Honestly, I get all emotional walking through acres of restored prairie in late August. It's that plaintive, wistful feeling that comes from life bumping into skin bruised by grief and yet touched by grace. That longing that doesn't even know what it wants, but longs for it anyway.
      Prairie speaks to me. I like to listen.
    Cicadas buzz. Bluebirds gather. Unhappy to have her nut-burying extravaganza interrupted, a flustered squirrel is scolding my pup from the upper branches of an old oak.
     July's peak wildflower explosion of colors is over. Now yellow runs the show. Silphium and Big bluestem tower overhead, dripping cool morning dew onto my face as I brush past. Red is just beginning to touch the leaves of the sumac.
     Even though I'm not ready for summer's end, I can feel it coming. Here in this prairie, I can breathe deeply and give it a grateful and reverent goodbye.
     Only a teeny, tiny fraction of our original, native prairies remain. Once the dominant ecosystem here, isolated remnants can still be found near old cemeteries, along roadsides and railroad tracks, and on steep bluffs, where accessibility, and plowing, is difficult.
     The good news is–prairie restoration. Local, state, and federal governments, schools, businesses, and homeowners have been planting native prairie species and working to create larger prairie ecosystems. These prairies provide food and shelter for native insects, mammals, reptiles and amphibians. And the good medicine of solace and respite to humans spending time wandering and tending them.

       The summer solstice marks summer's longest day. In Wisconsin, that means 15 hours and 22 minutes of daylight this June 21st. Nordic myth has it that dew gathered on Midsummer Day, June 24th, brings youth to aching bones and aging bodies. Since ancient times, people in northern regions celebrate this time of year by enjoying the season's first strawberries. I celebrate with a breakfast of fresh-picked strawberries and a walk in the dewy wild.
     In woods and hedges, thick tangles of green hide legions of eyes, young and old. Leaves and scented blooms twine up and up, to a sky full of floating and flying things. Mingled roots burrow deeper and deeper in search of nutrients and water. Walking in the woods, lost in profusion and plenty and opulence, thought finally stops.
     Within the abundance of wild-living things, it is possible to become absorbed. Not absorbed in the sense of being mentally occupied and focused. Not communing in meditative oneness. Literally absorbed, in the sense of being drawn in, swallowed up, ingested by the wholeness of the visible and invisible world. Disappeared. A heart pumps, but it's no one's and the trees breathe–unyielding, devoted, and undaunted these longest days of summer. 

    After a long winter's wait, my homemade sauerkraut and Wisconsin-made, Swiss cheese sandwich is piled with dandelion greens and garnished with violets foraged from our lawn. Yum. Along with our violet-ish lawn, bees buzz the daffodils and scilla, robins fill their bellies with emerging earthworms, and young squirrels are practically giddy with the abundance they've discovered their first spring.
     Ground barely thawed, pesticide trucks started cruising our neighborhood a couple of weeks ago. I cringe every time I see one. It's hard to understand why people still spray so much poison in their yards. Disheartening—and stinky. Trying not to dwell on it, perhaps the most effective therapy is to thank those kind, bright folks who strive to avoid the stuff. Compliments and thanks doled out generously when dandelions are blooming go a long way.
     In other yard news: we picked up a little electric lawnmower after our old gas push mower died its final death, my peas and beets are planted, and the arugula has sprouted. Simple things bring such cheer.
     In the studio, things are buzzing too. You can see by the photo above—spring fever hit me hard. Wild painting, "Sunjoy," flew from my brain and fingers, taking me by surprise. I love its spunky, mod feel. And that our equally wild one-year-old pup was willing to sit still for a photo makes it doubly surprising! The two large paintings below are from the "Spoken" series I've been working on.
     Here's to a simple and delicious spring!

      Have you ever wondered what it means to see? Not the physical act that occurs via the optic nerve, but the seeing that, as artists, we are so keen to attain. In his classic 1972 text, Ways of Seeing,  John Berger says, "It is seeing that establishes our place in the surrounding world." He continues, "The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled." It's the "never settled" part that pretty much sums it up for me.
     Creative people achieve seeing in infinite ways. For me, it means de-cluttering the mind and unfocusing to take in the big picture- not just in the studio, but anywhere. I see by observing, futzing around, and by asking simple questions of myself and others- Why is it put together like that? What makes it work? or Why isn't it working? How is it connected to other things? Is it part of a pattern? How might it feel? How do I feel about it? Why? What is the evidence? What is my responsibility to it? What happens if I take this action? How does it change? How do I change?
     Note to self: When you're defensively certain about something, chances are good you're probably not really seeing. More questions! More experiments! Don't be afraid to mess up!
     In the studio, because I work with no fixed subject, and not from drawings or sketches, a large chunk of my time is spent looking and thinking- what's next? If you were peering in on me, you'd think, "What on earth is she doing? How long can she stand there, staring at those blobs?!" The answer is- a long time, as long as it takes. Time inevitably leads to action. For me, the action of painting an oversized canvas is physical, immediate, and energetic, while the act of creation moves like a snail.
     Seeing merges the visual with the emotional and intellectual to make something new. My own seeing improves in direct correlation to the questions I'm asking and my openness to experiment. I keep asking, processing, messing up, and making new things.

You can see "The Moon is Pink" along with some close ups here.

To see more of what's up in the studio- 
please like or follow my Facebook art page, Michelle Louis Art and follow me on Instagram.
Secure, online purchase of selected paintings, prices include shipping, is available at Saatchi Art.

