Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Art Gallery of Hamilton: 'Made in Canada' Gala 2017 - UPDATE

Always fun to find out - after the fact - that one of my works has been included in a Fund-Raising Gala Auction!

The Art Gallery of Hamilton recently hosted a 'MADE IN CANADA' Gala. Apparently, a pinhole photograph of mine that I donated several years ago was 'in'.

Unhappily, the event on May 27th came and went, with me none the wiser ... Still, here are the seeming highlights >

Silent & live auction. Tickets: $350 per person. Dinner & Dancing.
(Proceeds to support programming at the AGH.)



...  Maybe one day I'll find out who actually bought my donated work, and for how much ... 
Artists' do like to know what happens to their generously donated 'freebies' ... HA!


FRIDAY, June 2nd, 2017 - Vox Humana Chamber Choir Present 'the national anthems' - with all-Canadian poem, 'Bush Chord'


So thrilled to be a part of this amazing choral event in British Colombia. 
Canadian composer Tobin Stokes has imaginatively re-interpreted my poem, 'Bush Chord', 
to create an astounding musical medley of 'sun-struck lyres' ... 


FRIDAY, JUNE 2nd - 7:30pm -



REHEARSAL of 'BUSH CHORD' - Photo by Tobin Stokes, May 29th, 2017

My poem, Bush Chord, on which new choral work, by Tobin, is based - 

BUSH CHORD

pine poplar willow and punk wood
spit and spark
while bone hard elm birch apple and oak
hum harmonious
fine hard woods - good wood to burn

these wonder instruments pressure whistle
chattering, cheering, cackling
crackling within a hesitant cyclone of light
flickering flames
of sublime delight, warming slow, they give us life

parse this minor miracle of mega bio-physics
of holy fire drawn down
from primal sun
through leaves to rugged root shoots far flung
look here now

to this instant, brilliant burn
an intense unrehearsed liquid fire
a sound symphony of sun struck lyres
complete and sacred
a rare but common gift

the honey musk smell of jumbled bush wood
burns deep into primal memory

(remember those crisp sun-filled fall days
of cutting, gathering, splitting, stacking,
carrying, piling, drying, and cursing
those back breaking loads?)

to get to this
this calm clear moment
listen

listen
to these bush chords
please


Saturday, May 27, 2017

Canada 150 Tulips - GLORIOUS!

Canada 150 Tulip - Copyright - M.L.Holton, Canada

Canada 150 Tulips2 - Copyright MLHolton, Canada

Zapped Tulip with 'painting' app ... Copyright, M.L.Holton, Canada
Ok, call me corny, but I love how these look. White with 'ribbon' red thorough out. Planted last fall, and gratifying to see them come up healthy and hardy this spring ... 'Canada', as a nation state (only 150 years young), may have a ways to go yet - but with Good Will, GOOD things remain possible ...

Friday, May 12, 2017

The K.W.Irmisch 'Arts Person of the Year', M.L.Holton

The K.W.Irmisch 'Arts Person of the Year' Trophy, photo, & presented, by Ellen Irmisch, in memory of her parents.
Wow. Very humbled and honoured to receive
 The K.W. Irmisch 'Arts Person of the Year' award - and trophy!
Awards  celebration was held at the Royal Botanical Gardens on May 11th, 2017,
hosted and organized by the City of Burlington.  

When I was notified that I was 'in the running', and knowing too that I would not be able to attend that night, I prepared a little 'speech' ... just in case .... because you never know ....  
I was asked to have a 'stand in', and asked local arts champion, Kim Varrell, to act on my behalf. 
Little did we both know that I would WIN!!! 

'Art Person of the Year in 2016' - Margaret Lindsay Holton
Here's my speech, delivered with great grace & aplomb, by Kim - (THANK YOU Kim!!!)

"I am very sorry I could not be with you all tonight. I am humbled and truly honored by this award, especially as everyone else in this category is so deserving.

I grew up in the rural North-end of the City on a sheep farm, up on top of the Escarpment, far from the lakeside downtown core. .... As a child, Burlington, as a City, was miles away! - Our family roots are deep in this area: first, as pre-Confederation farmers, then, post-Confederation, as Loyalist manufacturers, who fanned out, building and contributing, to the well-being of this region. Today, I stand as the sole professional artist from a large extended family that is now spread across much of Southern Ontario. - We are Canadians.

