A Chiaroscuro Cover for Portrait of a Protégé!

I just learned a new term, thanks to my sister who knows all sorts of great words, (like penetralia!). The word is "chiaroscuro." As an artist, I should know it, alas, my unschooled background is showing, not to mention my linguistic challenges! Try as I may, the pronunciation eludes me, but that won’t stop me from using it in my soon-to-be-published novel, Portrait of a Protégé! It fits so well because its definition perfectly describes the style of art that I’m using for the cover. Here’s the definition (from my Mac dictionary):

chiaroscuro |kēˌärəˈsk(y)o͝orō, kēˌarə-|
noun
the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.
• an effect of contrasted light and shadow created by light falling unevenly or from a particular direction on something: the chiaroscuro of cobbled streets.
ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from Italian, from chiaro ‘clear, bright’ (from Latin clarus) + oscuro ‘dark, obscure’ (from Latin obscurus).

So, now I must insert the word in the story, just because I can. Yes, it is a gratuitous use of a fancy foreign word, but that’s this writer’s prerogative! Besides, there's a portrait in the story with this exact lighting, though it's not the painting on Protégé's cover.

Anyhow, Protégé's cover was a lot of fun—yeah, it’s original artwork by moi. The dress was actually a cheesy Goodwill prom gown that I altered via the paintbrush, and my husband is the photographer extraordinaire. I do believe this is my favorite cover. I am still working on the cover copy, but this is what I have so far: 

James Grayson of The Step-Up Man introduces Portrait of a Protégé, written by the character Layla Sand as the sequel to her semi-autobiographical story, "Girl Running."
Four years after the close of L. M. Sand’s novel, "Girl Running," Leila is twenty-two and living on a pretty little lake in New Hampshire. A new set of circumstances throws her into a repeating cycle of grief that twists and morphs into unexpected and powerful emotions. Leila must finally confront her fears and learn to let go while navigating the field of psychology, protecting herself from the capricious winds of Southern hospitality, playing in the backyard of big-money art, and taming her unruly heart. Even her 'guardian' has a thing or two he must learn about love and letting go.

It’s a real challenge to write the cover copy since Protégé is a sequel to a story within a story and is a ‘speculative’ work, written four years into the future. Likely, most readers will have already read The Step-Up Man and so all that will make sense ... or not...

Updated Website

As some of you know, I have a Website showcasing my watercolor painting--I own my domain JBChicoine.com, which is a very handy thing when you're having a novel published. Back in 2006 when I initially set up the Website, I had no intention of branching off into writing seriously, nor did I really have any idea how to construct a Website, but I had a program (MS FrontPage) that made the prospect seem manageable. So, I published a Webiste focusing on my art, but with my novel Uncharted coming out in October, I needed to reconstruct my home page, dividing it between my two endeavors. Problem was, I updated it so infrequently that I had to virtually relearn the program every time I wanted to add a new work of art. I was dreading having to create a whole new homepage without messing up the entire site.


Last week, I put the final touches on it, even redesigning the header (which meant painting something that fit both themes). I'll admit there are some glitches that annoy me and I can't figure out how to get them quite right, but I won't point out the specific flaws. I will instead announce that I have a 'new' Website, J.B. Chicoine, Author & Artist. 

As more of my novels are published, I will add them to the Website, but this blog is where I'll provide updates on things pertaining to my writing. 

W.I.P. from My W.S.K.

It’s gray and cold outside. Our yard is a patchwork of dried grass and opaque ice that won’t even reflect blue skies on that rare day when the sun shines. Yes, it’s the dead of winter, and having no snow makes the season feel like a pointless stream of dreary. No, I’m not depressed, thanks to my W.S.K., but I will admit I’ve been teetering. I don’t go outside much these days, not even in the virtual world of the blog-o-sphere (I have no idea what's going on with anyone--yeah, a little self-absorbed and myopic)—I guess it’s my way of hibernating. 

