The Accidental Artist

I’ve always had a romanticized connection with poppies.  They seemed to appear frequently throughout my life, so I accepted them as a sort of plant totem, collecting images whenever I had the opportunity.

Maybe it was because Dorothy and her entourage fell asleep after running through a field of them in the Wizard of Oz (a very attractive scenario for an insomniac).  Or that it is the official flower of California, a state that has always held a special place in my heart even before I set foot on its soil, representing freedom for pioneers past and present on personal missions of manifest destiny.   It could also be that one of the few stories passed down to me about my paternal grandfather was about his (sole) praise for  Mussolini, for beautifying the roads of my ancestral Puglian landscape by dotting it with these flowers.

During a recent summer, a very interesting set of serendipitous events unraveled like a cinematic opera with poppies and their essence as a flower starring in primary and supporting roles.  Events that, in hindsight, I understood to have been intricately connected to my inner work and personal journey to better understand my soul’s path.

At the end of a party given for the first birthday of my adorable niece, I was approached by an artist relative who asked me not to leave as of yet, because he had some artwork in the car to bring to me.  Throughout my childhood, I had always admired his paintings at a distance, even though their style was an eclectic mix of the surrealism of Dali, cubism of Picasso, and abstract expressionism of Willem DeKooning. A university administrator by profession who retired as such, his passion was his art, which adorned every corner of his home, including the basement where I played hide and seek with my younger cousins, careful not to trip over some of the less beloved paintings he stored there.

Although I did not realize it at the time, his unexpected gifting to me of a Metropolitan Museum of Art poster for a 1984 Van Gogh in Arles exhibition was a prelude to a series of events that, with the help of Flower Essence Therapy, would lead me to become The Accidental Artist.

Fast forward three months, and the winter has given way to early spring in all its natural glory.  I decided to flee New York City and spend a weekend at the second family home in the Catskills Mountains of upstate New York.  A perfect way, I thought, to say also say farewell to the symbolism of winter and greet the arrival of both a new season and its beginnings.

I quickly shed the layers of my city persona and walked about the grounds, taking in the view and exchanging the sounds of sirens with the busy buzzing of nature in spring.  I made my way to the back of the home and was astounded at the sight of some very large wild orange poppies, lined up perfectly like peace-keeping soldiers against the white shingled rear, facing south.  Nobody had remembered ever planting them, and last year only a handful made any appearance in that particular spot (so few, apparently, that I didn’t even notice).

It must have been their big premiere!  I sat quietly before them, breathing deeply and taking in their beauty.

Across from the poppies were scraps from various types of wood that had been collected in months past from the nearby forest for use in the fireplace.  Although not one to spontaneously lift and move around heavy pieces of wood, I went about carefully uncovering one after another, as if I intuitively knew there was a treasure buried underneath somewhere.  An apple tree piece had a unique form, one that resembled the aorta of a heart, or perhaps a person opening up their arms, inviting a hug.  It seemed to call to me.

It was covered with all sorts of things from dirt to moss to worm rings. Like me, it needed to let go of some layers. Its potential was also latent. And so, like a casting agent with a special knack, or a mysterious stranger suddenly appearing to light a dark road with a lantern, I decided I was going to make it shine.

My affection with this fixer upper of a piece of apple wood and simultaneous discovery of the poppies seemed to fit in perfectly with my recent studies in vibrational medicine, and specifically my budding adventures (no pun intended) in Flower Essence Therapy.   I had only recently been reading about this powerful yet completely safe alternative medicine modality that dates back to Lemurian times, as well as in more modern applications such as Dr. Edward Bach’s well-known remedies sold in health food stores today.

Flower essences, as the energetic blueprint of a flower, assist us in reaching our highest potential, bringing our physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health into greater balance.   As each flower is associated with a specific pattern of imbalance, the taking of its essence brings out our ability to better release what does not serve our Higher Self and bring us into better alignment with what does.  Like homeopathic medicine, it is based on the “law of similars,” or “like treats like.”

I plopped the apple wood on a piece of oak tree bark used as a makeshift end table, as if a psychologist inviting my client to make itself comfortable on the therapy sofa.  As I would come to realize, the therapist-patient role would actually be the reverse.  I faced the wood in the direction of the sun, which was starting to beam bright at early afternoon. Then I decided I was going to make an essence from the poppies.

I did not have my flower essence guide with me at the time to reference, so I was not familiar with the imbalances the poppy as a vibrational remedy assists in, but I did know that essences were safe to use, so I had nothing to lose in trying.  I carefully plucked the petals from the poppies (thanking them in the process for the gift of their use), cleaned and placed them in a bowl of pure spring water under the sunlight, and covered it all with a slate of flat glass for protection from mosquitoes, dirt, and bacteria.

For the rest of the afternoon, I started to work on the wood, with the goal of first removing some of the surface items and doing some cleanup prior to cutting away at the first layer.  It was apparent from the beginning that many layers would have to be to cut into before this piece could reveal anything close to a smooth surface.  The worm rings themselves were about one eight of an inch deep, which meant that the entire piece would probably have to be chipped into by that amount, for most of its circumference, and with lots of help from sandpaper.  This would be an arduous project that would take time, patience, and definitely more than one weekend in the country.  What was I thinking?  I had to get back to my office job in the city eventually.

