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Also please check out my second blog, The Painting Archives to see older (pre-2004) paintings for sale.
It's been months since my last post, much longer than I have ever paused this blog. But in June, when I would normally have been writing something new, I was in the early stages of a huge project that occupied my whole summer and then some. That's when my husband Don and I began clearing out the house in Wisconsin that was our home for 43 years in order to move permanently to New Mexico. For me, emptying my studio there was the most enormous task of all--a large space packed with the remains of over three decades of use.
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| my studio at the beginning of the clearing out... |
As I tackled every corner and shelf I was amazed at what I had accumulated over the years. Apparently I never met a piece of cardboard I could part with, nor any old paint-encrusted tool, odd sized pane of glass or scrap of foam core. There were piles of old panels with bolt holes drilled in the sides from my era of multiple panel paintings and a big stack of demo boards from years of teaching workshops. An old couch, shelves, and lots of small tables and carts had to go. There were boxes of dried up paints, dozens of old cans and other "useful" containers, nature collections of rocks, bones, and shells (these went into the garden), and more pads of drawing paper than I could use in my remaining lifetime. Usable and nontoxic art supplies went to my friend Paula who teaches kids' art classes and other items that had some value found homes with local art friends.
Of course, all of the above was simply the materials, furniture, and general detritus of studio life--not fun to deal with, but fairly routine once I got into it. The real challenge was what to do with decades of artwork, some of it large and cumbersome, and most of it no more recent than about 2017. I had a flat-file stuffed with works on paper, and shelves of paintings that had come back to me from galleries or had never even been exhibited. Overall there were hundreds of works of art from all stages of my career, and even some things from childhood.
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| A pen and ink drawing done in my early 20s |
It was hard to know where to begin with all of this, and I was very grateful to the friends who pitched in to help me when I was overwhelmed. Although I did hit some snags of indecision, the basic strategy of three categories promoted by decluttering experts worked well--things to sell/donate, things to trash, and things to keep. The simplicity of these three categories was helpful in making decisions and I'd suggest them for anyone else facing a studio clear out. (Noticeably absent is a category for "I'm not sure...I'll deal with it later". Of course, there was some of that but I did try to make decisions in the moment and stick with them.)
Here is how it worked for me:
What I sold: Thankfully, I sold a lot of work--to friends, to people who came to my studio, and to people who bought online (I ran a successful virtual sale using my public page on Artwork Archive--there are still some available pieces listed there.) My local gallery was very generous in promoting my older work and with excellent results. I sold the really old work at a deep discount, and the more recent (but still older) work at 40-60% off. Although I am not crazy about selling my own work in person --for me it can be awkward and stressful--I did have some great experiences with both new and old collectors. The amounts of sales ranged widely--from a major purchase by a couple who drove all the way from Chicago, and several large pieces shipped to online buyers, to many smaller pieces on paper and panel. The payment for one of my college paintings (yes, I kept some of those!) was a large bag of frozen panfish caught by a sweet single dad and his kids. We ate a lot of fish for the rest of the summer!
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| my studio sale |
What I donated/gave away: One of the first things I did to clear some space in the studio was donate three large paintings to the local branch of Mayo Hospital where they were installed in a waiting room. My son Ross and his wife Kara took at least a dozen things for their new home, and other paintings and works on paper went to friends. I also set out a pile of drawings and prints that studio visitors could take, and the remainder of those quickly disappeared when I dropped them off at a local studio warehouse building. One night I brought some framed works on paper to a gathering of some friends and distributed them from the back of my car as darkness fell. When my friends had made their choices, there were a few old monotypes from my grad school years left. A neighbor guy came over who turned out to be the exact right person to claim those rather strange, surreal prints. I hope he liked them as much in the daylight! I left several large paintings from the same era for the guy who bought our house, after he admired them.
