Happy Birthday to Grandpa

February 1 would have been my Grandpa’s birthday. Adelbert Orrin Parrott was born on February 1, 1910, and he died on December 1, 2006.

I was his only granddaughter. He loved me, and I loved him.

He lived an inspiring life. He came from a loving but poor family, and by his own diligence and intelligence, he became an optometrist.

He saved as much money as he could from his jobs in high school (I think the total was something like $100), but he didn’t have anywhere near enough for tuition at the college he dearly wanted to attend, the Massachusetts College of Optometry (now the New England College of Optometry). His father wanted to help, but his job as a custodian barely covered the family’s bills.

Grandpa wanted to go to that school so badly that he approached the admissions department and explained his financial situation. At first, they turned him down. He returned home, dejected, and then the phone rang. It was the college of optometry; they told him to bring in his $100 and he could start classes the next day. Something about his determination must have made them reconsider.

I have many wonderful memories of my time with my Grandpa, and they all add up to one overall memory of how he made me feel when we were together – special, loved and cared for – not because of anything I did, but just because I was Catherine.

Grandpa respected and encouraged my writing skills, and he always wanted me to have my own column in a newspaper. I thought it was appropriate that, on the day he died, the first story in my very own series, “In The Studio,” appeared in the New Bedford Standard-Times. I hope that made him happy – it was what he had wanted all along, for me to become a writer.

I miss him very much.

It's possible, Part 2

While I’m on the subject of defying the naysayers (see last blog entry), here’s another experience that I hope you find inspiring.

At age 32, I had a dream of earning a master of fine arts degree in painting. I spent three full-time post-baccalaureate semesters at the Massachusetts College of Art to prepare a portfolio of works to include in my graduate school application. I worked hard in my studio, knowing that I was racing against time. I had saved enough money to live on for three semesters. Once that time was up, if I wasn’t accepted to graduate school, I would have to return to my former job of full-time office work.

After three semesters, at the college’s end-of-semester critique, the department chair looked at my portfolio (examples above) and told me I would NEVER get in to graduate school with this work.

His negative comment struck me like a blow to the gut. Even though he didn’t know me from Adam, he sounded so sure in his pronouncement that I would fail. I felt my dream had been demolished.

Trying to recover myself, I asked him to tell me what specifically about these paintings was lacking. He was unable or unwilling to articulate further.

However, I DID apply to graduate school. Although my confidence was deeply shaken, I figured I might as well as least TRY. It was either that or go back to answering telephones and taking shorthand.

As it turned out, I WAS accepted, and two years later, I graduated from the University of Massachusetts with a master’s degree in fine art (with a grade point average of 3.88).

Last year, I was accepted into a juried show in Lowell, Mass., and my entry was hung alongside a painting by the department chair from Mass. Art. I thought that was an interesting postscript to this story!

Never, I repeat, NEVER, let someone tell you that you can’t do something.

It's possible!

I had an inspirational realization yesterday that I wanted to share on my blog.

It is this: Don’t ever let anyone tell you you can’t do something. No matter how long it takes, if you want to do it, if you believe you can do it, if you are committed to achieving it, YOU CAN.

In 1993, I realized that I wanted to try teaching. With great care, I worked out proposals for courses on the two subjects I had the most experience with: a self-portrait class and a fashion illustration class. Then I submitted them to the local arts center.

The director turned me down flat.

I was CRUSHED. I had been so excited about teaching, and about those subjects in particular. I suppose the director looked at my resume, saw that I had been a secretary for the past five years, and decided she didn’t want to take a chance on me. Whatever her reasons, I felt like someone had stepped on my dream.

I was too discouraged to consider teaching again until four years later, when I was offered an assistantship during graduate school. That experience made me that realize I was born to be a teacher. I went on to work at a number of area colleges, and I’ve never stopped teaching since.

Yesterday morning the winter semester started at one of the schools I teach at. As I was heading out my front door, it occurred to me: this semester, I am teaching a course in self-portraits and a course in fashion illustration, two classes which I proposed and developed. It’s taken 15 years, but I’m finally teaching exactly what I wanted to back when I was first trying to get started!

If I had given up when that art center director turned me down (and I almost did), I wouldn’t be doing this. I might even still be a secretary.

