ANGELS & SAINTS
By Laura Stamps
 

Mid-January, and drizzle paints the day the color of dust, while crows fuss in the street, yapping at the cold like drenched little dogs, as if their prickled tune could smudge the sky from gray to blue.  

* * *

Even though I adore the pungent fragrance of linseed and turpentine, it is only during the cold winter months, from December through March, that I work in oil.  This is the perfect season for painting large oil commissions, a time when the high humidity in the midlands of South Carolina is no match for the dry heat circulating throughout the studio.  

Unfortunately, the air-conditioner does not extract moisture from the atmosphere in the same arid fashion.  If it were so, I’d create far fewer acrylic paintings, and our damp bath towels, rolled over the shower rod every morning, wouldn’t require twenty-four hours to dry in June.

This is the week planned for Candie Suskin’s commission, a large wrapped canvas in oil.  After the completion of that piece, my schedule opens in February and March.  Two precious months set aside specifically for creating the large oils in my new Angels & Saints series, a mystical suite of thirty paintings in various sizes for a solo exhibition at my Santa Fe gallery in September.  

Anticipation rattles me.  Ideas for this series have been circulating through my mind for weeks.  Anxious to complete the last of these commissions, I yearn to surrender fully to this new project, as if I were a bumblebee succumbing at last to the honeyed rapture of a summer zinnia.

Candie’s piece was originally scheduled for February.  But my plans changed abruptly two weeks ago when a large commission for a new office complex was slashed from the budget.  The interior designer grumbled something about new management, an unpopular takeover at corporate headquarters.  She was furious.

The practical side of me pales at the loss of income from that four-painting commission.  Yet my imagination whirls with joy at the prospect of beginning the Santa Fe series a month earlier.

Candie’s project is not a complicated one, a visual voyage of merely a week or two.  The painting should proceed smoothly, since I’ve been toying with its design for months.  

This will be a large oil, created in the same size and palette as a painting she purchased from me last spring.  Candie and her husband built a new home in August, and the formal living room is monstrous, dwarfing the older painting.  Thus, the need for another to span the new space, as if both pieces had been painted as a pair to complement each other.

Every painting is photographed before it leaves the studio, whether it is a commissioned piece or awaiting shipment to a gallery.  I pull both a slide and a photograph of Candie’s older painting from my file for reference.  The photograph is clipped to the easel, while the slide will remain in a projector for more detailed studies.

Two cats burst through the studio door, skitter around a gessoed canvas, and leap into their favorite chair: my adventurous cat howls like a jaguar at the youngest one, as he nips at her tail.  The oldest cat follows at a leisurely pace, ignoring the ruckus, her tapered nails clicking across the floor as if she were petalled with stiletto heels.  

Once all three sink sleepily into the plush of the chair, my focus returns to the blank canvas, perceiving only what an abstract artist must see—the perfect union of color and form flickering like a firefly in a candescent vision.

I drag my brush through a puddle of freshly mixed alizarin crimson.  Time to begin.

* * *

My middle name is Angel.  

It’s a compromise, a shortened form of Angelina, my grandmother’s name.  It is also a gift carrying a mystical blessing. 

Who could’ve imagined that my mother and grandmother would battle for months over a name?  But they did.  Both strong-willed Italian women, they might have continued their spat for years, if my father, who is not Italian, hadn’t interceded with his smooth Southern accent and gentlemanly manner.

My mother named me Mirabella, because it sounds like “miracle.”  That year, 1955, my parents were confirmed beatniks, who later blossomed into bona fide hippies at the dawn of flower power and the Age of Aquarius.  Miracle was a word they earnestly embraced.

Mother thought my first name should be Italian to honor her contribution to my ancestral heritage.  However, my father, Clayton Saunders, descends from a long line of Southern Baptists, the red clay of Augusta, Georgia, caked to the soles of his shoes.  She felt my middle name should reflect the twang of Dixieland to balance the cultural mix.

But grandmother had other ideas.  A devout Catholic, she firmly believed her angelic name was anointed with divine protection, and she insisted her granddaughter inherit this same heavenly blessing.  She quarreled that my middle name should be Angelina.  And she would not waver.

