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   Welcome to my blog! I'll be posting thoughts about art, photos, happenings, and other things that strike me--and hopefully my readers--as interesting. And please visit my website by clicking the link to the right--thanks!

   Also please check out my second blog, The Painting Archives to see older (pre-2004) paintings for sale.


Saturday, September 21, 2019
  stepping back
I'm writing this close to the Autumnal Equinox, as cooler temperatures and fall colors are beginning in the landscape around my Wisconsin home. I love this time of year and the shift to a more inward-looking season. As nature goes into hibernation, there seems to be a call to contemplation and creative work. 





This year, in particular, I'm feeling more in synch with this seasonal shift than I usually do, as efforts to slow down my overall pace of teaching, traveling, and exhibiting are finally being realized. A few years ago I started thinking about partially retiring from outside commitments in order to have more time in the studio, as well as to relax, have more solitude, and enjoy family and friends. It was more of an urge than any kind of plan at that point, but it became more insistent as time went on. I wanted to take a step back--not leave anything really important behind, but become more selective in how I spend my time and energy. 

Once I focused on making this happen, there were various commitments and plans already in place to work through. This took a while, but these commitments--the video and other projects with Squeegee Press, teaching gigs, and exhibits--all contributed financially and emotionally to clearing my way forward. In the process, I've paid attention to what brings me the most satisfaction and what can be simplified or let go. 



a recent exhibit, Overlays, at Addington Gallery in Chicago

It's been a challenge to shift my reactions and responses, to change the habits of years of saying "yes" to more than I could comfortably handle, crowding my calendar and over-promising. As my husband pointed out, if I really wanted to semi-retire, I needed to start saying "no" to things! And also to give myself more time when I do take on a new project (which of course, I will continue to do, hopefully with discretion.) That seems pretty obvious. But it's hard to turn down opportunities when art income is uncertain. Committing to a slower pace has involved not only changing my responses and relying on back-up resources but also having faith that things will work out. (I still wonder if this slower-paced era ahead will last, but time will tell.) 

For me, committing to a slower pace has been an evolving process. Mostly I have just recognized my intention, made a few simple decisions, and am now letting my life find a new course. I rely a lot on intuition in making choices and regret some later, but I'm learning.  Semi-retirement is a goal, but a squishy one. Goal-setting is often described as a logical, step by step process--making plans in writing, breaking the goal into short-term strategies, acknowledging progress and so on. Especially when the goal is concrete, this can work very well. But important goals are often reached in a less linear way. I have to smile at the number of friends who have heard my schedule and exclaim, "but you said you were slowing down!" Yes...all in good time, all in good time. 







In some ways, this semi-retirement phase is no different from what many people in all fields go through in their 60s or 70s. It is a disengagement from the larger world to which they have spent decades contributing, and an opportunity to focus on their personal work and activities. Many people find this change difficult, but artists have an advantage. Because most of us never retire from our studio practice, finding meaningful direction in retirement is not an issue. The new, extra time is truly a reward. 

Looking ahead, my 2020 calendar includes two exhibits, three workshops, and a potential residency. That may still seem like a lot. But I hope this will be a pace that suits me. I want to step back, not out--to have less stress, more time, more painting. And to do so with sincere gratitude for all that has brought me here. 



Relic #2, 30"x30" oil/cold wax on panel


 
Sunday, August 25, 2019
  asking questions

Jerry Mclaughlin and I have just finished co-teaching two oil and cold wax workshops in Italy at the beloved Cascina Rodiani (at Drezzo, in the northern province of Como), a green hotel run by Samuel Crisigiovanii and Mimma Della Cagnoletta, who is an artist and well-known art therapist. This was my third time teaching at the Cascina, a beautiful 17th century farmhouse surrounded by beautiful gardens and parkland. 





