This is on one of the panels I cut when at my friend John Weidenhamer’s place (he has a great workshop) from some upcycled kitchen panels.
#1431 Chameleon Sky. Mixed Media, on solid panel, 30×15″. $250.
Contains the poem:
Chameleon Sky
Protects us from space’s harm
and colors our souls
There are many challenges that the art fair artist experiences.
Usually the worst is weather. Sometimes it’s as distressing as the porta potty company letting us down on the delivery on Friday night and we arrived on Saturday needing to cross our legs until a rescue company arrived at 9:30.
Sometimes it’s a simple as needing to squeeze an old ambulance into a compact space.
I think they fudged a little on the other side.
And I thought I was doing well to get the Silverado in a compact space without dinging the van on one side and the shiny Tesla on the other!
We’re back to Eric in Ventura for a very interesting challenge, which brought back a memory too. The challenge was: “miniature lead soldiers that even Andrew Wyeth and H. G. Wells played with. ”
My first husband had these metal soldiers that he would play war games with his buddies on a Sunday. He used to paint them in the colors that were appropriate to the armies they represented. Seeing as he worked 6 days, I guess I was technically a war widow from the second day I was married. On our wedding day, he’d disappeared at the reception; he’d discovered the bar had the soccer on the tv. That day, Liverpool beat Manchester United 5-0 and it was the happiest day of his life, which apparently had little to do with the fact he’d just got married. It’s ok, it’s so long ago now, I can laugh at this.
But I don’t think my exes soldiers were lead, so I turned to eBay for some inspiration. I found a listing for 11 battered lead soldiers, some missing arms that were made to swing in marching.
The 11 lead soldiers in an ebay listing that helped inspire the sonnet.
Lead Soldiers.
Once we were an army on the field
a green baize table all set out for war
(though none of us could figure out what for),
our generals, two boys, would sometimes yield
to calls from mother. But until that time
we’d all be marched around and fire and drum
amidst their noise of battle, bomb and gun
and yells as some would ‘die’ along our line.
But they grew up and we were boxed for years,
swinging arms were lost, and many men;
our paint was chipped. Now down to just eleven
were rediscovered, sold as mercenaries.
We’re old, disabled. War is not the same.
We’re just your heroes from a childhood’s game.
Skyscapes for the Soul - Jeni Bate 