​For two weeks, I spend my solitary days exploring, swimming, building shrines and painting. Millions of stars blanket my night skies. As a resplendent gibbous moon grows full, soft nocturnal sounds lullaby my sleeping until the night I wake to a cacophony of raucous, laughing voices and gunshots echoing through the darkness.

​Pulling on jeans, quietly toward the mayhem I creep to find a glowing camp fire dancing orange reflections off ruddy faces. Round and round jugs are passed by tilting young men as they swap tales and tell lies punctuating the treetops with pistols firing each time a good whopper is shared. Boys having a good ole time! You gotta love ’em—even in the middle of the night!
 
In the morning, wisdom suggests I make my presence known to quieter neighbors, if I can find any. I do. I discover Mary and Jimmy set up beside a cove—their annual secret spot. They’re surprised when they learn I’m camped out alone in these parts.
 
We take a liking to each other. For the remainder of my sojourn we share evening meals of hot dogs, potato chips, moon pies and contributions from my “healthy” supplies. Turns out, Mary checks at their village grocery. Jimmy builds high-up roads with twisting curves when he’s not at his still or running moonshine or away from the revenuers. Making good money on the road crew and on his jugs, he’s only been to jail twice, when he didn’t run fast enough.
 
We celebrate our friendship with a last night moonlight ride in their mildewy white boat. Jimmy puts his pistol on the dash. Mary puts hers up there, too. They look at me for mine and are appalled to discover I’m not packin’. We have a lovely boat ride anyway. Next day I walk five miles out of the woods to my pickup point. Brooklyn feels a little boring when I get back!
 
I need to drop Mary and Jimmy a line (we exchanged addresses) to tell them I’m properly prepared for another boat ride. My new artist-musician friend has kitted me out with a pistol—a really awesome air gun.  I haven’t a clue how to shoot this, but at least I can say I’m now packin’.
 
A kilt on an artist, a mildewy boat and a pistol sure do make for a good story!

towering tree. Adorned with climbing ivy, the tree’s black silhouette bifurcates the backdrop of a shimmering, phosphorescent sky. Light and dark. Ominous and serene. So much provocative and enchanting beauty. Intriguing.
 
Visiting the artist’s studio to peruse his extensive œuvre with eyes toward a future exhibition, for a second time I encounter “The Bridge”, reclaimed by the painter and waiting to find a new home. Again I’m drawn into the painting’s mysterious atmosphere—calm and a little threatening, too.

​ “I like this,” I tell the artist. “I like this very much.” I do, for the painting stirs and beckons something deep inside me—suggesting a journey I want to take to a place I’ve never been and certainly want to see.
 
I want time to consider purchasing “The Bridge” and say this, hoping another patron doesn’t intervene and claim “The Bridge” I’m hankering to have. Maybe I’ll get lucky. Hope so.
 
Some days later when the artist presents “The Bridge” to me as a gift, while I recover from his generous surprise, I hear him say, “The Bridge is yours because I like a painting going to a patron who really connects. Bridges have inference.” I am delighted.
 
Today in my kitchen’s breakfast nook, while my cottage gardens are blooming brilliantly just outside, with great frequency I ponder my exquisite view of “The Bridge” hanging above my rustic pedestaled table where I take my meals. What expanse is this bridge crossing? What roads have led to here? Where will they travel tomorrow? What are the inferences to be discovered, explored, relished and understood? I shall see. I shall see, for now this bridge belongs to me—spanning before to after, suspended over the in-between—pleasing me immensely.
 
As the Buddhists say, “Breathe out yesterday. Breathe in tomorrow. Cherish today.”
 
I’m breathing with pleasure, knowing another bridge is on artCentral’s near horizon. You can already see the “Rail Bridge” on the postcard and the posters announcing Arkansan Doug Randall’s “Mindscapes” Exhibition opening at Hyde House on Friday, September 9th. This beautiful collection of Doug’s newly created oil paintings, on view September 9-25, is sure to please all of us. I’ll give you this tease and tell you more as the Exhibit draws closer.
 
For now enjoy the anticipation as we cross over these final days of summer—our bridge to artCentral’s spectacular autumn exhibition season, stroked in the Maple Leaf colors we all yearn to see.

That’s easy. We’ll just drive until we find some music somewhere. My artist-musician friend empties the passenger side of his van to make room for me.

I’m always amazed at what men carry around with them. Women may load their purses with every possible need. Men load their vehicles. Into the back are tossed the dog’s seat protector, some art supplies, a fishing rod and tackle box (though the fish aren’t biting in the heat) and some things I can’t identify because stuff’s flying by pretty fast.
 
When the seat is finally clear, I climb aboard and we’re off, agreeing the back roads are always the best for aesthetic pleasure. Taking the county road cutoff that crosses Center Creek, we stop in the middle of the bridge, lower the windows and listen to the singing water and serenading crickets and dusk calling birds. Moving again, Tom Waits companions our adventure.
 
Winding up and down hills we see fields with fat hay bales, a big white barn and a dilapidated round one, a donkey spotted brown and white and a curving underpass where you have to honk to warn an oncoming driver. We end up at a funky juke joint perched above Shoal Creek.
 
The atmosphere is perfect. Greeted by a friendly waitress, we’re directed past the popcorn machine, the pool table, the t-shirts for sale on wire hangers and the card game on a green felt tabletop illuminated with a single dangling bulb. Strings of colored twinkle lights are everywhere. Special faceted blue ones decorate the ladies room.
 
Music is on the deck suspended over the languid green water that looks more like a bayou than a creek. I keep expecting a lazy alligator to raise his curious head.
 
Two baseball-capped women, on twelve string bass and keyboards, harmonize flawlessly on a playlist built around the crowd rousing “Delta Dawn” which has my artist-musician friend singing his heart out. What good fun!
 
When we walk out there’s brilliant Jupiter cradled by a golden crescent moon putting on a spectacular sideshow just above the dark deckled edge of the tree line.
 
Over the winding back roads home, the skies dramatically flash with an oncoming summer storm while the Italian-French Carla Bruni and Portuguese Zizi Possi fill this night of music with soundtracks that are pure pleasure.  

​puts up chairs left scattered about after artCamp. Anticipating his October 2017 solo exhibition, he uses his new smartphone to measure gallery walls determining there’s still room to add another painting or two to the brand new collection he’s creating and keeping under wraps until the unveiling a year away.

Throughout the afternoon every arriving artist brings a smile or two or three and a piece or two of artful news and artful chatter.
 
Diane Heisner, having worked two weeks as an artCamp intern, brings a hand decorated thank you note in appreciation for her experience.
 
Tom Jones brings his listening ears and offers some sensible advice for my dating life.
 
David Matthews appears, looking his usual dapper and extending a lovely, fluted glass jar, topped with a label from his former Kansas City gallery and filled with his red wine, pepper garnished pickled eggs created with the bounty from his flock and infused with his culinary skills as a chef.
 
Andrew Batcheller brings a peach. “The last and best of the season,” he says. “You better sit down before you eat it. You’re going to have juice all over you.” 

outdoors with their grandfather, artist Andy Thomas. Yet another artful gift for this artful day.

With evening underway, back at my sweet cottage, I water my gardens then add a pickled egg to my dinner salad lending just the right tart touch, followed with Andrew’s peach for dessert which I enjoy seated as suggested. The juice generously drips. The flavor is sweetly delicious. Tart and sweet like artCentral artists—gifts of pure pleasure. Gifts I dearly love. 

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