It was a lovely and intense time--lots of great food, wine, and conversation at mealtime, the two 6-day workshops, and a few days of rest in between sessions in a small village on Lake Como. Jerry and I taught both a beginning and an advanced workshop in the rustic, outdoor atelier. Between them both, we covered everything from the basics to an exploration of form and content and painting in series. 





On a daily basis, teaching means constantly evaluating my interactions with students and considering the best ways of explaining the processes involved. Jerry and I both want to provide information and encourage critical thinking but at the same time, we want to support intuitive and spontaneous approaches--to avoid over-thinking. That's a tricky balancing act. As with so much in art and life, there are dualities underlying the process: spontaneity/control, analyzing/intuiting, enjoying the details/considering the big picture. 




Being able to work with opposite ideas at the same time is considered a mark of creativity, and it frees you from total reliance on one approach but this is not easy to teach. We encourage students to recognize the need for practice, patience, and acceptance of new ways of thinking. Fortunately, in the supportive workshop environment, many people do have breakthroughs in their understanding and in their work. But having no absolute answers or path can also cause frustration, anxiety, and even blockage. 

And it always leads to many, many questions. These include calls for help ("how do I fix this mess?"), requests for specific directions ("should I add orange here or blue?") or opinions on how a painting is progressing. Sometimes people want formulaic answers to questions like, "do you always work from dark to light-- or the other way around?" Often there are objections to what we're teaching in which questions are implied--"I don't get why you say to keep adding layers." Some questions are about the process as a whole or aspects of the art business. Some contain insight and thought. Of course, there are no bad or stupid questions, and we always do our best to address everything. But the hardest questions are ones that arise from fear of failure. This is because the context of the question is much bigger than the specific information requested. 







Something I read recently made me think about the nature of the questions we all ask--an article that Mimma shared with me--her written response to an essay by Shaun McNiff called Ch'i and Artistic Expression. Both of their articles are fascinating to read, but at the moment it is Mimma's line, "The inner beauty of every creative act is the generation of questions, arising from the process itself and the contemplation of its results" that has me thinking. She goes on to describe this questioning as comprising curiosity and the unfolding of the flow of life.  

I think if I could ask for one thing when I teach it would be for questions that arise from true curiosity and a desire to align with the process, rather than from performance anxiety and the need to get things right. I also love Mimma's idea of questions arising from contemplation, which I think of as a calm, thoughtful consideration of what is present. With this approach, a person can still request any kind of information that is wanted or needed but has become a more positive and thoughtful participant in the process.

Of course, I'm dreaming a bit here--although many artists do simply want to learn, banishing insecurity and fear of failure for many is a huge issue. I hope that in offering these thoughts, perhaps a small shift toward curiosity, wonder, and objective contemplation may result.


view of the Swiss Alps from the grounds of Cascina Rodiani





 
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
  creative flow
My last post was about my time in Greece in May and its effect on the work I was preparing for my exhibit, Overlays, at Addington Gallery in Chicago. That show is now up and can be viewed through August 29. There are nine medium to large scale paintings that all relate to my time on Skopelos and in Athens. Each one holds memories and impressions personal to me. But I hope I've also conveyed some sense of the monumental and ancient aspects of the place that are more universal. 

Artifact, Overlay, and In the Presence of Antiquities at Addington Gallery

This work was created at an unusually fast pace. From the three weeks I spent in Greece gathering visual and conceptual ideas to the intensive five weeks in the studio in June, a very condensed version of the creative process was underway. The work seemed fueled by an especially pure, direct interpretation of my experiences in Greece. 

Akropoli and Fragment at Addington Gallery

Usually, for me, the build-up to an exhibit spans many months and references a variety of experiences, sources, and memories. In terms of creative process, it is a gradual unfolding. Sometimes this creates a challenge in terms of consistency--the earliest work may not seem to be in the same vein as the final pieces. But usually I work back and forth on all or most of the paintings, looking to create a body of work that is consistent and integrated. In any case, there is a fairly long period in which various ideas are explored and refined.

