3.20.19

Return to the studio — or at least I will be soon.

I went by the studio today to drop some supplies off and check to see where the retrofitting work was at.

“Today should be the last day” said the guy working in the back space. I’m not exactly holding my breath, but it did reignite a spark. The thought of having to go through all the damaged pieces was suppressing my appetite for being in that space. And, oh, it is all still sitting there waiting for me to try to figure out what might be patched or repaired or trashed. And, oh, there is cleaning and clearing that needs to be done (I think there always is in an artist space). But today was the first day I felt like I wanted to get back. I wanted to put paint to canvas (or whatever ground is waiting for me). I want to be creative and keep having the conversations with blank canvases.

It was nice to feel the pilot light of creativity burn a little hotter and brighter. Now I just need to get cooking.

But, I’m about to go on vacation to Hawaii. My life is pretty good.

Plus I might have some pieces in a show in May.

That helps light my fire, too.

2.8.19

I have always been effective at handling bad situations well. I have proven to be steady, reliable and capable in emergency situations (from accidents and health related scenes to employment, social, or personal interactions), and in circumstances where conflict needs to be resolved in a timely manner. I am quick to analyze the facts of the situation, make a clear-headed decision, and implement an immediate path to resolution attending to the emotions playing out.

What I find I’m susceptible to is lingering doubt or the questioning of my ability in the aftermath. Instead of letting emotions overcome my performance in the actual moment of need, I put emotions to the side and unearth them when I have the luxury to catastrophize the doubt and completely undermine my resiliency. It is the after-judgment that undermines my self-esteem.

Who does that benefit?

This week, in the process of doing retrofit work on the building’s foundation, the construction crew mistakenly hauled away 81 paintings I was storing in the space behind my studio. Luckily, I happened by later that day, discovered what had happened, called the landlord who got in touch with the haulers and managed to save my paintings from going to the dump. They were returned the next day.

Sad to say 21 of the 81 were damaged — mostly tears or punctures in the canvas. I’m not sure what the resolution will be between me and the landlord. Determining the value of old works that were stored away will take some thought. As the landlord says, “we can only move forward.”

Life is a learning experience.

The moment I discovered the paintings were gone I was shocked, then mad, then sad, and then determined. There was no time to wallow until I knew all the facts. Within five minutes I had the best resolution the circumstances could provide.

When I returned home, the wallowing began. Eighty-one paintings could have been lost for ever and all I could focus on was — so what?

They are just things.

No one will notice they are gone.

They were never going to sell.

I don’t think they are my best work — even if I did then.

I’m not as upset as I should be about losing my life’s work.

And, of course — I’m terrible at what I do.

And — What’s the point in continuing to paint?

All of this doubt is always under the surface filling up the space between the act of making a piece of work and waiting for the response to it. What does it take to be successful? How selfish an act is making art? And what meaning does it have?

It was a tough week of loss and relief. I’m happy that the paintings are back and that the decisions about how to move forward are mine and not the final result of some random act beyond my control. But it does feel like there was a lesson in letting go mixed into all of this.

I can only move forward but maybe with some new wisdom (and a healthy distrust of my landlord’s promises) I can carry more of my reliable self into the space between and let go of the doubt.

We’ll see.

1.11.19

A little side step.

When asked to make a donation of artwork for a fundraiser, I had a chance to do these two small (6” x 8”) pieces over the holidays. It was an experiment. I wasn’t comfortable working in this size, but there were, as there always are, lessons to learn.

Of course, every mark makes a bigger impact in a smaller format. That’s common sense. But, gesture, it appears, is an important part of my vocabulary. This small format was constraining. My ability to do “improv” felt lacking. Instead, I erred on the side of precision — painting within the lines — something I have known myself to do, but something I try to resist. (Why’s that?)

I worried I was overworking everything.

The canvas surface was hard to make marks on with the pastel and crayon. Colored pencil worked but felt weak and ragged.

Colors became problematic. Quickly there was too much of one color. Overlapping transparent paint to get shading and depth escaped me. The blocks of color were just dabs and even small brushes obscured things quickly. The white paint that I normally use to define background and foreground shapes and space was not doing its usual trick (or not in the expansive way I have been using it). The paintings weren’t “breathing” in the way my bigger pieces do.

And then I get a text.

I was asked to title the paintings and they weren’t even done. My usual title format — insert the model’s name (this time once again Isaiah) and the numbered order they were painted in — was insufficient.

What were these paintings about?

Trying to figure out how to paint small? Really? I can’t adjust my mark-making to a smaller format?

“We can just list them as Untitled #1 and #2 in the catalogue.”

