A fallow time, a freeing time

I decided to devote my life to art in 1994, and everything I have done since then, including earning a bachelor's degree and a master's degree, taking on "day jobs" as a teacher, and pinching pennies so that I can continue to buy expensive art supplies, has been in support of my studio work as a painter.

I've had continuous exhibits and sales over the years, some of them quite prestigious and lucrative. This has been partly through good luck, but mostly due to my diligence, bordering on obsession, in developing my career. For nearly 15 years, I have always maintained a fat "pending" file, filled with applications sent, leads to follow, and ideas for possible avenues for the future. I would spend hours and hours each week combing lists of calls for entry, or researching national museums and galleries. I left no stone unturned, as the saying goes.

As 2011 unfolds, for the first time since I finished grad school in 1997, I find myself with NO commitments as an artist. I do not have any gallery affiliations. I do not have any exhibits scheduled for the future. And I do not have any leads as to what to do next.

This state of things should be upsetting to an artist who has worked as long and as hard at exhibiting and marketing her artwork as I have. And yet ...

Somehow it feels freeing! I can, and have been, making whatever the heck I feel like making in my studio, ranging from paintings with thick layers of bright orange acrylic to paintings of silver spray paint. Lately I find I can relax and enjoy the art exhibits I see, rather than spend my visit scheming as to whether I should apply to this gallery or that show, the way I used to.

Maybe I'm getting older, feeling more self-assured and less restless. Maybe I've had enough experience to give me faith that eventually things will pick up again and fresh opportunities will present themselves. But for now, I am content to just enjoy being an artist, continuing to make paintings that I love. And that is enough!

Origins: Part 5, My first gallery experience

This is the fifth part in an ongoing series, in which I show my earlier works and trace how I found my voice as an artist.

For two years after I finished graduate school in 1997, I diligently sent out applications to Boston-area art galleries, hoping for ongoing representation, with no luck. Then, in 1999, I was fortunate enough to have my work selected as part of the Fuller Craft Museum’s (then known as the Fuller Museum of Art) prestigious Triennial series, an ongoing showcase of New England artists. The year I participated, the show was curated by Carl Belz, director of the Rose Art Museum at Brandeis University. As Mr. Belz’s particular interest and area of expertise was abstraction, all of the pieces in the exhibit were abstract works, and many of them were listed as being exhibited courtesy of the Genovese/Sullivan Gallery.

Realizing that this gallery might be a good fit for me, I sent them my slides and soon received an invitation to bring my work to the gallery. I met the directors, Camellia Genovese and David Sullivan, who looked carefully at the paintings I had brought and asked me to contact them again in six months to show what I had then. So I contacted them six months later, they visited my studio to view my newest paintings (which included "Winter," acrylic and spray-paint on fabric on canvas, 48" H x 28" W, below), and then they offered to represent my work as well as a part in an upcoming three-person exhibit.



This first exhibit at Genovese/Sullivan was a very exciting experience for me, for many reasons, but in particular because one of my paintings (“Ravel,” shown below, acrylic and spray-paint on fabric on canvas, 48 inches square) sold during the opening reception to a Boston gallerist. It was the first time I had ever sold a painting!



A two-person show, another three-person show, and finally a solo show followed over the next five years. Here is the invitation for my solo show (ca. 2003):



I was so excited about this show, my first solo in Boston! This one was reviewed in the Boston Globe. I can still remember driving to the local drugstore at the crack of dawn to buy the newspaper and read the review. I got the paper, rushed back to the car, and spread open the pages over the front seat. I couldn’t even wait to get home! I smiled at the headline (“Painter pitches curves at Genovese/Sullivan”) and was gratified to read the words of reviewer Cate McQuaid, who really “got” what I was trying to say.

I was also thrilled to hear that a well-known Boston collector had come into the gallery and purchased one of my paintings because he had liked the image of it on the invitation card (“Cross,” shown below, acrylic and spray-paint on canvas, 20 inches square).



Sadly, after decades of outstanding shows in Boston (with an artist roster that included such talents as Pat Keck, Jeremy Gilbert-Rolfe, Robert Hooper, and Mary Boochever), Camellia and David made the decision to close their gallery. I miss working with them, as well as viewing their exhibits, very much. I have been fortunate enough to find other champions of my work since our paths diverged, but I’ll always remember how honored I felt that they chose my paintings for representation by their gallery.