With Overlays, my actual painting time was only about five weeks. After the first week or so, I felt confident about meeting the deadline because I was experiencing an unusually strong flow of ideas, and I felt focused and energized. About halfway through June, a studio visitor asked how long I'd been working on the paintings, and I had to stop and think. The answer at that point was "two weeks" which amazed us both. Some of the paintings were done and everything else was well underway. And at the end of June, I even had enough time left to do a ninth large painting, although the initial request from the gallery was for eight. 

Aegean Series, Addington Gallery


Aegean #1

The point of this story is not about how fast I can paint (I don't even consider that to be a virtue!) It is more that there was a sort of magic happening. I feel both grateful and perplexed by this, and wonder how this body of work fits with my typically slower creative process. Was I so on track because I was working toward a close deadline? If so, why wasn't there more stress or anxiety involved? Instead I felt mostly calm, focused, and pleased. Of course I had some frustrating days, but overall it seemed that a clear channel for expression had opened up. For me, the phrase "trust the process" takes on new meaning in light of this body of work. I see again how the creative process offers up endless surprises and new ideas. 

As a final touch, when I delivered the work to Dan Addington, he immediately saw how perfectly it fit into the available space, and he had it all laid out in a matter of minutes.  Although we hadn't gone into detail beforehand about specific size requirements, it turned out that the two smaller paintings fit exactly with the proportions of the two narrow hanging walls on either side of the doorway. The rest fell into natural groupings on the other three walls. Dan said he'd never had an easier time laying out an exhbiit. 

with Fragment at Addington Gallery

If you are in the Chicago area, or passing through thius summer, I hope you will stop in and see the work. Thanks!
 
Monday, June 17, 2019
  upon returning from greece


I’ve been back from Greece for almost three weeks now, so I’ve had some time to process my time there and reflect on my memories. And although I've shared photos and stories with family and friends it's always hard to convey the essence of any big experience. At least for me, most of what I take away from travel is internal and expressed through my work, responding to whatever surfaces in terms of memories and thoughts. I feel that what comes forward intuitively is the true distillation of the experience as a whole. 



From my time on the island of Skopelos, where Jerry McLaughlin and I taught for two weeks, the strongest impact was visual—the colors of the sea under various lighting and weather conditions, the angles of the white buildings, and the patterns made by the hundreds of stair steps we climbed every day to get up to the studio and down into the village. 






The sea colors ranged from dark and opaque at a distance to startling turquoise and aquamarine typically seen near the shore. On hazy days the horizon lined formed by sea and sky would almost disappear. It was a constant show every day—the studio we worked in had a spectacular sea view.

Blue was the dominant color in several paintings I did while teaching and has continued to play a role in the work I’ve done at home, though less prominently. White is the other dominant color in the landscape there—along with terracotta of the rooftops. The houses and other buildings are almost all white with colorful accents and set into a steep hillside along winding alleyways and narrow streets. The pattern of angles that result was always intriguing. So, these colors, shapes, and patterns have stayed with me as aspects of form. They are coming naturally into my new work and give some feeling of the atmosphere of Skopelos, but they were more pronounced in the work I did while I was on the island.

painted on Skopelos, 16"x12", oil/cold wax on paper

What has surprised me a bit since coming home is that the few days I spent in Athens are having the strongest impact in terms of feeding my work. I think that is because what I experienced there was as much conceptual as visual, and bring more meaning to my imagery. The sense of vast history was clear right away in the archaic remains that are still very present in the modern city. Passing by the ruins of 2500-year-old buildings while walking from my BnB to the metro was astonishing enough. But there was much more to be experienced in the incredible museums, on the Acropolis, and in the ancient cemetery of Kerameikos. I was often touched by the humanity and presence of these ancient people and by the strength of their accomplishments—not only the monumental architecture but the amazing realism of the figurative sculpture and the reliefs carved on gravestones. 


on the Acropolis
grave image, c.500 BC


ancient bronze figure




Because I was so struck by the antiquity of the city, I guess it is natural that references to artifacts and monuments, and even some vague figurative suggestions have been appearing in my work. I understand the connection but it has caused me to reexamine the usual statements I make about my work.  For years I’ve cited rugged, wild landscape as the basic source for my imagery. But in addition, in the past year, architectural references have appeared, coinciding with a new interest in shapes, angles, and contrast. And now these unexpected new ideas relating to the my experience in Athens.


