“Moonrise Over the San Luis Valley” in San Antonio, Texas

Salon International 2012
Salon International 2012 is the eleventh annual juried exhibition sponsored by the International Museum of Contemporary Masters and hosted by Greenhouse Gallery of Fine Art. It will feature 434 original oil paintings selected from artist entries from around the world.

Reception
Awards Banquet – April 13 by Reservation Only

Opening Reception
April 14 – 5-8:00 pm

Gallery Exhibit
April 14 – May 4

Internet Exhibit
April 14 – May 4

Fox Theatre in McCook, Nebraska
Saturday April 14th  
Auction starts at 7:30 p.m.
Artwork on display at local banks  during the month of March. For more info contact codert59@gmail.com or call 308-340-7955.

“Side Door”
10 x 10”
Oil on Canvas
Retail Value:  $1,200

The Historic Fox Theatre in McCook, Nebraska (my hometown) is under renovation and in need of funds. The building, known to area residents as the “Fox Theatre” was built by A. Barnett and opened its doors January 28, 1927 as The World Theatre, featuring five Vaudeville acts of live entertainment every Sunday.

The basic intent of the project is to preserve the character and charm of the theatre, while upgrading the facility to current life safety needs, code compliance and ADA accessible conformity.

It was in this theater where I originally formed my love of movies. I spent many Saturday afternoons there in my childhood…and Saturday nights during my teenage years. There were huge, red velvet curtain with giant gold ropes that covered the screen. Wooden chairs upholstered to match the drapery. Swirling Art Deco scrolls decorated the walls. Rich and beautifully crafted woodwork in the lobby and balcony. It was a place of magic then and deserved its distinction as the center piece on Norris Avenue which is still a cobblestone Main Street.

I would like to offer an additional donation to the renovation with limited edition giclée prints of the original painting to be auctioned.

I will donate 30% of the proceeds of any print sale of “Side Door” through the month of April, 2012 toward the renovation.

Prints can be purchased through PayPal in the Print Shop (see sizes and prices there) or contact me and include the word FOX in the subject line.

I am meant for equatorial climates.

A stranger on my couch also rises — acclaimed nature photographer, Andoni Canela. I’ve lured him here with alpine promises of buffalo herds, migrating sand hill cranes, and wintry slopes of the Southern San Juans.

I found Andoni and his work on Facebook, of all places. From cyber-land to my doorstep, Andoni is the real deal, only smaller than I imagined. We’re almost the same size and I am decidedly petite. Now he rolls up his bedding, sleepy but smiling and ready to go. Like two little pixies, we tiptoe out into wee hours. Neither of us know what we’re in for.

So, I bring snacks.

Frigid air slaps me awake. I absorb the beauty of predawn half-light.The huge expanse of fading stars presses down, sandwiching us against icy snow that blankets the valley in pinkish- lavender drifts. The cold envelops our heated truck and billows its exhaust.  We’re alone on a silver-gray highway.

This valley is like a small town starlet waiting to be discovered. She makes herself up, dons her finest gown, accentuates her features with jewels, but only a handful of churchgoers get to admire her. Today might be her big break.

I hope she performs, for her sake…and mine.

Andoni took me on my word that a five hundred mile detour would be worth his while. I had the nerve to invite him and he was brave enough to accept. Now it is time for the land to deliver. I’ve made phone calls, scoured maps, and gotten permission from land owners, but we are still at the mercy of this climate’s unpredictable moods. Neither copious prayers nor hopeful offerings can divert the Southern San Juan’s shedding of winter. Gusts and gales come as they must, and we are on the verge the windy season.

Nowhere on earth is there a more miserable springtime.

Our first turn is a wrong one. The sun inches toward the horizon and I realize that we’re supposed to be south of the river but north of the highway. That only involves about fifty yards of real estate, and the pasture we’re trudging through seemed a much more likely place to find a herd of buffalo. We backtrack. The sun and the stakes get higher. We’re on the verge of loosing our morning shoot.

Finally, we locate the herd. I was assured that these bison are used to people, so we enter the small, fenced-in pasture hoping for close-up shots. However, the alpha male takes offense at our intrusion. He bounds to the edge of his group of females and offspring. Steam puffs from his nostrils in audible bursts. Two steps in our direction.

