Emerging

Today I finished these three paintings (56" high), after working on them and some similar smaller ones for the past 6 weeks. I have just brought them up from the room that, in a "normal" house, is supposed to be the basement, but in my house is a studio. And they are now on display in the room that, in a "normal" house, is supposed to be the dining room, but in my house is a showroom (for when gallerists, consultants or curators come to call) and also a photography area.

It's great to get a new perspective on them, see them together without all the flotsam and jetsam of the studio nearby ... plus get some pictures of them so I can send them on their next trip ... out into the world.

McQueen the Master

Saw the exhibit "Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty" at the Metropolitan Museum of Art yesterday, and I was awestruck. It was a display of genius: genius of vision and genius of ability.

The wait to get into the show was one hour, even after we'd bought tickets on line (we were told "two hours" at the entry to the museum), but I was with a wonderful companion so it seemed more like a few minutes.

The line snaked through various galleries in the museum, causing us to pass many great paintings and be able to stand in front of them for 10 minutes at a time without having to move aside so someone else could see, like you would in a usual viewing situation. I was particularly fascinated by Jules Bastien-Lepage's "Joan of Arc" (below). Joan is life-sized in this painting, so you can imagine it as a real scene before your eyes. Later, I couldn't help thinking that Joan of Arc would have made a perfect subject of inspiration for Alexander McQueen; her life had all the drama, otherworldliness, transformation, and reference to visual and literal texture (chain mail, silk, fringe, linen, rope, blood, fire) that appear in his work.

We also were lucky enough to see, among a rush of other masterpieces, Richard Serra's magnificent drawing show and a room filled with paintings by Lucien Freud. Quite enough to make your heart beat and your imagination soar!

I did have to laugh, though. When I asked for directions upon arrival at the museum, I almost asked about "Steve McQueen"! (When I confessed my near-mistake to the security guard, she smiled and said everyone does that.)

ETA: My co-traveler has written a post about our experience on her blog, here.

Square turns to triptych

I liked the square painting that I finished on Monday, so I decided to turn it into yet another triptych. Each one is 20 inches square.



I'm finding these small works to be a nice shift from the larger pieces I made earlier this month. Despite the soaring temperatures outside, I can sit in my studio and peacefully paint the fine details into these easy-to-reach little canvases. And I sit right in front of a fan, listening to Christopher Timothy read James Herriott's "All Creatures Great and Small." An idyllic way to ride out a summer heat wave!

New square

Another new painting, completed this afternoon. I've used some of the techniques I've developed in my recent "striped" pieces to make this "overall pattern" type of composition (20 inches square).



Here's a detail:

New triptych

Completed the third piece of this triptych this morning (each one is 20" H x 14" W):

Should I stay or should I go?

One of the hardest things about painting is deciding how to proceed when things aren’t going swimmingly. At that stage, you have to choose between two distinct directions: either you keep working (and risk wasting time and supplies on a dead end) or you chuck it (allowing yourself to move on to something new armed with the knowledge you’ve just gained).

You don’t want to give up too soon, before the image reveals itself. But you also don’t want to “beat a dead horse,” so to speak.

I’ve made both decisions over the past week, with two different paintings, and I feel satisfied that I made the right choice in each case. But the fact that they came right on the heels of one another reminded me of what a dramatic (and quite personal) part of the creative process they represent.

I had a large painting going over the weekend and it just STUNK. Unfortunately I had worked on the most crucial part in my process, laying down the colored stripes, at a time when I was very emotionally upset about something. I was so freaked out about this personal matter that it clouded my decision-making process, and once those colors had been laid down, it was hard to change them completely.

So I tried painting over the painting with a solid color, figuring I’d start again. But it took two coats to cover all of the dark-valued tones on the surface, and by the time those two layers had been applied, the surface was completely smooth. There was no longer any way for me to play with the canvas texture, which is an important part of the “look” I am trying to achieve with this series.

This was an easy decision to make, since the painting had three strikes against it: mottled starting ground, surface too smooth for interesting marks, ugly second try. I grabbed my scissors and felt immense relief as I removed the offending canvas from its stretcher bars.

And you know what? This decision led to another large canvas that turned out WONDERFULLY. I had learned many things from that last flame-out, and was thrilled with the result of this new one.

Then the opposite happened yesterday. I had been working on 56” H x 50” W canvases, and I decided to try some small examples of this series as well. (Always good to keep those compositional muscles in fighting trim.) So I stretched three 20” H x 14” W canvases and jumped in.

The first canvas got to an ugly stage. Muddy colors, no interesting distance relationships, blobs where I had wanted lines. I tried a number of remedies, none of which worked. Then I started to feel sleepy, so I stopped to take a nap. While I was napping, I thought of a whole new direction I might want to go in, so I returned to the studio, planning to grab the scissors and start again on a fresh strip of cloth.

But when I saw the current painting hanging on the wall, there were a few things about it that I really liked and that I knew I couldn’t ever duplicate exactly. So I added a second layer of color to one section and completely recolored another section, thus managing to reshape some of the lines. MUCH BETTER. I’m really glad I continued working on this one. (Shown below.) Whereas the previous one was just going nowhere and would have been nothing but a waste of time to continue pushing.

Another of the wonderful things about being a painter. You are constantly traveling down the pathway of discovery and being faced with that crucial question: should I change directions or is it just a matter of continuing on until I find what I’m looking for? An ongoing adventure, that’s what it feels like to me.

Identity

As you know if you read my blog with any regularity, I am currently in my 49th year, and the anticipation of turning 50 in 11 months is causing me to do a lot of soul-searching.

