It all started with Blind Faith. It’s a painting I created earlier this year, when I was facing the critical decision of whether or not to reenter the world of medicine. Just before an inspiring trip to Esalen, I decided to write a letter to a practice I had come across in Marin County, Clear Center of Health, an integrative medicine practice. In the letter, I expressed my perfect OB/GYN job. After writing a totally candid, un-sugar-coated description of my dream job, I mailed it off. I doubted anyone would ever call me. But just before I left for Esalen, the phone rang. It was Beth McDougall, the medical director of Clear Center, inviting me to share my dream of how I would practice. I told her I wanted more time to engage with my patients, less pressure to meet some demanding bottom line, and more flexibility to work only a few days per week, which would open the door to more painting, more writing, more Mommying. When I decided to accept the position, after praying for guidance, I painted Blind Faith.

As is usual with paintings from my Delta series, which is named after the Greek letter representing the mathematical symbol for change, Blind Faith expresses the dynamic push and pull of my life, the many hats, the balls in the air, and the constant struggle to resolve my many conflicts. I envision these paintings as abstract portraits, depicting scenarios in my life- the people surrounding my father’s deathbed, the delivery room when a baby is born, the uncomfortable way I feel when I am attending one of my art shows. These paintings serve as my therapy. By expressing the moment, resolving it with paint, and putting it out there, I can let it go. Blind Faith was just one of many paintings depicting a moment in my life.

As it turns out, the existence of this painting gave birth to yet another scenario, which will become a painting. It all started when Matt was taking a day off to explore art in San Francisco. He landed at Caldwell Snyder Gallery, a big, beautiful gallery with a glittery storefront on Sutter Street. Drawn to a piece of art by Jason Rohlf, Matt met Christina, the woman whose office was graced by this painting, and they started chatting.One thing led to another, and they discovered a string of serendipities they shared in common. Christina is a big fan of the work of Bo Bartlett (http://www.bobartlett.com/) and Betsy Eby (http://www.betsyeby.com/) and Matt told her I had not only visited their Maine studio in the process of writing Encaustic: A Guide to Creating Fine Art With Wax, I had also written a photojournalist book about the two of them, Following The Muse, with photographer Monique Feil. (http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/159707)

Because they were already online, looking at the Betsy and Bo book, Christina and Matt navigated to my website. Christina connected to the work, and next thing I knew, bad-a-bing, Matt was calling me to say that Christina would like to schedule a meeting to see my work in person at the gallery the following week. This came as quite a surprise to me. Usually, I plod through finding new gallery representation the good, old-fashioned way, by submitting my catalogue, resume, CD, artist’s statement, and price list, all tied up in a customized folder with a self-addressed stamped envelope, in case they want to send me a nice rejection letter. Needless to say, this low key approach to finding new representation struck me as a happy alternative to the generally humiliating process of sending out portfolios. So Matt made an appointment to show my work the following week, and after dropping Siena off with her babysitter, the two of us were off to have a grown-up day in the city- lunch at House of Nanking (Chinatown’s best, in my opinion), the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the San Francisco MOMA, and then our meeting at Caldwell Snyder.

In the car on the way to San Francisco, I was talking to my friend Joy, who was joining us on our adventure. She asked if I was nervous, and I said I yes. It’s always a bit nerve-wracking for me to show my art to art dealers, although I’ve gotten much better in the past couple years. My heart used to race, while my palms sweated and my mind jumbled all my words together. But recently, I’ve developed enough confidence in my work to realize it’s really not personal. If Caldwell Snyder doesn’t want to represent me, it’s not that my work isn’t worthy, or that I lack talent, it’s that it’s just not a good fit. Maybe the hole in their stable of artists needs to be filled by a landscape painter, not an abstract artist. Or maybe they think my art might compete too much with one of their other abstract artists. Just like shopping for jeans, it’s all about the fit. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t stressful. I told Joy that the feeling I was having, that excitement mixed with anxiety, while driving into the city, would probably end up as a painting. I’d call it Going to Caldwell Snyder, or maybe I’d disguise it more and call it something like Putting It All Out There.

When we arrived in the city, Matt dropped off the paintings at the gallery while I parked the car, and just as I was heading for the gallery, my phone rang. It was Mary, the babysitter. Now this is a really, really bad feeling. Mary had never called me before, in all the days she has watched Siena. I panicked, before even picking up the phone, and with good reason. Siena had fallen and split her lip open. I could hear her sobbing in the background, and the moment I heard her cry, I had the most extraordinary sensation in both breasts, that let-down feeling you get when you’re breastfeeding and you know you’re about to leak milk all over your pretty party dress. I’m trying not to wear my hats these days- the artist hat, the doctor hat, the writer hat, the Mommy hat. I’m trying to clean out my closet, rid myself of the hats, and merge into one Lissa, but sometimes I slip into old habits. At the moment the phone rang, I shed my artist hat and donned my doctor hat first, and then my Mommy hat.