I removed the glass cover from my poppy essence concoction and poured a small amount of the water into a small cup to drink from, saving the rest for later (note that I did not create the essence as a mother tincture with brandy, as is mentioned in the literature on making your own remedies, because unfortunately, among the shovels and rakes in the barn, the brandy was missing).

At this point, I was sweating, tiring, and had gotten a tan from being in the direct May sunlight for so long.  I decided to close up shop and continue the next day.   I took some more of the flower essence and then wished the wood good night.

For the rest of that weekend in the Catskills and on as many weekends for the remainder of the summer as I could travel there, I continued to work on the piece and take my poppy essences.  My devotion was a curiosity to many around me and its worthiness questioned, but I intuitively knew that there was a purpose to it all, even if the specifics were unknown to me at the time.  I would begin my day outdoors, working on the wood en plein air and seeing the sun set with it, until eventually I could not see any further.   The carving tools had to be set aside and attention given to the constellation of stars above.

Chipping away, I had been releasing layers of my own etheric being, layers that did not serve me any good, and much having to do with the past that needed to be let go of.   I could almost feel a specific emotionally painful experience be released from my cellular memory with some of the cuttings.   As I was releasing, I was making room for the new.  My intuition increased, conversations with others revealed new insights, and I felt a lightness, with renewed hope for the future.

The summer progressed.

One weekend morning, I rushed to pack my belongings and catch an 11:35am bus for the three- hour ride back into the city, only to have missed it.  I am usually very careful about reading schedules, but somehow misread 11:15am for 11:35am.  The next bus won’t arrive until 4:30pm that evening!

After trying to slow down my heart rate due to shock and disappointment in what had happened, I decided to make use of the extra time by walking the Main Street in this charming town called Phoenicia near Woodstock, New York.   I treated myself to a respectable and slow lunch, browsed some yard sales, sat quietly in a church, wrote in my journal in a cabana near the Esopus River, and browsed some of the shops.

One of them, called 60 Main Street, sold an interesting array of tasteful items from vintage comics and books to clothing and organic tea.  The owner, Alan, greeted all his customers warmly and we began a conversation about his eclectic collection of used books.  He also mentioned that he owned the art gallery upstairs, that was appropriately called The Arts Upstairs, and that I was free to take a look.

I remember how wonderful the light coming in from the windows in the open space felt on my skin, as I was surrounded by all this creative work.  When I returned downstairs and purchased some books, I mentioned that I was doing some woodwork, and Alan invited me to participate in their next opening reception in September, a part of a series of exhibitions held once a month for both seasoned and amateur artists.  I was intrigued by the idea, but me, an artist?  This is a hobby that I stumbled upon, if even that.   According to some others, it was a bizarre and funny obsession.

I thanked him and went my way, catching my bus back into the city.

The rest of that summer I continued to make progress on my wood, eventually bringing it back to the city for the final touch-ups and polishing.  It was beginning to look a lot like art.  The muggy August temperatures (and displacement from the country air, perhaps) caused parts of it, however, to “crack,” something that I was not able to save it from.  A friend consoled me, suggesting that this actually gave it character, much like we are the summation of our life experiences.   The September reception date hovered over me.  “Why not?” now crossed my mind more so than “Yeah, right.”

In the meantime, I was reading through some of the books I had bought at Alan’s shop and realized that they all seemed to have been discovered by me on purpose, as if teachers appearing to a student who was finally ready to listen.  It reminded me again of Carl Jung and the term he coined synchronicity (or “meaningful coincidences”), or a saying by poet and fellow Brooklynite Walt Whitman, who said, upon reading Thoreau’s Walden, “How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book.”

In the end, I decided to participate in the opening reception, which was aptly themed “Outside of the Box.”  As I entered the gallery that crisp fall evening in the mountains, I was almost teary eyed at the site of my piece which Alan placed in the main showroom, confidently propped on a pedestal, for all to see upon first entering.  I had titled it “Open Heart,” and priced it high enough that it would not be sold – how can you put a price on love, anyway?  Here I was, surrounded by artists whose works were sharing the same space as mine, their creations priced as high as in the thousands of dollars, and whose support of me was unlike any others.

A few weeks after the exhibit had ended, I returned to the gallery to pick up my piece to take home and was told by Alan that another submission of mine had been sold.  A photographic triptych I called “Nearing,”  it featured a red construction truck with a heart painted on the rear in three different approaching distances on the Golden Gate Bridge.  It was a creative and whimsical idea I had during a trip I had taken, also that summer, to San Francisco. Not only had I become The Accidental Artist, but the public was now interested in buying my work. 

The Flower Essence Repertory by Patricia Kaminsky and Richard Katz describes the qualities of the poppy essence as “finding spirituality within one’s heart; balancing light and love; developing an inner sense of knowing.”  I cannot say for sure if the poppy flower essences I made during that summer co-created the events that led me to discover the artist that always existed in me but was latent. However, I do know that today, creativity - in all forms - is part of my daily life, and that I both aim to live more in balance and in the vibration of love, for myself and all the beautiful creatures on this planet.

Later, I looked more closely at the art exhibition poster my relative had given me at the party, which seemed to have started it all.  It featured Van Gogh’s Garden in Bloom and the flowers in the foreground looked quite familiar.  A smile filled my face as I zoomed in and realized that they were, actually, those precious poppies.