A Journey Worth Taking

An Idea
A painting begins with and idea or a fleeting image.  As we traveled through Pennsylvania, I came across a home nestled in the hills.  I was attracted to the neatly planted rows that followed the lines of hilly land.  It was so graceful.  I watched the clouds cast shadows across the distant hills and watched the sunlight dance through leaves and spill onto the roadway.  I soaked it all in.  This was home for me.  These hills in Pennsylvania.  I always enjoy the passing landscape.  I just had to paint it. 

So, snap some pics, plot it out and lay down some paint...The Painting Process





The Initial Critique
At this point in the painting, I need to iron out the composition.  Color and details will take care of themselves as we move on.  Movement in an image gives the eyes a path to follow through the painting but I need to make sure there is enough visual interest to make one WANT to move through the painting.  The paved road became a dirt road, a fence appeared and some elements were added to the hills in the back.  I know I need something at the bottom of the painting.  I am planning some interesting shadows.  I know that will work itself out as I go on.


Texture
Once I am pretty satisfied with the composition, I add some texture.  Adding random texture at this point gives me some new opportunities.  Sometimes it gets in my way and I fight with it. Other times it provides some happy accidents.  The texture sometimes determines where my branches will be, or where the bits of color in a field will become flowers.  Working with texture provides some magic!


Push and Pull
Here I alternate between plain gel medium (Heavy body) and gel medium mixed with paint and glazing medium.  I bounce between using a brush or palette knife.  Using a palette knife allows me to rake color across the raised areas leaving original color in the valleys.  Sometimes an area seems off in color or value and I apply glazes with a brush.  As the glazing medium gets caught next to ridges in the texture, it puddles and offers some cool effects!  Working this way allows me to keep changing the color and value until it feels right.  Sometimes I will deliberately throw in an unexpected color, just to get my brain unfrozen.  It is a way to get unstuck when I can't figure out what to do.


The Value of a critique
For this painting, I asked for a bit of input from artists and students.  Trained eyes and untrained eyes both offer meaningful direction.  I knew the painting was too "green" and earthy yellow.  It was a group of high school art students that suggested a color change on the house.  They even went so far as to pinpoint the EXACT red that was needed.  Another student suggested splashes of purple flowers.  An artist friend changed my ideas about my shadow colors in the row of trees surrounding the house.  All of it was worthwhile.  Collaboration makes things better.

I love it when art just happens.  I seldom have a rigid plan in mind when I start a painting.  I always get to a place where I think "this isn't going to work".  But it usually does end up working.  Sometimes I get a painting that has some good stuff, but not enough to be "sale worthy".    If I can get a few good moments in a painting, it is worth the journey in doing it.

A Tribute to a Dog 2

Just a couple of short videos

Update Jan 2018

It took a while, I had to set it aside for other projects.  I really struggled with this one as to how much of a background I wanted.  I finally decided that I needed some hint of a landscape as the tilted ground plane just made it so the dog would not stand up from it.  I tried different color experiments to get the dog to "advance" but I just couldn't get it to work.  So, I hinted at some background and it gave me the depth of field I needed. I am not sure but, I now think her snout is too long.  But, I had to get it off the easel.

Tribute to a Dog

      Maddie was my neighbor's dog.  She was a sweet old soul.  She would trot over to get some love in spite of the special collar that would gently remind her of boundaries.  Many mornings I would catch her peeking in my back door window.  She was gentle yet had a definite "presence" about her.  One day she had a lump and within a couple weeks she was gone.  I actually miss this dog and she wasn't even mine.  Her owner said she was special, and he felt a deep bond with her.  She loved trekking around the woods with him. He was lucky to have her, and she was lucky to have him.  He is a young man, engaged to be married to another dog lover.  He helps his mom and has cut down several trees for us over the past couple of years.  He has a wonderful cooking hobby, and we have benefited from this as well.  He brings us goodies for our parties.  Well, needless to say, he never wants anything in return.  So I have decided to paint him a portrait of his beloved Maddie.  I asked him for a photo and he sent one where her back was turned and she was looking intently at something in the distance. 