One tool in my W.S.K. is my set of watercolors. I’ve been painting. I’ve done some revisions on Girl Running (the next novel I hope to publish), but I’m a little sick of writing for now. That’s where the painting comes in. It seems to boost my serotonin levels enough to keep me getting out of bed in the morning. My latest project is a nautical scene (I thought it would be cool to paint something that might be seen in Wesleyville, Maine—the fictitious setting of UNCHARTED). So, I guess you could say it’s writing related. Besides that, I’m painting from an image provided by Liza Carens Salerno, who is a phenomenal writer and copywriter—not to mention beta-reader extraordinaire—so that makes it even more writing related in a way…

I’m down to the nitty-gritty eye-crossing part of the painting (yeah, that's right, the grass), so it may take a little while to complete it…but that’s just me…slow and steady…

So, here's a W.I.P. from my W.S.K.:

Another Version of Marlena

by Pascal Gentil

And here's the painting* by Pascal Gentil, that inspired my Marlena (the painting, not the character--she's all mine!) See how sneaky I am, not placing them side-by-side in the same post!


I believe this is an oil on some sort of plaster or rough canvas*. Gentil's other work is pretty amazing, but there's not a lot about him online, just an obscure Website. Beautiful and sensual work!*


This Marlena has a little more chin than I wanted, and although her hair looks a bit matted, that actually fits into the story. Todd voted for prettier hair, so I conceded on that!


*if naked bodies offend you, don't click on the link!


* Edited to say that I just found Pascal Gentil's Photography Website only to discover his "painting" is in fact a digitally enhanced photograph, which takes a great deal of talent and in no way diminishes my esteem of his work. Oh my, how I'd love to paint many of his subjects! And in a way, it makes me feel all the better about my work.

Marlena

I’ve been staring at a lot of UNCHARTED lately, which I’m pre-editing before Rhemalda’s editor gets a hold of it (I can’t believe how may times I wrote ‘he knew’ or ‘he thought’ or ‘he watched’—Egad, you’d think I never read a writing blog in my life!)


Not only have I been focusing endlessly on my MS Word doc, but to keep me motivated, I have an amazing painting* of what UNCHARTED's Marlena looks like, by Pascal Gentil. His version is perfect, really, but the more I stared, the more I wished I had a painting of my own—and I haven’t painted in a long time, so I decided to give it a go and produce my own rendition of Gentil’s painting*. I’m posting the process over on my art blog—Unsupervised & atLarge. I actually finished it, so I’m posting my completed watercolor here. Next week I’ll post Gentil’s painting*. I like this one very much, but when I compare it to his, I still kinda like his better. Maybe mine will grow on me…


* Edited to say that I just found Pascal Gentil's Website only to discover his "painting" is in fact a digitally enhanced photograph, which takes a great deal of talent and in no way diminishes my esteem of his work. Oh my, how I'd love to paint many of his subjects! And in a way, it makes me feel all the better about my work.

Lessons Learning

For the past couple weeks I’ve been writing up a storm. I haven’t had this much fun stringing together words since before I started querying. After a long dry spell, depression break, I was beginning to wonder if I’m a writer at all—perhaps this writing thing is just another one of the many projects I have undertaken and completed, and now it’s time to move on. I hated to resign myself to that, but—well, writers write, and I wasn't writing. At all.

There are a number of creative outlets I enjoy and have become proficient at, some of which I have never gone back to, but the two endeavors to which I always return are painting and writing. Art has always had the upper hand. There is something about the visual that allows me the immediate satisfaction of knowing I’ve improved. It’s tangible. I can see it in front of me. I still see the flaws, but the results are good enough to pleasantly surprise me. Being married to an accomplished artist helps—he’s always there, with validations. He’s honest and I trust his opinion.

Writing has been an altogether different experience. Yes, I am one of those insecure artist types, always looking for validation within a very subjective realm. How will I know if or when I’m good enough? And ‘Good Enough’ for what? To impress friends and family? For publication? Will my husband or my sister tell me? Or perhaps a fellow writer. Perhaps an agent, reviewer of publisher?