Below, me with "Pucker," one of my works on exhibit at Genovese/Sullivan (ca. 2002):

New series continues

While I'm working on the new silver series, I'm also working on a yellow/orange series. These are acrylic on canvas, each 30" square.





I purchased the color I'm using for the middle ground, Quinacridone Burnt Orange (Golden fluid acrylic), on a whim during my last art supply order. I am now totally addicted!!

Taking care of business

A tedious but important part of being an artist is being one's own registrar / preparator.

Today I am finally getting to a task I had been trying to put off: trimming, labeling, wrapping and storing my latest series of works on paper. My goal is that, as soon as I get a call from one of my art consultants saying that they're looking for new work, I can just reach into the shelf and pull out my paintings, all ready to present. I hate having to label, wrap, etc., at the last minute!

Here I'm mending a few borders that tore unevenly when I was removing tape from the edges. After this, I will label the images on the back with their top, title, copyright symbol and my signature.



Then I make little "envelopes" for each work with glassine paper:



Finally I slide the works into my makeshift flat file (yes, I know I should invest in a real one, and I will eventually), divided into series with heavy pieces of cardboard:



I also have a number of new paintings that need to be labeled and wrapped in plastic today, while I'm at it.

Eventually I'm looking forward to getting back to the fun part: creating new work!

Icy blast

My silvery spray-paint series is coming along. I have decided to combine the silver with colors of various ice cream / sherbert flavors. So far I have lemon, vanilla and raspberry, and waiting in the wings are mint and strawberry.

Here are two views. Each painting is 30" H x 20" W.





Considering all the snow we've had this year, perhaps I'm inspired by memories of hot summer days cooled off with a dripping ice cream cone ... I am also a huge HoJo's fan; miss those orange angled roofs along the highway!

Stick out your can

Back to spray-painting!

A few new pieces finished today in what is now called my Ribbon series. Information on how I made the first one, here.

Here's one that's 30" H x 40" W:



And another that's 30" H x 20" W (below). This is a silver canvas with white lines, which means I toned the canvas with white paint and applied silver spray-paint over two stencils. Obviously a metallic surface is hard to photograph, but this snapshot gives you the idea. It's super shiny, but the white is matte, so there's an interesting contrast.



(Title of this post, courtesy of the late Lux Interior.)

I did all I could

One of the hardest things about being an artist is that much of your experience is in the hands of someone else.

The gallerist decides whether or not to represent your work. The reviewer decides whether or not to write about your work. The curator decides whether or not to include your work. The committee decides whether or not to award a grant based on your work. The collector decides whether or not to purchase your work.

Earlier this week I got back in the mail all of the hard-copy materials I had sent to apply for a grant that I was not awarded. As I plucked out from the page protectors all of the items I had sent, in direct response to the grant organization’s specifications, my heart ached, as I remembered how I had felt when I was first assembling my application.

I felt so hopeful that I might receive the grant! I felt so proud of the accomplishments I was documenting in my application! I worked so hard to write a clear and honest request for funds. I considered so carefully which of my paintings to include.

Frankly, I felt like crying. What had I done wrong? Why wasn’t my application accepted?

Then something clicked in my brain, and I slowly looked back over my application. I reread my statement. I looked at the thumbnails of my work that I had printed out. I looked at the folder in which I had assembled the materials. I looked at my resume, with its list of hard-won accomplishments from the past.

I realized: THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE I COULD HAVE DONE. I hadn't done anything wrong. I had submitted the best possible application I could have submitted.

And somehow I felt a wave of relief. I knew I had done my part, and the next step was for the jurors to realize the quality of my work and the worth of my application. I had done as well as I could to present them, and that was all I could have done.

My next feeling was a steely determination to try again … and keep on trying, for as long as it takes.

Origins: Part 4, New discoveries and opportunities

This is the fourth part in an ongoing series, in which I show my earlier works and trace how I found my voice as an artist.

With my giant studio space and my wonderful day job in place (as described in this earlier post), I could relax into this supportive arrangement and make it work for my career as an artist.