I almost said, “alright” — but these are going to be shown to a group of people who aren’t familiar with my work. I felt like I needed to supply some context — which is an interesting lesson of its own. (Why’s that?)

I offered, “Let’s try Figure #1 and #2.”

And once that was out of the way I felt freer to have a conversation with the canvases. They told me I didn’t need more white. It was all right for lines to be ragged. It was all right to be colorful and figurative. And with that I started to see what was there in the space between. Some familiar shapes. Hints at “other” figures. A mood. A sense of being. And some new relationships in color and form.

These are small, intimate paintings. They are asking the viewer to come closer if the detail is important. If not, there is enough to intrigue them from a distance. That’s what small can do.

Size matters. Size changes distance. And distance determines how much space between there is that needs to be filled in.

In the future I will consider distance more. What does it take to visual intimate, personal, social, and public space?

Lesson one done. More lessons to be learned.

12.30.18

I feel caught between the dark and the light.

The subject matter feels dark — richer colors, more shading, dark, heavy lines, a lot more scribbling and overpainting — layer over layer. Until I finally bring in the light (layers and layers of white paint trying to create definition and edit out everything that feels wrong — a sense of order to the senseless).

The model (Jason) feels complicated and unknowable. I’m very conscious of that. Mystery in plain sight. He’s open, vulnerable, emotional. He’s closed, aloof, calculating. There is a lot going on with him. He wants control, but he wants to give in. My responses to him are positive tempered with apprehension. I keep thinking I can’t really see him. I look at all the drawings and they all look similar. Did he only let me see one aspect of him? Or is that all I wanted to see?

As I paint, the surface goes through layers and layers of convulsions — more dark paint, more dark lines. I did put down a lot of black paint right from the start. Why did that seem necessary? I fight with the canvas to see what is there besides the figure. I’m seduced by the colors, the richness, the trouble. I want to stop when I think it looks pleasing and pretty.

But something isn’t right.

I’m not seeing what’s there in the space between. I’m trying too hard. It’s all in pieces. Broken. Drifting apart. I want it to be nice, but my impulses, my painting, my conversation with the canvas is anything but nice. I feel mad. Nothing is cooperating. The things I want to preserve fade away or break apart. Nothing feels connected. Layers superimposed. Figures hidden. Figures distorted. Figures erased.

And what keeps going through my head is a question that I often ponder. Is this something I want or is this something I need?

Maybe working on the Jason series will help me answer that question. Dark/want and light/need. Or is it the other way around? Or is the answer somewhere between the black and the white?

One down (I think). Five more to go.

12.13.18

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I’m in the beginning/middle of a new series inspired by a different model — the Jason series. And predictably, this series is taking a different direction. These paintings feel more active. The figure, as I sketched it, feels more important to establishing the “space between.” I don’t want to lose it even though part of my objective is letting go of figure, line, color, and shape. Is there another way?

I tried looking back at the work of David Park — a figurative abstract painter and teacher during the 1940/50s and a leader in the Bay Area Figurative Movement — hoping I might find some answers.

I got a few hints. David Park, after a while, broke with the leading abstract expressionist idea promoted by Clifford Still whose work strove to be non-referential and relied on painting abstract shapes in a large space. Park felt this approach brought attention to the painter (the concepts being painted) and not the painting. Park wanted a point of reference for the viewer and he chose the figure. It grounded the painting and made it about something other than an idea. David Park’s works aren’t realistic. His use of perspective, color, and his painterly application flirt with abstraction. They may have even been influenced by Still’s paintings. Park painted from memory not from live models. His paintings are evocative of something more than just an idea. The viewer can put them in a context and judge them from that starting point.

Most art history describes the technical aspects of how Park did what he did and where it is historically. But what interests me more is why he did what he did. What did he see and what did he feel he needed to show us?

I want my paintings to have a sense of grounding and abstraction — to be about something (a figure) but seen in a different way (looking through the space between). I don’t want viewers to be distant and cerebral. I want them curious and playful.

12.1.18

Paintings, unlike photographs, are expressions of memory not of moment. Between observing the object and the brush making its mark, time passes and the present is in another place no matter how still the model. The viewpoint will never be exactly as it was the moment before.

In my latest series I find I am struggling to adapt to an endless shift of being. Sustaining myself in the conversation with the canvas has presented unsettling challenges that are more conscious than in the two previous series.

I question my intention. I decided my intention was to paint the experience of what I observed in the space between myself and the model. I am not trying to paint the model as a figure only but as the essence in that moment in time — as I remember it. The initial sketch is just a few quick “notes” on what was there at that time. But if I only intend to paint the model then I am not in this moment — I’m in the past.