“That one looks like trouble.”

I shed my camera pack, ready to drop it on the other side of the fence, but Andoni holds it for me. That bison shows us his trot. I scramble over wood and wire, shaking just a little. My companion is much quicker over the fence and we back up together as the bulk of four-legged fur huffs toward us at a full run. Did the builders of this livestock enclosure considered the force of a charging buffalo? The burly brute halts in an abrupt stop, exactly where we exited his territory.

Right on cue, dawn breaks. Bravo.

“Here we go,” Andoni whispers. Splendid, first light on a bison rancher’s menacing bull. Our packs drop and shutters click. The bison prances and poses for us in perfect, masculine, untamed power. So much between sunup and moonrise is completely outside our control. Despite initial mishaps, this day continues to grant one photogenic gift after another. Weather and clouds shroud the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with luxurious austerity. And later, a silent blizzard covers a wilder herd of two hundred shaggy-haired beasts; a classic, snow-covered vision of the American west.

It is both comforting and unnerving to me, this blessed but unforgiving geography, like a teacher who pushes you to find the upper limits of your potential when the real lesson is that there are none.”You are one lucky man,” I tell my new friend, as snowflakes melt into his dark hair. Happy, brown eyes smile over cupped hands. He warms them with his breath. “Yes, I am very lucky to find such a good guide for my trip.”

High praise in a Spanish accent.

I’ve managed to live in the San Luis Valley for ten years, without truly accepting it as my home…until this moment. I needed Andoni’s fresh eyes to see it, to remember my place. Open, curious, excited with a child’s wonderment, the wealth of his energy is just as valuable as his technical expertise. Andoni’s profession has taken him all over the world to witness and record
extraordinary spectacles, nature’s premier events. Still, my home has the power to move him. Now I claim it with a sense of prideful ownership.

Neither of us knew what we were getting ourselves into. I expected to be his guide, but it was the handsome Spaniard who showed me where I might belong.
© 2010, Rita Roberts

This Soul Is…

A single, windblown tree
on a grassy plain,
stunted by gales of critical air.

Migrating thoughts glide, bound and graze,
rabbits, antelope, raptors; prey
forager and predator ways.

Whistle trains sift a morning haze.

Fantasies in heat waves
shimmy each lowland blade,
fiery rut of a love affair.

Sliced, ended. A dagger of low light
across a flatland glade,
browsed bare.

My soul awaits a cleansing rain.

© 2010 Rita Doyle Roberts

freckles turned to buckshot
from her double-barreled cross

baby, upon boy, over unsuspecting man
planting damage, within defect, after birth

lungs and pockets emptied by churchly angels
sins of the flesh hacked to pieces

waxy tears drip on five cakes a year, now six
lit up on the 4th of July, bottles but no rockets

holiday turkey frozen solid
while she thaws in detox

invisible fallout explained away, forgiven
by the polyester / cotton blend of accountant-turned-therapist

putrid stench of interior rot
shrouded by incense, seduction, and garage sale revivals

tented bridges burn
wagon wheels spin

salvation and escapes lie, lurking
in shadows behind the offering

_______________________
© 2010 Rita Doyle Roberts

“Good morning, Selma.” Clyde, a bit grimy and weathered, removes his hat.

A sudden gust blows secondhand snow from the oak’s bare branches. “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it Clyde, or were you out all night?” Selma licks her lips.    Snowflakes on the lips have no smell, but white whiskers do; pipe tobacco, pickled cucumbers, and the sour ferment of endless rebuke.

Clyde replaces his hat. “We were in the neighborhood. Harold’s been gone for a while now… maybe you’d like some company.” Clyde’s scraggly dog pushes through the gate.

Selma folds her arms. “Maybe I’d like to cook breakfast for you, is that it?” The mutt sniffs the hem of Selma’s housecoat. Its muzzle is white with age or frost, she can’t tell which.  Selma swats him with her newspaper.

“Aw, come on,” Clyde tugs at her sleeve, wool sweater over quilted robe. “You never minded before.” Selma snatches her arm away. Clyde rubs his chapped hands together. “The least you could do is invite us in to warm up. A cup of coffee maybe?”

