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coping with the negative: a conversation

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This blog is another in the series of co-blogs between myself and Janice Mason Steeves. We are good friends who often discuss issues about art and painting in our private correspondence. In the hopes that sharing some of these thoughts would interest and engage others, the idea of a co-blog was born. To read our first co-blog, which we posted almost exactly a year ago, click here.


Rebecca: You and I have had a few emails back and forth lately about the need to develop a "thick skin" as artists in order to deal with some of the difficult things that come our way. It's funny, I can recall in detail quite a few negative things that have been said or written about my work, but if you asked me to remember even a few of the (far more common) positive remarks, I'd be quite a bit more vague. Recalling negative experiences more easily than positive ones is apparently part of the human condition (see this article.)

Janice: I think the discussion itself is really important! It’s helpful for artists working in any creative field to know that those concerns affect us all no matter our level of skill or experience. When we post our news on social network sites like Facebook and in blog posts, it's generally the positive things that we report, like getting an exhibition, or making a sale, getting an award or an artist residency. We don't often share the darker side of being a painter. That comes with the territory too: the rejections, the criticism, the times when sales are slow, the times you flounder for ideas and feel that you might just throw in the brush! So it's a good question, Rebecca: how do we handle rejection in order to keep going?

Rebecca: Well, I think we need confidence in ourselves as artists, but that's really too easy an answer. I know that even as an experienced (and generally confident) artist, I am still shaken by some forms of rejection in the art world. And even when I tell myself all the rational reasons why the negative thing doesn't matter, or is just part of the art world game, I can feel hurt. So, while building confidence is important, it’s not the whole answer, and neither are rational statements about how things work in the art world. Yes, residencies and grants go to only a small percentage of applicants, galleries are overwhelmed with submissions, our way of painting will not appeal to everyone, all artists have ebbs and flows of income--we know these things. They may be helpful, and they’re definitely the things friends and family bring up to try and help us feel better. But we can still end up feeling distressed and rejected.

Maybe the first thing is to simply accept that we're going to hurt sometimes--we need to look that right in the face. Sometimes we're going to feel awful, no way around it.


Janice: I think that it's important for artists to discuss this with each other as we're doing here. Knowing that others feel the same and have been through similar situations is important. It doesn't matter your level of proficiency or how many years you have painted. If you're an artist who keeps pushing their boundaries, exploring and growing, you're likely to run into people who liked your old work better, or galleries who don't want you to change. In my own work, I aim to push myself to that edge of discomfort. While it is a very fragile, exposed place, I like to see that vulnerability in my own work and I like to see that in other artist's work too, like in your new series Rebecca. So maybe the answer can be found in courage and persistence.

Rebecca: this makes me think it is not confidence-as-an artist (in the sense of success or experience) that is needed so much as general confidence-as-a-person. Knowing from experience that we can handle all kinds of difficulties in life. This helps us believe that we are strong at the core, even while knowing there will be pain.

It's a good thing to keep in mind because as you say, as artists we put ourselves into potentially negative situations all the time! If we’re going to keep pushing boundaries in our work, we do need to be brave. And yet our skin can't be too thick if we are to remain sensitive and vulnerable.

Thich Nhat Hanh talks about embracing your pain tenderly, as if it were a baby. That seems to me to say it is possible to love the pain as part of being human, but it’s not a good idea to grip it tightly and hold onto it forever.

Janice: One thing that is hugely important in an art practice is to try to separate ourselves from our work. We are not our work. Knowing and believing that can take the edge off of negative comments. While it's important that we throw ourselves wholeheartedly into our work and hold nothing back, we are still more than the paintings we create. Life is more than that. Click here to see a cartoon I came across that says this in another way.

Rebecca: Yes, that's great! I think that is really important. It's so easy to take the bad stuff very personally. Yet, even as we create the work there is always the need to separate ourselves, step back and assess, edit and evaluate. I wonder if that is a part of the process that needs to be strong in order to deal with all the difficult stuff we encounter in the art world. Even while we may disagree with someone else's attitudes or beliefs about our work, the ability to be objective allows for other points of view.

Janice: While we know these things in our heads, it's sometimes difficult to remember them. When we encounter rejection, the critical voice that seems to live somewhere inside our heads jumps in and adds more disapproval. Last fall I had just completed work for my current exhibition and I was really pleased with it. I had applied to an artist residency much earlier in the summer, and I learned that day in October, that my application was rejected. Although I had just completed a huge work cycle and produced a series of paintings that I loved, that one email completely threw me off. I couldn't paint at all that day and the critic was very loud in my ear. I got into my car that afternoon and turned on the engine. Instead of music, I heard the voice of a man who was not the regular announcer say, "If you hear a voice in your head that says you cannot paint, then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.". Stunned by the synchronicity, I stopped the car to write it down. It was exactly what I needed to hear.

I think actually that it’s important that we continue to have thin and vulnerable skins that enable us to relate in a sensitive way to the world around us. And to allow that there will be all sorts of rejections and hard lessons. The important thing is to keep working, in spite of criticism and rejection or the voice of the inner critic, which can be the harshest of all. What makes an artist is the ability to continue. To show up for work.



works on paper

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One of the delights of my residency at Ballinglen Arts Foundation in Ireland in the fall was making small works on paper, including monotypes, drawings and egg tempera paintings. I got so caught up in this that I expanded into an empty studio to have room to lay out all my materials and work.



Although I've worked on paper during other residencies--at the Centre d"Art I Natura in Catalonia in '01 and 08, and in 2012 at Cill Rialaig in County Kerry, Ireland--I can't recall ever enjoying it so much for its own sake (as opposed to seeing it as a necessity because of transport issues.) With the luxury of 6 weeks in the studio at Ballinglen, and plenty of time and freedom to experiment, the expressive possibilities of drawing and monotype on paper opened up to me. (To see an album of some of my works on paper, click here.) I came to love the paper itself for its surface quality, its sensitivity to touch, and the pure beauty of the way it holds line and color. I was also excited by the immediacy of working out ideas, some of which eventually fed into my oil painting ideas after my return to the US (such as in the charcoal drawing below that I did after a walk on the beach.)


I loved making monotypes, either straightforward or altered after printing with colored chalk, and they were also the most influential to me in terms of the paintings I have developed since returning home. Creating these small simple worlds with a few swipes of ink on a squeegee seemed magical. I am continuing this series now in my home studio.