If I’ve learned a lot about myself over the past few years of writing and blogging, I have learned ten times as much in the span of two months, while writing nothing—while not even being able to read because I allowed it to make me feel even more inadequate. Here are a few things I’ve learned:

• I hate feeling as if I have wasted time with nothing of value to show for it.
• I have learned that ‘value’ is very subjective.
• I’ve learned that the ultimate validation only exists in the form of self-acceptance.
• That the euphoria I experience when fully immersed in writing can not be reduced to words. It can not be measured against the critical eye of another.
• I love my stories, and I love my characters and I love the imaginary worlds I have built.

All of these are things I already knew intellectually, but now I’m finally getting it. I know I will continue to have my moments, but at least I can refer back to this post, where I have declared it to the world…

Standing One's Ground in the Face of 'Cruelty'

My husband is an artist who likes to study and then ‘reproduce’ paintings by American Impressionist, John Singer Sargent**. He often takes liberties with the subject, though I knew Lady Playfair (ironic name) would require a whole lot of liberties. It's also worth mentioning that if Todd doesn’t care for the face, he substitutes one he likes.
 

Lady Playfair

Since we are both artists, he expects me to provide honest feedback as he goes along—as I expect from him when I’m painting. Although he selected this subject for the color and contrast, I was not fond of his choice—it reminded me too much of Halloween. I didn’t say anything because I wanted to see how he would address the dowdy matron’s figure. And address it he did—or shall I say, re-dress, starting with her foundation-wear…

As he often does when he copies a painting, he works the body first and leaves the face blank. In this case, that was good, but bad at the same time—I had nothing to focus on but her torso; specifically, the arms that hung from said torso. (Though the body itself did provided some animated discussion and amusement.)
 

Faceless Jackie

We stood in front of his easel, sipping pinot noir. In a calm rational manner, I said, “Oh! My! Gosh! Look at the length of that arm! What’s the matter with her? Are you trying to make her look like the result of interbreeding? Oh, that simply won’t do—you need to fix that right away!”

“The arm is fine!” Todd insisted, though I think even he could see that the original looked long. He justified his stance. “Singer Sargent tends to elongate.” He refused to change the glaring problem, and all I could focus on was “Jack-O-Lantern Woman's” freakishly long arm.

Yes, it’s true, every time I looked at her, I brought the offending arm to Todd’s attention. “Well, leave it that way if you must, but you are surely not going to hang that freak on our wall!”

Yes, I was ‘cruel…But fair,’* as he and I often say….

Then, one night, he didn’t come to bed for hours and hours…He must be doing that ‘cosmetic surgery’, I thought, feeling all smug and satisfied. When I woke the next morning, I didn’t even notice the arm—he had painted a face on Jackie-Lantern… "Oh. My. Goodness!—she’s perfect!”

Yes, I still see the arm, but when I look at the painting, all I really notice is her beautiful face. She’s amazing to me!

Jackie Lantern

Moral of the story: Even under the most brutal of criticism, keep forging ahead—something wonderful may happen!

Sometimes, the whole can make up for even a glaring flaw... 

*Monty Python, The Piranha Brothers
**There are some nice prints of John Singer Sargent's work here.

Some Regency Prose

Some of my readers here, who also follow my Unsupervised & at Large* blog, may recognize this image, Spring Orchard. It is my watercolor rendition of Michelle Davidson Argyle’s lovely (and inspiring) photograph. It begs Regency prose! Unfortunately, I don't even begin to know how to write that, but Anne Gallagher, at Piedmont Writer does—and rather well, I might add. Anne has been ever so kind as to indulge me with a story to go along with Spring Orchard, lending characters from her own work in progress, MisMATCHED.

In His Arms

by Anne Gallagher

Violet lay back on the chaise letting the breeze tickle her skin. The warmth from the sun soaked into her weary bones and she breathed in the scent from the apple blossoms.

Oh, last night seemed too much like Heaven. Lilly had the right of it. There was nothing so pleasurable as a ball. Dancing with Haverlane had been glorious, and Violet had not wanted it to end. Unfortunately, as with Cinderella, her night ended at the stroke of twelve.