     I am often asked about my technique.  I always say that it starts with a well developed under-painting.  This is where the thinking begins.  I take a few things from the photo that I love.  The way that the shadows break up the space and make that dynamic "X" composition.  I knew I didn't want her to be central but I did want some empty space around her.  I wanted the canvas to be large enough to pay homage to this sweet girl, but not so large that it demanded a prominent spot in the home.  Size matters.  And mood.  I definitely want to keep that far away look, and the way the light hits her chest and legs.  After much thought, I end up with my under-painting that maps out my initial decision about composition and mood.

     Next I start adding texture by adding a layer of clear gel medium.  I apply it with a palette knife. In the next layers I begin experimenting with color by raking color over the bumps created by the now dry gel medium.  At this point I am not thinking too much about color combinations.  I am simply thinking in terms of warm and cool colors.  I am also trying to decide how much I want to include in terms of details.  Should I keep the background ambiguous?  Or add a detailed backdrop?

     So I move on to the dog for a while, adding in more detail to his markings.  All the while I am working with glazing medium and gel mediums, sometimes mixed with paint and sometimes just layers of medium to alter texture.

     For now, the dog is black and white (and Payne's Grey).  I know I need to add some other colors into the dog, but I need to resolve my thoughts on the background.  For now, I have decided that the background is too "fantasy" and a bit cliche.  I know I want to add a more earthly feel.  

Stay tuned.

     As you can see, this process allows the painting to evolve.  It allows me to change my mind and gives me space to think.  The result is that you can see bits of color peeking through the layers beneath.  It creates a visual texture as well as a tactile one.  But more importantly, it speaks to both the tedium and the spontaneity of the creative process.

Insurmountable Grief

I stand, bare feet on the ground.

It climbs up through my body.    

Emanating from all corners of the world. 

I am a channel, it is passing through.

I listen and I hear.

A tale of inexplicable darkness.

Terrifying thoughts.   

A yearning to soothe.

Prayer, a primal inclination.

I'm holding you

Smelling your hair

Feel my breath say

"It will be okay" 

I started thinking about this drawing some time ago.  I wrote the above poem in response to some things that were going on in the world and in my personal life as well at the time.  I wasn't ready to be that exposed.  Today, after visiting some of my old drafts, I feel I can more comfortably share this.

This is an older drawing.  It was a class assignment in college.  We were instructed to use tessellations.  I immediately thought of quilts... and something hiding under it.  I thought of menacing monsters hiding beneath the surface and rupturing the fabric.  That was where I began with the assignment.  Art can be a way of exploring when you just leap off of an idea.  It ended up as a story about my own faith and my own fears.  I understood then, as I do now, that there is a common human experience here.

The drawing is called "Security Blanket"

The children on the image are labeled "Faith, Hope and Love"  Love stitches himself to the fabric where a piece is missing.  He wears "Christmas clothes".

The crown of thorns in the corner is the source of the "thread".  These parts of the drawing are an obvious reflection of my own Christian faith.  Having said that, I think that faith, hope and Love are common themes throughout all religions and are no stranger to the non-religious as well.

The saying in the corner "Don't be afraid, it comes to cover, not to consume" is a reference to what I have come to understand about my own depression.  The saying rests at the edge of something washing over the blanket in waves.  Like a tide.  It doesn't have to end me, I just have to hold my breath and wait for it to recede is the concept.  I had one very serious episode of depression after the birth of one of my children.  I had never experienced such personal darkness before or since then.  I was afraid of my own thoughts.  It took a couple of years to feel 100% right again.  Even after I "healed" from that experience, I had a "fear" of the little "mini depressions".  What if it took over again?  What if I went back down into that pit again? I was terrified of depression.  But, with each passing wave of depression episodes, I began to see a pattern.  It came and went like a tide.  I began to trust that pattern, recognize it, and hold my breath.  Over the years, the waters have become calmer.  They still rise and fall, but not to the extremes they once did.  Now it is just a surface nuisance.