I do consider it my role - and responsibility - as a mature artist - to be a cultural witness of our Times - to interpret the issues of our day - through my pencil, pen and paint brush. Photography and film-making are newer additions to my work, but, fundamentally, my work is what I DO - as a multi-disciplined Canadian artist - rooted to this land - HERE - on this amazing planet.

Burlington, as a City, is now a rapidly evolving collection of diverse neighbourhoods. We are perched between one of the greatest of Lakes in North America, Lake Ontario, and the ancient primordial rock of the Niagara Escarpment. Our little patch of turf stands as a beacon of civility and safety in a larger war-torn and increasingly troubled world. To my mind, we all have a responsibility to maintain that civility through our words and neighbourly deeds. It is how we create "community" amongst ourselves.

Art, in whatever form, is a neuron bridge. It shares IDEAS. Some may be critical and unsettling, Others can be super positive and celebratory. All together, art expresses WHO we are to each other. Art makes us human.

I am very happy to receive this honour.  Thank you."

Burlington’s Best Awards are managed by a citizen’s committee that was established in 1965 with the mandate of recognizing local residents who bring honour to the city and make a significant difference in the community.

p.s. Highlighted in the nomination video was one of my more recent art projects, The Frozen Goose (about a rural family coping in the aftermath of WW1.). It is the ONLY Canadian film, as far as I know, that includes two outstanding local locations in Burlington, Ontario, Canada - Mount Nemo & Rattlesnake Point. Both are timeless landscapes. See it here.

WOOHOO!!!! 
:) 

Plus a few shots of the event, courtesy of the City of Burlington -
Burlington BEST AWARD winners - without me :)

Nominees & BEST Awards Committee at the Burlington Performing Arts Centre

Mayor of Burlington, Rick Goldring at the City BEST Awards Gala


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

CD Launch & 'Brunch on the Beach' with Canadian Artist & Poet - Margaret Lindsay Holton


Opps! - ERRORS all MINE. Caesar DRINKS, not SALADS, are $5!- Includes an EGG!

It's a happenin'!
CD Launch of CANADADA: TAKE TWO 
- Come for 'Brunch on the Beach' - with me :)
SUNDAY - June 11th, at 11am 

At HARRY'S PUB on the Hamilton Beach Strip
721 Beach Blvd - with easy access to Lake Ontario beach front & boardwalk... 
Full SUNDAY BRUNCH MENU Available!
BLTs, Eggs & Bacon, Home Fries & Toast, etc. Fully Licensed. - Parking on Side Streets.
Conveniently located SMACK in the MIDDLE of the Beach Strip, Harry's Pub.
CANADADA:TAKE TWO - Spoken Word & Garageband Antics CD, by MLHolton


Monday, April 17, 2017

ODE TO MY POSTAL CODE: L8H 6Y5 by M.L.Holton



Hamilton’s self-declared dubpoet laureate, Klyde Broox, has invited local poets - of all shapes and sizes - to declare their love of place with an innovative poetry smash - ODE TO MY POSTAL CODE.

I've contributed - insisting that Klyde 'stand and deliver'.  Here's a sample of Klyde's work, and my own submitted piece, about my studio place on Hamilton's beach strip:  L8H 6Y5. 

c. L8H 6Y5 Poem by M.L.Holton, (2017)


Spoken Word Dub Fest 
ODE TO MY POSTAL CODE
Hamilton Public Library 
- CENTRAL BRANCH -
55 York Blvd, downtown Hamilton
Happening: Friday, APRIL 28th, 2-4pm 

By the way, if swinging by, give a listen too, to my sesquicentennial tribute, CANADADA: TAKE TWO
Double the trouble - spoken word AND music! ;)

Plus, check out other MLH published poetry via the great Canpoetry website, hosted by the University of Toronto.

Poster by Klyde Broox - Poets in the Hammer  - (Guess who's got a finger in her eye? ... )
Post event: Klyde - in full force - at the Hamilton Public Library, video by Ute Schmid Jones.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Artist in their Studios: HAL, Spring, 2017

Cover of HAL, Spring, 2017
Delighted to discover that many local Golden Horseshoe artists, myself included, have been included in the latest issue of HAL: Hamilton Arts & Letters on-line magazine, in one of the photographic features, Portfolio II: Artists in their Studios by gifted Hamilton-based photographer, Jeff Tessier.