I enjoyed giving these things away. It was practical to do so in that I couldn't deal with pricing everything I had in the studio, or expect to sell it all. But it also felt good to give freely, to spread my work around and to experience the gratitude for the gifts. |
| paintings installed at Mayo Hospital, Eau Claire WI |
What I trashed: From the beginning I knew there were pieces that had little value, even as give-aways. And there were some pieces, such as some very large old charcoal and pastel drawings, that were simply too hard to deal with. I also had unfinished work and works on paper that had been damaged by mice or mold (my studio suffered from both.) In the beginning of the summer I imagined a ritual bonfire fueled by everything I couldn't sell, give away, or keep. But in the end, it was much easier to get rid of things as I went along. I ripped up works on paper on the spot to keep prevent any second-guessing, and periodically tossed paintings into the big bin where I could not retrieve them. One day I happened to be near the dumpster when they came to empty it, and I watched as a small painting I'd thrown out slid into the back of the truck. For a moment I wanted to rescue it, but like so many other possessions over the summer, I let it go.
The process I use in all of these is simple and direct, using a variety of water-based and drawing media and tools. I have a dedicated place in the studio where I keep my materials in a typically messy array (it was cleaned up quite a bit for this photo):
A year ago today I was in residence at Ballinglen Arts Foundation in Ballycastle, Ireland, trying to take in the news about the spread of Covid 19. My workshop there, scheduled for the end of March, involved an international group of students and I needed to make a decision about canceling. At the time, it was hard to know what to do. Advice ranged from going ahead and teaching those who could still make it, to packing everything up and booking the first flight I could. A doctor friend at home advised me to wait in Ireland until the threat passed rather than risk air travel. He figured it might be a couple of weeks until things were safe.
I took a long walk in the bog to sort things out.
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March 13, 2020, Ballycastle, Ireland |
Today I think back to those panicked but far more innocent days with astonishment. Of course, I did leave Ireland rather than wait it out. I flew back to New Mexico on St. Patrick's Day, feeling the urgent need to get home. And home is where I have been, along with most everyone else on the planet.
Many of us are taking this week to look back at the unfolding events a year ago, and to reflect on how we have struggled, but also gained in personal ways. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I've had some sad and anxious days. But the freedom I felt in the studio with no deadlines or demands was a positive effect of the pandemic. It was my refuge, and overall I was productive, experimental, and focused when I was there.
As I take stock of my work from 2020 and early 2021, I see a range of directions, with some cross-over of ideas. At the same time, I worked in so many ways that connections are mostly unclear. I do assume intuition is at work, and that in time, I'll understand the work from this year in a more cohesive way.
But within the variety of my output, there are two main bodies of work I can identify: works on paper and paintings done with oil and cold wax. The oil paintings have been mostly explorations of bright, saturate color without distinct large shapes or edges, but some have evolved in an earthier or very pale palette, and a few do have definite shapes.
These are a couple of recent ones in the colorful category.
In painting, I'm surrounded day after day with color, shape, and texture, building up the surface. It is a slow, tactile evolution, an immersion into feeling and memory, and the joy of the paint's materiality.
The works on paper are a very different experience. Almost all are done quickly, in one setting, and range from small images in my daily sketchbook to images on larger sheets of around 22x30 inches. Media have included charcoal, ink, gouache, acrylic, pencil, and pigment stick. I love exploring how the different materials interact. Many of these pieces share a compositional similarity-- a dominant cliff-like shape--and marks and small shapes appear in almost all.
My approach with these is impulsive, direct, simple, sometimes playful. Certain shapes and types of lines keep appearing, and it pleases me to find ways to bring these to the paintings. In the recent painting below the small ovals come directly from my sketchbooks and works on paper, and symbolize footsteps, or stones in the path. I am gratified by this cross-over of ideas, and I want more of this to happen.
Although these two bodies of work, on panel and paper, are very different at first glance, I do see other connections. Each is an interpretation of landscape--the experience of walking almost daily in the arroyos and mesas around my New Mexico home. This area of New Mexico is vast, rugged and rocky, with volcanic boulders, petroglyphs, dead trees, twisted roots, and cacti. The climate is arid and at times the orange and gold colors of the mesas and cliffs seem unreal. I feel this dreamlike atmosphere in all the work, along with the influences of color and line.