Nevertheless, the memory of Haverlane’s hand on her back as he guided her across Lady Penny’s ballroom lingered. His warmth and gentle guidance as he turned her through the steps had almost made her swoon. She smiled now, as she remembered his words.

“You are lovely tonight, Violet,” he whispered.

She faltered in her step.

“I thank you, my lord.” Afraid he would see how much she loved him, she dared not look him in the eye.

“Are you having fun?”

“I am now,” she said. In his arms, there was no other felicity in the world to compare.

He chuckled. “And you were not before?”

“No, my lord. I had the misfortune of meeting Captain Winsbarren on the terrace and he is all enthusiasm of somehow becoming attached to me. I do hold him in high regard. Yet, I feel it would better serve his affections with another lady.”

Haverlane drew her closer. She breathed in his delicious scent.

“Forgive me, does your mother know of Winsbarren’s consideration?” He asked.

“No. And I pray nightly that he does not tell her. I have nothing against the Army personally, however, being engaged to such a man would only have my nerves on end wondering if he were in danger every hour of every day. I believe that would be an intolerable way to live.”

“You are quite right, my dear,” he said and twirled her through the crowd. “I am sure his disappointment will not be long lasting.” He nodded over her shoulder.

Violet turned and found Winsbarren dancing with a lovely young lady in a handsome yellow gown. She glanced up, found Haverlane’s countenance had relaxed, and he was smiling broadly. A rare sight.

“Pray, my lord, do you find the dance is taking overlong?” Violet asked. The music seemed endless.

“Do you wish to stop?”

“No,” she blurted. “It is just, I am wondering why this dance has gone through three movements. I have found the orchestra has only played two for every other dance.”

“I believe this is one of George’s favorite tunes and he has asked the orchestra to play the song through twice,” Haverlane said.

Violet looked up, bemused. “I shall have to thank His Highness then, as this is my favorite as well.”

She was not overly fond of this particular composer. Yet, as it kept her in Haverlane’s arms, she could not find fault with it.

Unfortunately, the song did end and Violet was led from the dance floor and brought back to her mother. Haverlane bowed and kissed her hand, nodded to her mother and was gone.

Watching him covertly throughout the night, she found he watched her as well and would nod or smile when he caught her eye. She trembled at the memory. Violet knew she would have to be content with that, as she had also watched him with Lady Baxter. Lady Georgiana made it perfectly clear Haverlane belonged to her and no one would stand in her stead.

Violet heaved a sigh. Tonight was Lady Berringbourne’s ball and she wondered if Haverlane would dance with her again.

Anne Gallagher © 2011

*where I present my watercoloring process, from drawing to the finished work.

True Words

I have enjoyed painting this subject so much, that I've done it four times.  You can view several others of her on my watercolor Website. It's not hard to imagine what's going through her mind, but to put it in a bit of flash fiction was a challenge.

True Words

I don’t remember exactly when he came to live with us, but do I remember he taught me to ride his bicycle on my sixth birthday, when I did the math and figured out he was half again as old as me.

He didn’t use watered-down adult euphemisms like, "Joined the circus" or "Went to the Funny Farm." He spoke words that shaved away mystery, like "death" and "mental illness" as if my young mind could carve a likeness of his loss and fear.

For a year, we ran wild in the fields and through the woods. Breathlessly, I tried to see through his eyes as we ventured into places dark and untamed. On my seventh birthday, he kissed my cheek and gifted me a book of poetry. “She’s better now,” he said, “and I’ll be leaving.”

With eyes like hers, he sat beside his mother as they pulled away from the curb. “I’ll never forget you,” he said, his promise hanging in the air, dissipating as the distance grew. Even now, I wait for his words to come true.

I read the verses and wonder if they are the only truth I will ever know.



Kitties in Tutus

Kitties in Tutus

   

We know what he’s dreaming about—it’s the same whisker-twitching scenario we’ve seen a dozen times. The visions begin shortly after we’ve had one neutered, and not because we’ve robbed Junior of the most fun he’ll never have, but because we just sunk sixty dollars into another stray.

