8.14.21

Dharma: an aspect of truth or reality.

Separation

Mindfulness

Grasping

Aversion

Eightfold Path

For five years I’ve been a part of a dharma book group. The fact that it has persevered, and through a pandemic, says something about the commitment of the members. What has been particularly interesting to me is that even though we’ve been studying the same material, each person has developed a unique practice — choosing their own path. Is that because there is no “right” path or is it because we tailor the path to fit our individual sensibilities?

Personally, the “space between” is my path. My journey is to find new ways of seeing: separation (the space between that provides continuity), mindfulness (the space where everything is reconstituted and reborn), grasping (an infinite space of holding endlessness), aversion (a space of twisting away and staying connected), and the eightfold path (a space so complex it defies understanding and invites understanding). And as you can see words don’t always express my thoughts as clearly as I’d like, so here are some summer paintings I did that I’m sure will make it all clear — as long as you speak abstraction!

8.12.21

The writers in my life.

In April I worked on two abstracted family portraits.

They are part of the family “series” which has little, if anything, to do with the figure. Instead they are about past, present, and future. They attempt to capture the historical self — in these cases being an administrator and manager of information, calendars, policies, and people — combined with the dreamer self — managing words on a page as a writer of fiction, in one case, and poetry in the other.

They are about complicated lives and complex notions. They are about using family history and past experience to create something new. They are about the search for threads of connection and building the structures to support them. They are about balance, joy, and using observations to construct new narratives.

They are about looking for patterns where they many not be obvious.

And most of all they are about color and light because that best represents my family and how I feel when I’m sharing space with them.

1.29.21

Nothing is normal.

Covid times have disrupted my normal studio work. Normally, I would be sketching models and working on my abstracted portraits. I would be hard at work refining my visual language as it relates to the space between. But, inviting models to come to my crowded, barely heated, semi-basement, 240 square foot studio for a two hour session of sitting still is off the table, even if masks were on and social distancing maintained.

When the stay at home order first went out over 300 days ago I didn’t panic because I was working on the Alex series and had a second series of sketches I could pull out when I finished. How naive — or uninformed — I was. As the uncertainty of Covid times stretched on, I decided to hold on to my last set of sketches until I saw a realistic end. This week, President Biden told us the truth — six more months. So maybe I’m ready to get back to normal.

But I’ve been painting for the last few months. My working-from-home husband requested an abstract piece to replace the current backdrop to his Zoom meetings. I painted this 24” x 48” piece. It attempts to speak to the times and to my husband. The painting started dark and constrained — static data points interrupting explosions of color. It was harsh. Not what the customer ordered. I kept trying to drag it into a visual universe that I wanted to see. It became lighter and buoyant — dare I say — hopeful. It became crowded with things touching and overlapping. Less isolated. Less alone.

We only have to do this for six more months. By then my studio will be warmer. People will be coming over. I’ll be hard at work filling up the space between. And all will be normal again.

11.3.20

We live in interesting times.

It’s election day. I’m trying to put positive energy out into the universe. We need change.

I’m trying to plan for the future. Not the far future, but maybe a new path.

I’m trying to mark where I am right now, in this place, at this time. We are at Day 231 since that day in March when we were told everything had to change. We had to stay away. We had to stay home. We had to keep our distance.

And for 231 days, life has taken on a routine. I miss spontaneity. I miss the normal distractions. I miss my emotions feeling normal. Everything contained. Constrained.

But, there have been a few epic events that need to be noted. I passed a milestone birthday. Not a lot of fanfare, but just like every milestone birthday I’ve had, it’s nice to be on the other side. I’ve been writing. I’ve been reading. I’ve filled up my days.

I managed to complete three “series” this year at the studio, despite lock downs and social distancing. That wasn’t an easy task when I rely on a model for inspiration. Lucky timing on my part. And — big news — I have a painting at the de Young Museum in San Francisco. That’s huge for someone who’s terrible with self promotion. A friend told me about the Museum putting out a call for submissions. I resisted. Then, at the last minute, I screwed up my courage and submitted two pieces. Then, the wait for a couple of months. Finally, the notification. They accepted one piece. Wow! That was a surprise. Lots of doubt, wondering what about this piece was worthy? Working hard to not second guess my good fortune. Next, the delivery of the painting to the museum and the pride I felt when I watched a museum employee literally walk my painting into the Museum — the drop off was handled outside. As Covid restrictions lessened and the Museum opened, I went to see my painting and the other 800+ artworks hanging salon-style (floor to ceiling). I felt small and big at the same time.

I have a painting out there now — for another two months — validated by a prestigious institution choosing it. I have a piece of me hanging in a gallery for strangers to see. I wonder how people are communicating with it. I wonder what conversations they are having. This is exactly what I wanted, for a stranger to walk by, stop, and be pulled into a space they haven’t been before. If the painting helps anyone wonder, or feel connected, or sparks any familiarity with anything I was trying to express — well that’s a very great thing.

But how will I ever know that a painting of mine talked to someone? Now that’s a new thing I hadn’t expected to wonder about this year.