But other than that, pointing to specific similarities and connections eludes me. I wonder if the overall variety in this work comes from the uncertainties of 2020. In day to day life, inside and outside the studio, my normally steady, basically optimistic outlook often broke. The shifting realities of the times demanded flexibility and balance and when that failed my emotions often took over. To cope, some days I gravitated to self-reflection, and retreat in the studio, and on others to physical activity--hiking, wandering, and encounterng the rough edges of nature. Some days I wanted only solitude, others I craved social life. These up and down days are all mixed into the work, and in the end, maybe is all that needs to be said. Like many artists, I suspect I will look back at the work from 2020 as being as perplexing, challenging, and unexpected as the year itself.
"How did 2020 impact your work?" Recently I asked listeners of The Messy Studio (the podcast I produce with my son) to comment on this question, and I received some very heartfelt and introspective replies. Artists who had felt paralyzed and blocked shared their feelings, as did others who found new directions and insights in their work, and who appreciated the extra studio time that opened up.
All of the replies were efforts to focus on answering this complex question in a few sentences. But in fact most of us could talk for hours about the changes we've experienced and the range of emotions associated with them. As I read through what people wrote, I realized that I could relate to almost everything they said, applied to different stages of my own journey through 2020. My own experience in the studio has been positive overall, but like so many others I've also struggled with the hard emotional impact of this year.
When the pandemic descended in mid-March, I left my artist residency in Ireland abruptly and flew home in a bit of a daze. It was a shattering and scary time, but a new studio was waiting for me in New Mexico with only a few finishing touches still needed to be fully functioning. Like many of the artists who replied to my online question, I appreciated the extra studio time of quarantine, and was especially grateful to have this beautiful, light-filled space which made sheltering in place seem less like a hardship and more like an opportunity.
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| in the new studio |
With galleries going into lockdown and nothing much on my calendar, I started work in the new studio feeling unencumbered, free and experimental. Along with painting, I did lots of work on paper with drawing materials and water-based paint. Mark-making and drawing--those very direct expressions of the moment--took on more meaning for me, and I began making a sketchbook drawing as a spontaneous record each day. I also experimented with figurative work and painting on Venetian plaster. In the spirit of expansion, my painting also changed. Although land forms and local color still play a part, I have become interested in expressing a more inner landscape with intense color and less referential imagery. I've continued in all these directions and there are a few more waiting. I don't think I've ever had as many different things going at once, but each has a role in processing these crazy times.
Some recent paintings:
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| Red Earth 30"x24" oil/cold wax on panel |
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| Chroma #5, 36"x36" oil/cold wax on panel |
The biggest change in my lifestyle has been no travel; three international trips had to be canceled and we did not go back as usual to spend summer in Wisconsin. But the time to really focus on my surroundings here seemed fortunate. I started walking almost every day on trails within about a twenty mile radius, but mostly close to my house. Being out on foot grew my appreciation of the stark beauty of the arroyos, canyons, and mesas along with their plant and animal life, history, and geography All of this, along with the long stretch of uninterrupted studio time, has fed my work.
A scene this October along my road:
Another big change has been the launch of Cold Wax Academy with Jerry McLaughlin, with whom I've been collaborating as Squeegee Press since 2015. Our new format includes a carefully designed program of online instruction and has been very well received. Now that I've made it through the initial tech challenges, I'm really enjoying the challenges and rewards of this very different way of teaching. We have lots of excited and engaged students and are fired up to start a new quarter of lessons this week.
So for the most part, it has been a good year for me in the studio and with my business. But times of doubt and loss of motivation and direction have also hit hard. Like many artists, I wrestled with existential questions of why to make art in such catastrophic times. And also like many, ultimately I see that it's part of being human-- important as a basically optimistic and trusting process. Or maybe I've just realized there is nothing else I do that means as much to me, and I am not about to give it up.
I also went through some difficult periods when paintings went nowhere, when my mind was confused and anxious. After decades of painting, I know and accept that these downtimes happen, but this year they felt more dire. But just as always, they eventually revealed themselves as progress in disguise, incubation periods when ideas were evolving beneath the surface.
My most recent painting, after a lull:
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| The Beauty of Arid Places 68"x40" oil/cold wax on panel (diptych) |
Although the end of the year is the traditional time to take stock, we are still in the midst of the pandemic and other distressing news. While we can all find ups and downs in the past year, we really can't see the big picture of how 2020 impacted us until we can truly look back on it.