I don’t know where they find the posters—perhaps in the neighbor’s barn. They think we’ll never stumble upon them, all dog-eared, rolled-up and tucked out of sight under the back steps where they sleep at night. Pictures of tabbies in tutus, their lips painted bright red under the big top. Pussies perched upon unicycles, making it look so easy. And oh my! those calicos doing the can-can.

It’s only a matter of time, once the adventure of circus life has gripped his imagination. Really, who can blame him? The allure of amazed audiences, throwing kibbles in adoration. Mousies overhead on trapeze. Swooning house cats, smelling of old lady perfume and canned tuna.

We wake to the sound of coyotes in the cornfields. Have they lured him off? their call, like the whistle of a distant circus train …All aboard…

Sadly, our kitties never send postcards.

Daydreams...

Now for something completely different...

I painted this when we lived near Kansas City, where it seemed the humidity was as thick as chiggers in August. I titled it August Afternoon, and here's a little story I wrote for it, though I must give Glenn, at Differences with the Same Likeness, credit for the last line.

Daydreams

She sure doesn’t look the way she did last summer, when everyone was at the water hole and all she did was sit there with her knees to her chest. Yeah, I used to tease her, but everyone did. She made it so easy, being that odd sort of quiet. Always to herself at the edge of the group, or her face in a book or drawing something. I didn’t mean to make her cry, with that bucket of frogs, and I sure didn’t think it would take a whole ‘nother year before she’d even talk to me again.

When Mickey Pritchard called her the boobless wonder, I should have punched his lights out. And I should have whispered her the right answer when Miss Whimbley called on her in front of everyone in math. Maybe I should’ve left a note with the valentine candy I put in her desk, or signed the picture I drew of her, with her pretty, long hair—the one she folded and stuck in her book.

I think she smiled at me during lunch, today, even though she wouldn’t show me what she was reading when I asked. Maybe if I happen to be hanging around the old hickory tree she always walks past on her way home, she won’t mind if I ride my bike beside her…

“Boy! Stop day dreaming, and get out and open the gate.”

Getting Through February

I've come up with a homegrown remedy to get me through February, and keep me writing at the same time. I have a bunch of watercolors I painted—each one I chose because I found it evocative in some way. So, I’m going to brave it and write a piece of flash fiction to go with a few, and try to keep it up for the next few weeks. If you’ve visited my Website, JBChicoine.com, and there is a painting in particular that you’d like me to use, leave a comment or e-mail me. Or, if you’d like to write your own, I’d love to hear it! I’m not saying there will be prizes involved, like a free print (on really nice 140lb Arches Infinity watercolor paper), but I’m not saying there won’t, either.

Tomorrow, I shall start with a popular painting that I’ve posted here before: Deb’s Kitchen.

New Header

Okay, unless you're looking at this in your Google Reader, it's pretty obvious that I have a new header. It sure took me long enough to finish it! Now if I can figure out some of the more subtle changes I want to make...

Oh, and since you can't really see it in the header too well, here's a glimpse at the title of the book!

Yes, it's completely gratuitous, but...well...what can I say, I'm feeling pretty desperate...

Header Artwork Complete...

Just thought I should post something on my header progress…I finally finished the painting that I will incorporate into it!

If you care to see the process, from idea to finished work, it’s on my Unsupervised & at Large blog (the name fits me more and more these days…) Hopefully, by midweek, I’ll have a new header designed and up…

New Header Postponed...

...until I return from  the land of the technologically deprived and environmentally-imposed blogging hiatus. Yes, you've seen this picture before—it's where I'll spend whatever quiet time I can steal away from visiting with family and friends in New Hampshire. 

I have been making some progress on the header artwork, and I hope to work on it a little while I'm gone, but that remains to be seen...

Coming Soon...

After looking at this header on my blog for well over a year (has it been that long?), I've decided that it's pretty much the most boring header I have ever seen. At the time I designed it, I suppose I thought it looked classic—sort of simple and understated, (like me). Now it just looks uninteresting and stupid. I don't think I like the title either. The J.B.Chicoine seems okay to me (even though probably none of you know how it's pronounced*), but I don't know about the rest of it...