This is one of my altered monotypes, with the addition of pastel and charcoal:


From the first day in the Ballinglen print studio (I later branched out to the other media mentioned) I felt a strong pull toward this work. Beyond the joy of momentary expression, these small pieces seemed to open a clear channel to my deepest ideas and feelings. While at first I questioned their significance--they seemed so quick and easy--I soon realized that quality as a sign of being in the zone of direct expression.

My oil and wax paintings on panel always take a lot of time, layers and layers--they contain a whole history of paint laid down, worked over, refined and edited, and I love that about them. But what happens in the quick drawings and monotypes is spontaneity born of this experience --the language of form, movement, color and contrast that I've been working out for years, reduced to its essence. In the moment of creating the work, there is either an immediate sense of "rightness" to it (despite smears, wrinkles, stray lines or other minor glitches) or it is tossed aside with barely a second thought.

What is it about paper that allows for this quick expression, sureness of gesture, acceptance of imperfection or easy rejection? Is it the tradition of expressive drawing? The lightness of the material itself--its ephemeral nature? Or feeling it is less precious than work on canvas or panel (though expensive printmaking papers can rival the cost of a low end panel)? This elusive liberating vibe, sensed intuitively, is hard to pin down.

I do notice that using different papers elicits different and unique responses; the paper itself plays a role in the work in a way that painting panels for me, do not. I am just beginning to explore the range of beautiful papers available--enjoying the sensuous quality to the way different papers absorb printing ink or allow for the delicate smear of charcoal. There is a constant awareness of the surface as it interacts with the media applied to it.

Experience with one type of paper that crosses over from panel-like to paper-like surface illustrates this. Called multimedia artboard, it is a paper impregnated with a resin that allows its use with oils, as well as with other media. The surface has a slight texture but no real "give" to it as with softer papers--it's strong and hard to the touch. I notice that I work with this material differently depending on whether I plan to mount it on panel in the end, which is the case when I travel and paint on it using oil and wax--it is easy to transport, so it's perfect for residency painting. When I come home I adhere the multimedia artboard to a painting panel. Because this is my intention all along, I don't think of these paintings as works on paper; I treat them throughout the process as I do any other oil painting, with layering, scraping, and solvent marks--they are intensively layered and worked (and the surface holds up beautifully to this process.) The substrate does not play a big role interacting with the media, though, since once the first few layers are down the surface is buried. In this case, it is simply convenient to have this light, portable product that I can carry in my suitcase.

But the same multimedia artboard also works with media such as charcoal and water and egg tempera, and I used it in my works on paper at Ballinglen. With these media, I work quickly and spontaneously, and respond to the artboard as paper. It accepts all mixed media well, and the actual surface shows through. The bright white color plays a role in the value distribution of the work. Often I tape the edges so that there is a clean border, which also emphasizes the role of the paper itself in the work. This is one of my egg tempera paintings on multimedia artboard from Ballinglen:


By the way, there are two other papers on the market that I know of that are suitable for oil painting without the necessity of priming. One is Arches Oil Paper. This paper is soft and absorbent, and just slightly off-white. In this case the surface quality of the product influences my response when I work on it in any medium, including oil/wax. I maintain the sense that this is a work on paper, characterized by quickness and spontaneity, so that I use far fewer layers and simpler surfaces than I require in my works on panel. This opens up new possibilities for work in oils that can be more direct than my usual work. Here is one such painting from my time at Ballinglen:


The other paper I know of that can be used without a primer is TerraSkin, made by MitzArt in Canada. Made of a most unusual material--stone!--this product is extremely tough, with a slick surface. I asked the manufacturer if it would be suitable for oil and cold wax, and between the two of us (with some experimentation on my part) we determined that it is. (Yupo--a somewhat similar synthetic surface--is also used by some artists for oil painting, but I have not tried it myself nor determined its suitability.) TerraSkin provides a lovely surface for spontaneous mark making, and again while using it with oils, I find that the painting proceeds quickly and the paper surface plays a role.

Working on paper always leads to questions about presentation and framing. For the most part, I do not frame anything I intend to sell--instead I preserve and protect the work in a loose-leaf portfolio/binder or in inexpensive presentation mats in archival plastic sleeves. I tend to use standard sizes of paper for my somewhat larger works on paper (such as 14"x11") that could be framed in a standard, off the shelf (such as a 20"x16") frame, which makes it potentially easier for the purchaser. In exhibiting works on paper, I have used the method pictured below (the work is on multimedia artboard, from my exhibition this past summer at the Pratt Museum in Homer, AK.) Small rare earth magnets hold the work in place by attaching to drywall screws set into the wall beneath.







personal voice

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It’s often said that artists are like sponges, absorbing visual and conceptual ideas from the world around us, from other artists past and present, from our culture and others (contemporary, historic and pre-historic) and from our own interior landscapes of memories, experiences and emotions.

As sponges absorb, so they also release when squeezed, and the result is a mix of all that has been taken in, then mingled and combined into one unique and individualized substance. This substance is the source of our personal direction, voice, or path. If sufficiently complex, it will be hard to define or explain, or fit into precise categories. Our job as artists is to work with our own blend of influences and references to distill and refine something that is meaningful to us, and that others may appreciate. To do this we not only need ideas and personal direction, but also an understanding of the tools of composition, visual weight, dark/light value, color relationships, form/content issues, line quality and the other basic elements of art.

Abstraction requires every bit as much attention to the visual world and the basic elements of art as representation. If anything, to create abstraction with meaning and depth requires even more “sponginess” on the part of the artist, since it involves more than observing and interpreting the real world, and the field of influences is wide open. The process of distilling, manipulating, combining and ultimately transforming original source material is complex. The results for one artist can be austere minimalism, for another, wild, gestural expression, for another, bits and pieces of the recognizable world, presented in an abstract context. But always, if the work is meaningful to the artist, he or she will have something to say about it and its process. There is evident thought and connection to the work, and a progression of ideas over time—a long-term research project into personal meaning and purpose.

A student said to me recently, “I love rocks. I want to paint surfaces that look like rock.” Well, rocks are a good starting point—but I asked, what about rocks do you love? Their permanence, their strength, their solidness? How could these qualities be expressed? What about bringing opposite concepts into the work for contrast—fragility, movement, a sense of the ephemeral? What is the context for rocks that means the most to you—a cliff, in a building, a cairn, a path, a farm fence, or on the beach? None of these need to be illustrated or explained in the work, but to contemplate them can feed and guide the artist’s vision.