I began to expand on the paintings I had made just out of graduate school, experimenting with strong colors that were new to me, on large (50 and 60 inch) canvases. (Below, “Arbor" and “Pulp,” both 1998).





I had a technical breakthrough when I noticed that a studio neighbor of mine was using spray-paint in his paintings. I liked the soft edges and impression of casual freedom that spray-paint gave to an artwork. I wanted my work to have a feeling of elegance roughened with the “street spirit” that spray-paint marks could provide. (I had done extensive research on graffiti as part of my undergraduate thesis, so my interest went back a number of years.)

One of my early spray-paint pieces is “Dialogue 1,” shown below (36” H x 42” W, 1998). Not only did these new works give the mood I wanted, but I realized I could create what my husband called “modular” paintings: multiple pieces joined to make one larger image.



As I worked in my studio, refining these new technical discoveries, I had the opportunity to exhibit my work in a number of prestigious venues. One of my paintings was accepted into an exhibit at the Chrysler Museum of Art in Norfolk, Virginia, juried by Carolina Ponce de Leon, then curator of El Museo del Barrio.

I also had the piece below (“Chorus 1,” 28” H x 68” W, 1998) accepted into the 1999 Ninth Triennial at the Fuller Craft Museum (then the Fuller Museum of Art) in Brockton, MA, at the time an ongoing series of exhibits that showcased established Boston-area artists. This particular exhibit was juried by Carl Belz, then director of the Rose Art Museum at Brandeis University, and the show included many artists who were my heroes. So I was deeply honored to have been included.



I also was honored to have my exhibit proposal for “Inviting the Unknown,” a six-artist show accepted for display at the New Bedford Art Museum in 1999. I co-curated this show with dear friends and grad-schoolmates Alma Cummings and Domenic Cimino; all three of us were also participating artists. Here is a view of my work at the show:



Then I made “The Spring Series,” a group of 10 paintings inspired by the colors, markings and moods of wintertime fading into spring. This was the first time I had fully explored a single theme through a cohesive body of work, and the achievement felt very satisfying to me. I showed it during a two-person show at the Bromfield Gallery in Boston during July 1999. Below is one of these works, “Spring Series # 5” (acrylic, ink, spray-paint, oil-stick and fabric collage on canvas, 1998), which was later purchased by a collector in Auckland, New Zealand.



All of these experiences were exciting, and they led to my being invited to join one of Boston’s best-known galleries, to be described in the next installment …

Fine art needs time to ripen

I like the new painting I made last Saturday so much (shown left), that I've spent a lot of time just sitting and looking at it since then. (Which is a good sign, that a painting continues to interest you and inform you as time goes on.)

This piece encompasses exactly what I want to say as an artist, and it solves a lot of interpretive and technical problems that I've been dealing with since last year. (Such as, how to combine color and value in a way that allows various under-layers to show through in certain random spots? What is the best format for suggesting that the space moves on and that the lines are in constant motion and reconfiguration, tangling and untangling? Etc.)

As I was looking at it yesterday, a memory of an older painting popped into my head. I made "Snarl" (below) in 2005, using acrylic and spray paint on canvas. I realized when I thought of it yesterday that it shares its size (30 inches square), format, color scheme, basic composition and thematic references with Saturday's painting.



Much as I like "Snarl," though, I think the new work represents an advancement. The colors are more refined, the lines are freer and more expressive, and there is greater evidence of a personal voice. I see by comparing the two how many hours I've spent learning to use color, learning to apply and layer paint, and learning how to make my work say what I want to say. It's taken every minute I've spent in the studio over those six years to accomplish this.

As someone who is VERY impatient and wants everything NOW (I can barely stand to wait for my quick-drying acrylics to dry!), I'm recognizing as I'm getting older how long it takes to really learn how to paint, to really come to terms with what you want to say as an artist and to figure out how to say it. Like fine wine, a painter's technical ability and her understanding of herself must slowly develop over time. Years, decades, of work.

It's taken me 48 years to understand that time passing is a good thing. Our culture teaches us that youth is king, that aging is something to be feared, concealed and denied. But I'm discovering that getting older is a privilege. With age comes wisdom and understanding. One's age represents all the experiences it's taken to get you where you are.

And I admit, I can't help thinking, "If I've come this far in six years, think where I'll be in six more years!!"