     After a summer of near constant rains and unprecedented floods, the skies have finally cleared and it's glorious to see October bring vibrant, intense blue to the world overhead. In that wild blue yonder, shimmering milkweed seeds float and  fly with hope for fertile landing.
     I always feel like things change fast this month- the angle of light, the intensity of color, even the feel of the air goes from cottony-thick to crisp as the natural world prepares for dormancy here in the north. Strategies for surviving a long winter necessitate change and adjustment.
     For now, though, I think I'll just enjoy watching our 7 month old pup fly through the leaves without mention of last week's brief, white-out snow squall. Happy Fall!

     Sorting through a box of memorabilia my mom kept was a long overdue, bittersweet task. She was only 47 when diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer that took her life 3 years later. I still miss her- my best friend- every day.
    Artistic joy and challenge flowed from her to me- she was an accomplished and enthusiastic painter. I sometimes imagine us sharing a studio, playfully critiquing each other, and most of all, laughing together. An old newspaper clipping she saved caught my attention. The "intent little artist," circled in ballpoint by a proud mother, is me.
     Some things never change and some never stop changing.  Thanks, Mom. I love you.

You can see more of my available paintings here.

     About a year has passed since the death of our canine companion of 14 years, and he has been missed. The thought of replacing him seemed absurd because he was most certainly the Best Dog Ever. Bringing a new family member with a distinctive, unpredictable personality into our home was not an easy decision. We discussed and rationalized. But in the end, the plain, undeniable fact is this-- life is better with a dog. And we've welcomed a puppy into the family. He's a black, fuzzy, mixed-breed wonder, keeping his humans thoroughly occupied and half-crazy. He's got 3 speeds- sleeping, eating, and full-tilt blur of motion.
     For the time being, painting has taken a back seat to re-training ourselves in how to care for a baby dog. But I've managed a couple of new pieces that I think capture the topsy-turvy mood around here. Painting time comes in short bursts because tearing apart packing materials in my studio is one of his favorite things. He sweetly believes that all of the world, everywhere, was created specifically for his entertainment.
     I realize his learning process is not unlike my painting process- we both explore relationships between order and chaos, complexity and simplicity. We test boundaries. We find patterns and rhythms in the perplexing, take risks to delight in the surprises that appear with each step, and struggle to create a coherent picture of the world around us. 
     I love him already.

           "Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and embroidered by imagination.” -Voltaire

      Some things about February are worthy of true love.
    Between the 1st and 28th of February, we gain about an hour and 15 minutes of daily sunlight- something we can all love. In addition, the sun is moving higher and higher in the sky- about 15 degrees higher here in Madison, WI, USA. I love feeling the light grow more intense, don't you? 
     Alternately, the clear, crisp night sky is something to love in February. Toward the end of the month, we'll be able to view, without a telescope, Mercury, Venus, Jupiter, Mars, and Saturn at various times during the night.  
    Out in the woods, owls are mating and nesting while squirrels are raising their first litter of the year. Yep. The season of reproductive love has begun. Even migratory birds are beginning to make their way to northern breeding grounds. I saw my first robin just yesterday. It looked too tired and surprised by the snow and cold to be thinking about love. 
  Valentine's Day brings thoughts of love to our species. I'm given to the idea that Valentine's Day is more about love in the larger sense, rather than the guilt-love fed to us by sellers of chocolate and diamonds. Of course I love my spouse, friends and family. But I'm not stopping there.
     I love the excitement of standing before a big blank canvas. Woo-hooo! 
   I love the process that accompanies abstraction, as opposed to more realistic work, because it most rouses my courage as a painter, and challenges your openness as a viewer. ​
    I love what I do in the studio and while walking in wild places because it keeps me directed toward the sublime unknowable- the place of my heart. My artistic process is a progression of making adjustments and exploring the edges rather than capturing any sort of ideal. I hope you love it. It won't break my heart if you don't.  
    Enough about me. How do you find heart? Where do you find love? Things to ponder this sparkly, chocolatey, red, pink, and love-ly February 14th.

                                                         Happy Valentine's Day!

    Have you noticed how long your shadow is these days, even at noon? As the Earth's Northern Hemisphere tilts methodically away from the sun, we slide toward the heart of winter. This "tilt" affects the angle of the sunlight reaching the earth and is responsible for seasonal change.
    December 21st, the official start of winter, marks this season's maximum "away" tilt. In Wisconsin, we'll take in around 6 hours and 22 minutes less daylight than the longest day in June. I don't know about you, but for me, that's way too short a day. But not to fret- from here, the amount of daily sunlight we receive grows as we edge toward spring.
    Noting the Winter Solstice  as both the night of deepest darkness and the return of light is more than an act of faith. For me, celebrating the celestial cycle honors ancestral longings- and abilities- to figure out the workings of the world around us, and our drive to continue doing so.
    The usual pace of holiday celebrations dictates high energy - shopping, eating, drinking, and entertaining, This is the antithesis of nature's truest winter energy, which fosters stillness and introspection. It's worthwhile to observe winter rhythm by drawing inward and reflecting, even if briefly. Give your solo self the necessary and rejuvenating gift of peace and quiet- walk in the woods, curl up by a fireplace, or snuggle in with a good book. Just sitting and doing nothing for awhile is A-ok.
    The above painting, Solstice (Earth Tilt), (30"x 24" acrylic on canvas) is one of my Series 2 pieces. Unlike the more abstract expressionist work in Series 1 and Series 3, these pieces are harder-edged and a balancing nod to the "other side" of Mid-20th Century Art, as well as my Nordic roots.
    Though not apparent, Series 2 paintings are also "free" in the sense that they are done in the moment, without a preconceived idea, theme, or detailed drawing, usually with no tape or masking. The act of painting propels me toward an unseen destination. I started work on this piece with an open mind, red & gray paint, a canvas, and began by painting a few scattered shapes. They led me to Solstice (Earth Tilt).
    You can see more of my Series 2 work here and here.