Open House On Line Gallery. Some of My Art For Sale

July 1st, 2016


Butterfly Potholders

Butterfly Potholders  $15 each +shipping

I have a few pieces of art  for sale from the Open House.   If you see something you like, you can let me know by emailing me at I take checks and paypal.

My Butterfly Potholders are $15 each + $5 shipping for 1-2 and $7 shipping for 3 or more.

Vintage Hankie Scarf $45 + shipping

Vintage Hankie Scarf $45 + shipping

This is the last Vintage Hankie Scarf I’ll have available for a while.  I only have white hankies left and I’m trying to figure out how to use them to make more scarves.  I’m playing with dying them.  I used up the last of my printed hankies making this scarf.

My  Vintage Hankie Scarf is  $45 + $8 shipping.

Whisper My Name

Whisper My Name  $100 + $10 shipping

I also have a wall hanging for sale.  It’s called Whisper My Name and is filled with mystical images of goddesses and nature.  One animal flows into another evoking the sequence often present in dream states.

Among other symbolic animals and images it has a Sheela na gig in it.  She’s  the ancient goddess found on churches mostly  in Ireland. She has her legs open and is showing her vulva.  And although her origin is still not completely known it seems obvious to me that she’s about fertility.  In this case creative fertility.

The title Whisper My Name refers to the times when I’ve heard my name whispered in a room that only I was in.  I know I’m not alone in  experiencing this and I now believe it to be a call to the self.  A reminder that I Am.

Whisper My Name is $100 + $10 shipping.

Getting Back to Work

July 1st, 2016
My Studio yesterday with everything from the Open House Moved out.

My Studio yesterday with everything from the Open House Moved out.

It takes me two weeks to prepare and clean up from the Open Houses.  On Wednesday I started to feel strange, like I had been away from my work for too long.  It was a mix of neurotic worrying that I might not be able to work again and a feeling of not being grounded.

I need to do my work.  It’s a source of my identity and internal  stability.  It’s what I do.

Just a few minutes ago I plugged my foot pedal into my sewing machine and before closing the door for the day, I looked around my studio.  It’s all ready for me to come to work on Tuesday morning.  I thanked it, put my hands to my heart and bowed slightly.

It feels like my world is right again.

My studio after I brought all the furniture and boxes and bags back into it from the house.

My Studio after I brought all the furniture and boxes and bags back into it from the house.

What my studio looked like when I left it a little while ago.

What my Studio looked like when I left it a little while ago.



Fate in the Hostas

July 1st, 2016

fate in the wilds

Fate has found herself a cool and hidden place in the hostas in  the back yard.  In the past she’s sat on top of the hostas or dug them up.  Seems now she’s found her place among them.

The Bear In the Woods and On The Farm

June 30th, 2016


I sat on the tailgate of Ed Gulley’s truck, the bear’s head all but in my lap.  I had never seen a bear outside of a zoo.  His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth, his gums pale with death, his eyes closed.

I touched the bear’s head with reverence.  His fur was blacker than I would have thought, it was thick and soft, it glistened.  It was the fur of a young and healthy animal.

The whole thing took about two hours.  From the time we heard the loud thump of the truck hitting the bear in front of our house, to Ed Gulley driving home with him in the back of his pick-up.

I couldn’t watch as the wounded bear climbed over our fence into our south pasture, dragging at least one broken leg, no doubt trying to get back to the woods.    He disappeared in the tall grasses, but Jon and Ed kept watch as he  settled down to die.

Jon called the police and we stood behind the fence as the sheriff got close enough to see that the bear was still alive.  While we waited for someone from Encon to show up, Chloe ran the fence, ears up and snorting.  The donkeys and sheep were alert, watching, but staying close to the pole barn.

They must know each other I thought.  This isn’t the first time the bear has made this trip along our fence line, although most likely always on the other side.  This is a well traveled  route for many animals. Their place to cross the road.

Maybe when Lulu stands at attention, her ears up, it’s not a deer that she’s sensing, but a bear.  Hidden in the tall grasses and reeds, like spider webs in the woods, that you only see when the sun shines on them.

And like the crows, the bear must know me and Jon too.

So as he lay in the back of Ed’s truck it felt like the right thing to do to get to know him as best I could.  To acknowledge that he existed and that his life is now gone.

