as individual as you are

Members: LOG IN

Carolyn Weltman Art Blog

Will You Still Love Me?

by CarolynWeltman , January 30, 2010—10:07 AM

Topics: canvas, erotica, loneliness, nudes, oil, solitude, spirituality

I've always hated openings and other social functions and an opening to a solo show has to be the worst. All those people who came to scrutinize my work and surround me with their thoughts and comments.

I understand that its good for me and constructive criticism is always welcome. However, I started painting Will You Still Love Me? the night I came home from one such opening. There must have easily been two hundred people in that small room and I was overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted. I took it out on my canvas, that night painting for six hours before I fell into my bed in the "late" early hours of the morning.

For the next two months, Will You Still Love Me? painted herself. I would look at her and see changes I'm fairly sure I did not make. She grew out of the canvas and took over control of my studio. One of the few paintings that was painted completely without the use of a model. She is about fear and loneliness. She is all about the demands of society.

Now she needs a home.




  Sahnaz ( homepage )

01/10/2013 * 06:22:27

It was a late afternoon in aumutn. One of those days that you could walk outside and smell the rich, smoky haze of burning leaves and the crisp tang of ripening apples and pumpkins with the faint acrid taste of faded roses and earthy mushrooms providing a little depth to the season's perfume.Arabella slowly shuffled down the sidewalk towards her house. She knew that if anyone was watching, they would assume that she was simply an elderly arthritic woman making her way home after a day at the Senior Center. If they only knew , she snorted to herself.The sidewalks on lining either side of Spruce Lane were marble and Arabella was sliding her feet along the marble, marveling at the satiny smoothness under her feet. As a child she had roller skated up and down these sidewalks much to the chagrin of Mrs. Baird who would chase her down to the next block waving a broom and shouting that Arabella was a hoyden, a terror and a bad girl who would come to no good end. Mrs. Baird was the one who had paid to have the marble sidewalks put in but she had been a silly woman if she hadn't thought about the fact that marble was marvelous to roller skate on, and bike on, and draw on with chalk.Arabella loved the sidewalks on Spruce Lane and had vowed that one day she would own them. And now she did. She had, in fact, bought Mrs. Baird's house. It was a small house, tucked back from the road and surrounded by a dense pine woods. It was a pale yellow, a sunwashed color, that seemed to glow even on the dreariest days, although on days like today when the sunlight was watery and weak and storm clouds filled the sky, the house absorbed the light, taking it in, storing it up for the darker days of winter.She loved her house, the lace curtains in the window, the prim front yard. Her house was like she was, private, a little plain at first glance but once she let anyone inside, then it was a completely different landscape. The backyard ran riotous as English Garden flowers competed with masses of wildflowers that crowded the herbs and vegetables that tried to climb up the fruit trees. Where there was no room to plant things in the ground she had hung pots and stacked containers full of every flower, herb or vegetable that was known to grow in a Northwest Pacific zone and a few that weren't supposed to.She turned up the front walk of Number 3 Spruce Lane, home again. She opened her door, and set her shopping bag inside on the deacon's bench and stooped to pick up the mail from the floor. As soon as she had opened the door, she heard the harsh haw behind her. She looked at the clock over on the wall. 4:15 p.m. She had to give him that, he was always on time. She knew that she had 15 minutes and there would be 200 crows clamoring for their supper.But this one, she knew him. One day in the early summer she had turned up Spruce Lane and had been greeted by a deafening roar as every crow in the state seemed to be lining the telephone lines, roof tops and fences. As she hurried towards her house wondering what had upset them so much, she saw why they were upset. A young crow had somehow landed on the fence, not gotten a firm perch and had slide down so his neck was caught between two fence palings. He had been beating his wings against the fence and scrabbling with his claws because there were gouges in the wood and blood on the paint.When she saw him and ran towards him, the crows, who had been screaming bloody murder suddenly as one voice stopped. The silence was eerier than the screaming had been. She could see that he had exhausted himself and was simply hanging there. Even though he was young, he was still a large bird and he had a strong looking beak but Arabella knew that the crows were expecting her to do something. After all, wasn't she the one that had fed them through the harshest winter in 20 years? 40 pounds of cat food a week as well as scraps from the butcher and leftover vegetables from the school cafeteria where she worked as librarian.So Arabella had walked slowly up to him, talking nonsense in as soothing a voice as she could. Then taking off the scarf from her head, she wrapped it around his wings. There was nothing to be done but just do it and she reached over the other side of the fence and putting her hand just under that hard black beak, she very carefully lifted him up, one hand under his head, the other under his body by his claws. He did not struggle. It still amazed her that he had known that she was trying to help.After she had lifted him free, she carried him around to the back deck, with what seemed like 450 crows silently following them. She had placed him on the wooden deck and unwrapped the scarf. She wasn't sure what to do next. She thought that if she took him inside or tried to take him to the vets there would be a re-enactment of The Birds, and she looked nothing like Tippy Hedren and hopefully crows were smarter than sea gulls. After a minute of sitting there, another crow flew down to him, from the soft quarking that it was crooning, Arabella thought it might be one of his parents. After the other crow had smoothed a few of his feathers and talked to him, they suddenly both flew up onto the roof.But after that, he would come sit on the ground while she was working in her garden and every afternoon he always showed up 15 minutes earlier than the others. Sometimes he would talk to her, a couple of times he had dropped leaves and once a shiny pebble on her. Arabella just figured that it was his way of saying thank you and that she was now a member of the family. And sometimes she tossed peanuts or other tasty tidbits back at him.As she closed the front door into her private world, she heard the sound of a murder in her backyard. And again, for the bzillioneth time she thought how much she loved her little home on Spruce Lane.


  Robert VanNatta ( homepage )

02/20/2010 * 17:57:20

This can make for some wonderful art when we are moved by life

What Do You Think? Leave a comment!

Code Check

Verification — Please type in the code you see in the image above. This helps us defeat automated programs that try to post "comment spam" (unwanted advertisements).