In the workshops I teach, I address issues of personal direction, as do many other teachers and mentors. We know that there is nothing easy or slick about any of this, nor can it be rushed and hurried along (though constant practice does help.) Nor are there recognizable standards for knowing when someone’s artwork is sincere, authentic and personal. This is a very subjective realm. I tend to recognize authentic, individualized work when I see it, but have a harder time pin-pointing what is missing when I do not. Personal voice may be there, but in some timid form, under-expressed in the urge to quickly resolve a painting or the desire to avoid messing things up.

Sometimes I advise my students to let their inner quirkiness show—to bring into their work bits and pieces of whatever it is they find captivating. If we allowed our artwork to be as odd as our random phone conversation doodles, what amazing imagery would be unleashed. I don’t mean that the actual doodles necessarily—but that half-conscious process of drawing things that are specific yet dreamlike.

In high school English class we were taught to be specific in our descriptions and observations, because the things we each pay attention point to our individuality and lead to personal voice. In painting, it is not that the things themselves must be depicted precisely—we’re talking about abstraction here—but to be specific in our intentions, thoughts and connections is important.

A crucial part of finding personal direction is to love and pay respect to the art of others, not just that of contemporaries but art from many cultures and times past. To visit museums, own art books, and take university courses. The more points of reference we have to art history the better. To have specific knowledge and appreciation for various kinds of art in that sponged-up mix of sources and ideas opens many portals. For example, I might notice that a certain color palette of cobalt blue and gold in a painting I’m working on reminds me of the work of the early Italian Renaissance artist Giotto, and I might look in one of the art books in the studio to find a reproduction of his Flight Into Egypt. A few minutes of looking at the color relationships in this painting might give me the idea to add a bit of red or green to my own work. Or, that idea about the colors being similar to Giotto might pass through my mind only fleetingly. But whether the thought passes quickly through, or whether I pull out a reference book to pursue it in more depth, I feel connected to the historic flow of visual ideas. As artists don’t we all owe ourselves that pleasure?

monotypes

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I have been a little obsessed with making monotypes since my time at Ballinglen Arts Foundation this past October/November. Taking advantage of the beautiful print studio there and a few tips from a fellow artist in residence, I rediscovered the process I had first learned in college. (If you're not familiar with the term, a monotype is a single print on paper, made from an ink or painted image on a plate--usually made of plexiglas these days.)

Back home in my own studio, I dug out the small table top etching press I bought second-hand years ago that had spent most of its years with me stored under one of my tables, bought a few colors of ink, cleaned up a plastic tray for soaking paper, and made space for a printing area in my studio. The approach I use is quick and spontaneous, one pass through the press, and my set up is very basic and easy to work with--which means that I can make a few monotypes whenever the urge hits (and it seems hit to rather often.)

So far, my prints are small--my press bed is only 12" wide, and my prints about 6"x4"--and although I'm sure I'll be buying more ink, for now my palette is limited. (I add a bit of oil color or go back into the prints with my chalk pastels if I want more color.) I find that I enjoy the various ways that the ink can be manipulated within these parameters, and on this intimate scale.

I love the monotype process for its spontaneity, the element of surprise every time the print is pulled at the end of its run under the rollers, and the rich variety of textural and gestural effects possible. I also find that the tones of the oil-based inks I use have a beautiful emotional resonance for me. All of that is compelling enough to keep me involved, but I'm also more and more intrigued by the effect these small prints are having on my work as a whole. That something small and spontaneous can serve as a point of departure for much larger work in oil and cold wax delights and energizes me, and is something new in my experience.

In the examples below, you can see the way that the colors and shapes from the monotype work have found their way into the larger paintings. Not a direct copy of course--more that the two processes overlap. That the emotional content expressed so spontaneously in the small print carries into a the more developed paintings is intriguing to me.



I'm seeing the value of including monoprinting as a part of my oil/cold wax medium workshops, as a way of generating ideas and experiencing a spontaneous approach. Several students who have come to my studio this winter have enjoyed the process, and this group at my Florida workshop in January became very involved in a simple approach to monotype--pressing one piece of paper to another by hand, as a loosening-up exercise. I'm planning to include some form of monoprinting in most of my upcoming workshops this year.

new blog

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I'm joining my friend and colleague Janice Mason Steeves to announce a new site dedicated to the co-blogs that we write, and in the past have published on our separate sites. Our new blog will feature our conversations about a wide variety of topics, ideas and concerns of visual artists. As an introduction, we're starting off with two posts about artist residencies we have attended together in Ireland, beginning with one at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in 2011.

We'll both continue regular postings on our individual blogs, but we enjoy bouncing ideas around between the two of us and hope you will join us in following our new venture. We also welcome your comments and ideas for future Conversations on Art. Thanks for checking out the new site! PS--look for the box to submit your email if you'd like to be a regular follower.

sense of place

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An interesting idea came out of a conversation I had a while back with painter Mark Russell, about describing work that is abstracted from the landscape. He commented that he found it better to say that his work was about “place” rather than “landscape.” I liked that…there are so many preconceived ideas that come into play with the word landscape—while place is open-ended, and can more easily encompass personal and emotional responses.

Mark said in a recent email discussion about this, "Being involved and immersed in a place brings inspiration and meaning more than inspiration from a pretty scene and trying to copy that scene for the sake of a beautiful painting."

I would describe much of my own work as being about the memory and emotion of place. And there seem to be only certain kinds of places that move me, no matter how scenic by most measures. Yesterday I walked in Butchart Gardens in Victoria, BC, surrounded by vibrant spring colors, dense textures of foliage and flowers, and a vast variety of plant forms. It was all astonishingly gorgeous, and I took lots of photos, yet I knew that what I was seeing was unlikely to lead to any paintings. My emotions were peaceful, and pleasant, and my eyes delighted…but I don’t expect the experience to influence my work. Too tame, somehow…and too green and lush. Which is fine—it was relaxing to just wander and appreciate, without seeing paintings everywhere.


On the other hand, the pock-marked sandstone, gray sea, the rough bark of the cedar trees and the weathered driftwood that I have been looking at for the past week of my stay in British Columbia have made the kind of impression that is quite likely to find its way into my painting. I am drawn to places that are subtle in color, and untamed in feeling and mysterious in depth, like the dense forests here.