Since Angelina is an Italian name, my mother refused to consider it.  Instead, she began composing a list of Southern names on a sheet of notebook paper.  She would wrench the list from her pocket, flapping it at my grandmother every time the topic reared its explosive head, reciting her litany of Southern names—Savannah, Rose, Belinda, Crystal, Oleatha, Dolly, Maylene, Beatrice, Tammy, Eula, Sherrie, Ruby, Charlene…

Back and forth the women argued, neither yielding, until my mother’s due date approached, and Clayton hastily proposed the name Angel, which sounds like Angelina, but isn’t Italian.  This compromise pleased grandmother, but my mother wouldn’t agree, until he produced an old family album with a yellowed photograph of a distant cousin, Angel May Saunders.

Satisfied with documentation, my mother conceded, dramatically crumpling her baby names list and tossing it at the fireplace.  She missed, but the following day I was born Mirabella Angel Saunders.

I can just imagine how the angels must have sprinkled their glittering robes with glee, knowing my stubbornly devout grandmother would prevail, and they would have another earthly Angel to favor.  

At least, I like to think it happened that way. 

* * *

Wassily Kandinsky is my favorite abstract artist, and has been since those early art history classes in college, where I sipped the seductive nectar of nonrepresentational art for the first time.  Thirty years later, abstraction’s passionate face still bedazzles me, every corner of my intellect spellbound by its compositional possibilities.  

Kandinsky’s artistic genius was so magnificent that it is not surprising he is considered the creator of abstract art.  Since college, Kandinsky’s work has been a standard of excellence I compare to my own, a brilliant goal I strive to attain with each painting.  But now he is also my spiritual mentor, a man whose artistic aspirations merged seamlessly with his desire to capture the divine presence in a dance of paint and ink.

Last week, when browsing at the bookstore, I discovered a wall calendar of Kandinsky’s paintings.  I had to have it, and now it hangs in the studio as a constant reminder of his powerful presence in my life.

One painting, in particular, haunts me.  And I never tire of studying it.  In Mild Happening, an oil painted in 1928, every shape and form is illuminated with seeded strokes of cadmium yellow, as if Kandinsky were illustrating how the Spirit shimmers beyond the tall fences of the body.  The photograph of this painting is superb, highlighting each brushstroke, providing a detailed study of the artist’s painterly technique.

Once again, I am awestruck by my Spirit’s nimble guidance.  At the perfect time, the heavenlies opened my eyes to a spiritual painting like Mild Happening, each abstract object prancing to a mystical beat, bathed in the light of the divine.  

Is this a sign that I should knit Kandinsky’s illuminating technique throughout my Angels & Saints series?  A quivering, deep in the silty leaves of my heart, whispers to me constantly, predicting these new paintings will blossom as landmarks in my artistic career.  These murmurings thrum fervently, day and night, as if churning from the winding river of God.

Surely, this must be a sign.

* * *

Three hours later, after blocking in the major color areas and sketching an intuitive pattern for the design of Candie’s commission, I step back to survey the canvas, stripping the soiled plastic gloves from my hands.  

Candie will be pleased.  This painting will not only complement the one she purchased from me last year, but will also shine as a unique creation, another addition to her art collection that should increase in value every year.

I close my eyes and groan at the thought of value.  It’s a subject I’ve been avoiding lately.  

Value reminds me of my yearly price increase.  Traditionally, my prices increase several hundred dollars every year on the first day of January.  But here it is the middle of the month, and I haven’t calculated an increase for this year.  

The truth is I’m afraid to increase prices.  For six months sales have been sluggish at two of my galleries, and corporate purchases are decreasing sharply.

Whenever I concentrate on a price increase, icicles of fear paralyze me, trembling my thoughts, rendering all planning efforts fruitless.  I wobble from one extreme to the other: the possibility of pricing my work out of the market is shivering, yet I know the work must increase in value.  If I bounce on this maddening seesaw too long, the process tosses the thorny cloak of depression over my shoulders.  So I’ve been avoiding the issue.

But it must be settled.  And soon.  

Each year my collectors depend on a price increase for the value it adds to the paintings in their collections.  Still, a price increase might discourage new collectors, and may have a negative impact on gallery sales.  These factors will certainly affect my income this year, which has already been hobbled by the loss of the San Francisco gallery.

Back and forth the debate rages in my mind, like the long arms of a willow thrashing in a summer storm.  It’s exhausting.

