The e-ramblings of Artist S.J. Grogan

So there I was: working diligently on my latest painting, Canyon Blues. At a couple days into this painting, I was (and am) really liking the feeling and tone. The painting depicts a section of the Grand Canyon's West Rim (just before Lake Mead) in winter, with snow layering the buttes and ridges and spires, adding pale blues and lavenders into the browns and reds. I was thinking, "Hey, it's summer in the Mojave Desert, sounds like the perfect time to paint a winter scene." Everything was going smoothly.

Enter . . . the cat. Jasmine. One of my four. Now, my four inside-only cats are 99% well-behaved. We've lived in this house for more than 13 years now. My studio has been my studio for all those 13 years. We have had cats that entire time (2 of them, the entire time). Jasmine we've had for 3-1/2 years. At about six years old, she's a little feisty but nothing unexpected. Most of the time, three if not all four of my cats are with me in my studio as I paint. They decline any constructive criticism, but do a good job of holding down my window-seat. It works.

Then . . . I rearranged my studio. Last Saturday. And the first cat-astrophe happened Sunday. I'd moved my main (large) easel and the taboret (table-topped drawers) that holds my palette, 90 degrees from where they had been, to take better advantage of the light. I loved my new layout, and dove into this painting. (NOT literally.) All was going well.

The first time Jasmine checked out my rearranged studio (Sunday), I admit, that was my fault. Door open, palette unattended, one curious cat (apparently the other three didn't care. They still don't). Jasmine, for the record, is a beautiful (if a little tubby) tortoise shell with white paws (snowshoe?), white belly, white tail-tip, and blue eyes. We discovered that white paws are AWESOME for dipping in oil paint. Sunday, she got alizarin crimson (dark red), cadmium yellow, and some cadmium orange on three paws (one front, both back). Her paws, along with the spots on my tan carpet, were quite eye-catching. We saw her, grabbed her, grabbed some non-toxic brush cleaner (in soap bar form), and while hubby held a growling, spitting, ticked off cat, I lathered and scrubbed and rinsed (and repeated, repeatedly) Jasmine's paws until they turned their original white. Then we toweled her dry and let her go. She didn't speak to us for the rest of the day. The carpet survived, too.

Enter today, Wednesday: I'm working on Canyon Blues again, listening to my stereo, with another cat (Roy) asleep on my window seat as I paint. The other three cats are scattered throughout the house, all asleep. All is well. After four hours of painting, I decide I'm done for the day, and leave my studio--for FIVE minutes--to clean my brushes. Jasmine and the other two are still nowhere to be seen, and most likely asleep in the master bedroom, which is where they've been all day. Roy is still asleep on my window-seat. All should be fine. It's only five minutes, right?

Yeah . . . no. I come back and see that Jasmine is very awake, and has materialized onto the tile in my entry, chewing on her front paw. Her sapphire-hued, Pthalo BLUE paw. Since this is a family blog, I won't repeat what I said next. Suffice it to say that I was pretty ticked off, at myself and at the cat. Over the years (at our previous house), we did have two different cats jump on my palette on two different occasions, many years a part. Both times, with each cat, once was enough to learn that lesson. Both times, I took measures to ensure it didn't happen again. This time, based on Sunday's happening, I decided to move my palette when I was going to be out of my studio for more than a few minutes--or if a more active cat was about. Even with those strategies in place, it happened twice in less than a week . . . to the same cat. Apparently, she isn't the brightest bulb in our bunch.

Once again, I grabbed the cat, and she (and ultimately I, with having to do this alone this time) ended up with an impromptu bath in the bathtub using the brush-cleaner soap bar. Afterward, I toweled off the cat, cleaned up myself, the bathtub, the bathroom, the tile in the entry, and the half-dozen spots on my tan carpet.

So a very clean cat is on my bed, grooming herself while not speaking to me, apparently no worse for wear (which is very good, since most oil paint is toxic when wet); my palette is hidden on a high, narrow shelf where it will get put every single time I even think about leaving my studio, and Canyon Blues, the painting, is still on the road to becoming a wonderful study of cool blues, sunlit snow, and chiselled rock.

And during all this, the other three cats lifted their heads, watched this little drama with very little interest, and promptly went back to sleep.

It's always nice to have things put in the proper perspective.