People say things that tear us apart.  It allows the fear to take over and break through. "I just don't think I love..." Death, illness and broken relationships wreck our sense of safety and well being. 

 I came to posses a coin, I can't remember how I acquired it.  It was a coin with symbols on it and it said "3 months".  I learned that it was from Alcoholics Anonymous and represented the 3 months sober achievement.  That coin is shadowed here, near this menacing hand.  I have friends that hang in that precarious balance between sobriety and addiction.  That coin speaks about a person that has made it 3 months and hopes to make it ...... but I have the discarded coin.  What does that mean?  So, here I place my thoughts about them, that unknown person and their struggle.

I am a people watcher.  I often worry about strangers, about their lives.  I wonder if they are okay.  Sometimes I see that they are not okay, and I have no idea how to fix it for them.  Or even if I were capable of fixing it.

On other squares there are symbols of various religions, including my own, as well as symbols that represent the concepts of "Justice and Law".  There are symbols of Medicine as well.  These are the things that we use to make ourselves feel better.  We make ourselves feel "safe".  They are the pieces of our security blanket.  The things we hold onto like a child in need of their comfort.

The monster beneath is more human than not.  It is amazing how emotionally fragile we are at times.  Sometimes we are strong and at other times, not so much.  Just below the surface of each of us.  Just below the surface of our humanity as a whole.....there is trouble.  Every now an then it ruptures and it can be frightening.  But no matter where our "fabric" fails us, there remains Faith, Hope and Love.  Those three things can work with the scraps of us.

Well, there's plenty more to think about here.  But at the end of the day I have a naive belief in the kind of childlike love that says "No matter what you do, how you fail, how you hurt.....I will love you.  Even if I myself have to be your missing piece."  When my faith in that idea fails me, and it often does, I just hope.  I hope that it is true. 

For further reading, you may enjoy:

Walt Whitman's "The Base of all Metaphysics"

It is one of my favorites.

My Morning Drive

I am a visual artist.  It will come as no surprise that I have a gazillion random photos on my cell phone.  I have pictures of odd imprints in picnic tables, tree bark and half fallen fences.  I consider my cell phone an extension of my sketch books.  It snags little snippets of detail that I want to remember. Sometimes the cell phone camera just can’t do it.  This morning I found myself wishing I had both, my “good” camera, and the skill to use it.  I had neither one this morning.  Even if I could sear the image into my mind, I could not possibly sketch it.  It simply wouldn’t translate well into a quick thumbnail sketch. I don’t know if I have the skill to work it into some future painting but I am compelled to lock the image into some shareable memory.  It was a fleeting, temporary thing.  I wish you could have seen it.  I have resigned myself to write it.

My Morning Drive

It is cold here in St. Clair.  The Weather Channel ap on my phone says it is 12 degrees.  The sky is that boring bland white.  I look out my kitchen window and immediately feel some remorse for not having filled the bird feeder.  The trees are covered with a soft white substance.  I think it looks like frost, but not quite.  It really reminds me of a pussy willow branch, all covered with fuzz.  All the trees, shrubs, bushes and weeds are covered with it.  It is a cold fuzzy morning.

I love driving my friend’s children to school in the morning.  It gets me out of bed and moving.  I am always thankful for that drive past the river as the sun comes up.  It is so stunning to see the sun cast such lovely colors across the river.

I snap up a coffee from the drive through at Tim Hortons and we make our way up Clinton Street.  We get a little acceleration going just before the railroad tracks so we can catch a little “air” as we go over them.  It is our little rollercoaster thrill every morning.  It is a guaranteed laugh.  That is always a good way to start the day if you ask me.

Then it is Carney to Range as we make our way to Marysville. 

