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Right now, I’ll bet you’re asking, “B.Z., why aren’t you posting some of her paintings for us to see?” Well, that’s because I do not have her permission to that…yet. I hope I’ll connect with her this week to add them to this essay. BUT if you live anywhere near Sonora, you should stop by the Post Gallery before Sunday, June 27th. After that, Sherie’s work will leave the window (hopefully not for long). And you CAN go to her website…
Sherie Drake is one of the most compelling contemporary portrait artists that I have ever encountered. Each of her pieces tells a story about the person in the image, a moment in the life of her subject. Her compositional approach reminds me of the well-known portrait and abstract artist David Hockney. Not at all in how the paintings look, but in how she approaches her subjects, giving the viewer a quick, private tryst. She is not afraid to “tell like it is,” raw, gritty and sublimely beautiful.
Along with this truth, Sherie Drake takes years of experience and training to bring paint to the canvas. Her color composition is tight and clearly defined, yet her brushstrokes give a gesture of rush, hurry…extreme powerful energy. I’ve visited her studio a few times and seen her works in progress. So, I know she is not REALLY hurrying, but that exquisite implication of grabbing a snapshot of time exists in her paintings. David Hockney worked the same way. Some of his portraits seemed to pop out of a camera, grabbing the souls of his subjects and laying them out for eternity. Sherie’s work has that same compulsion of forward movement, of allowing us to see deep into the heart. You know that these people are not frozen and stiff. We’re just getting a chance to capture one breath in a life. Then their lives go on, as do ours. Sherie lets us share that moment in triad: The subject, the viewers, all held by Sherie’s guiding eye and hand. In storytelling this idea of the triad comes up a lot as we over-analyze our work: A threesome–The story, the listener and the teller–create this symbiotic moment in time. Sherie has done the same. Her paintings are just that…amazingly told stories.
Drake’s recent work has focused on soldiers currently serving abroad in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was told that her own grandson has been on active duty in the Middle East. I can only imagine the strange mix of pride and fear that would hold a grandmother, as one her dearest spends even one moment in harm’s way. And how has Sherie chosen to focus those thoughts and concerns? By creating a powerful tribute to her grandson and his “buddies in arms.”
No matter how you feel about war or these wars, you must see these portraits. Her work is honest with great emotional depth. Too often artists try to embellish this kind of tribute work with a lot of extra fluff and flowers. But not Sherie. There you see the exhaustion, the fear, the innocence, even the bravado of young men in combat. You feel the heat, the dry arid land. You see these young soldiers as they catch a breath to rest, flashing us a “thumbs up.” You see them on patrol, or dealing with grief and fear of their own. Again…raw, gritty, real.
If YOU haven’t stopped into the POST GALLERY to see Sherie’s paintings, please get there ASAP. Currently her pieces grace the North Window, the window composed as a Memorial Day tribute features what I will call Her War Story Works. The pieces will hang for another 4 days. Stop by, take a moment to pause and reflect on the courage of these young people. Oh, yeah…And catch a glimpse of the powerful work of one of Tuolumne County’s most talented artists–Sherie Drake.
I’m B.Z. Smith….I tell stories….Here’s one.
I first told this story on Sunday, May 30th, 2010, during the Strawberry Music Festival’s Revival at Birch Lake for the Spring 2010 Festival.
So, a while back I flew north to see my mom…to Seattle. On this trip I decided I’d take the Light Rail into downtown Seattle, then wend my way through busy streets to the Ferry. Now, I am a veteran traveler, so I knew that this would be a cinch…No problem! Veteran Traveler, ha?
After half a million miles of flying I still cannot figure out what to pack! What if need those four extra pair of socks? No matter how hard I try to pare down, I end up looking like a pack mule. A bag flung over my shoulder, one on my right hip, and another dragging from behind.
Once I landed I lugged my way to the SEA-TAC Light Rail Station, and eased in. No problem! When I debarked from the train in downtown Seattle, and started walking to the Ferry, I was amazed! I had my gear adjusted perfectly! After a few blocks I stopped to ask one of Seattle’s street people for directions to the Ferry Terminal. He gladly helped guide me. I thought I’d slip him a few bucks, so I reached for my wall–No wallet! No computer bag where my wallet was resting! No computer! What to do? Run 6 blocks uphill back to the train? Why? It was gone…all gone!