I’m talking to my students this week about knowing what moves them, what attracts them, as a path to personal voice. The more I travel and stay in different places, the more I understand this for myself. The subtleties of place that work on my memory and feelings.





beyond intro

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(painting by Michael Roberson, Los Angeles,CA)

I'm back from teaching two 5 day workshops on beautiful Vancouver Island, BC, hosted by Vancouver Island Workshops. The first was an introductory level class in Nanaimo and the second, a Level 2 class in Victoria. Teaching these two sessions back led me to think about how different they are to teach and to experience as a participant. Because I'm so often asked "what happens in a Level Two workshop?" this post is to clarify and explain the progression of ideas from one class to the next.

My Introductory Level classes are focused mainly on basic techniques, "the toolbox," as one of my students dubbed it. There is a LOT of information to absorb. Besides giving demos and plenty of individual assistance, I also make presentations about abstraction and process-oriented painting. These lay some groundwork for the focus of the more advanced classes.

In a Level Two workshop, I expect the artists who come to not only know most basic techniques of cold wax and oils (as learned in the Intro level) but also to have practiced them for at least 4-6 months on their own. Although I'm happy to provide quick reviews, and run through any new ideas or tools that I've been working with, the emphasis in this class is not on technique, which is a given. Instead we take on the big questions of form and content. In terms of the medium and process, we deal with the possibilities for expression that lie in the techniques, issues of scale, considerations for substrate and other choices of materials, and quick painting exercises designed to strengthen basic skills in composition, use of shape, color and value distribution. Below, a value study in powdered charcoal and cold wax medium by Eva MacLowry, Portland, OR:



As for content, I encourage each person to dig into the meaning of their work and what they wish to express--to connect with and clarify their inner voice. The longer the workshop, the deeper we can go. For example, Level Two workshops may include self-critique skills and small group discussions. I always schedule an extended one-on-one with each person in a review of his or her work as a whole (not only what is done in class), offering feedback and direction on an individual level. Below, participants in the Victoria class paired up to discuss each other's work with guideline/questions provided in a handout:


I also work on my own panels in class, and try to bring at least a few to completion. While I can (and sometimes do) talk all day about working spontaneously and covering over ruthlessly--it seems that showing, rather than explaining, is most effective in getting across this approach. (You can read more about this here in an earlier post.)

I often receive requests from advanced artists asking to skip the Intro level workshop and go right into a Level 2 class. But from the description above, I hope it's clear that even advanced artists need the basic toolbox of techniques and these are offered only at the first level.

For a taste of the experience of a Level Two workshop, here are a few testimonials from artists in my class in Victoria, BC:

This 5 day intensive was just what I needed to energize myself and my painting. The quick exercises that were interspersed throughout the week were a revelation and I realize now that I am/was inhibiting myself and not trusting my artistic self. It feels great to have freedom of expression again and I look forward to returning to my studio with a renewed creative spirit.
--Janet C. Hickok, Anchorage, AK
(Janet's quick series based on spontaneous drawings, below.)


I came to class with challenges and (Rebecca) was able to help me identify solutions immediately....—Aryana Londir, New River, AZ

There is always something one can learn or relearn about the materials and the fundamentals of art and abstraction and Rebecca does that so very well. Having time for some exercises was both fun and useful-and of course being able to watch her paint for a long time is treat.--Eva MacLowry, Porland, OR.

Rebecca helped me excavate genuine elements of who I am through creative exercises and then gave me tools to express my individuality in my work. Learning was playful and opened a door to the rich language of experience. --Kathleen Schildmeyer, Lake Oswego, OR
(Kathleen's series on paper, below.)


If that sounds enticing and you've taken an Intro level workshop (mine or from another artist) please note that I have openings in two of my upcoming Level Two workshops: at Cullowhee Mountain Arts in June and at Ballinglen Arts Foundation in Ballycastle, Co. Mayo Ireland in November (please email me for information on that one...crowellart@yahoo.com)

By the way, I also offer a third level of instruction, Master Level classes, for those who have completed the first two levels and wish to continue working with me and with other artists experienced in using cold wax. There are openings in these classes in May at Shake Rag Alley in Mineral Point, WI and in September at Lake Logan Retreat Center (through Cullowhee Mountain Arts) near Asheville. Please email me for more info on those if you are interested.

Below, monocromatic color study by Aryana Londir:

shape

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Since my time in Ireland last fall, shapes have entered my recent work--big, shaggy, organic shapes. I relate them to land forms and colors of the part of County Mayo where I stayed for seven weeks, and was impressed by the craggy bog landscape and rugged sea cliffs. The oil painting above is Boglands #1, 36"x36", 2014.

Dominant shapes have not been part of my imagery since the late 80's, and I feel that I'm rediscovering an old idea in a new way. Those earlier earlier shapes tended to be harder edged, less subtle. There was often a triangular or shield-like shape, and were important in my path to where I am now, as some of my first explorations of abstract forms. The painting below, Shield, 30"x 24", is from 1987. I saw these shapes as strong yet also fragmented, a reflection of the particular emotional state I was in at the time, beginning my career as an artist and raising young children.


After this time, my work entered a more landscape-inspired phase, and headed back toward representation for a number of years. When I entered fully into abstraction in the early 2000s, my work tended toward color field and geometric divisions rather than distinctive shapes. Multiple panel constructions gave structure to these color fields, or simple divisions were created within the picture plane. Although I included soft shapes and gestural marks in these paintings, I didn't tend to emphasize distinctive shapes within the color fields. Below, a painting from 2011, Fragment (30"x30".)


Soft, atmospheric shapes did begin to enter my work about this time, and to gradually develop a unique character. An ongoing series which I call the Veil Series includes paintings such as the one below from 2012, Veil #6, 20"x16." I continue to enjoy working with these rather undefined cloudy forms, inspired (as much of my current work is) by time spent in Ireland.



Strong, bold shapes are what's really new and exciting to me. Some are of soft color and edge, showing a pretty clear progression from the Veil paintings, such as the one at the top of the page, and this one, Mayo #2 (20"x16", 2013):


and others are dark, bold and massive, painted with memories of the dramatic cliffs of North Mayo and Clare Island. Below, Mayo Coast #5, 2014, 60"x48." The detail shot below the main picture shows that some edges I am working with continue to have a soft quality, while others are stronger. I find myself paying a lot of attention to edges as I work on these, wanting them to have variety, and a quirky, organic sort of energy.




I'm excited about continuing in this direction, and find I have a very keen sense of what is "right" when it comes to these shapes. I spend a lot of time searching out their boundaries, tweaking and shifting. I also find challenge in making dark, dense, solid forms that also contain variety of surface and subtle color shifts.