Selma pulls a box of matches from her pocket. Clydes’s eyebrows raise as she makes a torch of the newspaper. “Here,” she offers, “warm yourself with this.” Selma tramps around the house. Clyde is left in the yard with a new snowfall and a handful of burning words.

Selma stomps her shoes at the back door. Inside small, bare toes wriggle on the kitchen linoleum.  Pearl rubs her eyes.  “Grandma, where were you?”

“Stray dogs,” Selma explains, “a couple of pathetic old hounds. I shooed them off.”

Pearl swirls her nightgown in a twirl.  “I already decided, I’m going to build snowman today. We have to find a hat for him.”  Selma nods, “You can use one of Grandpa’s old hats and his pipe too.”  Pearls halts her twirling, “But he never let me use his stuff.” Selma shrugs a smile. “Well, he’s not here to protest, is he?”

Pearl dizzies herself with happy spins.
______________________________
Pearl colors at the coffee table.  Two lopsided braids frizz over her hunched shoulders.  She cups her hands and blows into them. “I’m still cold.”  Selma taps a spoon on the side of a pan.  “You were outside a long time.  This soup will heat you up.”

The metal gate squeaks and Pearl holds back the curtain.  “Grandma, who plays baseball in winter?”  Selma wipes her hands on a dingy apron, then stoops to see out the window.
Clyde scowls and takes a batter’s stance next to the snowman.  “Hey!  What’s he doing?” Pearl’s innocent outrage wants to know.  “Hush now.  Come away from the window,” Selma hustles Pearl to the kitchen, guiding her by the shoulders.  “Yeah, but….”  Pearl protests.  Selma grips a little harder, “It’s just a snowman and some drunkard down on his luck.  Isn’t it nice that you built a man of snow, just for that good-for-nothing to beat up and feel better?  You’re such a thoughtful girl.”

“But I didn’t know.  I wanted a snowman.”

“Oh, you knew.  Somewhere inside you already had an idea that somebody needed that snowman.”

Pearl runs back to see remnants of the shattered head glittering downward like a quiet blizzard. Its black hat rocks slowly on a low branch. Clyde sticks out his tongue to catch some of the glistening crystals.  He leans a little too far back, teeters. The wooden bat makes a surprisingly loud crack when it hits the icy sidewalk.  His dog lifts its leg, turning the round base of the snowman yellow.

Clyde snatches the pipe from where it landed atop the mail box. He grips it in his teeth, grinning. The old sot wobbles. He nods with great satisfaction at the headless snowman, then stumbles away.

Pearl skips to the kitchen.  Saddle shoes on a wooden floor thump a heartbeat rhythm.  “You were right Grandma!  That man left happy.  I guess he needed a pipe too.”

Selma pulls the girl over to her hip in a one-armed hug. “You’re a blessing to everyone, whether they know it or not.” She lights a match with her free hand. “Let’s have cocoa with our soup.” The stove top ticks, till the burner ignites into a blue ring of tiny flames.

©2010 Rita Doyle Roberts

The problem was finding the appropriate artist.  By sheer chance I met Rita Roberts while hiking at a lighthouse near Mendocino. She invited me to an artist’s reception for her that evening.

After viewing her landscapes at the gallery I had no doubt I had found the artist I was looking for. She did not disappoint!”

Howard L Hambrecht,MD

“The Dolphin House”  16 x 32”   Oil

Toluca Lake, California

“We’d seen a few pieces of Rita’s work around the San Luis Valley and made it a point to attend her showing at the Del Norte Museum during the summer of 2009.”

“There were many pieces that caught our attention, but Ron chose “Introspection” for three reasons – the strong complementary colors, the composition’s nice flow that draws you into the picture, and the model’s pose — hiding her eyes behind her hands lends a sense of mystery to the piece.”

Ron and Marilyn Loser

When I purchased these paintings, I could place myself in each scene. Later I took some tours of Ireland with my friend, Mick Moloney, who is an Irish musician. I found in Ireland each of the places in your paintings.

“Windy day at Agate Beach” reminds me of the West Coast of Ireland around Fanore.

“Salt Air, Van Damme State Park” reminds me of Tory Island on the Northwestern Coast of Ireland and of places I saw in Scotland.

“River Reflections” (not pictured) I see each time I am at the edge of a river marveling at the water as it flows so easily over the rocks. Your paintings are all a meditation to me. I treasure them.