About Me

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A writer by predilection, an aunt by blessing and a friend by choice, Shelley has spent many years journaling before sitting down to draft her first novel. She has a B.A. in English discourse and is currently working on her third romantic-suspense, the title of which will be announced soon pending publication. Shelley is a member of the Romance Writers of America as well as her RWA state chapter of the Maryland Romance Writers.
"I love story-telling. It's a way to live an experience through the eyes of a character." - Shelley N. Greene

Thursday, April 11, 2013

THE NORMAN ROCKWELL


Note:  See the post prior for back story.  ;0)

A few years after I’d visited the MET, I’d heard that the National Museum of Art in Washington D.C. had Norman Rockwell’s THE FOUR FREEDOMS on display.  On loan from another institution, I made the trip downtown only to discover that I’d missed the exhibit by one day.

“The paintings aren’t here anymore?” I asked, crestfallen.

“No, they’ve been sent back to the Rockwell Museum in Massachusetts.”

At the time I hadn’t traveled much, and after my fateful encounter with the Monet I wondered if I should even be allowed around priceless pieces of art again.  But my curiosity got the better of me, and I added “See a Rockwell up close” to my resolutions page the following year. 

Early in January 2005 I found myself on the internet researching my vacation to Stockbridge, MA. While planning the trip and reserving a small room at a privately owned inn, I baulked at the fact that I’d never visited New England before.  It wasn’t like the thirteen colonies were that far away, all of them slightly north of MD, and I’d never ventured out to see them before. 

The fact struck me as sad.  I know a writer’s work is solitary, but seriously.  I needed to get out more.

And Stockbridge was a lovely place; a small town with brick colonial houses that anchored the rolling expanses of grass. Clotheslines dripping with freshly laundered cotton, it was so picturesque.  I can still taste the fresh bread from the main street bakery. 

          And I got to see a real Norman Rockwell.  God, I loved that trip. 

I walked through the Norman Rockwell Museum in awe of his style, the perfect lines of paint so different.  Monet painted his landscapes in the moment before the light of day faded.  Rockwell used precise, thin strokes.  His paintings looked like antique photos, snapshots of the past.  I was awed by the flawlessness of his work, its perfection.

          Walking slowly, I spent hours that day just analyzing his craft.  Thinking that an artist, whether they’re a painter or a writer or a hat maker, all develop a style based first on how they were taught, and then by what experimentation and experience has taught them.

          I perused the paintings losing myself in the art.  And I felt proud.

I’d checked off my resolution – I’d seen a Rockwell up close.  I’d seen almost all of them! 

I witnessed how amusing GOSSIP is in person, how GIRL AT A MIRROR reminds me of every little girl who dreams of being a mature woman someday.  How TRAFFIC CONDITIONS pokes fun at the little unexpected incidents in life. 

I spent forty-five minutes looking at the sunny yellow of the new bride’s dress in THE MARRIAGE LICENSE.  The reserved expression of approval on the old registrar’s face stealing my heart.  I think that one will always be my favorite. 



Each of the paintings hung on brightly lit wall space inside of wide rooms, the lines on the hardwood floors marking where you were to stand. 

Thinking back to the Monet, I left my camera in its bag. 

And while I remained mindful the entire time, something about THE TRUMPTEER did me in. I couldn’t help but see it closer, leaning in my eyes focused on the amazing merging of color on the fridge of the chair.  All crimson and carmine and cardinal…

A minute passed before I acknowledged the footsteps coming towards me.  Entranced, I didn’t back away as the lady from security inclined next to me, ear-to-ear, mirroring my stance.

          Holding my breath, I waited for her tell me that I was standing too close, that I shouldn’t be breathing near an American work of art.  That I was infringing on the rules.

When she spoke her voice was gentle, soft R’s saying, “Notice his use of red…”

          I grinned like a little kid—she was cool.

 The guide, Mary, told me all about the painting and explained Rockwell’s painting style.  He’d start with a charcoal drawing—the framework of all his paintings—and would maneuver the paint in layers over several weeks and sometimes months.  He punctuated with red, his signature color, his thumbprint.

          After touring the room I turned to her.  “Will you show me the FREEDOMS?” I asked.

          Without hesitation she held open her arm and escorted me to the largest room in the museum.
         
          I went to bed that night with art drifting through my dreams. 

Did the greats ever mess up when they were learning? I wondered.

Did Monet ever have a moment when he thought, “No, that is just isn’t right—” and started over? 

What about Rockwell?  How much trial and error did he go through before he became so flawless on canvas?

Similar to the editing process, there is no doubt that writing is an art.  Pick up any book and get a glimpse of an author’s style. 

          What does this author “paint” with?  Subtext? Metaphor?  Narrative voice?

          What structure choices were made to tell this story in the best way?  How did they learn that?

          Much is gleaned from books but more is learned from experience.  If you’re going to be good at writing, it takes practice.  You will have those drafts that really suck and you have face the reasons why.  You learn the rules to know where they bend, and break them only if the fissure serves a strong purpose. 

Great artists have had years of trial and error—plenty of first drafts and spilled paint.  In writing it’s dropping the words down in their raw form and then molding the coarse description into a clear story.  

It’s love of the process, not the final product that’s important. 

          That is what I love about storytelling.  Writing holds a memory just as a painting does. 

Do you remember a moment from a book you read long ago?  Is it just as fresh in your mind as when you first read it?

A bridge over water lilies, a couple signing their marriage license—what is your moment? 

Will you capture it?

-         SNG

I FLASHED A MONET!


Mentioned in one of my public bios is one of my many *facepalm* moments.  I can’t deny you the full story, but know the embarrassment remains…

Several years ago I had taken my sister on a trip to NYC to celebrate her birthday.  After we arrived, she turned around and surprised me with a trip to the MET to view my all-time favorite Monet painting BRIDGE OVER A POOL OF WATERLILIES. 

Man, it was spectacular in person.  A Japanese bridge in a spring with a water lilies stretched out underneath. The pastel colors and dabbed brushstrokes were mesmerizing, the style of Monet’s hand speaking over the span of time and distance.

I was desperate for a picture.

In the name of packing light, and unbeknownst to me that we were going to be visiting my favorite work of art, I’d brought my bum-around camera, the point-and-shoot having one button to control all its functions, which included disabling the flash. 
(If you see where this is going start cringing now.)

A little ART 101: paintings that are over a century old are crafted using far more organic materials than what’s available today, so exposing a classic oil painting to bright light has an eroding affect.  One synthetic burst of light can take days off the lifespan of the art.

I knew this.  And yet I had to find some way to control the camera.

I stood there struggling with the single-button.  Checking and re-checking that the little lightning bolt icon had a circled slash over it, meaning that the stupid flash was turned off.  One minute I’d see that it had the slash, the next the lightning bolt was back. 

This went on for five minutes.  Driving. Me. Crazy. 

Going through the de-flash steps again the circle-slash finally stayed, assuring me that I’d nixed the response.  I’d put the thing through so much scrutiny by then, the only remaining test was to actually take the picture. 

I pointed the camera at the masterpiece a depressed the shutter…

And the damn thing lit up the whole room.  

Tears welled as people around the room stopped to stare at me.  As the guard stationed at the door started my direction, I handed over the camera as if surrendering a discharged gun.

My freak-out lasted as I kept mumbling, “I flashed a Monet – Ohmygod!”

Opening his mouth the guard closed it again as he waited for my panic attack to subside.  After several minutes of my chatter he finally said my sister, “When she’s done hyperventilating, tell her not to do it again.”

And so here it is – the priceless piece of art I slighted. 



To this day I can’t think of it without chest pains. 

Please don’t judge me.