I was stranded in downtown Seattle with no money and plenty of worry. Fortunately I did have my handy dandy cell phone. Who to call first? I chose my niece, who was supposed to pick me up at the Bainbridge Island Ferry Terminal. What a smart cookie, she figured out a way to pay for my Ferry Ticket on her side of the water. “Just get there and get on!” Tears flowing, I hurried to the Terminal, all the while recounting what was in that bag, that wallet. My heart racing, first I called the Credit Card folks, sobbing! Next the bank, wailing! A nice guy at the Ferry Info Desk gave me other phone numbers, like the Light Rail Lost and Found…Fat Chance! At least my niece was able to come through. With my pre-paid Ferry ticket in hand, I boarded the Wenatchee to bound across the seas for B.I.
Then just as I stepped aboard, tears staining my cheeks, my cell phone rang. Area 206? Seattle! A woman’s voice kindly asked, “Is this B.Z. Smith? I found your computer bag on the Light Rail. I hope you don’t mind, but I checked your wallet. There’s a credit card, a bank card, and plenty of cash. I think everything is OK.”
My heart soared as we sailed over the water! And in no time at all a reunion was planned. After a few deep breaths, I called my guy, and told him the whole story.
“Angels on the Ground,” was his reply.
Now elated with joy, I told everyone I met the story of my Angel on the Ground. And each person was amazed, thrilled at my good fortune. “Lucky woman,” they all said.
The next day I borrowed a car and headed back to Seattle to the University of Washington Medical Center where my new Angel worked. And along the way, those angels continued to appear: A man who helped with directions to the University; a woman who helped me find a flower stand to buy a bouquet for my Angel. The flowergirl who made that gorgeous early Spring bouquet, a man who guided me to the hospital parking garage…Every one another Angel on the Ground. I practically flew through the air as I strolled into the huge “You-Dub” Med Center with my lovely bouquet in hand.
But as I entered this huge hospital, it hit me where I was. People in wheelchairs, people pushing I.V. poles, wearing hospital gowns, face masks, surgery caps. Husbands and wives, families sitting together with worried faces. Doctors and nurses huddled together in deep, intense conversation. A chaplain with her arm on a husband’s shoulder, his hands cradling his face. Orderlies gently shuffling patients to and from offices, elevators, hallways. Like a clock ticking too slowly, my body seemed to drag through this foreign land of pain and suffering as my gaze shifted from one tragedy to another.
I crammed my way into the “up” elevator with a little boy, his mother and a nurse. I tried to smile, but I could feel my throat closing, my eyes welling with tears. The mother looked up, and saw my bouquet. She forced a little smile, then caught her breath. For a moment she rested in the peace of a garden…a garden that I held in my hand. There I was surrounded by people who stood on mountains of pain and fear, suffering and worry. And in that instant my drama, my wallet and computer bag tragedy, shrank into a little speck of dust.
A few minutes later I saw her striding down the hall, carrying my little black bag…my Angel.
“I’m a medical researcher,” she told me. “Oh, we get lots of cancer patients here, and brain trauma, and unexplainable diseases. We’re just trying to figure things out.” She loved the flowers! We hugged. I thanked her over and over. Then I turned back to the elevator to go down.
When the elevator doors slid open, twenty people were waiting to go up: Women, men and children, every age and color…but all Frail and pail. But no one was alone. Beside each one stood someone, who loved and cared for them, someone who was there to walk that road…Each person had his or her Angel on the Ground.
As I stepped out of the elevator, my eyes locked with one husband. He stood by his tiny sick wife. His eyes flooded with fear, sorrow. “Bless you,” I whispered. “Thank you,” his lips said silently.
As I walked away, my chest heaved heavily. My eyes filled with tears. I felt that swell of sorrow growing in my core. I sat down for a moment, clutching my silly bag. Yep. It was all there. Disaster dodged! But around me, I saw them…those Angels: Mothers, fathers, children, friends, nurses, doctors, even the receptionist who calls out their names.
In this life we all take our turn to walk a road of sorrow, of fear. And in those times we each yearn for someone to stand by us so we don’t have to go alone. And so it is that each one of us is also given the chance to hold and stand by someone we love, to help someone we love step out onto that road of hope…
In this life, we all get a chance to be an Angel on the Ground.
My name is B.Z. Smith…I tell stories…Here’s one.
On the Mother Lode 