I was shot by Jeff mid-summer of 2015, on a very hot & humid day, in my lakeside studio on the Hamilton Beach Strip, on Lake Ontario. Not the most flattering portrait, but hey, as an image of an artist ''at work and play" it does dove-tail perfectly into the issue theme:  

- PLAY: Life as a Work of Art ... 

This issue is chock-o-block with tantalizing riffs on the above topic: including incisive reviews, of prose & poetry - as well as new poetry, fascinating video content and new photography by established and emerging personalities. Wonderful to read - and navigate - on-line. Check it out!


Margaret Lindsay Holton in her studio, Hamilton, 2015 by Jeff Tessier.




Thursday, March 30, 2017

TIME WARP - Spring 2017 Exhibit by Margaret Lindsay Holton


Please join me, in the evening, 7-8pm, during Hamilton's April Art Crawl - Friday, April 14th.
Exhibit will be up starting from April 11th & runs until May 7th. 4pm.
A selection of pinhole photography, (with one large photo-collage thrown in ... ) 

M.L.Holton with one of her hand-made pinhole cameras. Photo Credit: M. Sui. 

Showing in the Defacto Gallery, at the famed  
- Mulberry Street Coffee House-
193 James Street North,  
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Swing in for a peek & brew!  

Samples of pinhole cameras made by M.L.Holton, Canada. - Photo Credit: M.L.Holton

UPDATE: May 2017 - Great Exhibit! Thanks for coming everyone! 
Here's moi during 'installation' mid April ... 
Learn more about pinhole photography HERE


Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Fame & Infamy, Part 1. The Life & Art Career of M.L.Holton


.... Well, that's kind of nice. I have been nominated for the City of Burlington's 2016 'Arts Person of the Year' award.

(Burlington is situated on the western end of Lake Ontario, one of the Great Lakes, nestled in the Province of Ontario, in the amazing country of Canada.)

I don't stand a chance - there's such other great talent on deck. Still, it is very flattering to be considered.

Equally as flattering is to be listed as a 'Famous Person' from Burlington.

In the main, an artist's life, no matter where they are situated, is one of DOING. The rest - payment, recognition, accolades - is pure gravy. I have been at it for quite some time now, so again, it IS gratifying to finally be 'seen' by the larger non-arts community.

Next up for me is a pinhole photography show in the Defacto Gallery, at the Mulberry Street Coffee House in Hamilton. It's going up April 10th and will be there until May 7th. Entitled: TIME WARP , I'll be posting more on that shortly ...


Up UP and AWAY!
p.s. They are missing an art type in the above chart 
'naive-surreal-folk-abstractionism-by-canajun-M.L.Holton'  - wink, wink.
Colombine in the Back Field, by M.L.Holton
ps. Woohoo - I WON! :) 
More here

'Bush Chord', new choral work, by Canadian composer, Tobin Stokes, based on poem by Canadian artist, M.L.Holton

Excited to announce the official premiere of the new choral work based on one of my poems, 'Bush Chord', by Canadian composer, Tobin Stokes, commissioned by Vox Humana Chamber Choir, from British Columbia, Canada.

Happening June 2nd, 2017 (Ticket info below.)

What was the inspiration behind "the national anthems?" 

From the program notes, by Vox Humana Chamber Choir's musical director, David Lang: 

"Every country has a history – how it came to be, how its wars were won or lost, how strong its people are, or how proud, or how sad. We group ourselves into nations, but it has never really been clear to me what that means, or what we get out of it. Are we grouped together because we believe something together and are proud of associating with others who believe the same way? 

 Or are we grouped together because our ancestors found themselves pushed onto a piece of land by people who didn’t want them on theirs? It seems that all nations have some bright periods and some dark periods in their past. 

Building a national myth out of our bright memories probably creates a different character than if we build one out of the dark.
 
I had the idea that if I looked carefully at every national anthem I might be able to identify something that everyone in the world could agree on. If I could take just one hopeful sentence from the national anthem of every nation in the world I might be able to make a kind of meta-anthem of the things that we all share. I started combing through the anthems, pulling out from each the sentence that seemed to me the most committed. What I found, to my shock and surprise, was that within almost every anthem is a bloody, war-like, tragic core, in which we cover up our deep fears of losing our freedoms with waves of aggression and bravado.