I asked Mary how bad it was, and she said blood was everywhere and the laceration looked pretty deep. She had called a friend to watch her other kids, so she could take Siena to the hospital. So I’m standing outside Caldwell Snyder Gallery, frantically calling our insurance company and our pediatrician and the emergency room of the hospital where I used to be on staff, and I’m begging them to take care of my angel. While I’m begging, Christina, Matt’s new friend from the gallery, walks out and approaches us. Matt introduced us, but I was a basket case. Fighting back tears and jamming on my artist hat, I tried to make a good impression, but I’m sure I failed. All notions I had of walking into the gallery, exuding creative energy and impressive self-confidence flew out the window, as I stood there, shaking Christina’s hand (who was perfectly lovely and gracious). But while we were chatting, all I could think was that my baby was on the way to the emergency room for the first time, and I was missing it.

I wanted to grab my paintings, jump in the car, and drive the two hours back to Monterey, but I was standing there, in front of the gallery, waiting for Susan Snyder (The Snyder of Caldwell Snyder), who would be there soon. First, I froze. Then I prayed for guidance. Sometimes it takes a little faith to hear the answer, but when I listened, I heard my quiet little Yoni voice within. She told me to stay for the meeting. I know Christina and Susan would have understood if we rescheduled, but the paintings were in the gallery, I had already met Christina, and I knew there was nothing I could do to get back to Monterey fast enough to comfort Siena while she got poked and prodded.

It’s this very push and pull, the tug of hats, the chaos theory that inspires my art in the first place. Suddenly the Going to Caldwell Snyder painting was getting really interesting. I always think of the little circles and dangling elements in my paintings as individual people in my life. In front of one painting, Which One Am I?,



I stood in my living room with Mom, Dad, and Matt, while we each chose who we were- the blue triangle, the red circle, the suspended black shoe that connected to every other element, centered on the panel, grounding everyt

hing. My Dad chose the shoe. I was the little blue diamond up in the corner. My new painting would have Christina and Roger and Susan Snyder in one corner, with me in the center and Siena off to the opposite side. Between us, etched lines would zigzag, crossing back and forth, pulling me in both directions. This is the story of my life. But I imagine I’m not alone. Life tends to zig and zag and throw all our balls in the air. Perhaps this is why my art resonates with people.

Susan Snyder appeared, and when she heard what had happened to Siena, she touched my arm and said, “I understand. I have children.” I felt a wave of relief. We all stood in the viewing room, where my paintings were scattered about, looking diminutive, compared to the hanging exhibition of Greg Miller’s gorgeous 8 foot paintings. This is when Christina pulled out a piece of paper with the image of my painting, Blind Faith. Susan said she had been so drawn to the piece when she saw it in Santa Fe, at Seven-O-Seven Contemporary, that she had asked for more information about the piece and the artist. She intended to look me up when she returned from her trip. So imagine her surprise when Christina told her she had met Matt, the husband of this artist whose work she thought Susan would appreciate. She gave Susan my name, and next thing I knew, I was there, in the middle of the room, while Susan and Christina studied my paintings, commenting on each, while asking me to describe both the meaning behind my art and the technique I use to create them.

All the while, the phone is ringing, interrupting us every few minutes. First, it’s the ER doc, then the ENT surgeon asking my consent to take Siena to the operating room to repair her lip under general anesthesia with the two-layer closure he would need to repair the lacerated orbicularis oris muscle. Later, the anesthesiologist called, followed by the nurse administrator, the clinical case manager, and the pre-op nurse. Turns out things get messy when a two year old ends up at the hospital without her parents. Thank God I could put on my doctor hat and to make sure she was getting good care, but it killed me that I wasn’t holding her, resting her little bloodied head against my chest. Poor Mary. She had to lay her body across Siena’s to hold her still while they jammed in an IV and Siena cried, “Mary off now!” That’s supposed to be the Mommy’s job, but there I was, in my beaded hippie dress and my artist hat, waiting for them to make a decision.

As it turns out, they loved the work, and I am proud to say that I am now a Caldwell Snyder artist, which means I will have the opportunity to exhibit in all of their four galleries- in San Francisco, New York City, Carmel, and St. Helena.

Susan, Christina, and Roger couldn’t have been nicer about the whole thing. I only hope they didn’t say yes out of pity! As soon as the papers were signed, Matt and I raced back home. Driving through San Jose, I learned that Siena had come out of surgery just fine and was resting in the recovery room. When I was in Gilroy, I found out she was asking for her Mommy, but Matt got there first. Turns out Daddys are even better than Mommys. They have bigger arms to snuggle in.

When I arrived at the hospital, I ran from the parking lot to the recovery room, where I found my little girl with stitches in her lip, a cozy pink and white flannel hospital gown, and a popsicle in her mouth. She grinned her bloody smile when she saw me and yelled “Mama!” from across the room.I survived the day only through Blind Faith- that Siena would be okay, that I was making the right choices, that her doctors would care for her as if she was their own child. But I didn't feel completely certain until I held Siena in my arms. All in all, it was a very weird day, but then, life is full of twists and turns, isn’t it? If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have painted Blind Faith in the first place, and the painting I’ll make today wouldn’t be nearly as inspired. This is going to be one hell of a painting.