The canvas floorcloth was named Rhyme or Reason and the description said:

I actually do not think about “stories” when making my art. I do tell small stories in the newsletter but they are just background for the newsletter itself.

I suppose that behind my creative process there lies a story . . . not in a traditional sense of story, but there is a narrative there. I will call the “story” a monologue – just my brain talking to my hands.

The monologue goes something like this:   I want my art to “talk” to the viewer, so instead of words I will use color and pattern and infuse it with energy and some wit, and top it off with some balance and interest.  I will keep working on a piece until I get there.

So, what do I want to say today?  I am in a mood to use lots of red paint so I will

cover my canvas with it. Then I can go back and use contrasting colors, and play with the shapes that I love, circles and squares, and dots and dashes, and streaks of color, and more again of the same. I will not spend too much time wondering how I got to the end, I will just keep at it until this piece speaks to me and says, “NO MORE!”

That is the narrative I use to keep at a piece. It is the story of my inner engine. If there is more to the story, it is provided by the viewer.

If you Google “holiday stories” you will have some choices – funny, inspirational, classic, or for kids.  I chose the funny link and found these stories at City-Data.com.

“My aunt once served pheasant with the buckshot still in it”.

“I inadvertently grabbed the breast milk when I was ordered to fetch the cream!”

And this one that cracked me up:

Okay, 25 years ago, my brother is an actor, and he’s up in Anchorage, Alaska, for Christmas.

He sends down a big UPS box that arrives at my mother’s house when my sister, my brother-in-law, and my brother happen to be there. My mother is off running errands.

So we unpack the box, which is filled with presents, each nicely wrapped. And at the bottom is a small Glad bag filled with an herb that looks suspiciously like….well, you can guess. There’s a tag attached that says, “A little extra Christmas cheer.”

Well, my sister, bro-in-law, and bro all look at each other, and my brother produces some rolling papers. A few minutes later, they’re smoking a doobie on my mother’s back deck (I don’t partake). My buddy Keith shows up, and he decides he wants a hit. They’re all sitting around toking, speculating on how good the joint is.

Christmas afternoon, my brother calls from Anchorage and asks how we liked our gifts. After the usual Christmas chitchat, he asks, “Well, how did the cat like hers?” My sister asks, “What are you talking about?”

“Well, the catnip I sent her for Christmas.” We all started howling.

So the catnip story comes up every Christmas now.

One of my family stories is about the time I decided to spark up the Thanksgiving menu by serving a very exotic and delicious smoked pheasant. It was met with little enthusiasm by my very traditional eaters.  So the next year I outdid myself with a shrimp stuffed filet of sole to see if I could inspire them to creative holidays meals.  No go, they demanded their turkey. What is it with people’s insistence on repetitive rituals?

What are your holiday stories?