At first I didn’t know what to do with this text. I didn’t want to make a piece that was aggressive, or angry, or ironic. Instead, I read and re-read the meta-anthem I had made until another thought became clear to me.

Hiding in every national anthem is the recognition that we are insecure about our freedoms, that freedom is fragile, and delicate, and easy to lose. Maybe an anthem is a memory informing a kind of prayer, a heartfelt plea: 'There was a time when we were forced to live in chains. Please don’t make us live in chains again.' " - David Lang.

Am super excited to see what Tobin Stokes will create with my poem - 

BUSH CHORD

pine poplar willow and punk wood
spit and spark
while bone hard elm birch apple and oak
hum harmonious
fine hard woods - good wood to burn
these wonder instruments pressure whistle
chattering, cheering, cackling
crackling within a hesitant cyclone of light
flickering flames
of sublime delight, warming slow, they give us life

parse this minor miracle of mega bio-physics
of holy fire drawn down
from primal sun
through leaves to rugged root shoots far flung
look here now
to this instant, brilliant burn
an intense unrehearsed liquid fire
a sound symphony of sun struck lyres
complete and sacred
a rare but common gift

the honey musk smell of jumbled bush wood
burns deep into primal memory
     (remember those crisp sun-filled fall days
     of cutting, gathering, splitting, stacking,
     carrying, piling, drying, and cursing
     those back breaking loads?)

to get to this
this calm clear moment
listen

listen
to these bush chords
please
Have seen the preliminary score, but cant wait to HEAR it!
If in British Columbia in June, please do drop in for a unique choral experience! 

**Read more MLH poetry on excellent Canpoetry website**
(hosted by University of Toronto.)



p.s. NICE to be included in such august company!  
...  Margaret Atwood opera, another project by Stokes from three years ago  ... :) 


UPDATE. APRIL 4th, 2017: Just received the first draft of the score for this work ... WOW. 
Samples below ... 


UPDATE:  Complete sidebar, but of interest to some, perhaps: The National Parks Service of the United States of America used this poem, BUSH CHORD, in an educational park guide, without authorization by me. After I notified them of this 'copyright issue', they said they wouldn't use it anymore ... Kindly note, there was NO chit-chat about financial compensation for prior use  ... (ha! at least my NAME was on the poem! ) ... and it REMAINS on the internet Forever ...  For anyone who CARES, this is 100% WHY talented 'artists starve'. People STEAL/"borrow" other people's work for their own USE and GAIN.  Call it for what it is - THEFT and it's 100% WRONG -  See: 'Life in an Ecosystem' NPS/Gov, PAGE 28 .

Monday, March 27, 2017

Thunderbird by Canadian Painter, M.L.Holton

... Exploration & experimentation are main-stays of what I do as an artist  ...  Trying new things, especially when painting, means exploring new tools and the unknown to investigate a medley of thoughts and feelings. This particular effort is a bit crude, but, to my eye, it has huge potential. ... Starting with a ruby red undercoat, then applying a layer of metallic paint, then dabbing on coloured dots with the back-end of a paintbrush to outline a suggestive bird-in-flight, then letting strong LIGHT play all over the surface, well, wow, YES, I am liking it. Cumulatively, it creates for me a compelling & evocative untold story: one of quiet power, strength, ephemera, that whispers of Time, both ancient & modern. - All of it inspires me to reach higher, pursue farther, get further ... enjoy.

Thunderbird, composite,  by Canadian artist, M.L.Holton
If interested in purchase, kindly contact the artist direclty for size & price. Currently, it is unframed.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

SPRING-A-LING! on Lake Ontario, by M.L.Holton

... the weather is erratic these days, to be sure, BUT there is solid warmth in that Sun now, even if the temperature is still hovering below freezing ... Courage Comrades! It's a comin'!!!
Lake Ontario Beach Strip by M.LHolton
UPDATE, April 2nd: Amazing what difference 10 days can make ... It's LOVELY out now. But there is still a whiff of winter weather in the air ... In the meantime, ENJOYing this SUN!

