paint brush to canvas in thirty-eight years.

This student taught the final art class of the term, and the last art class I ever took.  He charged past that invisible line of appropriateness, and I became the statistic that no woman ever wants to be.  My response: I transferred to another school, changed my major, destroyed most of my art work, and never told anyone.  It’s a lonely club to be in, trying to convince yourself you were a victim while fighting the belief that you’ll never deserve anything better.  Perhaps if there had been camera phones and social media back then, I might have had an easier time of getting through it.  At the very least, the odds of finding a support system to give me a little courage would have been greater.  As it was, isolation was where I retreated, and where this has remained until now.

There are times I can’t remember what I ate for lunch the previous day, yet nearly four decades later I remember everything about that teaching assistant.  His full name, where he was from, what he looked like, the intensity of his eyes, the paint under his finger nails, the color of his hair, how he smelled and what he wore.  Timewise, my experience with him was but a miniscule fragment of my life, yet it has been one of the most controlling and emotional barricades I’ve faced.  And I’ve allowed it.  It was easier to push it to the back of my mind than to face it. 

Years later, the difficulty always surfaced whenever I had to enter an art supply store with my younger daughter.  It wasn’t easy wandering the aisles and picking up things she needed for her classes; the inability to focus, feelings of nausea, and melancholia were real, and they hit hard because of something I had no control over.  Occasionally, I would purchase things for myself with the intention of someday “doing something with it”, but that day has yet to come.  I even enrolled in art courses at the university level and through art leagues several times over the years, convincing myself when I did so that I could overcome it. I cancelled all before ever attending.

When my daughters were younger, I wished for them to be fearless.  This had to do with possessing the inner belief in oneself, of allowing confidence to override insecurity; knowing without a doubt that they had the right to attempt, work for, and earn the same things in life as anyone else.  I don’t think I was the best role model, though; I earned a failing grade with that fearless bit, and I’m pretty sure they picked up on it.  How can I expect things of them, when I don’t exhibit the same for myself? 

A positive movement is happening for women, and this in part has emboldened me.  It makes me hopeful, and anxious.  In becoming stronger, I hope women embrace the past, learn how the paths were blazed, and never forget it.  We weren’t just dropped onto this earth, entitled to the rights we enjoy. There were pioneers who paved the way for us.  Nellie Bly.  Alice Paul.  Lucy Burns.  So many others.  Then there are the rest of us, with our own private obstacles to overcome, complete with history that defines us, hinders us and encourages us.  We might not change the world, but we matter, as do our personal stories.

I’ve followed a different artistic path with my photography, books, and short stories, and I’m proud of these things.  But this other thing lingers, so this morning I did something new:  an art supply search on Amazon.  For myself.  Baby steps.

  

Resources for Writers

The next step.  If you're a writer and looking for ways to get your manuscript traditionally published, visit www.writersmarket.com, and www.querytracker.net for the next prompts.  Both provide valuable information regarding literary agents, agencies, genres they accept, their websites, locations and timeframes.  It's important to visit the websites of each agency to make sure the agents aren't closed to submissions, then follow each agency's rules for submissions exactly.  Learn to be patient, and don't take rejections personally.  Remember: a legitimate literary agency does not charge a fee for submitting (it's free).  Best of luck!

New Photos

It's time to push my work a little. I've added more photographs to my Fine Art America and Pixels pages. Full resolution photos of the images below (and more) can be found at www.fineartamerica.com/profiles/veronica-batterson.html, and www.veronica-batterson.pixels.com. Thanks for taking a look and if you make a purchase, please let me know. I appreciate it.

Now, back to writing, outlining the next book, finishing the play and maybe hounding a literary agent or two about Williamsburg Hill.