So, anyway, I've decided to employ my artistic powers and design a new, bookish header, and I'm doing it over at my Unsupervised & at Large art blog...

*Currently, we pronounce it She-kwan'—with more of a silent 'n' at the end. Kinda French sounding, which is what it is. But when we used to pronounce it She' kwin... It's a long story...

My Consolation

Shriveled peas roll from my plate, into the pail where several crusts from morning toast await. Three escape into the sink and I chase them around the basin like piglets in a pen. I have trouble locating them as a shard of light pierces the tattered curtain, yet I can feel them, cornered. My fingers are still nimble enough to pinch and so they join the others.

On my way out, I pass her chair, pushed snug against the table. I stroke its back the way I used to caress the handrail as I stepped onto the porch of her parents’ house, my stomach twisting and turning with new love. Her barn coat still hangs from the old iron hook like dainties slung over the shower rod. Although the sight of it burns my eyes each time I come in or go out, I would die but for the yearning.

Then, the screen door slams behind me, echoing off every corner of the barnyard. On cue, they call to me like eager hatchlings waiting for their share.

Preoccupation

Okay, so I’m sitting here at a little café, with my spinach salad and a chilled stout, when this woman at the checkered-cloth table beside me pulls out a sketch pad. Well, maybe she’s just going to look over some stuff she’s already drawn, but no—she rifles through her bag and proceeds to unfold and assemble, right in front of her, a tiny field set of Windsor Newton watercolors—and not one of those plasticy new sets (like mine), but one of the old, out-of-production leather encased arrangements, with well-used pigments.

Oh, yeah, she’s serious—so serious about it that she’s oblivious to my eyes boring through the side of her head, down her neck and bare arm. The brush seems to slide between her fingers as if she held the wing of a butterfly, not cramped and controlled, like some unwieldy timber, not the way I grip mine.

She hasn’t glanced beyond her table and paints-at-hand since she sat. I want her to look at me, so that I can acknowledge what she’s doing, but at the same time, I don’t want her to see—to detect my envy. Now, she’s sipping her water glass down to half-full. She wets her brush between her pursed lips, drawing those fine sable hairs to a point. I wait, watching, knowing what comes next. She stares ahead for a moment, then plunges her brush into her sweating glass. That’s right, she means business.

All at once, I’m overcome with self-consciousness for her. I look around at the peripheral tables, at the others patrons whose eyes dart from their lunch to her and back to their main concern. She appears unaware of any of us as she dabs her brush, loading it with cadmium red and then dispersing it—with four loose strokes, flower petals spring to life from the vase onto her paper…

Just Messin' Around

Yes, this is another cross over blog post. I just thought I'd try out a cover design, for the fun of it. Okay—to be honest, I have no other project I'm working on right now, so this is purely a dilatory maneuver.

Yes, I know, I know—just start typing or pick up the paintbrush…

Cover Art?

Okay, this is another cross-blogging post (from my Unsupervised & at Large blog), but it does have something to do with my novel, Story for a Shipwright. I just finished this painting*, Moorings, as a possible cover design element—you know, in case I exhaust every agent in the universe and resort to self-publishing. It puts me in mind of a scene from the story, where shipwright Sam Wesley is sitting in the local diner, looking out over the harbor on Sunday morning…

"It wasn’t truly the best seat, but the corner booth, partially overlooking the harbor and a few lobster boats suited me fine. While Billy perused his options, my attention wandered to the boats in the harbor—many of them were out for the day baiting traps, which is all they’re allowed on Sundays, from June through August. I thought about how consistent lobstermen are—they seem to recognize no distinction of day or season, heat or cold, rain or shine. Glancing around the diner, at old lobster traps hung from the ceiling, and picturesque scenes behind glass, I chuckled at how we who live here take their trade for granted. Funny, how tourists romanticize the industry, carrying it home in calendars or placemats, rarely appreciating the sweat that goes into the lobster on their plate."


*based on an image by photographer, Doug Wood, titled, stonington, sunday morning