Kerameikos, 30"x22" oil/cold wax on panel

In the Presence of Antiquity, 42"x32", oil/cold wax on panel

Artifact, 52"x36", oil/cold wax n panel

Although these new ideas come from outside my typical sources, I love the freedom I'm feeling with them. I'm not questioning whether they "fit" with past work-- just working intuitively, enjoying the process and moving forward. It seems that the further I go on this art journey, the less need I have to nail it all down, to explain and justify.  While working with limited focus has been very useful to me in the past, now the possibilities are expanding. 

I also find it interesting to re-read the original intentions that I set for my work years ago. They are not specific to a landscape reference--instead, they have to do with expressing power, presence, energy, a sense of the unknown, and personal connection, without mention of the source material for these ideas.  So although landscape served me well for years-- and is certainly still part of the mix--it seems very exciting to open up new pathways to those long-held intentions. 

I have more paintings in process or finished done in response to my time in Greece, and I plan to exhibit them at my show at Addington Gallery in Chicago that opens July 12. I hope that any friends in the Chicago area will stop in for the opening on the 12th (I will be there) or sometime later. The exhibit continues through August 29.
 
Saturday, May 18, 2019
  thoughts on teaching, from greece
Jerry McLaughlin and I have been teaching a two-week cold wax workshop since early May at Skopleos Foundation for the Arts on the Grecian island of Skopelos. As I write this, the class is almost finished. Tomorrow is a wrap-up session to review the work that's been done, and an open house and party for us and for the community. Then about half the class will stay one more day for some additional work time. After that Jerry and I will have the last day to unwind here, and then I'll be staying in Athens for a few days on my own. It is my first time in Greece, and hopefully not my last. 


Skopelos Town
Skopelos Foundation for the Arts

We have a varied group of students in the class, with artists from eight different countries, and ranging from those at beginning stages of their work with cold wax to more advanced and professional. Through these varying differences, they've come together as an enjoyable and motivated group-- curious, serious about their work, and open to exploring new ideas. A challenging aspect for Jerry and myself is that this workshop is twice the length of a normal "long" workshop, and it's a large group of 16 students. Moving from one to another throughout the day, making a sincere effort to listen to and connect with each person, and attempting to understand their concerns and offer appropriate solutions means that we're constantly calling on the resources acquired in our teaching experience. 







This aspect of teaching goes way beyond the preparation of demos, materials, presentations, discussions, and class agenda. It requires insightful, in-the-moment responses that originate in the eye, the heart and the intellect of the instructor. It takes not only a firm understanding of what makes a good painting, but a personal approach of flexibility and compassion, and an analytical mind that can explain (or try to explain) difficult aspects of abstract work. 

When all of this comes together in interactions with a student, it's very rewarding. But frankly, teaching can also be exhausting, and this has never been more obvious to me than now, at the end of this long and intense session on Skopelos. Yet in the big picture, Jerry and I also feel huge gratitude for the students who allowed us into their creative lives in such an open and trusting way, and for the opportunity to be here teaching them. 

view from the Foundation

Here, of course, means the spectacular setting of the Foundation, the beautiful town of Skopelos, and its natural surroundings. All day as we work, the sea and sky outside change in color and texture, and when we have some free time we've been able to explore the area. The village is set into a steep hillside (many, many stairs to climb every day!) beside a harbor, and is full of narrow, winding streets, whitewashed buildings with colorful shutters and doors, lemon trees, many beautiful flowering plants, lots of cats, and little shops and restaurants. The aged surfaces that so many of us love are everywhere. It's a place of wonderfully friendly people, great food and wine, and stunning natural beauty. Jerry and I are staying in a small pansion, where the kind host delivers fresh breakfast pastries every morning with a cheerful "kaliméra!" We've spent many evenings on the balcony outside my room that overlooks the whole glorious scene. Yes, life is good!








