Welcome to my blog Upstate Girl, (a.k.a Follow Your Bliss Part II), I am an independently published author. This blog is all about writing and the stuff that inspires me to write, the joys and obstacles that come along with the writer's life, and my fascination with the psychology of people and what makes them tick...the human condition, as is...and my love for words, playing with them and making sense of them...and I throw in a few photos from my acre of the world just to make things pretty...sometimes there are things I have no words for, only pictures will do.

*Copyright notice* All photos, writing, and artwork are mine (
© Laura J. Wellner), unless otherwise noted, please be a peach, if you'd like to use my work for a project or you just love it and must have it, message me and we'll work out the details...it's simple...JUST ASK, please.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

August flowers...and a detail from The Fractured Hues of White Light

A sunflower at dawn...it's a gloomy day..."Bill" is throwing clouds our way...threatening skies and then peeks of sunshine...humid, a damp feel to everything, and it's very buggy this year...yuck...and of course, August allergies...
I have a nice green pumpkin in progress...it's decided to park itself in the middle of my stone path...but that's okay...

Chicory has always been a summer favorite...I love that color blue!

The giraffes of my garden...they wouldn't hold still and then the sun ducked behind the clouds again...the tallest one must be at least seven feet tall, if not a little more...(I was getting a crick in my neck looking up at them!)

But I did manage to get a good shot previously which I broke down to a small detail...I had several of them die off this spring, a few that did come back shriveled up during the early summer deluge...but the few that survived are lovely...

Ah, there's the storm...pouring out there, and grumbling...my faithful dog is nearby for comfort...

I've been editing The Fractured Hues of White Light today...I've been in Chapter 19 today...it's one of the older chapters...Samantha Ryder has been painting on a cliff in Canyonlands in Utah for about two weeks, and suddenly decided that she didn't like what she's been doing and pitched her paint loaded pallet off the cliff...her companion, Guthrie, just prevented her from throwing the painting over the edge after it...here's a very brief piece of it...

...you don’t understand, it’s not mine—I’m just reacting to it—I can barely grasp it—it’s so big here,” she sat staring ahead at the horizon, her body lightly rocking in place. “What I have in my head is much too big—I don’t think I can ever paint it. It’s like music—sound—like Beethoven, his music trapped inside his head—he wrote it to let it out, but he never heard it played by anyone to his satisfaction—no one understood. I can’t see what I want out here—what I want my work to become—I might as well be blind like Beethoven was deaf,” she said, clasping her hands over her eyes...

Just a detail...but an important one...I just love this scene, the significance of her frustration with always having to make something that's in front of her, "copying", it's a plague for anyone who is creative, having to fit into the latest thing, a niche, a bestseller, the blockbuster (or a knock-off of the latest thing)...Samantha Ryder's life has been regimented because of her autism to create art, but none of it is truly hers...from the time she was very small, she started copying pictures out of books...her father encouraged this, and they became financially well off because of her special talent of producing art history's greatest hits in miniature (who doesn't want a copy of the Mona Lisa the size of a postage stamp? (Isn't it ridiculous what people are willing to spend their money on?) She fills volumes of sketchbooks with stream of conscious marks and studies of the people close to her, she's obsessed with hands and oddly enough, facial expressions (but she's never made a self-portrait.) Her artistic life has been focused on the money-making business...no one ever encouraged her to paint something she wanted to make for her self expression...(her constant sketching has always been thought of as a OCD tick dictated by her autism.)

As much as I adore my little ghost story Dusty Waters, I really love The Fractured Hues of White Light, and I can't wait until I'm finished with editing it so I can get it out there!

An artist is an artist because they have to be...I write and I paint because I have to (I'm terribly unhappy if I don't.)

1 comment:

Pat said...

That comment that she couldn't paint because what is inside her is so big, I found very expressive. It seems to me that every artist must experience the divine in their mind and to put it into "real" life is the hard part. Does an artist ever fully put this large dimesion of vision into this physical world. I don't think so, or why would the artist keep stiving. The next thing, the next idea, the next canvas, the next piece of fabric will capture this idea that idols in the brain, never going to full tilt. You touched a chord that I have puzzled for many a year.