Pixel Dance

I thought I’d upload a few samples of some recent work. . . Enjoy.

I hadn’t had a mint Tic-Tac in years. I’m not really a mint person (I’m actually addicted to gum, which is weird). But one day last summer, my husband and I decided to pick up a little plastic box of the nostalgic mints. They sat in the drawer for a few weeks, seemingly unimportant, sharing the drawer with extra keys and rubber bands, and a few expired coupons. There they stayed, dormant, unnoticed.

One day, who knows why, I opened the drawer, saw them, and thought, “what the heck.” Deep into a conversation with my husband, I hardly noticed popping the white, smooth oval into my mouth. Until — it hit me. The sensation of the cool mint pressed into my tongue, and suddenly I was no longer in the dining room. I was in an old VW van in small town Wyoming, with my Papaw driving down the two-lane road. I could see his icy white hair, feel the caramel-colored upholstery of the old van, ride with the jerking of that long stick shift. I was a child again.

I grabbed Darryl’s arm, and he looked at me, confused and a bit stunned. What had just happened? What had happened was a taste of my former life. My grandfather was a Baptist preacher, and because he had to talk to so many people, he constantly carried mint Tic-Tacs. The only time I ever had them was when I was with him. And so the sensation of that mint on my tongue enveloped me with the presence of my wonderful grandfather.

He was a great man in everyone’s opinion. A wonderful speaker, kind man, funny and giving. I adored his visits, when he would take us for long walks to old-fashioned soda fountains and baseball games in the park. He would sing us nonsensical stories and make up words like heck-ty-copter and caughphy (coffee). And when he came up the stairs in the morning, he would moan like a spooky ghost, and we would giggle with glee. He would hold my hand on walks in the woods, and we would sing about five little ducks and wonderful West Virginia. And I loved every minute of it.

The beauty of life is that one aroma, a single taste, the color of the sky at a certain time of day, all of these things can connect you to the people you love. No one is really ever gone. No memory ever too far away. On sad days, lonely days, or days when I just don’t feel like anyone sees who I am, all I have to do is taste the truth I know — that life is made up of moments, memories and meaning. Life is people who matter — who stop to show you love, agree with who you are, and bring meaning to the smallest of things.

I long to see my Papaw again, and I look forward to sharing a mint or two with him in heaven. Until then, I can find him any time I need him in that drawer. I guess there was more stored in there than I realized.

I hope you can remember places, fragrances, music, food — things that are yours. I’d love to hear about them.

What is it about the basic things of the earth that bring out the joy in us? Consider the two feet of snow that has just fallen outside. Ask anyone, artist or not, and two feet of snow will create all sorts of wonder. Some will play in it. Some will exercise in it. Some will stare at it. But it is creating life experience in some way or another for virtually everyone.

Snow. Raindrops. Warm breezes. High alpine mountains. Oceans. Sunsets. Dew. They are beautiful. They seem to affect us more than just in their outward beauty. Whatever it is, it gets into us. Moves us. Speaks to us. Calls to us. It separates us from the minutia of life, and draws us to a higher place.

I often think it’s one reason why faith in God used to be more prevalent — people who lived in the middle of nowhere, and connected with the land, the weather, the elements — saw themselves in much better perspective than we do now. They were well aware of how small they were, yet also how vastly miraculous. It seems we’ve disconnected from both ideas.

We are so small. One mountain lion and we’re toast. One cold night in the open and it’s over. The elements remind of us that we are but dust. And they develop a sense of awe, a knowledge of our submission to that which is grander, uncontrollable; master over us. We get to share in its awesomeness, partake of its goodness. Connect with it in our place — insignificant, yet elemental. Part of the beautiful miracle of it all.

And we see in the world a reflection of our beautiful and perfect design. We see the birds fly and the fish swim upstream. We see the trees grow and the rivers meet the sea. We see the balance of the delicate web that is life. And we see our own selves. Our skin, perhaps one of the most brilliant substances ever made — soft, regenerative, sturdy. Our hearts pump a vibrant red liquid full of vitality through our motion-filled bodies. Our vocal chords form the sounds of our thoughts from synapses of energy in our brain. We see. We love. We change. Amazing. Miraculous.

It snows. We breathe. Life goes about living. The earth rotates, spinning through the universe at breakneck speed, but we look around as if nothing’s moving. And we create, as if this isn’t a wondrous event. As if everything in the universe has the ability to create. But other than us, only One creates. Everything else exists within that created realm. We are small. And we are miraculous.

This is a postcard I designed for a client. In the end, we went with an invite and envelope instead, and we used similar artwork with people and cities and rivers. It turned out cool. But this piece seemed too good for the “not used” folder. And it’s got a good story.

This is a photo I took this summer of Autrain Lake in the upper peninsula of Michigan. My family convened for a proverbial summer get-together, since we are strewn across the miles, and rarely do I see my sister and her son. My parents visit here a time or two every year. It’s the place they honeymooned 48 years ago. And they chose it because it is the same lake where my grandparents honeymooned more than 70 years ago. We have disintegrating photos, dusty slides, and ancient 18mm family heirlooms of this lake. Pictures of rows of fish caught and laid out on the shore. Snapshots of grandpa and Alec, the best friend of his life. And the great photo of my dad’s English Setter, Sue, riding at the front of the boat with the wind in her floppy ears, searching the lake and shore for something to point out to dad and grandad.

It’s not just pictures. There’s the story of mom’s first stab at piemaking with wild blueberries. It didn’t go so well, so in the trash the pie went. And when the raccoons found them, mom thought it was a bear fixin’ to eat her for lunch. And the people they know . . . dad knows the children of the children of the children around that lake. And when I was standing with him on the dock, as he looked out on that lake, I saw a hundred years go by in his mind. I wanted to be in there with him. It’s crazy how some of the smallest things in our lives can hold such meaning. For each of us, there’s a lake, or a mountain, or a beachfront. And the stories we tell, the pictures we preserve, have such a melancholy sweetness to them. I wonder where yours is. . .

Well, this postcard is my contribution to the legacy. It’s not old or dusty, but it’s full of meaning and feeling and things that only my little family knows. I hope you enjoy it.