It was there, driving along Range road this morning that I noticed the magic of this morning.  The sun casts its light on the trees and brush.  The trees always have that pink color to them in the morning.  Today was no different.  Pink trees with splashes of vibrant gold as you travel along.  But this morning all the trees and bushes seemed to be covered in a fine, magnificent, glitter!  To the right of me there were tall trees with pink upper branches on the left, a small clearing of golden bushes.  All covered with glitter!  All along the road, barren bushes all fuzzy white were blurry and sparkled!

That was it.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of the scenery.  It was a Disney kind of magic and I was so grateful to be alive and witnessing it this morning.  Carpe Diem?  Nope.  I don’t want to seize anything.  I just want to sit still and watch it until the heat of the sun makes it all go away.  It was all I could do to keep at the task at hand.  I had to deliver that precious little stinker in my back seat to school.  Secretly, I wanted to just pull over along the side of the road, drink my coffee and snap a bunch of pictures.  Instead, I just drove on, watching the magic.  All the while offering up the whispered thought, “thank you”.  

Out of the Ashes (World Wide Photo Walk - 2013 - Detroit)

I have been writing.  I just haven't felt that I have anything worth publishing.  There's a big ole snowstorm looming and it seemed like a good time to revisit some of my "drafts".  This one stood out today because I have been thinking of grabbing up my camera and trekking out to capture some winter shots.  As I re- read what I have written, another concern comes to the surface of my thoughts.  Heidelberg.  It would seem that someone wants to burn it to the ground.  I know people don't always "get it" when it comes to the Heidelberg.  I don't expect everyone to "get it", but I DO expect everyone to respect it.  I am sickened by the blatant bully with a box of matches that would seek to stifle the creative voice.  Personally, I think Heidelberg is as important to Detroit as Duchamp's "Fountain" was/is to modern art.  Duchamp's "Fountain" is a bookmark tucked in the pages of our art history.  It marks the moment we begin to see things in a different way.  It marks the moment we begin to notice the beauty in the mundane and grotesque.  Heidelberg is the moment in Detroit's history when we begin to see the voice of the common man.  He is opinionated and concerned.  He is compassionate and hopeful.  And we notice.  Something significant has happened here on Heidelberg Street and I am inclined to think we should preserve it. That is my rock solid opinion. I don't expect everyone to agree.  That is okay with me.  I am not asking you to throw money at it.  Please, just don't burn it.  Have enough respect for another mans opinion to just not burn it.

The following is the "draft" written after attending my first organized photowalk last summer:
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Part I - Technically Speaking

I went on my first ever "photo walk" this weekend.  I had one simple goal, that was to learn to use at least two unfamiliar features of my camera.  I sat up the night before the walk, reading my camera's manual.  I decided upon a few features that I was determined to use, and familiarized myself once again, with a few old basics.  We started out early in the morning with a trip to Detroit's Eastern Market.  It was a dark rainy morning and the lighting proved to be a delightful challenge for this novice.  It was in this moment that I had chosen to figure out that little lightening bolt button to the side of the flash.  I have always avoided using my built in flash because it washed everything out, created awful shadows and just didn't seem to travel very far.  I had a friend with me that has a similar camera.  She's managed to learn a thing or two along the way, and she gleans a bit from me at times.  Together, we managed quite nicely.  Although I am not completely satisfied with the flash images, I have made significant progress in my ability to control the flash lighting.

The next stop was "The Heildelberg Project".  The night before our visit, one of the houses burned to the ground.  It was still smoldering.  Again, I found the challenge in catching the faint wisps of smoke rising up out of the pile that was once a house, once an artists statement.  The sky was white and overcast and offered no contrast that would make the smoke visible.  I was forced to look deeper into the backdrop of my subject.  This proved to be a good exercise.

Our final stop was a couple of homes in the historic Indian Village area of Detroit.  Once again, I was challenged with lighting. With the significant number of photographers in one place, all shooting at once, respectful dodging and ducking out of sight became a bit of a challenge as well.  I was a little more timid about shooting in the houses.  I take too long to get my shot, so I settled with a few quick pics and made a point to just get out of the way of the more experienced photographers.  The houses were a challenge for another walk for me.