It’s a helpless feeling to see a 200 pound wounded bear limping across the pasture. I wanted to go to him, hold him and comfort him.  Let him know that soon the pain would be gone.   Bears look that way from a safe distance, big and soft and cuddly.  Their strength, teeth and claws hidden in their stuffed animal-looking softness.

I couldn’t do it while he was still alive, but safely dead, I smoothed the fur around his head.  Rubbed his ears like I would Chloe’s.  I held his giant paws in my hand.  Touched the surprisingly soft  pads on the bottom of his feet.  His claws, hard,  thick  and slippery like teeth.

I didn’t have any words, I spoke with my hands.

When the Encon Officer shot him, the bear  let out a cry that traveled from my heart to my gut.  Ed said it was called a death howl.  It’s one of those sounds that transcends species, time and place. My eyes immediately got heavy with tears.  It was impossible not to feel.

Back in the house, after everyone was gone,  and Jon was blogging, I read what I could find about black bears.  How and where they live and die, what they have come to mean to humans, in our lives and symbolically.   It was another way for me to get to  know the bear.

It seemed a small miracle that Ed was at our house when this all happened.  That he was there to take the bear home to skin and get what meat he could from him. That something would come of his death.

And now I wonder if this is the same bear whose scat I’ve been seeing in the woods.  That our paths have crossed already more than once.  That I knew him better than I thought.



Oil Paintings For Sale By Marilyn Brooks

June 29th, 2016
Country Scene By Marilyn Brooks 8"x10"

Country Scene By Marilyn Brooks 8″x10″   $160 + shipping

Marilyn Brooks,  (who is Connie’s, from Battenkill Book’s Mom)  was one of the artists in the Bedlam Farm Open House.   Most of the other artists picked up their work on Sunday after the show ended, but I still have some of Marilyn’s paintings in my studio for a few days and thought I’d share them with you.

All Marilyn’s paintings are oil on canvas and they are for sale.   If you see one you like you can email Marilyn directly at:

Contemplative Spot By Marilyn Brooks 12"x16" $140 + shipping

Contemplative Spot By Marilyn Brooks 12″x16″ $140 + shipping

Marsh Land by Marilyn Brooks 16"x20" $160 + shipping

Marsh Land by Marilyn Brooks 16″x20″ $160 + shipping

Barn on the Hill by Marilyn Brooks 11"x14" $150 + shipping

Barn on the Hill by Marilyn Brooks 11″x14″ $150 + shipping


Mischevious Puppy by Marilyn Brooks 8"x10" + shipping

Mischievous Puppy by Marilyn Brooks 8″x10″ $50 + shipping

Woods Road by Marilyn Brooks 11"x14" $140 + shipping

Woods Road by Marilyn Brooks 11″x14″ $140 + shipping

Naked Sheep

June 29th, 2016

We had the sheep shorn over the weekend at the Open House.  I wasn’t there to see it.  I was in my gallery selling art with Kim’s help.

But Deb has become a pro at bagging the wool as it comes off each each sheep and marking the bags with their names.  I haven’t even had a chance to look at the wool yet, but Deb said the lambs gave two bags full each.

Soon I’ll skirt the wool then bring it to the Vermont Fiber Mill where they’ll make it into yarn.   Once I get it back from them, I’ll sell it on my blog.

When the sheep are first shorn they don’t recognize each other.  It takes about a day of them sniffing and baaing to get to know each other again.

I’m sure they’re enjoying being naked as the weather gets hotter.

Riley at the Bedlam Farm Open House

June 28th, 2016
The shells and bookmark Riley gave me

The shells and bookmark Riley gave me

Riley’s grandmother told me they follow the blog.  They love the pictures of the animals and the videos.  Riley’s an artist her grandmother said.

I asked Riley what she liked to do.  I would guess that Riley was about seven years old, she didn’t say much but showed me a bracelet she made and handed me a bag of shells.  She and her little sister make jewelry from them and thought I might find a creative use for them too.

It was the second day of the Bedlam Farm Open House and Carol Conklin was in the gallery talking to Carol Barrett and Debbie Glessner.    Riley followed me into my School House Gallery and I introduced her to the other artists.  This is Riley I told them, she’s an artist too.

