Marla Tumbles

Tightrope Walker 5, Marla, collage/acrylic, 6 x 6

Elizabeth W. Seaver

Marla eased out onto the high wire and moved into her first pose.

She checked out the evening's crowd.  It seemed to her that every seat was filled to double capacity.  The heat from their bodies rose up to meet her where she perched nearly at the top of the tent.  When had this stopped being fun and begun to be a job?

Marla had felt it keenly as she watched her daughter, Darla, and her friend, Banks, performing tonight.  They glowed with life and energetic youth and....something else.  What was going on there?  Marla wondered.

"Best put that aside to think about when I'm not five stories in the air," she said firmly to herself.  

She hoped her lips hadn't moved as she ruminated.  She was still amazed that the audience could see her mouth move from way down there.  But it had been mentioned by her boss in her quarterly review.  It would not do for anyone to think she'd gone 'round the bend.  Good grief!  She wasn't even forty yet.  She was seasoned,,,skilled...a bird that fledgling performers could look up to and learn from.  

Marla was no stranger to the dangers of circus life.  She had come from a long line of circus workers.  As she was growing up, there was never any doubt in the minds of her family that Marla would follow in their footsteps.  When she was twenty, she'd fallen in love with an elephant trainer and not too much time had passed before she'd laid an egg--her Darling (Darla, for short).  

But, as is true even in the happiest of stories, tragedy struck.  No one really knows what happened that day so long ago now, but Darla's father met an untimely end when an elephant he was working with sat down on him.  His squawks for help went unnoticed, and soon it was too late.  

"Extinguished in the prime of his life," Marla always sighed as she told the story.  Darla rolled her eyeballs behind her mother's back, in the way of teenagers when hearing an oft repeated tale.

And so, there had been no question when Darla was half grown that she, too, would continue the high wire legacy.  It was beginning to dawn on Marla, however, that Darla was not a happy bird.  Her mother knew she had dreams of dancing ballet, but had discounted it as a passing fancy.  Just like her own mother had when Marla had announced her goal of becoming a librarian.

"Well," Marla mused. "Perhaps the time has come to..."

The music swelled, surprising Marla, whose thoughts had wandered so far afield.  It was time for her split.  

"Oh, dear, I'm off the beat!"  she panicked.  Quickly she slid down to the wire.........and toppled right off.

"I'm too old for this shit," she said as the ground rose up to meet her.  This time she was sure her lips had moved.  And sound had come out.  And everyone had heard it.

She opened her wings, gave a mighty flex and gently landed on the straw covered floor.  The crowd clapped in appreciation, and Marla sketched a sassy bow.

She marched off stage and into the manager's office, flinging open the door.

"I quit!" she announced.

Banks

Tightrope Walker 6, collage/acrylic, 5 x 5, 2010

Elizabeth W. Seaver

If you keep track of details such as these, you may be wondering where T. W. 5 is.  She is, indeed, extant on a 6 x 6 x 3 shadow box, but the photograph of the painting did not turn out well.  I'm going to have to retake it.  Elmer Banks, eager for his presentation, wanted me to tell you his story.

* * * * * 

Elmer Banks  was one of the class of performer which made those in circus management, rapacious eyes trained on the bottom line, rub their hands with glee.  Daring, handsome and graceful, he performed with an irrepressible joy, commanding the rapt attention of the circus-going crowd.  With a nod to his popularity and box office draw, everyone under the big top just called him Banks.

Watching him from way below, one might think he had it all, assuming that the source of his buoyant spirit.  But, as is often so when we make quick judgments from shallow observation, the opposite was true.  

He had been a promising ballet student from a small boy.  His parents loved him dearly and encouraged his dreams.  

However, just three years before, his father had flown into an airplane engine on a cross country business trip.  In a strange twist of fate, that same airplane, making an emergency water landing, also killed his mother who had taken a short cut, late to open her dental office for her early morning patients.

Banks had a hard time of it.  He endured cruel whispers from other young fowl.

Two birds with one stone, they snickered slyly.  

He had many doting aunts and uncles who cared for him in succession and made sure he finished school.  His days as a dancer seemed so far in the past as almost to have happened to another bird.

At eighteen, Banks couldn't wait to get out on his own.  When the traveling circus came to town, he threw himself into the audition and was hired on the spot.  Training hard, he hoped one day to be chosen to walk the tight rope.  