I live in interesting times.

6.23.20

Dark times.

The latest series I’m working on (Alex) is taking place during unsettling times (Covid-19, Black Lives Matter protests). My work focuses on the “space between” and my intent is to paint the experience of viewing the model. But that experience doesn’t happen in a vacuum. There is the place and time that it is happening.

Relationships are experienced in a context — the artist’s studio being an example. But I would be foolish not to acknowledge the “space around” as well as the “space between.” Sheltering at home (I’ve been lucky to be able to go to the studio), being stalked by an invisible agent, and existing in a world where denial, distrust, anger, and unconsciousness are floating above and below the surface is stressful — off putting — dark.

Is it any surprise that my current work looks — dark?

Or was that the experience of viewing when Alex was at my studio?

Just like everything else about this time, being clear about what’s going on is impossible. So I act from where I am, within the circumstances I am experiencing, with the knowledge I have, seeking an unknown result, trusting my senses, and knowing that my intentions are good.

And when the Alex series is done I will have learned something that hopefully will enlighten me and the viewer about this time, this person, this space, and this experience. We shall see.

11.14.19

Virtuoso.

I was lucky to see two musical performances last week. One was at the SF Symphony. The other presented by SF Performances.

The SF Symphony performance had three different chamber selections, one performed by a string quartet. As expected, it was well performed, but I was unmoved. I may have been in the minority since I am not a classical music expert and the majority of audience members showed their enthusiastic appreciation at the end. I know it was well played, but for me, not inspired. I respect technical proficiency. I wish I had more of it when I’m painting. I am always searching it out. I study shading, line, tone, design, color theory, mark making, grounds, perspective, proportion, composition and on and on. All of it is very important in creating a pleasing painting. And I practice, practice, practice. You have to have a lot of technical knowledge and experience in order to transcend it.

But how do you learn to transcend it?

Two nights later I went to see a guest artist performance at the Herbst Theatre — a pianist and violinist. The violinist was in the forefront with the pianist playing support. The violinist was amazing technically — and transcendently. She played with poetry not just prose. She extended out over the written notes creating a connection that was more than an appreciation of her ability. At the end, when she came out to play an encore, she spoke (in a very quiet voice) about power. Her encore piece would be about the power of love. It was a piece her mother had taught her. I was moved.

I’m not sure how to express the difference between the two experiences. I was aware of each performer. I was sure the music was being played “correctly.” The pieces were by different composers and it was a quartet versus a duet. So it is hard to make certain comparisons. All I know is how different these two experiences felt.

Artist expression is hard to measure. I think that’s why I’m attracted to Abstract Expressionism. The artist has to reach beyond getting it “right” and invite the viewer to share in the experience. The artist is saying, “I see this and I want you to see it too.” There is a lot of risk involved because so many people rely on experts or historians or curators or marketing experts to tell us what is right.

I’ve been working on a new series for a few months now. There have been lots of interruptions so I’ve had time to ponder. So far they look different from what I’ve been doing, but not so much that they couldn’t be considered in the same family which seems to matter to me right now. The notes, the technical abilities, my “alphabet” are all there, but I’m trying to reach further out toward the edges. I’m trying to visualize what isn’t visual at the same time as inviting the viewer to see something familiar but something they’ve never seen before.

I’m practicing transcendence — hoping there is someone out there who can hear me.

9.5.19

The power of someone else’s positive thinking.

The studio has been a struggle lately. For the last three month I’ve been working on a new abstract figurative “profile” series — new model, new inspiration. Each of the six pieces has presented all sorts of challenges. I’ve gotten trapped into the “trying to get it right” mindset multiple times with each one of them.

First, I’ve struggled with trying to get the underdrawing “just right” all the while knowing I’m going to paint over the whole thing until the figure is completely over-painted which is the point of an underpainting.

Second, I’ve worried over the color choices. For some reason I made up my mind that these should have an overall blue tone and then picked red and green (and a little yellow) as my default palette. (Who am I rebelling against?)

Third, the composition starts to shape up and I fall in love with one little aspect of it and can’t let it go. (The death of a piece is when it become precious — thus my philosophy of “if I love it — paint over it” — which is easier said then done.)

Fourth, I distrust the process I have developed and try to find a “new” way to go about it. (Why is that? The whole point of these “profile series” is to apply my unique technique.)

Fifth, I think too much — thinking I can analyze my way to the “correct” answer. (And most likely thinking that this is a commissioned series and I need to please someone other then me!)

Sixth, I think I have to get into the right emotional space to stop thinking about what the right thing is. (Have I ever been in the right emotional space? What would that look like? I start thinking about that.)

Seventh, I question why I’m questioning what I’m doing and start worrying that I’m going to make a mistake and ruin the piece even though that isn’t possible. (It will be altered, but not ruined, which is kind of the point. Remember: letting go is the point.)

Eighth, the canvas and I stop talking to each other and I try to hold out until the canvas apologizes to me for being such a bother — which of course never happens.

Ninth, I give up waiting and try to make something happen. Which it does. Baby steps.