If I can do it, you can do it! No matter what someone else tells you, your dream IS possible.

The above picture shows me teaching an acrylic painting class at the Danforth Museum in Framingham, Mass.

My website has been updated

My updated website has just gone live! Click here to view.

The last update was late last summer. I've been quite prolific since then, so this latest update includes many new pieces in the Gallery section. Above is one of these new ones, "Honeysuckle Rose" (acrylic and fabric on canvas, 30" H x 20" W).

My wonderful web designer is Jeanne Williamson. Jeanne is herself an artist (here is her art website) and author of a new book, "The Uncommon Quilter" (here is her site devoted to the book). I highly recommend her services, whether you want a new website created or a currently existing one updated.

Thank you, Jeanne!

Let's be sensible about this

Today I did something I’ve always wanted to do, but never have been able to.

It’s very logical to stretch a whole bunch of canvases at one time, so they’re all ready when you want to work. I’ve even read the sage advice that, when an artist has a day of creative block, s/he simply spend time doing something functional like stretching canvases, and that will shake the block loose.

But I’ve never been able to stem the creative tide long enough to stretch more than one canvas at a time! In fact, I usually come roaring into the studio and can barely contain myself long enough to stretch one canvas, never mind more than one, before I starting wielding the paint brush. Sometimes I CAN’T wait, and I just unroll the canvas, paint on it, and stretch it later.

To me, the idea of stretching lots of canvases at once is like suggesting that someone spend a whole day wrapping freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in wax paper for later consumption, rather than eating them right away. Who can bear to postpone that kind of pleasure?!

But today I actually managed to exert some self-control: I stretched seven entire canvases! Here they are in a nice neat little pile (as Mabel says in “I'll Never Be Jealous Again” from “The Pajama Game”), all ready to get fancy. I feel so mature!

Next steps

Here’s the lowdown on the paintings posted in my last blog entry, and some subsequent pieces I’ve made in response to both of them.

The top, nine-sectioned work in the last blog entry was the one I was immediately taken with. I liked it so much, in fact, that I made two more paintings along similar lines (so to speak). All three are 20 inches square.

Here’s one that alternates squares of cut paper with acrylic lines on white fabric:



Here’s a detail shot of this painting:



And here’s another one that alternates red marker and white acrylic lines on paper, with red acrylic lines on white fabric:



Here’s a detail shot of this painting:



The second painting I posted in my last blog entry, the one containing red and white swirling lines, ultimately didn’t work for me. However, it did inspire a couple of monoprints (also 20 inches square) that seemed to say more of what I meant that painting to say:





This is a good lesson for me. Even if a piece isn’t a “success” in and of itself, it can spawn some pretty cool stuff.

Take your pick

I have a guessing game for you.

Today in the studio I made a painting which I’m very happy with. Whereas yesterday, I made one that I really didn’t like.

I had been intending to post the painting I liked on my blog and just paint over the one I disliked. But then I thought, I bet if I posted both paintings on the blog, some people would probably like the one I didn’t like, maybe even better than the one I did like!

So I’ve posted them both. See which one you like better, and I’ll identify my preference in a later post.

The subjectivity of which paintings are “good” and which are “bad” makes me think of a great story my friend Cherie Clinton told me.

Once Cherie was setting up for an open studio event, and she came across a couple of old small paintings that she had been meaning to throw out. As time was running short, she leaned them in the far corner of her studio, figuring she’d chuck them later. Soon afterward, the event started, and she forgot all about them.

At some point during the hustle and bustle of the day, a woman approached her and said, “I don’t see a price on this painting over here.”

“Which one is that?” Cherie asked, sure she had been careful to price everything.

The woman led Cherie over to the discarded paintings that she had intended to throw out but hadn’t gotten around to. The woman pointed to one of them and said, “This one – I don’t see a price on it. But would you take eight hundred dollars for it?

Soon the happy collector was walking away with her newfound treasure, and Cherie was fondling a handful of unexpected cash. “Imagine,” she said to me, when recounting the experience, “eight hundred dollars for a painting I was going to throw away!”

Two directions for 2008

Another new year begins in the studio, and I seem to be working in two distinct directions.