Discounting is another problem.  Lately, consumers expect discounts—the lower the price, the more likely a product will sell.  My paintings are expensive.  Another price increase would only compound the issue.

Enough, I say, attempting to end this mental trauma, feeling as if I’ve been hacking a path through the dark purse of the jungle.

My youngest cat opens his eyes, squinting with irritation at my sudden outburst.  Then he stretches, folding into a nap on the windowsill, his paws twitching as he eagerly returns to the sunny fields of dreamtime.

I scrape the last puddle of cadmium orange from my palette and smile.  I have always preferred cool colors like green, violet, blue, fuchsia.  But Candie adores torrid hues: oranges, yellows, reds.  Her home is draped in every sizzling shade on the market, from harvest gold to burnt sienna to brilliant orange.  Somehow she threads these colors throughout like a master weaver, her home glowing with the warmth of sophisticated fabrics, furniture, and accessories.

Candie’s color scheme also reflects her good humor.  In fact, I’ve rarely seen her depressed or worried.  She reminds me of my friend from college, Leanne Gervais, the one I call the Angel of Kindness.

Once, when Leanne and I were eating lunch at the mall, I asked about her perpetual bliss, this constant cheerfulness wrapping her days like the radiant robes of the saints.

My secret is gratitude, she said, her eyes twinkling at my pita sandwich suspended in mid-bite.

I don’t understand, I mumbled, staggered by her response.

When the nettled head of fear sinks its gritty teeth into her mood, Leanne told me she quickly assembles a list of every blessing she can recall, large or small, any will do.

A gratitude list never fails, she said.

I pull a clump of paper towels from the dispenser to dry my hands.  A gratitude list.  It’s been years since Leanne told me this story, and I’ve never tested her strategy.  

But now may not be the time.  The sticky web of depression descended so rapidly today, like morning fog dogging the heels of a warm front, that I cannot remember a single blessing, my agonizing thoughts swirling aimlessly in the dreadful sinkhole of a price increase.  

I don’t know where to begin.

Suddenly, my youngest cat jerks in the midst of a dream, rolls from the window, and plops to the floor—a puddle of black fur, dazed, and sure some unseen goblin has nudged him from sleep.  As he laps his ruffled coat, I laugh, momentarily inspired to give thanks for the comedy of cats.

I am grateful for these cats and their silly antics, I say, lifting him up to pool in my arms.

I am grateful for violet and turquoise and fuchsia paint, I whisper, as he blinks himself to sleep, pressing against my shoulder.

I am grateful for sunflowers and gerbera daisies.

I am grateful for the power company, the sturdy hoses on the washing machine and dishwasher, the vacuum cleaner’s new belt, and the reliability of the water heater purring beneath the house.

Leanne was right.  The list is endless.  As soon as I express gratitude for one aspect of my life, other blessings flitter effortlessly to mind, braiding a never-ending trail of good cheer.  

What a clever trick for chasing away the blues.  More than a trick, it bears the unmistakable mark of heaven.  

New Year’s resolutions have always seemed as vaporous to me as the bubbled melody of a thrush at evensong.  But this is a vow I must take, an invitation to participate in a spiritual law designed to soothe the frazzled soul.  How could I refuse?  

Beginning today, I shall recite a gratitude list every night before surrendering to the balmy syrup of sleep, a mahogany river of joy I will drift upon, as if I were my youngest cat basking in a sunny window, far from fear’s prickly face and the curdled shadows of worry.

Once more, Leanne has cast the glitter-dance of kindness by releasing this heavenly recipe for peace, hoping I would receive it.  It is a tragedy that I waited so long to appreciate her gift.  But she will be thrilled when I call to thank her.

And I should also offer a prayer of gratitude to my grandmother, who watches over me from her home in the heavenlies.

She was right.  There must be a special anointing on my life, for truly my days are laced with the grace of angels.
 

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LAURA STAMPS grew up in the mountains of north Georgia and is an award-winning poet and writer.  Over four hundred of her short stories, poems, and poetry book reviews have appeared in literary journals, magazines, anthologies, and broadsides.  She is the author of more than twenty books of prose and poetry.  Her latest book is a novel "Evergreen" (2003, Kittyfeather Press).  More information about books by Laura Stamps can be found at www.kittyfeatherpress.blogspot.com.