Snow Fence on the Beach by M.L.Holton
Natural Sculpture on the Lake Front by M.L.Holton



Lunar Beach, Photo by M.L.Holton
Lake Ontario, Photo by M.L.Holton
Snow Fence 2*, Photo Credit: M.L.Holton
*The temptation with this final shot was to 'blow it out' as much as possible to force a high-contrast with the stark shadows. I've done some of that here, but I think it could be cranked up a bit more ...and might, in the end, be better, in colour. See below ...

Snow Fence 2B. Photo Credit: MLHolton

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Granny Paints: New Short Story - by Margaret Lindsay Holton


Northern Friend. - Photo by Donald Marsh.
Author's preamble: I have a collection of short stories that I dip into from time to time, to consider my own evolving points of view, my progress and my craft. This little gem of a story is based on a period of time I spent with Winifred Marsh, (wife of Donald Marsh, an Anglican missionary assigned to Eskimo Point during the 1930s, who later became 'Bishop of the Arctic'.)  I was helping her collate his early photographs of northern peoples and their region .

During those long pleasant days, I discovered Winifred to be a kind, thoughtful, charming, sturdy, insightful and inspiring little woman.  For my contributing efforts, she gave me several of Donald's images, (sample shown.)  I cherish them to this day.  Her 'story' - re-written into this quasi-fictionalized account - has greater resonance as I grow older.  Elders - from any culture - are one of our most precious natural resources ... RESPECT.  

--- 

Granny Paints
           She had said dinner at 5 pm.
           At 82 years of age, she could call dinner at any time she liked, so I had said, ok.
           I arrived a little early, as usual, around 4:30, with the mandatory strawberry and rhubarb pie carefully tucked into my bulging carry bag. I had also picked up a half-pint of Haagan Das vanilla ice cream. I rang the doorbell and waited. She took a long time to answer.
           Her voice squeaked from the other side, “Just a minute.”
           Five minutes passed before I heard the latch turn, and she said, “OK! Give the door a push.”
          
            Ah Winifred. To see you thus. Bent over double, world weary and worn, but ever always, beaming from eye to eye with your impish generous grin. We greet warmly and I see that your eyes are clear and bright today. Winifred. Winnie. Win. I evoke your name to remind myself that these crystal moments are the best gifts.
           You are weak. I can see that every movement is a struggle for you. You are using both your canes today. Our eyes acknowledge the gnawing of age but we both put on a brave face. We joke. We tease each other. You are too weak to make the dinner, but this too is understood and also unspoken. I order you to sit down while I rummage in the kitchen for this and that. I move briskly, efficiently, and make periodic dramatic gestures to entertain you. To please your good eyes. You, lover of Life, remark on my new hairdo and shimmering silk blouse. I push buttons on the microwave and remark how one must tackle high-tech fearlessly. You smile. And we both remember stories from your youth: those years in the North, without stove, sink or refrigerator.
           On the counter I see that you have managed to prepare a small salad of sliced avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, carrots with an assorted mixture of salad greens. I know that it may have taken you over an hour to prepare. You would have had to remove the vegetables from the fridge, wash them, cut them, pull down the serving dish, and then arrange the items artistically.
           You did this for me.
           As we sat down to dine at the table by the window, I leaned over and put a cushion behind your back for comfort. You rubbed your legs and said the arthritis was worse than ever. We chatted amicably about nothing. And when I rose to get the pie and ice-cream for dessert, you are childishly happy and whisper conspiratorially as you pick up your fork, “I’m not supposed to have pie…” Our old secret. Later, you insist I have a small tumbler of brandy. You don’t drink, never have. I retrieve the bottle from under the cupboard and pour myself a stiff one, then lean back, and listen, as you tell me yet another tale of our family history.
           You are telling me a new story about Eskimo Point up on Hudson Bay. How my father, and your only son, Donald, had found the old bull seal while out trapping with my grandfather, and your husband, Archie. You remembered the day like it was yesterday. And in the telling your hands drift to the tabletop to fidget with the white tablecloth.