Bringing shape back into my work has been an evolving process, and as always, I find that change for me comes slowly, in progression, and relates to something in my own experience. I am reminded of this process every time I teach and talk with students who often view abstraction as something to dive into without reference. Connection to feelings, memories and visual impressions of the world are for me the source of ongoing ideas and imagery.

core ideas

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In my last post I wrote about shape and its importance in my recent work. But the painting above (36"x48", as yet untitled, oil and mixed media) which I just finished, is about the least shape-ly one I have done in a while! It's atmospheric, shimmery, undefined, with the emphasis on layers of subtle color. It might seem a strange follow up to what I was excited about just a few weeks ago.

But like a lot of artists I almost always have more than one direction evident in my work at any one time. Working back and forth between a paintings that is unfocused and ethereal and one with bold dark shapes, I find my awareness heightened--so that I make the surface colors and textures in the "shape" paintings more subtle, and in the more atmospheric paintings I see soft color/shapes emerging.

Having several approaches going at once also works for me because I see the core ideas they share. In my recent work, both the strong shapes and the softer paintings relate to my time in Ireland and to various aspects of the land there, the soft, textural boglands and the strong shapes of the sea cliffs. As these exist in juxtaposition in the landscape, so do they in my studio. I also have some work going that is quite minimal, mostly white, as in this recent 40"x30" (as yet untitled) painting:


Working in mostly white with emphasis on physical textures has been an ongoing interest for the past five years--it is a longstanding investigation that I keep returning to .These paintings are to me about solitude, quiet, and aging. And so they seem related to almost any other work I am exploring, because these are big, underlying themes that encompass many experiences.

Of course the work of any one artist is connected on some level--all made by the same person at the very least, and very often underlying themes and ideas can be discerned. But how much and what kind of variety to aim for in the studio can also be a challenging issue. As an instructor I work with many artists who are on the path to finding a personal style, and who struggle with (to quote the singer Joni Mitchell) "the crazy you get from too much choice." Especially with process-oriented methods, such as I teach with cold wax medium, the possibilities inherent in the materials and techniques can easily pull an artist in so many directions that there is little to show who the artist is and what characterizes his or her work.

I often tell my students that their art work is their lifetime research project into what is meaningful to them and how that may best be expressed in communication with the viewer. The beginning stage of producing one-off paintings with little connection to one another is important--experimenting, learning to understanding the materials. But to follow the research analogy, this stage tends to be a little like surfing the internet, browsing around with whatever catches your interest. Which is fun, and can lead to new ideas, and be a jumping off point--but it isn't usually great for gaining in-depth understanding. For that, obviously you need to stick to a main idea and make dedicated searches, print out and study certain pages, make notes--and meanwhile, not be too distracted by YouTube videos or Facebook notifications.

To conduct research via your own art work, what helps a lot of people is to focus down, to set parameters, create in series with defined boundaries, and in the beginning take one step at a time. Until the focus begins to come naturally, it may need to be imposed.

But alongside that serious and dedicated research, a little browsing is also a good thing! By that I mean, find ways to play and experiment off to the side--do quick works on paper, make monotypes, take photos, write in stream-of-consciousness style--whatever is stimulating to your art brain and heart. These kind of activities allow your intuition and spontaneity to flourish and are important to sustaining your energy for the deeper and more focused work.

If you are struggling on this path, know that with dedication to studio practice, there will come a time when your core of meaning has grown strong and solid. Explorations can freely sprout in various directions, simultaneously or in succession, and there will always be connecting ideas.

adventures with terraskin

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As readers of my blog know, I have been doing quite a few small works on paper lately and enjoying this quicker, more spontaneous approach alongside my more developed painting. And because my own interests often find their way into my workshops, I've been sharing some of these ideas with the artists I work with in my classes. Recently I wrote a blog post for the makers of TerraSkin, an intriguing paper made of stone, manufactured in Canada, about a technique I developed using their product with powdered charcoal and cold wax medium. To read the blog post, which includes step-by-step directions, click here. The post also includes a list of US distributors of the paper. I have been using the 16pt weight but it also comes in a lighter weight, sketchbook sized variety.

This is the charcoal and cold wax demo paintings that I did for that workshop:




I've also been using Terraskin for monotypes because I enjoy the way its smooth but absorbent surface holds every line and detail, and there is no need for soaking prior to printing. Although the prints tend to curl when just off the press, they quickly flatten out if placed under a book or other weight. Here is a recent example (6"x4" etching ink on Terraskin.)


TerraSkin also works well for straightforward painting with oils and cold wax medium. Again, it lends itself to crisp detail and fine edges, as well as resist and solvent techniques. Below, a small painting I did while on residency in Ireland last fall--my first encounter with TerraSkin.


Here's a bit more background about Terraskin, as found on their website:

**TerraSkin is a combination of mineral powder (>75%) and a small quantity (<25%) of non-toxic resin combined to create an environmentally friendly paper.
**The production of TerraSkin requires no water, so the TerraSkin papermaking process incurs no water pollutants.
**Used TerraSkin paper will start to degrade under the proper environmental conditions of high heat, moisture and UV light.
**Most importantly, in producing TerraSkin, the harvesting of trees is unnecessary, thereby safeguarding the natural environment’s beauty and biodiversity for all living beings.
**TerraSkin also has beautiful printing capabilities and a unique texture and feel. Because the paper is fiberless, it does not absorb ink like regular paper and also uses less ink than regular paper. Images stay much crisper and cleaner because the ink doesn’t bleed.
**TerraSkin is water – resistant and inherently strong and durable.



what pulls us in

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In most forms of art, we rely on some sense of drama and emotion to pull us in--in reading a novel or watching a film, we expect the narrative to contain a central dilemma for the characters. Listening to a symphony, we follow the arc of the music through various contrasting but related movements. With poetry or song we often contemplate some aspect of the human experience via analogy and metaphor, creating thought- or emotion-provoking images.

A few days ago, caught up in a novel on CD on a very long car trip, I started to think about how this dynamic applies in visual art, especially in non-representational painting. How is the viewer drawn in when there is no imagery to create a narrative or set up a dramatic or otherwise evocative situation? What gives an abstract painting (even one that is quiet or minimalist) strength, character, emotion? Why do some abstract paintings seem to compel people to look and look--while others are passed over?