 
Saturday, April 06, 2019
  thoughts from ireland
I'm currently at Ballinglen Arts Foundation in County Mayo, Ireland for a month to teach and to paint; I've been coming here every year since 2013-- it always calls me back. The landscape is magnificent, the people welcoming, and the facilities at Ballinglen are top-notch. 

Today the weather (which is always a big topic here) is alternating between torrential rain, hail, high winds, and sunshine. The drama of the weather is matched by the rugged coastline and surf. Yet there are also gentle days with mild temperatures, mist, and light clouds over the softness of the boglands and green fields. 


at Benwee Head, Carrowteige, County Mayo

The contrasts in the land and its weather are compelling, and spending time here each year provides energy and new direction that fuels my ongoing work. I was here in 2013 when large, dark shapes first came into my paintings, beginning with some small monotypes and later expanding to works on panel. Although softer aspects of the landscape then took over for a time, strong shapes re-emerged in my work in the past few years. In much of my current work, a combination of strong, dramatic form and quieter, more gentle surfaces bring contrast into play. As I understand the strength that contrast has brought to my own work, I've been emphasizing it in my workshops, and it also plays a big role in the video workshop that Jerry McLaughlin and I are releasing very soon. 

In the recent painting below, the excavation of blanket bog that has yielded some fascinating pre-historic archaeological sites in North Mayo (where Ballinglen is located) is a strong influence. Ideas stemming from local archaeology also offer contrast: stone walls built only a few years ago reflect the same patterns as those built thousands of years ago, so there is an ever-present dichotomy of the ancient and the present. 

Unearthed, 42"x36" oil/cold wax on panel

During the workshop I taught here last week, we visited the nearby village of Belderrig for a tour conducted by Belderrig Valley Experience. Our guide, Declan Caulfield, is the grandson of Patrick Caulfield; while cutting turf in the 1930s, Patrick uncovered the first of the nearly 6000-year-old stone fences that would lead to the discovery of the vast network of ancient farm fields that once covered this area. These stone wall fences provide evidence of a large, organized and peaceful society spread over many square miles of this coastline. Declan's father Seamus established the renowned archaeological site at Céide Fileds as well as a smaller site near to where the first stone fence was found. Today, Declan leads tours of this latter site, with fascinating details about what is known of the people and their way of life in Neolithic and Bronze age times.

Declan's opening words to our group were to ask for our thoughts on the difference between scenery and landscape. Unbeknownst to him, his question went to the heart of what we had been working with in class. Although not necessarily focused on landscape, I had been challenging the students to explore various dichotomies that would bring depth to their abstract work. As well, I had presented the sources of abstract language as coming from what is seen, what is felt, and what is known. Declan believes that enjoying scenery is a somewhat superficial acknowledgment of a place's true nature, while the understanding of landscape is much deeper, involving memory, and knowledge in addition to what is seen. His remarks supported a lot of the ideas I'd introduced in class over the previous two days. A very nice coincidence, and a great opening for our tour! 




We spent the rest of the day exploring various places along the coast, including the rugged cliffs of Benwee Head and the quieter sand beach at Portocloy. As many times as I've been to these places, I never tire of them. With every weather condition, season, and time of day, the experience changes. 