           The sky had been uncommonly bright and clear that day, the blue so remarkably blue that you had spontaneously dubbed it a colour from your paint box ‘Robin Eggshell Blue’.
            Archie had been out walking and checking the trap-line on the bluff with his son Donald tagging along. The North Sea was quiet with a gentle north-eastern breeze lapping the shore. The beach pebbles glistened like forgotten pearls fallen from Sedna’s throat. The lime-green sea grass flickered rhythmically imitating flapping bed linen.
           Archie was bent over a trap, busy, while Donald was idling about, twisting a braid of sea grass, when they first heard it. The breezy blissful scene was pierced by a startled screeching scream. Donald scanned the shoreline. Half a mile away, down on the rocks, a large bull seal was struggling inside the captive restraints of a mangled net. Plastic red and white buoys clattered against its rolling sleek body. Another ungodly belly wail sent the ever-present seagulls and terns skyward.
           Archie and Donald ran down and tried to grab hold of the bulky mess. But that old bull barked and struggled furiously against their intrusive and awkward hands. Archie told Donald to stay put, he was going to get his tranquilizing gun at the camp and he ran off.
          Donald stood off, bewildered by the moaning creature. He tried to think what to do. The seal heaved its heavy body again in its never-ending struggle to set itself free and as it did so a shard of entangled grappling iron jammed further into its already bloodied side.
          The tortured yelp was unbearable.
           Donald ran forward to the seal with his outstretched hands to pull out the rod. As he approached the bull turned on him and roared in anger. Donald fell down backwards onto the beach pebbles and burst into frustrated tears. He slowly began to crawl over the stones towards the bull seal extending his bruised hands. “Please, please, let me help you.” His own murmurs of pain punctuated the moaning groans of that majestic beast.
          Tentatively, gently, Donald placed his small hand through the netting onto the side of the heaving animal. This unusual child-caress momentarily stilled the wounded creature and Donald was able to move his hand carefully to the rod. He paused for a moment, speaking softly, then, with a strength he didn’t know he had, he pulled the rod clear and clean from the belly of the bull.  
           Blood gushed out at the boy. The giant sea slug convulsed in a painful spasm and Donald yelled in terror as the mammoth dead-weight crushed down upon him. He lost sight of the sky.
           By the time Archie returned with the gun he could not see Donald anywhere. He glanced back over the ridge to the trap line. He briefly thought how timid his little son was.
           Archie turned and shot skillfully into the still moaning bull seal. He then slowly approached the now inert mangled mess. When the seal lay perfectly still, hardly breathing, he bent over the creature to roll off the entanglement of buoys and netting.
           It was then that he first saw Donald’s blood covered hand holding the metal shard extruding from under the bull’s belly. Frantically, and with a ferocious strength, he heaved off the half-ton carcass. The buoys clattered forward onto the rocks.
           He gingerly lifted up the limp body of his only son. “God, dear God, not my boy!”
           He carried Donald over to the embankment, and laid him down softly on the sea grass. As he wiped the warm blood off Donald’s ashen face he saw that he was still breathing. Archie placed his big hands onto the boy’s small chest and administered a clumsy CPR all the while praying.
          “God, dear God, no.”
           Winifred paused and glanced out the window to the early night sky. She watched the clouds move for a moment, then turned and looked at me, “You know, Archie, your grandfather, wasn’t, and never was, much of a religious man.” I nodded slowly. I knew that.
           “Anyway,” she said, brushing the tablecloth …
           Donald finally sputtered to life, choking and frightened.
           He gazed up into the eyes of his ever-loving father and said, “Did we save him, Dad?”

           Winifred gave a gentle cough. Her sad sweet smile met my all-seeing gaze. Quietly, she said, “Your father was a strong little boy, Ruth. Much stronger than his own father ever believed.” She rubbed the top of her legs. I nodded slowly again and watched her age before my eyes.  “I’m sorry dear heart,” she continued, ”I’m getting a little tired now. That has to be enough for today.”
           I helped her from her chair and asked if she wanted me to stay until she was re-settled in her room. No, no, she said, just come back next week, maybe we can take a little walk outdoors. I promised her we would walk the tree lane behind the parking lot if she felt up to it. The yellow crocuses were just starting to push up, new spring shoots were bursting forth. I could come a bit earlier on Saturday, I said.
           “O’ goodie! ” she exclaimed, as she struggled forward on her canes, “I’ll bring my paints!”
           And I said, “Yes Granny, that’s a good idea. Bring your paints.”

--- 

Granny Paints: Short Story - Copyright - Margaret Lindsay Holton. 
Contact the artist for reproduction. / Photograph by Donald Marsh in Collection of M.L.Holton