Category: Angels Among Us

Total 5 Posts

Art and the Writer

Edouard Manet’s “Boating” featured at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City
“Plum Brandy” by Edouard Manet featured at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think that my earliest memory of art originated as a young child in New York’s Greenwich Village during the Sixties. I loved the scent of the Crayola crayons and paper my first grade teacher put out for us, and later on, I enjoyed working with poster paint on large sheets of paper. My father sometimes took me to the art show in Washington Square Park. Although I didn’t understand some of the pop art I viewed or the quick portraits in charcoal or pencil done by local artists, I felt the vibrancy. At age seven I attended a pottery school in the neighborhood. The moment I walked into the pottery studio, I inhaled the earthy smell of the clay and enjoyed using my hands to shape it into some object.

In high school, I took an art major elective when I was able to. My art teacher, Mrs. Rose, headed the art department and believed in my abilities. She even suggested that I attend an art school after graduation. However, I decided to go to St. John’s University where I majored in English and took classes in creative writing, literature, and communication. After graduation, I worked in advertising, public relations, and much later as an English teacher. I continued to enjoy viewing art and dabbling in creating it from time to time.

I also visit art museums when I travel. These included the Museo Nacional del Prada in Madrid, the Louvre in Paris, and both the Van Gogh Museum and the Rijksmuseum  in Amsterdam. I’ve enjoyed viewing western art at the Gilcrease Museum in Tulsa, Oklahoma (temporarily closed for construction), the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., and Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. However, my two favorite art museums remain New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of Modern Art or MOMA.

As a hobby when I was a young mother, I created stained glass at the Glass Gallery Stained Glass Studio in Nutley, making stained glass panels, lamp shades, trinket boxes, and kitchen items. I used patterns and enjoyed picking out the various colors and textures of the glass for the creations.

 

I took art classes in drawing, pastels, and watercolor in the evening at the adult ed. program in a local high school. Pat, the instructor and a professional artist, taught me a great deal and provided a lot of information from the book Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards. It’s all in how you look at things. Focus on the negative space, rather than the subject matter. She even invited some students to her home to do watercolor paintings and sketches of her garden. Unfortunately, the adult ed. program got cut along with other school programs because of budget cuts.

In the last few years, I returned to art classes at the Montclair Art Museum and at the Montclair Institute for Lifelong Learning and learned a lot more about how to see things as an artist, techniques for both drawing and painting, and learning to loosen up and enjoy the process. I’ve studied under an excellent instructor, Karen, who encouraged me and other students to keep on keeping on and learning. A couple of my art pieces even ended up in an art gallery and as postcards in a museum shop.

Chickadees in winter was made using watercolor, fine markers, and plastic wrap to create texture.
A collage for Fall which I made using Yupo paper and watercolor paint.

Art compliments my writing. In learning how to see things, taking note of details that I might have overlooked, such as the colors in the leaves, the patterns in a seashell, the reflection of the sun on water, I’m paying attention to a lot more. I can bring the visuals into my writing.

It’s no coincidence that in three of my five published books, A Kiss Out of Time, A Dance Out of Time, and Angels Among Us, my main character is an artist. Art provides what words cannot.

My birds on a bough is unrealistic but was fun to paint in watercolor.
This is a watercolor I painted based on a photo. I enjoyed using napkins and cotton balls for texture.
My still life in watercolor based on a photo of jars of jam and jelly.

I Believe in Angels

By Cathy Greenfeder

Where did my fondness for angels come from? Partly from my early years at a parochial school where the nuns taught about them and I saw the statues of angels in the church. I had also received pictures of guardian angels on prayer cards and learned the prayer to guardian angels along with the “Our Father” and “Hail Mary”.

As a child inflicted with severe bronchial asthma where each breath took tremendous effort, I held those prayer cards like a beloved teddy bear close to my chest as I lay beneath a pile of blankets inhaling the scent of Vicks vapor rub steamed into the air in the dead of winter.

Once, perhaps in a state of delirium from the medication I’d been given, I imagined my guardian angel standing by my bedpost, glowing and smiling down at me.

“Hello,” I managed to say. She smiled in response, and that somehow filled me with relief and aided my recovery better than the medications given to me at the time.

As a parochial school student you had to be at church every Sunday and holy day of obligation. You had to be with your class, and attendance was taken. Unlike some other children I knew back then, I enjoyed going. I found it comforting. Once  I attended twice. My mother asked, “Why are you going back to church?”

“I forgot to take her?”

“Who?”

“My guardian angel! I forgot to take her. So, I’m going back with her to church.”

“Can’t she fly there?” 

I didn’t laugh because to me the guardian angel and all the angels were real sources of protection and perhaps to a lonely child that I had been then, a companion who’d never leave me. I used to picture my guardian angel, dressed in long white robes and glittering wings, walking with me and guarding me wherever I went in our Manhattan neighborhood.

In the second grade Christmas pageant at my parochial school I played the role of the archangel who announced the birth of Jesus to the Wise Men. It didn’t matter if Gabriel was considered male, I wore a pink costume. My mother made it from a soft, pink fabric. She also made my wings from foil covered wire hangers and used silver tinsel to make my halo.

The fact that my mother who worked hard all day made my costume meant a lot to me, as was being part of the school Christmas pageant.

Later in life, I had experiences which enhanced my belief in the angels.

A near drowning at Davy’s Lake, a man-made lake in New Jersey, when I was about ten was one. I didn’t know how to swim, so I tried to stay close to the shoreline. However, I grew bold and ventured out further. A voice warned me not to step too far out, and when my foot felt a slippery dip in the ground, I managed to move back to the shallows.

As an adult, I remember driving home late one night. I’d been about to change lanes, but I heard a voice telling me to wait. I did. At that moment, a car whose driver was doing well above the speed limit passed me in the lane I would have entered.