The first direction is a continuation of the Web Series that I’ve been working on for about a year: gestural lines that mimic handwriting and tree-branches – in white, cream, brown, saffron yellow and yellow ochre – made by drawing with paint (fluid acrylic extruded from squeeze bottles) onto canvas, sheer cloth, and paper.

Here’s an example, made last weekend. It’s brown fluid acrylic on white paper collaged on stretched canvas, 50” high by 30” wide.



The second direction is a continuation of the Mosaic Series that I’ve been working on since the end of last summer: brightly colored papers, torn into squares or rectangles and arranged into grids or rows. The sizes range from 10” square to 30” square.

Here’s an example, 20” square, completed a few days ago.


Can’t decide which direction I like better, so I’ll just keep going back and forth! Both give me satisfaction in different ways. The Web Series is simple and clean; it’s one of those artistic exercises in “see much you can take away and still say something.” It allows me to luxuriate in the purity and complexity of line.

The Mosaic Series is bright and fun, and permits me to feel like I’m messing around but ultimately producing something well-crafted. I also feel like I’m making order out of chaos, which is very satisfying for a Gemini who has Virgo rising. There’s the initial playing stage, when I make a bunch of bright marks on sheets of white paper, doing whatever and working however I feel like. Once the paint is dry and the dust has settled, I group the papers by color, tear them into fairly uniform shapes, and collage them onto the surface. The initial marks play off of one another, as do the colors -- a lot of movement and visual bouncing around.

I’m having fun and learning a lot from both of these diverse directions.

Crossing art boundaries

Last week a friend who’s a fiber artist suggested the possibility of exhibiting my paintings in fiber-themed shows. Even though I’m an avid reader of Fiberarts magazine, and even though my favorite job of all time was working in a funky fabric store in Chinatown (Boston), I’ve never considered this before. I always thought of myself as a painter, and I categorized “fiber artists” as those who make their own cloth – weavers, quilters, dyers, knitters. (My childhood summer-camp experiences with crochet and macrame projects were total disasters!)

But I certainly do collage fabric into many of my paintings, and it’s fabric that I’ve altered in some way (usually old curtains from Savers). One example above is “Obi,” in which strips of cloth are adhered to stretched canvas (48 inches square). The cloth started out as plain white cotton from Joanne Fabrics, but by the time I had finished with it, it was tinged with acrylic paint and marked with white spray paint.

So I’ll have to not only try out my friend’s idea, but reconsider my definition of "fiber artist.”

A look in the mirror

Still going through old photos, and I came across this self-portrait I had made as an undergraduate. Funny to look back and remember that I ever painted anything realistically!

Self-portraits were always a favorite subject for me. Not from any narcissistic impulse -- I’m just very comfortable with my face, I know myself well, so I can easily do what you’re supposed to do with portraits – think of the subject as a series of shapes and colors, not as a nose or an eye. We have preconceived notions of what noses and eyes are supposed to look like, and what you know (or think you know) can really trip you up as an artist, especially with representational work. You can only make progress by painting what you don’t know, by following what your subject and your materials have to teach you.

I’m currently preparing to teach a new course at the Danforth Museum School this winter titled “The Self-Portrait: History, Anatomy, Autobiography,” and I’m looking forward to showing my students how much fun and educational self-portraits are to work on. There’s more information about my course here.

Once in graduate school, a professor asked me if I ever felt like going back to representational subject matter again. I didn’t, and I still don’t. It’s fun to paint realistically, it’s certainly challenging … and yet, I get more from my messy paintings of lines that I ever did from copying a subject I could see in front of me. Realism feels like painting from my head, and abstraction feels like painting from my heart. I do a lot of “head” stuff, intellectual work, in other areas of my life … I like connecting with my heart in the studio.

Early portraits

I’ve been going through some childhood photos and I came across this one. According to the date on the back, I was 5 years old here (40 years ago!).

I’m standing next to two pictures I drew of my mother (with Crayola crayons – loved all those colors!). I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world (still do!).

No matter what honors or accolades I receive as a professional artist … nothing can measure up to that excellent feeling that comes when you’re a little girl, and you bring your drawing home from school, and your mother praises it and puts it up on the refrigerator!