Obviously, this is very subjective territory. What I stare at for an hour, you may dismiss in two seconds. What one juror picks as Best of Show, another sends to the reject pile. Different strokes for different folks, even among paintings generally well-regarded.

Nevertheless, I believe that there is a merging of form and content in really good abstract painting that sets it apart in terms of clarity, strength and communication of feeling. Technical skill along with command of the formal elements of art (value, color, line, shape and composition) create visual tension and contrast. Meaningful content is the other component, with roots in intellect, memory, and emotion--both intuitively and consciously accessed.

In bringing all of this together, the artist convinces the viewer of an alternate reality worth examining. In the words of the famous abstract painter, Wassily Kandinsky (1866-1944), Abstract art places a new world, which on the surface has nothing to do with "reality", next to the "real" world.

This, then is what seems to be the engaging dynamic for the viewer--a glimpse into another way of seeing, imagining or thinking. The drama or tension that draws in the viewer arises from the contrast between this unique vision and our everyday ways of seeing and interacting with what is around us. What an enormous, lifelong challenge the abstract painter has in distilling and communicating an inner world in a way that allows others to enter in.

ireland on my mind

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As the recent painting (Mayo Bog, 40"x30" oil and mixed media on panel)  above shows, even months after my return from the boglands of County Mayo in Ireland, I am thinking of the colors and forms of their rich tapestries. I will be returning to Mayo and the Ballinglen Arts Foundation in mid-October for another residency, and to conduct two workshops (there are still some openings in the advanced class in November, if anyone is interested please email me.)

With this post though, I am hoping to re-direct my readers to a newly published post on the co-blog that I write with my friend and colleague Janice Mason Steeves, in which we describe a different area and artist's residency in Ireland, the Cill Rialaig Project in County Kerry. Here is the link to that post--enjoy!


intentions

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About ten years ago, I put together a list of qualities that I wanted my work to embody, including complexity, presence, ongoing exploration, and mystery. Some of the words and phrases were fairly specific, at least in my mind, such as contrast--which reminded me to keep value and color shifts interesting. Others, like connection, were purposefully open-ended and evocative. Connection could mean connection to my own inner landscape and experiences, connection to the viewer, or connection among the elements within the painting.

I made this list as a practical tool, thinking that it would help me to guide me through my work, keep me on track with what I was after, and also to know when a painting was finished. I did find it to be very valuable for those reasons, and for self critique in general.  (Click here for a blog post from 2009 about self-critique that mentions the list.) Over the years, I've revised it a bit, and created a power point around it that I show in some of my workshops, but my editing of the list has been minor. The main ideas remain relevant for me.  Although I rarely refer to that actual bit of paper anymore, its basic thoughts are now an ongoing and now deeply integrated basis for my work.The original still hangs on my studio wall--tattered, dripped upon and nearly illegible.

This morning as I moved a few things around on my wall including the list, I studied it closely for the first time in ages, and saw it suddenly in a new way. It struck me that what I had done back then was to set forth my intentions, and that they have been unfolding ever since.

Today, more so than a decade ago, there is increased understanding and theorizing about how intentions shape and create our experience, operating in subtle ways beneath our everyday awareness. I realized this morning that the ideas in the list were probably more powerful than I had considered them to be in the beginning, when I wrote them down as a practical tool. They have likely been a force in bringing my work closer toward my highest ideals, exerting influence even without my conscious attention. Perhaps there's a fine line between the two, but what I realized this morning was that the list has played a huge part in charting my course as an artist, and for that I'm grateful.







thoughts on landscape

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Like much of my current work, the shapes in the painting above (Ceide Fields, 36"x48" oil and mixed media on panel.) suggest land forms--craggy, textural--set against a pale background that can be read as sky or sea. This work comes out of my time in County Mayo, Ireland, a place where the strong shapes and complex textures of the bog and seacoast captured my eye and heart.

Landscape has been at the core of my work since my earliest years of art-making, and I've approached it in various ways over time--beginning with direct, representational recording of what I observed. Occasionally in these early days I would include a female figure representing "me." Below is an intaglio print from my undergrad years in which such a figure, seated in the lower left of the image, looks out at the scene. I see this now as an attempt to express my emotional connection to the experience of being alone in nature.


At the core of all my work over time is the expression of this connection.  Over time my work has evolved into abstraction emphasizing color and texture which seem to me to be the most direct conduits to the feelings and memories I associate with specific places. While I've allowed in some landscape imagery, for the most part I've downplayed the sense of "scenery" (suggested by pictorial depth and obvious clues such as horizon lines) in my work of the past 15 years or so.

So I'm a bit surprised by some of the work coming out of my time in Mayo in its fairly obvious references to what I remember from my walks and drives along the coast and through the boglands. Below is another recent painting, Mayo Coast #7, 40"x30" which includes dark, rock-like shapes and the suggestion of falling water. 



Surprising to find these images emerging--but also somehow liberating. I feel that I'm tapping into some essence or energy of that place that allows me to play more freely and directly with landscape imagery than I have in the past. Along with the shapes suggestive of rocks, bog paths, foliage and cliffs, I've also been including lines that refer to mapping, charting, writing and gridlike designs--lines imposed over the surface of the work that counteract its more representational aspects. Some of these lines are adapted from stratigraphic drawings shared with me by Greta Byrne, the archaeologist at Ceide Field near Ballycastle where I have stayed in Mayo as well as from the maps of ancient stone walls at that site.  

I think of this recent work as expressing two aspects --inner and outer--of my personal experience in the Mayo landscape. The inner experience includes the the drama of weather and vistas, the gentleness of the bog, the crashing of surf, the quieting of thought, the moods of the time of day and the feeling of oneness with nature. The outer experience includes purely visual observations as well as awareness of ancient sites, geology and geography, culture and history. I'm enjoying the merging of the inner and outer experiences in these paintings.


thoughts on style

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After my last post, about the persistence of landscape references in my work over the years, abstracted images from Mayo have continued to appear in nearly every painting. Several recent ones seem close to representational in their dark, coastal shapes and swaths of pale watery looking texture. I am thinking of these aspects of the sea coast as I paint, while at the same time enjoying a playful freedom with shape and line. (Above and below, Belderrig #3 and #4, 20"x16" oil and mixed media on panel.)