There have been other times. Some may call it coincidence. Some may call it intuition. I call it the work of angels.

This inspired my reading and my research, and subsequently my writing of my first published book Angels Among Us, where a psychic artist encounters her guardian angel who saves her from danger and helps her heal from a broken heart.

I’m grateful for my own guardian angels. I believe we might have more than one. I do believe that in these times especially, our angels are here to work with us, to guide us, and to listen to us, and as messengers to intercede on our behalf.

Prayer to Your Guardian Angel

Angel of God, my guardian dear,

to whom God’s love commits me here,

ever this day be at my side,

to light and guard, to rule and guide.

Amen.

Excerpt: Angels Among US

 

“Baxter, slow down this instant!” Kay pulled back on the leash as the yellow Lab led a mad pace toward the moonlit lake. Darkened trees circled the silver-hued waters. Bramble spikes nicked at Kay’s shins as she ran to maintain command of the Labrador retriever. 

With a sudden jolt, Baxter stopped, sniffed the ground around a row of hedges and emitted a mournful bark. “What’s wrong, boy?” Kay put her hand down to the ground and touched a sticky substance. She looked at it under the streetlight. “Blood?” 

“Who the hell are you?” a voice bellowed from the bushes. 

Kay felt the nape of hair on her neck bristle. She leaned down and grabbed the dog’s collar. “Let’s get out of here, Bax.” 

“What’s the hurry?” said a man as he stepped from out of the bushes. Slight of build with rough-hewn features and a shock of slick, black hair, the man moved toward her. “The party’s only begun!” 

Baxter growled and pulled on the leash yanking it from Kay’s slippery hold. In two seconds, the man lay sprawled on the ground with a ninety-pound dog on his chest. 

“Get him off o’ me! I’ll leave ya alone.” 

“Come here, Baxter,” Kay called the dog. He obeyed, but stood between her and the stranger. 

Blood glistened across the ridge of the man’s nose. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” the stranger said as he rubbed the blood with the back of his sleeve, “got this for grabbing this.” He held up a handbag. “It ain’t worth it anymore.” 

“Good for her,” Kay said, “Teach you to stop robbing women and scaring them to death.” She stepped further away. 

“Right. So you ain’t scared of this?” A silver flash cut the air as the man wielded a large knife toward Kay’s face. 

“Now throw down your jewelry… the gold watch and that thing on your neck.” 

Kay felt her turquoise-studded watch, pulled it from her wrist, and threw it down. “Here.” 

“And that too.” 

“No!” Kay touched the cross, an heirloom from her grandmother. 

“I guess I’ll have to take it.” 

Kay backed away and tumbled over a tree branch. 

Almost instantly the knife glinted dangerously above her. “Is it worth your life, lady?” 

As she choked on the rank smell of tobacco and stale wine, a gray mist descended on them, its intensity covering them and the stranger. The flutter of wind chimes tingled her ears. Kay sat up. Bewilderment replaced fear. Out of the mist came a man in a white suit surrounded by an aura of violet and gold. His soft features reddened with an intense fury as he turned from her to the thief. Anger lit the emerald of his eyes. Words bellowed like the force of a cyclone from his lips and the thief crunched down in fear and confusion. “Leave her be! Leave her and never come back!” 

The thief scrambled up and took off running as Kay’s astonishment faded. 

Baxter hid behind her knees as this interloper closed the gap between them. A smile crinkled the edges of his thin lips, and his palms flew up. “Peace. Be not afraid, Kay.” 

She stood immobile then backed away. “Who… who the devil are you?”

Hurt creased his brow and his glow dimmed a moment then resumed its bright appearance.

“Do not be ungrateful, Kay.”

“I’m getting out of here,” she said. “First the thief, now you! This must be a bizarre nightmare, one manifested like a Salvador Dali painting.” She turned to run, but a firm and gentle hand held her in place.“No, please listen to me, Kay.”

“Who are you?”

“Suffice it to say I have known you for a long time. And I know your gift did not protect you tonight.” He stared a moment at her neckline. “But this did.”

Kay fingered the cross as she stared up at her strange rescuer.

“A gift too, I see,” he continued.

“Gift?”

“Why is it you mortals forget what’s precious within, the precious gift God gave you? It is there, Kay. Yet you neglect it.”

“First a thief, now a lunatic! I should have listened to my brother and stayed out of the woods at night. What do you want?”

“I’m not here for material rewards.”

She stared hard at him. “You’re not getting that either, bud.”

He shook with laughter. “Oh, Kay, is that what you think? Here, come away, the danger’s not over. Hold my hand, let the dog go. He will follow.”

For some unknown reason, Kay allowed the being to take her hand. His touch felt like a feather yet carried strength beyond hers. She looked down at Baxter. “Follow me, boy,” she called, and then Kay’s feet lifted from the ground. “Oh, no!”

“Hold on, Kay!”

As they rose above the earth, Kay cringed. “Don’t worry, I won’t let go.”

Over the treetops and past the empty playground toward the opening to the park they flew while Baxter, a dot below, chased them through and out of the park. “Please,” Kay begged when they reached the outskirts, “please put me down!” In an instant her feet touched a soft patch of grass. “Whoa!” Her voice echoed the word several times until dizziness and her panting subsided. “Are you an alien?”

“No. Don’t go in the park so late.” He handed her a silver whistle on a black nylon cord. “Here, if you need me again.”

“A whistle? I can whistle for you?” She examined the tiny instrument with its indecipherable scrawl on one side. “Your name?” She looked up and the mist reappeared around the stranger and he vanished before her eyes. Only the dog stood beside her. Baxter nuzzled her hand, and she hooked the leash back on his collar. “Come on, boy, we won’t tell anyone about this.”

 

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