Part  2 - Finding the Art

Aside from the delightful technical challenges of the photo walk, I found myself energized by simply looking through my camera's lens. I am searching for the story that Detroit wants to tell me.  We are having a talk, the city and I, about love and fear.

At Eastern Market, my thoughts turned to the interactions of the people.  The diversity of cultures within the city and the happiness of the people were apparent.  There were smiles and laughter and music in abundance.  The care and attention to detail in the display of goods was amazing.  There was pride in those piles of produce.  There was prosperity in an impoverished city.  I came in from the suburbs with a fairly expensive camera hanging from my neck.  And I wasn't afraid.

At Heildelberg I noticed that the tree/ sculpture was smoking like a chimney.  I thought it was deliberate and I wondered how it was done. Only after realizing that the house had burned to the ground only the night before, did I make the connection.  It wasn't long before the fire truck arrived to extinguish the tree and revisit the smoldering house.  Fate could not have orchestrated a better teachable moment for the more than 50 photographers standing around the scene.  There was action shots, reflective puddles, steam, mud, smoke.... and a stray cat.  Fate had much more than just the technical challenges. All of it fit in with the art.  All of it fit the story of the art.  All of it echo the conversation the art was having with me.  I needed my images to capture the smoke, the steam, the mud, the puddles of water, and I needed to capture the artists story that still lived inside of the chaos and cooling embers.

 

Random thoughts: 

      Micheal Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" 

      I found Waldo

      the "I Want You" statue

The art still speaks.  It says, "Go ahead, kill me.  Throw a big boulder in front of my tomb.  Bring it.  You can't kill hope.  You can't kill love.  You can't kill faith. 

The Heidelberg project is an entire brain full of comments all spoken at once.  Not everybody "gets it".  I find that when you look at it through the lens of a camera, it helps you isolate the messages and see them in bite size pieces.  I am told that the artist himself is a bit of a recluse.  I disagree.  He may not come out of his house to visit with you.  He doesn't need to.  It is as if he never left the yard.  Everything he has to say is being said.  There's enough conversation happening out there for a lifetime!

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That is as far as my "draft" went.  Today, I don't have anything more to add, except perhaps, a few more images.

 

National Treasures

I have been on vacation this week.  My husband and I took a couple of days to visit Washington DC.  I had the privilege of visiting a couple of the Smithsonian Art Galleries. While the science museums were packed with bus loads of children, the art museums were far less congested.  Since the museums were free, I could take a quick stroll or a leisurely one.  We come through this area a couple of times a year, so I felt no pressure to hurry as I could always come back.  If you are in the area and an art enthusiast, I suggest allowing yourself at least a couple of days just to see the art.  By the time you find parking, snag a map and a bite to eat, your strolling time gets a little cut short.  Add to that the fact that the hours of operation to all of the museums is limited. (10am until 5pm in most cases.)

My first stop was the National Gallery of Art.

These are the works you study in your basic art history classes.  The galleries are well organized and allow one to progress through the periods of art history.  Each room houses several examples of each period so it is easy to witness the changes in art both in technical skill and in subject matter.  I hated History classes in high school and college.  Art galleries put a whole new spin on history for me.  Here one can see entire cultures move through the things they think are important.  Their reactions to wars and political issues of their time as well as their every day life are on display.  History becomes more significant through art.

Aside from taking a stroll through history, it is quite exhilarating to stand in front of works only seen in books or slides.  Slides do nothing for Rembrandt.  Standing in front of his work and witnessing first hand, the uncanny qualities of his portrayal of human flesh is almost disturbing.  His portraits seem as if they are living and breathing right in front of you!  It isn't so much the "photographic" exactness as it is the subtle hues beneath the skin, and the glimmer in the eye, that speak of life. It hints not only of the subjects life, but of the gentle intuition of Rembrandt himself to have so precisely conveyed what he has witnessed.  Another revelation to me was the size of some of the works I had studied.  It is difficult to imagine the size of a painting when it is projected on a screen in a darkened room.  Sometimes finding that the painting was much smaller than I had imagined, made it far more intimate.  Knowing that a painting was small and one was meant to approach it,  just took the work from a place of grandeur to a humble and tender experience.