In art history class many of us remember the range of styles in modern/contemporary art described as a continuum. This was a way of saying that there aren't precise cut-off points among the myriad of art styles, from pure abstraction through to photo-realism.  A particular abstract painter's work, for example, could be placed somewhere on an imaginary line,between an artist who was more representational in style and someone else who was less so.
Although that is a useful way to explain the big picture, it's not so simple when you consider the life's work of any one artist. Many range back and forth over that continuum over time, or even within a series or a small body of work, and they cannot be so neatly categorized. Within the context of exploring particular ideas, this approach can open up greater meaning and expressive potential.

Since seeing his work last year in Dublin, I have admired the work of the late Irish artist, Tony O'Malley. He was a man who took all of his life's experiences and transformed them into source material for his work. This work ranged from austere wood sculptures to playful, colorful paintings, sometimes non-representational, and other times with images of himself, his wife and friends, and various objects in his world. All of it is clearly his, very personal, very direct. It seems he never worried about whether something was abstract enough, or too minimalist, or too obscurely non-referential. Below, some photos showing the range of his work:





I'm thinking of this in relation to my own recent work, because in spite of knowing better, I sometimes listen to a voice that warns me not to betray my identity as an abstract painter, and which grows more insistent the closer I edge to realism. These past few weeks though, I've done well at shutting off that voice. While I do of course identify as an abstract painter, I am OK with imagery that comes through in the context of a particular visual exploration (in this case, the dramatic Mayo Coast.) The work I've been doing is compelling to me--paintings that seem to need to be painted, and I am including them on my personal continuum.





lake logan workshop

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I've just gotten home from a week of a workshop for eleven advanced artists at Lake Logan Retreat Center near Canton, North Carolina, run by Cullowhee Mountain Arts. It was different in many ways from others I have taught--in fact I find I hesitate to even say I taught--it was more that I facilitated.  The artists who came have all been painting for a number of years and have an excellent understanding of content and formal elements in their work. As a result, much of our week was spent in deep conversation about ideas, authenticity, intentions and goals. Each artist was asked ahead of time to prepare a short presentation about some of their source ideas and these were astonishing in their depth and honesty.




Of course, it was not all talk. Our large, airy studio was open for use 24/7, and there was plenty of painting going on. Unlike most of my workshops, in this class there was no special emphasis on cold wax medium--many did use it, but others included watercolor, acrylic, and (because there was access to two types of presses) monotype.




At the beginning of class I introduced the idea of small works as a way to explore ideas in a more free-flowing manner than is typical with more developed panels, and I suggested that each person do at least ten small works on paper in a variety of media over the week. The results were gems of exploration and discovery. At the end of class, we each contributed a painting for an exchange organized as a random draw.

Another unique aspect of this workshop was its setting, a beautiful lakeside retreat center in the Great Smokey Mountains. Three times a day, we gathered for excellent meals in the dining hall, and the week also included several yoga sessions, meditation, canoeing, and a nature walk.  One night there was a bonfire, and Cullowhee Mountain Arts Director and all-around dear person Norma Hendrix and her husband Eric enchanted us with guitar and flute.




Another workshop was being held at the same time as ours, led by Los Angeles poet (and world traveler) Cecilia Woloch.  With the emphasis on verbal and written exploration in my own class, this combination of disciplines seemed especially fitting. Artists and writers mingled and talked intently at meals and activities, and I think we all recognized the similarity of the creative process in both disciplines as the week unfolded. (Inspired by this interaction, Celcilia and I plan some collaborative aspects for upcoming Culllowhee Mountain Arts workshops that we will teach in April, at the famous Mabel Dodge Luhan House in Taos, NM.)

As an instructor, I valued many aspects of the lake Logan experience. I loved the way that the artists who came took ownership of the class, pitching in with ideas, suggestions and even organizing activities beyond what I had planned. One evening before dinner, I had gone to my cabin to change out of my studio clothes, and returned to find almost the whole class sitting around one member who was sharing a way of appreciating/critiquing works of art that she has used very successfully with high school students--everyone was taking notes and asking questions. Another of our artists was the moving force behind an evening in which the poetry students read their work for the rest of us.

Very special to me were the artists in the Lake Logan class who have taken my classes numerous times over the years. I'm grateful for the way they have trusted me with their personal journeys, and rewarded to see the growth in their work. And of course, I'm also grateful for those newer to me, excited to get to know them better, and hope that we will work together again in the future.

For everyone this past week, there were moments of insight, energizing thought, and transformation--and for quite a few, real breakthroughs in their work. It was a magical week.





off to ireland

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In a few days, I return to Ireland for my fourth stay in as many years. This year, as I did in 2013, I will be an artist in residence at Ballinglen Arts Foundation in County Mayo. Each time I return, it feels more and more like a place in which my soul is at home.

This is a quick post, as I have so much to do before I leave. But I'd like to share this blessing by the Irish writer and philosopher John O'Donohue, called For the Traveler. In it, O'Donohuespeaks about the kind of travel that opens a channel between inner as outward experience, that involves intention, intuition and attention, and it brings to mind so many of my experiences in Ireland so far.

I'll be posting more soon from the other side of the big pond!



For the Traveler
Every time you leave home,
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice,
Opening in conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark,
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way.

When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,
Gathered wisely into your inner ground;
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you.
May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,
And live your time away to its fullest;
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you.

back in ballycastle

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As I write this, it is my first night back in Ballycastle, County Mayo, where I came last year for the first time for a fellowship at Ballinglen Arts Foundation.  I have the same cottage as last year, and have spent the evening settling in, making some food, having a glass of wine by the peat fire (that I’ve remembered how to coax into life!)  A sweet, sad flute melody is playing in the background--there is no internet in the cottage, or phone, or TV. Only the radio, a program tonight of traditional Irish instrumental music.

In unpacking and making the space mine again for the next five weeks, I was amused to recognize a fossil rock on the bathroom windowsill as one I put there last year (in spite of the plea in the orientation packet not to leave fossils and rocks in the cottage, lots of the artists seem to do it!) In the cupboard, I discovered a mostly empty packet of popcorn that I bought last year at a fruit and veg stand—pleased then to find a snack I love at home but which is not part of typical Irish fare.  It seems a few other artists have enjoyed its contents in the interval since I left it there in November, 2013. These small, quirky signs of my former presence make me smile.

And so I am back in a place that is a kind of home for me.  Tomorrow I’ll set up my studio, take a walk on the beach if it isn’t pouring.  Or, in between the times when it will be pouring, which is to be expected.