I question my process. The process is to use my “alphabet” (a predetermined set of techniques) to describe the experience — but which experience? The one of observing the model or the one of creating the work on canvas? This series seems weighted to my responses to the canvas more than the model. My “foothold” feels tentative and I’m searching more than recording.

Forming and fading.

Repeat.

The canvas has the upper hand. I am responding. The memory submerges replaced by a conversation unconsciously started. Everything that was there still is, but some or all of it can no longer be seen.

The only control I have is when to stop and/or start again. Once I have committed myself all I can do is make the next brushstroke, then step back, and see what the canvas is asking to be done next.

Forming and fading.

Like a memory.

Like dreams.

Like relationships.

Like time.

I struggle to paint in an endless state of being in change or in charge.

The possibilities are endless. The feelings are too. I face the fact that it is possible that the painting never ends.

The image is formed. The memory notated. The moment changes. The form fades. The painting changes. The memory is added. Parts of the painting submerge. What was there is no longer visible, but still exists in recorded memories below layers of paint.

A painting is made.

11.9.18

Getting to know you, getting to know all about you — or — the piece from yesterday — continued.

1) I’m seeing something in four quadrants of the composition: a totem (I’m aware that there always seems to be one in this area, but haven’t a clue what it means or what to do about it — right now I’m not resisting it) in the upper left; an “astronaut” (I’ve drawn something similar before — different but the same somehow — not sure what to do about that either) in the upper right; a ski slope, or a sloping shoulder, in the lower right; and a mask with bloodshot eyes crowded in jumble in the lower left center. The original figure is gone. I am “purely” in the space between what I observed and what I was experiencing. Nothing makes sense to me. I think I need to re-emerge the original figure. I’m being too timid. I’m only looking at what is on the canvas and not trying to see through it. I’m trying too hard to make the little elements work. Nothing feels connected. Nothing feels bold.

2) I decide to push the “negative space” so I can separate what I’m seeing from what I’m not. I need to concentrate on the space between my four little guys. Less white. More neutral color. Suddenly, I catch a glimmer of a larger, encompassing shape in the shadow.

3) Four cascading pink lines emanate from the source of what I sense I see. Four areas are color blocked to see what connects. The totem still lives out on the edge. The “astronaut” is in the “head” of the new larger figure. The ski slope shoulder gets a head partially obscured by the new head. It gets flushed with bold color. I’m seeing and sensing a connection, intimacy, warmth, and comfort. This is what was in the studio when I did the original figure sketch — Isaiah all relaxed, exposed, and curled up on the couch.

4) An “arm” embracing the combining figure appears. A sense of holding on and pulling in. I see activity instead of separate ideas floating in their own space. This is different. The mask needs to be removed or at least toned down. The totem and “astronaut” stare at each other across the space between as the two fore-figures “kiss.”

Even though the world feels separate there are ways to be connected.

We’ll see how I feel tomorrow.

11.8.18

Knowing.

Creativity is about doubt and uncertainty. It’s about having the uncontrollable urge to fill in a space that appears empty. Art, after all, takes viewers to places they haven’t seen or if they’re viewing a painting of a specific place, person, or object — then they are seeing it from an unfamiliar point of view — in other words — not their own.

I’m beginning to allow myself to not know, but that makes it difficult to explain what my paintings are about because people want to know.

What’s it supposed to be?

The immediate answer I give is that it’s an abstract figure. That makes sense, since the beginning of the process starts with a figure drawing. If people choose to spend their time looking for “the figure” I accept that as a legitimate way to view my work. In the process of making a painting, I put a lot of effort into trying to find the figure — either the original one or the one(s) that emerge through the process.

But even the most realistic painting of a figure is an abstraction because it is one person’s representation of the object — it is not the object itself. Rene Magritte captured that in his “Pipe” Painting. Magritte was exploring relationships between words, images, and “reality.”

I want my paintings to exceed thought. I believe “reality” is experiential. It is experienced at the intersection of thought, emotion, physical sensation, and belief. I’m not a true abstract painter because I believe that even the most abstract painting is referring to some sense of reality. It may not be the “common” sense, but the fact that it can be painted — made physical — makes it real. The viewer might not “understand” it, but if the purpose of the painting is to make the viewer look and see — then what the viewer is seeing is — at the very least — creativity.

And doesn’t that have a place in the real world?

In the four different stages of the painting I worked on yesterday 1) I finally let go of the original figure that I was clinging to, 2) I tried to apply my “technique” of strengthening shape and line to see what was “really” there on the canvas, 3) I made a “mess” of it by painting with all the anxiety I was feeling, and 4) I edited out the parts that I didn’t like or were drawing all my attention.

At each stage the figure (original intention), the thoughts (technical resources), the emotions (the intangible), and knowledge that this was a painting (belief) were ever-present. It isn’t done. It has changed and will continue to.