Portocloy Beach, County Mayo 

I am looking ahead to several more weeks of painting in my studio at Ballinglen. I'm so grateful to have this time to explore the wild, unspoiled and ancient landscape of North Mayo, as well as my response to it in the studio.  Here is one painting I've done during my stay. As yet untitled, it is 12"x12", oil and cold wax on board:





 
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
  exhibition thoughts
A few weeks have passed since the opening of my exhibit, Journeys, at Thomas Deans Fine Art in Atlanta, Georgia. (To see an online catalog of this exhibit, please click here.) The months of preparation are over, the travel and opening were fun, and I'm back in New Mexico and starting to plan for other upcoming exhibits. I've also been thinking about the huge effort required to pull off a big exhibit-- mentally, emotionally and even physically.

Recently on our podcast, The Messy Studio, my son Ross and I discussed some of the practical aspects of preparing for an exhibit. (Please click here to listen to episode #57 if you're curious.)  We recorded that episode when I was in the last stages of getting the work ready for the Atlanta show, a cycle that will be repeated again in July for my exhibit at Addington Gallery in Chicago, and again in September when Jerry McLaughlin exhibit together at Jennifer Perlmutter Gallery in the Bay Area. It is a busy year ahead, especially since I need to fit preparing for those exhibits around a heavy travel/teaching schedule. 





When an exhibit is proposed I'm always excited and almost always say yes, even though I know there will be intensity and exhaustion in the months before the opening. This intensity is inevitable given the emotional ups and downs in making a body of new work, the hard physical work of painting and preparing work for display, and all the decisions ahead that range from creative to practical. But it seems important to accept the challenge and the opportunity. 




Our friends and families tend to focus on the tangible rewards of an exhibit, with good wishes for sales and recognition, and afterward, there are typically questions about whether the show was successful in terms of what was sold. Of course, for many of us, sales are a very important source of income and vital to our relationship with our galleries. But they are only one measure of success, a bigger picture that includes less tangible aspects. 

Exhibits of any kind--whether solo or group, in commercial galleries or nonprofit spaces, are important steps on the creative journey. They keep an artist moving forward from one to another over time. With each show, there is the challenge to create the best work possible, to try new things, and to learn from the relationships between different pieces in the overall body of work. 








The demands and deadlines of an exhibit also provide focus and energy and are sometimes the best reason to say yes to scheduling a show. It's exciting to see the new work grow in numbers and ambition, to line up finished pieces and imagine them hanging in the gallery with white space around them and beautifully lit. The vision of what the body of work is about can push the artist through the inevitable frustrations, worries, and other emotional back-slidings. New ideas may come from the whole process and from seeing the work hung, and give direction for the future. Each exhibit is a milestone, a view of the artist on the creative journey. 





I'm always grateful for these milestones in my own art life. My exhibit in Atlanta was an opportunity to pursue work having to do with dualities and contrast. And, while much of my recent work is neutral in color, I also included some new, more colorful wor in the show. Here is the artist statement that accompanied the exhibit:

I paint in response to ancient and rugged places that I love, interpreting them intuitively, abstractly, through memory and emotion. The bogs and coast of County Mayo, Ireland and the canyons of northern New Mexico are two significant places for me, but I’m drawn to any landscape that is wild, rocky, and remote. Certain human environments also move me--the ruins of stone buildings, old Spanish houses with hidden courtyards, megalithic monuments. These ancient places seem to me both deeply familiar and yet unknowable and mysterious. When I paint, I want to express something of this strange duality--a feeling of nostalgia for something not yet experienced.  Other contrasting qualities also contribute to the deep and complex whole of a place. These include stillness and movement, strength and fragility, aging and timelessness, vastness and intimacy.  In my work I look for ways to express these dualities--strong value contrasts, variations in the texture and amount of detail, hard and soft edges. My overall process expresses another duality-- a sense of history and the present tense existing at once. This happens as I build layers of paint and cold wax medium, then scrape and dissolve away selected areas to revel what is underneath, creating complex surfaces. 
My exhibit continues at Thomas Deans through March 11. f you are in the Atlanta area, please check it out, or if not...click here. Thanks!





 

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