For months I’ve thought about being back here, sometimes as a brief flash, other times with outright yearning.  I’ve been conjuring up memories and sensory impressions all year in my paintings and works on paper—of walking on the bog and along the coast, the rough textures of rock and lichen, the traces of ancient people on the landscape, the wild surf.  As well, I have revisited memories of life here, the peace of days focused on my work, the friendliness of the people in the village, the simplicity of having no outside demands, the walks home in the dark evening, stopping at the little grocery for dinner food, the occasional night at the pub with others from Ballinglen.

On this, my first night of this year’s stay, I’m feeling impatient to dive into these experiences again and eager for whatever will be new.  But I’m also remembering that this is a place that unfolds in subtle ways, and fully coming back will take a little time.  My deep feelings for this part of Mayo evolved over the whole six weeks I spent here in 2013--as one experience led to another, my work found direction,  insights re-enforced one another, and the people I met became better known to me.  Even the landscape and seascape, as dramatic as they are, did not fully impact me all at once—instead, each time I went out walking I took in more.

Tonight as I listen to the Irish flute, sip my wine and watch the fire, I'm thinking I want to take things slow and easy.  It’s challenging to shift out of the intense pace of life at home, where I work constantly and have many responsibilities of home and family. Here, I can simply sit and do nothing but experience the moment...rediscover the quiet inside in which my experiences here will fully resonate.

ballycastle, mid-way

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I'm three weeks into my time at Ballinglen Arts Foundation, and the time has unfolded in ways that encompass all of my favorite aspects of North Mayo. I've enjoyed walks on the bog and along the wild seacoast cliffs, time in my studio, and good craic--seeing friends from last year and making some new ones. My younger brother Hugh is here for a week and a half which has been a lot of fun. He has a car, which has meant some good explorations in the afternoons after I've had my painting time. Tomorrow we leave to spend the weekend in the Burren, a geologically fascinating part of County Clare that I have only had a tantalizing glimpse of driving through a few years ago.

The introductory Oil&Wax workshop last week went very well--it included trips out into the land/seascape to gather ideas for abstraction, lots of painting, and good times enjoying the wonderful camaraderie of the international group of artists who came. 



If there's any problem here in Irish paradise it is that there is so much I want to be doing that the days all end too soon. I can already see that I won't come away with the number of paintings that I did last year. Teaching two workshops (there is another coming up that begins the 17th) and going exploring most afternoons has cut into my painting time. But I remind myself that sometimes the most important things done on a residency are not the actual paintings but the acquiring of memories and connections to the landscape. I find myself paying attention to different aspects of the surroundings here than I did last year--looking more closely than before at the tapestry of bog plants, the configuration of rocks in the sea, and the way that the earthy colors glow in the damp, dark weather.  





Another reason i will have fewer paintings to take home is that I have spent most of my time on two fairly large panels that i will send over to Gormley's Fine Art (my gallery in Dublin) at the end of my time here. They will be featured at Gormley's booth at the Art Fair in London in January. I am pleased with that project and will post the results when the paintings are done (getting close!)

It all goes back to my earlier post from Ballinglen--the idea of taking things easy, letting them unfold. Although there have been relatively few times of true quiet and solitude, there have been many other kinds of experiences to savor.  

essence

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I'm back from six weeks in Ireland, to the wintry, frozen landscape that surrounds my home. Though the contrast between this snowy world and that of north Mayo--with its rugged green pastures, rich tapestry of bog plants and ever-changing sea colors--is startling, the Wisconsin countryside has its own wild beauty right now.  It is stark, with only subtle color in the fields and woods, and the cold and snow are constant reminders of nature's power--all aspects of nature with which I resonate as a painter.



In this way, winter may be the perfect season for my transition back to my home studio, because although visually very different from Ireland, there is some essence of the landscape around me now that provides continuity. I am intrigued by this quote from the American minimalist painter Agnes Martin:
The artist lives by perception. So that what we make is what we feel. The making of something is not just construction. It’s all about feeling… everything, everything is about feeling…. feeling and recognition!
What an interesting remark from someone whose work is generally perceived as austere and controlled! She did indeed work from joy and an emotional response to the visual world, filtered through her perceptions. 

During my time in Ireland, I taught two workshops in cold wax medium, during which I encouraged everyone to get out, soak up the textures, colors and forms of the surroundings and bring something of the personal response to that experience back into the studio.This interaction with the landscape is an important aspect of my own work, but asking it of the students led me to examine the process more closely. 

For me, the landscape and all that contributes to its unique character have long been powerful sources for painting ideas.  While I am drawn to the visual appearance of the landscape, it's the symbolic or poetic aspects of nature that provide personal meaning. I see the ways in which our emotional, spiritual, intellectual and physical selves reflect the processes in nature of erosion, stratification, growth and collapse. I see its rich textures and colors as metaphor for the complexities of human life and its contrasts as evocative of our own struggles and challenges. 



So, what I am after in my work is a distillation or essence of the experience of being in nature as a whole. I may feel at one with nature as a living creature, but I am also set apart by the inner complexities that come with being human...feelings, memories, ideas and thoughts. While observation of the visual reality is the starting point, the work is both an inner response and an outward observation. When I am in landscapes that are rugged, textural, atmospheric and dramatic, I feel a wonderful merging of inner and outer realities...this is what feeds my work. 





However, I sometimes question whether this approach makes the work overly ego-centered, too much about myself or humans in general and not enough about what simply IS, without emotional interpretation. I do see such incredible perfection in all visual aspects of nature- the spread of lichen on a rock, the tangle of bare branches against the sky, the shifting clouds. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to paint. Nothing can approach the beauty of what has already been created in the natural world.



My answer to the dilemma is to take photographs of those perfect aspects. To me, photography comes closest to being an objective eye on what IS, apart from human interpretation (though of course, there is always interpretation, even in the choosing and cropping of images.) So, I take many photos when I am out in nature, for their own sake.   Not to work from in the studio, or even to refer to as a regular practice. 

But they do serve another purpose, because in the moment of choosing the image, focusing on some aspect of nature and clicking, I have also made an inner connection that becomes part of the mix that finds its way onto my panels. There's no escaping--nor desire to escape --the fact that I'm moved to my core by what I see and experience in nature. For me it's about seeking an essence that resonates with my inner self, while responding to and respecting the outward appearances of landscape.   


(Fissures #2, 42"x36" oil and mixed media on panel, painted while on residency at Ballinglen Arts Foundation in County Mayo, Ireland.)


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