And yet it’s all there. It’s as real as it will ever be.

I know it.

11.1.18

Speaking to myself — Sometimes you have to paint what is there and not what you want to be there.

That’s a challenge when you are painting abstractly.

I’m in the middle of a new six-piece series and it is taking unexpected turns — which is good — creatively. The “Michael”, “Phil” and now this “Isaiah” series were started with the intention of seeing if the model (the object, the source of inspiration) would make a difference in the final work. I am trying to apply the same technical elements in the fabrication of each painting, but the intangible is ever present.

Because I’ve worked with Isaiah before I chose to start these sketches on old paintings that I never finished rather than blank canvases. Isaiah was tired on our “sketch” day so we decided the poses would be “restful” ones — mostly lying down. From the start, these were going to be different.

Sketches done and I felt successful — the interplay between under-painting and pastel sketches made shapes and lines were a new place to start. Color was already a character in the conversation. Now I wanted to apply my “alphabet” and tell the story of my time with Isaiah. Merging — submerging — emerging. Essential shapes. Connective lines. Color blocking. Darks. Lights. Looking into the space between.

I start to see a rabbit’s face. Where did that come from?

Let it go.

Then two figures squeezed against each other in the center of the frame. Where did that come from?

Let it go.

These paintings have a lot to say to me. They aren’t about “anatomy” like the Michael series. They aren’t about “invisibility” like the Phil series. I’m trying to stay open. I’m trying to relax. But that “mind space” makes me nervous and anxious. I’m reaching to find an intention. I feel like I need to fight for a point of view. These paintings are getting crowded with thoughts and figures. Is that my contribution as the viewer or is that my experience of Isaiah?

I have always intended to paint the space between the object and the viewer — this is the first series that I feel that the viewer (me) is wanting to contribute more. I feel like I have something that needs to be said and it won’t go away. There is more fight in these paintings — more confrontation. That certainly wasn’t what Isaiah was giving as he relaxed on the couch.

Let it go. Don’t hold on. Nothing is precious.

I peer through the layers of paint and lines. I try to reclaim some of the original elements. Are they resisting transformation or am I afraid to let them go? Feeling insecure.

How do I paint that?

I re-establish faith in the process. Thighs, shoulders, pectoral muscles become the arms or necks or heads they want to be. The colors change. Dominant shapes emerge. Order (composition) pulls together. A “thinking” figure appears in the upper left corner rubbing “shoulders” with the basket of balloon heads growing like buds on a vine. Who is that guy? He wasn’t there on “sketch” day. But here he is. Embrace him — for now. “Listen” to what the heads have to say — for now. Then let them go.

The struggle continues. Change happens.

Which is a good thing.

The challenge is always to know when the conversation is finished.

10.12.18

There are discoveries and turning points along the way in every painting. One of the most difficult is when you run into something you like. Do you let it go by painting over it, which many an art teacher would advise — nothing can be “precious.” Or do you stop because you can, even though it isn’t where you thought the painting was “supposed” to get to.

I just ran into this problem. I’m painting the next to last painting in the “Phil” series. I’ve done the figure sketch. I’ve filled in the negative space. I’ve done color painting, added darks, redefined shapes, submerged and re-emerged the figure. I’ve discovered other “figures” in the “space between.” I’ve added color washes, more line definition, more definition of shapes with transparent and opaque paint — including white — all the things I’m supposed to do using my “alphabet.”

But this 6th of 7 paintings is staying dark and defined — and abstract. Instead of breaking through the lines, everything is getting more and more defined. Even as I paint over original structures the new structures keep emphasizing the construction of the figures.

Is this the direction the “Phil” series is going? More defined figures — and as trios? I sit and reflect back to the experience of drawing the model. What was in the studio with us? Something dark. Some other presence. Is this intentional? Or is some other “voice” speaking to me?

I step back and see a painting I like. It feels very expressive of an authentic part of me. It appears at first to be derivative of a Matisse cut out figure. Or maybe a little Marsden Hartley or David Park. Always a little Picasso and de Kooning. And some Constructivism thrown in. All things I like.

Certainly other paintings in this series have gone though a stage like this, but, there is something different.

Something I like.

An “odd man out” painting. They have happened before. Or am I just being afraid to let go of something I like? Pushing my limits is part of the process. Letting the good and the bad go and having faith that there will be other moments worthy of expression — “better” solutions to the problems being presented on the canvas.

But, I did do an extra “Phil” sketch (7 instead of 6) so maybe my unconscious knew I had an “odd man out” painting in me that was needing to be expressed.

We’ll see. When I get back to the studio today who knows how I’ll feel.