It interests me to recollect that while my identity today and for the last 17 years has been totally involved in my art, this was not so for a long time during my life. When I was growing up, I loved to draw. But somewhere along the line, I lost my identity as an artist. I took art classes here and there throughout my 20s, but life's responsibilities (particularly financial ones) pushed my creativity to the fringes of my existence, where it languished.

Things got particularly bleak by 1991, when I was 29. I was working full time as a secretary and hadn't done any drawing in years. I had totally lost myself and felt confused and depressed. Then one morning in 1993, the sun came up, the light shone on my path, and suddenly everything made sense. One step at a time, I strode toward my destiny as an artist. I earned a bachelor's degree, I earned a master's degree, I set up a studio and an art-making schedule, and I began to show and sell my work. It was like that gap between being a little girl and playing with my art supplies every day, and being a professional artist working in my studio, had never happened.

But it did happen, and in a way, I'm glad. It was painful to feel so lost for so long, but that fallow period made me more compassionate toward my students, especially my female students. I teach young women in high school or college who know deep down that they want to become artists, but they are afraid to commit to such an unstable career and are tempted to follow their families' urgings to major in something they don't care as much about but that promises a solid living. I teach busy mothers who are frustrated that their art-making has had to take a back seat to family commitments (and often, full-time jobs in addition). And I teach retired women who look back with pride on their lives devoted to their families, communities, and workplaces, but who wonder how to find their inner artist selves which have been denied over the decades of giving to others.

I understand the soul-searching that all of these age groups are going through. But I know that if I can figure it out, so can they.

I've come across a number of portraits that my husband has taken of me over the years, which reveal how literally wrapped up in painting my life has been since I found myself in 1993.

Me at age 5 (taken by my Grandpa, the other portrait photographer in my life):




Me at age 35, finally an artist again after 30 years:




Me at age 42, 7 years later:




Me at age 49, 7 years later (taken last week):

It's in the cards

Life’s lessons can show up anywhere, in places where you least expect them.

My mother-in-law used to like to play a card game called Skip-Bo, and my husband and I used to play it with her when we would visit her in Virginia. Lately Kevin and I have taken to playing a few rounds together most evenings. I like this game because it doesn’t require any brilliant strategizing; winning is the result of getting the right cards at the right time.

While waiting for my husband to take his turn during a recent game, it occurred to me that the rules of Skip-Bo are also very applicable to the unpredictability of life in general, and my lifestyle in particular.

As someone whose paychecks come from part-time, come-what-may teaching gigs and painting sales, there is a good deal of uncertainty in my life from one month to the next and even one week to the next. My way of dealing with this has been to be a super-organized over-planner, with charts and lists running all the time. I guess it makes me feel like I have some measure of control. In particular, I have always kept calendars with the upcoming six months visible all at once posted on the wall beside my desk. This way, I always know what’s coming up tomorrow, next week, next month, and several months down the road.

I realized as I was playing Skip-Bo the other night that, not only does this hyper-vigilance about my schedule and what’s coming up make me uncomfortable, but it doesn’t actually prepare me for whatever ultimately comes (which isn’t always what I’ve written on the calendar).

At first when playing Skip-Bo, I started out constantly scanning my cards and anticipating the various scenarios that might come up, depending on what cards my husband played and what cards I might pick up when my turn came. But after playing the game for a while, I realized that this was a waste of time, as I couldn’t predict what would actually be in front of me, on the table and in my hands, when it came time to play my cards. So I stopped this advance problem-solving, and started enjoying chatting with my husband and listening to the fun music we play in the background while we’re playing cards.

As soon as I thought of this, I removed my pages and pages of calendars from the wall, and I instantly felt better. I no longer looked at it all the time and felt like a failure if it was too empty, or concerned about how I’d get everything done if it was too full.

Since that calendar came down, I am much more relaxed about life in general. I’m not constantly “running my motor” mentally, trying to figure out what might happen if a certain chain of events occurs. I have a much more “come what may” attitude about my life, and I seem to be better able to enjoy each day on its own merits rather than concerning myself with how that day’s events might affect some future experience.

Maybe I’m just generally getting older and wiser. Maybe I've lived long enough to know that it's OK to let go, at least a little bit. I figure it’s a sign that there are lessons to be learned even from a little pack of cards.

Sprucing up

A little updating: a new homepage on my website, pictured below, thanks to Jeanne at Thread Media Inc., and a new portrait for my website's About page, thanks to my husband Kevin's talent with a camera. It's funny how the "look" of your website can seem attached to your sense of identity! I feel like I just got a new haircut or bought a new coat.

Petey Motherwell

See any similarities?

Last year at this time

Exactly one year ago, I spent the July 4th weekend finishing up a three-piece series in what was then a whole new style for me (shown below). I called this grouping the "Desert Series" for color and compositional reasons: the warm earthy palette, the strong horizontal direction of the bars of lines, and the open spaces between them seemed to refer to the desert landscape. (Confession: I have never been farther west than Illinois or farther south than Mississippi, but this is basically what deserts look like in picture books and Roadrunner cartoons.)



Contrary to my usual Gemini predilection for jumping from one artistic impulse to another, it's impressive that I've managed to stick with this particular color scheme and format. One year later, it has culminated in the "Autumn Lines Series" (3 of the 10 paintings in this series shown below). There must be something about working this way that is true to me, that I really mean to say, since it has sustained my interest and energy for a year (despite a few detours with silver spray-paint last January). I'm pleased to note that, during that time period, my use of color has become more subtle and individualized, and my compositions have become more carefully considered, yet I have maintained my signature line quality. Perseverance does pay off!