Next up was the Hirshhorn Museum.

I love contemporary art.  If I am being honest, a great deal of it goes over my head.  Nonetheless, I am compelled to look at it.  I blame an exhibit at the Guggenheim in New York for the addiction to it. Once you get that jarring feeling of having met a kindred spirit through their art, you just find yourself reaching for it again and again.  There have been a number of inspiring pieces or installations since my encounter with Irwin's "Soft Wall" in New York , this week at the Hirshhorn it was Ann Hamilton's "palimpsest".

It is helpful to read the little plaques at each work.  Those little plaques help one "get" the artist's intentions.  But I feel they can sometimes rob us of an "experience".  For me, the most successful pieces need very little in the way of words.  I like to read the plaques AFTER viewing the art.  For this installation, I overheard someone say it was inspired by the artist encounter with an old man facing memory loss.  He used post it notes all over his apartment. This was enough information, although I wish I hadn't heard it before experiencing it, it may or may not have made a difference in what I was to take from it.  Nonetheless, I find myself reflecting on it long after I left.  That is, I think, a very good thing.  By my standards, the fact that I am still thinking about the work, indicates a strong piece.

One of the first things that hit me about this work was that you had to actually walk into it.  It wasn't meant for you to stand outside and gaze at it.  It was a small room with pieces of paper tacked to the wall with pins.  The papers had handwritten memories written on them.  They were floor to ceiling on each wall and were on the floor as well.  The papers on the floor were given a healthy coating of beeswax.  In the back of the room was a glass box containing two heads of cabbage.  The cabbage was being eaten by bugs and snails.  The liquid around the heads of cabbage along with the bugs gave a clear message of degradation.  They were rotting away.  On the front wall, above the door was a small alcove or shelf with a working fan.  The fan was one of those iconic fans from the 50's era perhaps. It was a small fan with a simple black frame about it.

Now that we have the basics of the piece, lets get into the experience.  One walks through an average size doorway to go into the piece.  It is required that one removes their shoes or place upon them, a protective bootie.  I chose to go barefoot.  I am glad I did.  My first sensation was of the wax floor.  Slightly tacky, almost fleshy.  The organic nature of it rendered something philosophical about the experience.  I immediately started reading.  Everyone was reading.  There was a quiet reverence about the room.  I got a little teary thinking about how treasured each memory was and how sad it is to lose them.  The breeze created by the fan was the only sound as it rustled some of the papers.  It created movement and I remember thinking of it as breath.  By now I was feeling like I had climbed right into someone's being.  It was intimate and I felt honored to be allowed in.  At first glance, I noticed that the bright green of the cabbages was a good complimentary choice against the yellowed papers.  I wasn't sure they were necessary to the piece other than the visual balance they provided.  It wasn't until later that evening that my mind put it all together.

I was thinking about Egyptian tombs and the sarcophagus.  Then it hit me.  The cabbages, organic material, like our brains, deteriorate.  Here in the brain, where all the memory lies, is the very essence of our being.  It is the sacred, precious part of us.  Encased in its glass coffin for us to look at.  But the life that it represented is written like hieroglyphs on the wall.  The essence of one person's life moves around the room on the breeze.  There's a sense of death and a sense of life after death.

At the end of the day, it was the one work that stayed with me.  Days later and I am still moved by it.  It truly is haunting.  Beyond the piece itself, I have to wonder about the artist.  She has so expertly articulated an intangible feeling.  I can't help but think she must be a very insightful and compassionate person.  All of the technical details of space and balance were spot on in scale, color, material choices....etc.  I cannot find a single fault.

Like the National Gallery, I didn't see all of the Hirshhorn.  Ann Hamilton's work was the highlight of my trip to DC this time.  I can't wait to get back and see what other treasures I missed the first time around!