To The Creatives

To my maternal grandmother, whose home had an entire wall of colorful yarn skeins and rooms adorned with her weavings. To my paternal grandfather who wrote me letters with collage pieces mixed in among the words and who sanded and stained pieces of driftwood until they shone to perfection at his woodworking bench. To my maternal grandfather who, despite his own claims of clumsiness, managed to create vivid, mini Chinese opera stage sets upon which we made tiny puppets dance and sing. 

To my mother whose quilts teach me about that perfect balance between precision and flow, whose Amish-style blankets always leave one imperfect piece, like life itself. To my father, who sings and strums the guitar and who coaxes native plants to flourish among roses and a plum tree; to my friend Marcia, whose whimsical garden additions — a curled trellis here, a wooden duck head there — make wandering among the vegetable beds a delight. To my father-in-law who rises before the sun to brew a pot of coffee, spending his mornings among pine, madrone and cedar in the woodshop.

Thank you.

To the art studio I enjoyed during my 20s: a space to create and cavort with fellow creative souls, each of us so different in process and outcome, each of our red tool carts filled to the brim with paper, paints, medium, brushes. Tired from a long day of work, I would somehow gain new energy when walking through that building’s heavy doors. For the young woman from Santa Fe who sold me her plastic shelving unit filled with acrylics, in the hopes that this fellow artist could put them to use. 

For the privilege to see art in the Louvre, the Uffizi, the Alhambra, the manicured gardens of French chateaus and the rambling roses over English gates. For the community murals that fill my soul when I walk by. For the painting teacher who swooned over everyone else’s perfect, life-like portraits but mine, leading me to find a different style for my voice.

Thank you.

To my husband who embraces the idea of my little art studio in the redwoods, which I enjoy today —smiling to myself when I disappear down the path and through the red studio door for a couple of hours. Getting there can be more difficult than a simple walk down the rickety steps. Work, house projects and my beautiful, loveable, energetic dog are all vying for my attention. And then there is the self-doubt, which itself could be an entire essay. But then there is the moment when I look up through the trees to the moon…or at the colorful grasshopper resting on the grass…or the swirling kelp in the sea…and I know I have to draw them, paint them, and somehow document their beauty to make them my own. This means I can thank myself — for listening amid the din of life.

And to my fellow artists, always: writers, painters, photographers, ceramicists…sharing ideas in this churning current, so that we each may scoop up some of that water and drink — to quench the days of frustration and nights of little inspiration, taking each other’s gifts and making them our own, proving that these voices, our voice, yearns to be heard.

Thank you.

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Alison Trujillo experiments with organic shapes and patterns in her artwork to reflect the natural world around us. She uses a variety of mediums, such as acrylic paint, oil pastel, watercolors, encaustic, pencil, and collage.  

Alison lives in rural, coastal Sonoma County, California. Her hope is that her work will help to bring appreciation for, and inspire protection of, our beautiful earth. 

Website: alisontrujillo.weebly.com