The client came by last week to see how it’s going and he was very excited about the five pieces that I said were “pretty much” done. He even liked the progress I made with the sixth piece. So all was right with the world and still I worried and thought and judged and struggled and fretted about the how to make the sixth piece finish the series.

And then yesterday I ran into a friend who is wrapping up his first term of medical school and was having his final exam in pharmacology that afternoon. And he was nothing but optimistic and happy and full of excitement about what he was learning and what he was gong to be learning next. He almost glowed.

Into my blue funk spilled these golden rays of pure love of life and learning.

Within a few hours the sixth painting of the series was done after taking a few risks and have a good conversation with the canvas.

The artistic process is a very complicated undertaking.

Maybe medical school would be easier.

6.16.19

Creativity.

The studio feels normal again. After the retro-fit interruption and the gallery show and assessing what to do next — I feel busy and engaged. Right now I’m working on a six-piece figure series (a second round of Isaiah drawings), i’ve completed the eight drawings — time to start painting — for a commissioned piece (the Gabe series), I’ve negotiated a potential second commissioned site-specific piece (J&S) — it is harder to work for two people who have different ideas — and booked a model — a very nice person — for this week with the objective of scaling up — making bigger — my current abstract figurative work.

By the end of this week I’ll have more than enough to do and a number of new challenges.

Going to work on the second Isaiah series has been instructive about how difficult it is to both hold on and let go. I’m struggling again with my attempt to have a “style” and, at the same time, be inspired by different models. Uniqueness within a set of parameters. And using the same model a second time — am I just going further in my “study” of him or is this something different? The conversations with the canvases have been robust. Visual expectations are my current nemesis. There is a lot going on in my brain.

As a break from visual conversations I’ve been continuing to research on other artists and theories about creative expression. I came across a scientific explanation of creativity that spoke directly to me. As the human brain evolved — grew bigger — there was more space between the input parts of the brain and the output parts. In most animals they are pretty close — see food/eat food — not a lot of room for analysis. The increased distance of these input/output centers in the human brain gives time for information (cognitive or experiential) to wander about for a bit and create new pathways or new connections so new responses can arrive.

Creativity depends on varying input (knowledge and inspiration), a sense of purpose and need (problem solving), building on work done by others or from previous work of your own (re-conceiving), and nurturing the space between.

it makes sense. These are basic tenants in my work process. It is nice to have them reinforced.

Lots to do.

5.31.19

Success.

The group show has been up for a couple of weeks. It is a pleasure having my 24 pieces hung in a open space with decent lighting and plain white walls. I feel the impact of them in a very different way than in my little, dark, paint-splattered studio.

Good friends and appreciative strangers came to the opening as did two of my models. It was fun to show people the inspiration, talk art, and articulate the process of my painting. It was very satisfying to watch people look — really look — at my pieces.

“Are those two figures…dancing?”

“I love the color.”

“That’s a fist. Right?”

“So much movement.”

This was success to me. People spending time looking and piecing together what makes sense to them about one or more of my paintings — supplying their own narrative or just enjoying the line, shapes, and colors.

For years I have practiced to get it “right” — to understand color theory, shading, perspective, line, contour, gesture. I’ve practiced the ‘correct’ way to apply materials (depending of course on the teacher of the moment) or to understand anatomy. I’ve read biographies and curatorial notes to understand what artists do. I’ve wanted to make things that look the way they are supposed to look. I’ve wanted to make art that people liked and wanted to buy. If asked, I could explain the technical aspects of how it all works and a lot of the history behind it. I could even demonstrate it.

But what I have always wanted was to be an artist more than a draftsman. I think I am better suited for that profession. I wanted to take a leap of faith and paint something that was expressive of the way I see the world. Art is the most immediate and concrete way I can show other people a different way of seeing the world.

When I look at the six pieces that collectively make up my “portrait” of Jason or the six canvases that make up my interpretation of Isaiah — or Michael — or Phil — I see each of them and the experience of spending time with them — their form and their character — captured through my vision and expressed through my application of paint and charcoal and pastel and ink on a piece of cardboard or paper or art board — as it was — at that moment in the studio when they were all nice enough to share themselves with me.

It is a very confused, mysterious, and absolutely satisfying state of being.

This is how I see things.

This is my measure of success.

5.8.19

Let the show begin.

A rare occurrence. I’m part of a group show where I’m displaying 24 recent pieces. A good friend of mine (Anthony Anchundo) arranged it. He is also showing some of his paintings. His work is very textured, colorful, and abstract. The third person in the show is Jerry Lee Frost who paints large fantasy dreamscape pieces. My abstract figures sit somewhere in the middle. I see them as a palate cleanser of sorts. The mix makes for a colorful and interesting show.

The space is the lobby of a historic (and progressive) church. The gallery is a long hallway with white walls, lot of doorways and a variety of expanses that art can be tucked into. I like the way mine fits.

It is also satisfying to see these four series of six pieces in a space that isn’t my studio. It is nice to have my art out in the public. I’ll be curious to see how people respond.