Banks worked from dawn until long after sunset.  In his spare time, he followed behind the elephants, tigers and horses sweeping up poop.  He shoveled great mounds of it into piles for the local farmers to haul away for fertilizer.  His long wing span and stilt-like legs came in handy when it was time to move the circus from town to town.  Within the year, management deemed him ready for his dream job, and Banks put down his poop sweeper for good.

Banks certainly loved dancing on the high wire.  And it was true that the affection of his new circus family had begun to ease the lingering sadness caused by the death of his parents.  Lately, however, close observers had noted that his performances were shimmering with an extra, unaccountable sparkle.

Her name was Darla. 

Fishing Bird

 Fishing Bird, collage/acrylic, 5 x 5, 2010

 Elizabeth W. Seaver
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When we went to the Outer Banks last month, my husband and I took a short trip down towards Hatteras Island by way of Kitty Hawk.  We stopped at a small lighthouse that was being restored and found a boardwalk trail out into the coastal marsh.  The elevated wooden platform out over a sheltered lagoon gave us an excellent view of the antics of the crabs.  Kingfishers, gulls and other shore birds flew overhead.

Looking out over the water from that height, we were able to watch several varieties of herons and egrets stalk their prey in the shallow water.  Every so often they'd go stone-still for a moment and then suddenly strike with their long bills, coming back up with some delectable bit of dinner.

That's when this fisher bird appeared in my head.  Perhaps he should have stuck with the more traditional fishing method for his species, since it looks as if he has fished all day and caught nothing.  And I'm sure his feet are hot, too!

Put Upon, Revised

I have had my eye on this piece for awhile, just itching to rework it.  This week I finally got a round tuit.  I am afraid that the photo does not do it justice, having gone all mellow yellow on me, but you'll get a general idea of the changes that were made.  Here it is, sunshiny and new:

Put Upon, acrylic on plywood, approx. 30 x 39

Elizabeth W. Seaver

I really had fun transforming this odd group, which reminds me a little of those days when my children were small and I, foolishly, tried to have a moment to myself in the bathroom.  As soon as I closed the door, their need for me became intense.  "Mama....mama...Matthew has my book...Will hit me....Mama can I have a cookie?....Whatcha doin' in there?....Can I come in?"

So, I imagined this poor, put upon hippo, just trying to have a cooling dip in the river, only to have three nitwits land on her as if she were a rock in the shallows.  (Scary music) And the rock moved...

But that's another story.

Here are our protagonists before I went after them with some color.

Someone said that the old version reminded her of a chalkboard.  Hey, I was a teacher.  I LIKE chalkboards.  But I like color better, and I'm happy with the changes.

Now I just have to get my camera to catch a better approximation of the new painting.

In other news, it's our last year of high school after 9 straight years. I don't mind telling you that I'll be glad to be graduating.  

Have a great day at school, Matt!

Tightrope Walker 4: On Her Toes

On Her Toes, acrylic/collage, 6 x 6, Elizabeth W. Seaver

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Darla wanted to be on the stage; she wanted to be a ballerina.  Unfortunately, her family followed the circus and needed her to perform there. 

"Oh, how I wish I could leave behind the smells of popcorn and cotton candy and elephant poop,"  she sighed.

Despite the fact that her mother wanted her to put on see-through tights and to hide her fluffy tail under a high cut spandex costume, Darla donned her floatiest shirt and swirliest skirt when she walked on the tight rope.

She blocked out the cheers, gasps, and echoing sounds of popping balloons under the big top.  She even ignored the silly carnival music.  In her head, she imagined the strains of the Nutcracker Suite.

And she dreamed of being a ballerina.

Tightrope Walker 3: Blindfolded

Elizabeth W. Seaver, collage/acrylic, 6 x 6

The third in my series of "How Might You Cross a Tightrope?" birds,  this fellow definitely crosses the high wire with panache (and just a little cheating).  He does love the cheering crowds, the music and, most especially, the spotlight.

Thanks to all of my blogging buddies for your supportive comments on my last post, and welcome to my newest followers.  I'm going to get back to the fun of visiting all of your blogs after too long a hiatus.  See you here and there!

Night Owls

Night Owls, acrylic/printmaking, 18 x 36

Elizabeth W. Seaver

This is a renovation of this painting which in my February blog post was still a work in progress.  I was looking at it one day recently, thinking, "That's not finished.  I see owls."  I finally got around to painting them in.

I'm sorry about the long absence from blogging.  My beloved father died on July 24th. I went to Texas to help with funeral arrangements and to spend some time with my family.

From one moment to the next, the world is a completely different place.  He was a hero, not just to me but to many people. 

I miss you, Papa.