I wasn’t sure if my introduction would  make Riley uncomfortable, but as the day went on she kept coming back into the Gallery.  She was still  quiet, but she hung around.  Looking at the art answering my questions.

While I was busy, my friend Mandy, who was helping me out for the day, asked Riley to sign the book mark, with a photo of her on the front, that she brought for me.  As an artist would.

I try hard not to be condescending to children, speak to them as I would an adult.  I know, as probably most of us do, what it feels like to be uncomfortable in a crowd of strangers.  That can come at any age.

I don’t know if Riley really is an artist, I suppose that will be revealed with time.   But I wanted her to know that there is a place for artists in this world.  And that there are people who take it  seriously.  Maybe she got a twinge of a feeling of belonging.  Something to hold onto and remember.

Good Monday Morning From Bedlam Farm 6/27/16

June 27th, 2016

It’s a little later than usual, but I’m a bit wasted from the Open House this weekend.  Anyway, hope you’re all having a good Monday Morning.

Tour of My School House Gallery For the Bedlam Farm Open House

June 25th, 2016

For everyone who isn’t  at the Bedlam Farm Open House and would like to see the exhibit of the art in my gallery,  here’s a video.  Thanks and Enjoy!

Atomic Waste

June 24th, 2016


I was shaking the bed with my sobs.  It was the kind of crying where I  need lots of tissues to soak up the tears and snot or it will just gush down my face.   The birds were just starting to sing, the sky getting light.  It was 4 a.m. and  I just finished reading The Atomic Weight of Love by Elizabeth J Church.

It’s the story of my life.  Not in detail (although somehow, strangely, sometimes in exact detail  “at some point Alden said he was done having sex, as if he were above it all”…”I wanted to be wanted. Desired“) but in essence.

I was crying for the wasted part of my life.

The novel takes place in my mother’s generation.   I grew up in the early 70’s, yet somehow with all the changes that  took place between World War II and the Vietnam War, I still lived the life of someone caught in the social confines of my mother’s world.

Like so many women before me,  I  lost my identity, giving up what I wanted for my life, to accommodate what my ex-husband wanted for himself and of me.   I remember being acutely aware that I didn’t want to live my mother’s life.

And I did so many things to avoid what I saw as a trap, including not having children.

But it wasn’t until I was in my forties, that I was able to see that even thought my life looked very different from the outside, on the inside, it was scarily similar to my mothers. Lonely and unfulfilled for so many years,  I finally woke up and was able to find and realize the love and work that I craved.

The Atomic Weight of Love tells the story of Meridian Wallace, who gives up her passion to be an ornithologist  to follow her husband to Los Alamos, where he helps develop the Atomic Bomb.  By the end of the book, her potential never fulfilled, she starts a mentoring program called Wingspan for girls.  To help them do what she was never able to.

If this is how my life ends, I thought, mine would be a worthwhile life.

I straddled Jon’s sleeping body to get more tissues from his night table.  I blew my nose again and through his sleep he mumbled,  “I have my own goose.”

(Growing up in the suburbs Canada Geese were the only obvious wildlife to mark the change of seasons.  They would nest in the small strips of grass on the sides of the highways, and I would slow down to watch their dinosaur-like babies in the spring.  Then I’d feel the loneliness of their honking as they flew south in the fall.)

Skin on skin, I honked away and told Jon if I didn’t blow my nose we would both drown in my snot and tears.

Then he woke up and asked why I was crying.

I don’t have the money that Meridian did to start her Wingspan program,  but in its way that’s what the The Bedlam Farm Open Houses are about.  What my work is about.   Encouraging people to discover and live their creative passion.  Whatever it may be.

How did this book so precisely  capture my life to be able to reach deep inside of me and bring up the pain of a loss I thought I had come to terms with?  I’m so aware of being grateful the for the life I have now, I sometimes actually believe that the past is  behind me.

A wad of tissues in my hand, I rolled off of Jon onto my side of the bed.  I’m so dry, I said, at least I won’t get struck by lightning.  Then I nestled my head into Jon’s shoulder and wrapped my arm around him.

I’ll never sleep again I thought, there’s too much to do and I don’t want to waste anymore time.