In my journal this summer I wrote: We're affected in ways we can't really know or describe when we're in the midst of it. How am I shaped by this time of staying in place, in this particular landscape, in this emotional atmosphere of fear and hope?
Hope seems to be the word for 2021. All my best to all of you as we step into the new year, and may we all find clarity and purpose in our work.
This afternoon I took a walk among the cottonwood trees along an arroyo here in Northern New Mexico. This is the first time I've been here at the right time of year to experience their glorious golden luminosity.
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This has been a time of exploration in the studio, free of outside demands--the longest stretch of time I've had for just my work in years The walls in my New Mexico studio are now covered with works on paper, media experiments, panels large and small, and even figure studies--they are part in my overall release of expectations, and indulgence in play. This one is from a series made from taking textural rubbings from a rock.
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| Figure study, pencil and clear gesso on mineral paper |
I'm on another side trip with some of my paintings. A recent series explores oil/cold wax, pigment stick, and pencil on a background of exposed Venetian plaster. The isolated image on plaster forming its own shape seems connected to the figure studies, and other drawings and small mixed media work that I've been doing since March. There is a clarity to these paintings on plaster that feels calming.
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| oil/cold wax and pigment stick on Venetian plaster, 16x16" |
A friend said it seems that I am looking for a new relationship with the landscape, and this helped me understand my current focus. Overall, I feel that I’m edging closer to expressing experience and essence, and to being freer with shape, mark-making, and texture. This is a painting in progress that shows this looser approach.
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| Work in progress, 23x26" oil/cold wax on panel |
For a long time, I've painted with an underlying awareness of traditional landscape painting, including horizon lines and a sense of depth. Even my most abstract work has been more about countering these conventions than escaping them. But at times, I've felt the limitations of this dynamic, and I've noticed this more in the past few months in New Mexico than ever before. There is something mystical and dreamlike here that inspires me in new directions. In the past few months, I’ve walked nearly every day in this rugged and strange place of canyons, rock spires, arroyos, and unfamiliar plant and animal life. I am still taking ideas from from the shapes, colors, and textures that I see, but loosening their more concrete or literal ties.
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| Rocky cliff near my New Mexico home |
It was not until this, our fourth winter in New Mexico that I started to pay attention to the huge area of canyons, cliffs, and arroyos directly across the highway from our road. Before this year, it was part of the majestic high desert landscape surrounding our town but I didn't think to explore it. As a midwesterner, I'm not used to assuming I can walk in places that might be private. But now I know that, like so much of this part of the country, these are public lands under the Bureau of Land Management. There are no signposts or marked trails, but you are free to wander.
Once I began to explore this landscape its beauty opened up to me. Now I walk there four or five times a week, always grateful to live just down the road from such a wild and amazing place. In the past months, I've valued this area even more as a place of peace and refuge.
Just off the highway a quarter-mile from our house, this wide, flat area, threaded with large and small arroyos is bounded further in by spectacular cliffs and odd rock formations called hoodoos. Though I seldom see any other people when I'm there, ATVs have made convenient walking tracks through the more accessible areas. Over time I've gotten familiar with most of the trails, tracks, and arroyos, and I now have a mental map of how to get to certain favorite places. I especially like to cross over the ridge of rock and go down into the next valley, where highway noises and sights of the village disappear. I've also climbed up high to see how the various canyons and cliffs connect in the larger landscape.
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| Cholla cactus in bloom in the arroyo |
Sometimes, I walk mainly for exercise, paying attention to my fitness app, and sticking to the main trails where I can walk at a good pace. Or I have a destination in mind and head there directly. But more often I just wander and look, and get lost in what I see, the textures, colors, lines, and shapes of the land. The dry, packed earth is a neutral background for nature's drawings--heaps of deadwood and tumbleweeds, cacti, juniper, and wildflowers, deep crevasses and odd shapes in the cliffs, intricate patterns in rocks, the skittering trails of lizards.
Inevitably these visual impressions are finding their way into my work. Shapes and colors of cliffs and boulders, and mark-making inspired by the plant life and rocks. But beyond abstracting from the visual aspect of the landscape alone, there are ideas and feelings that interest me. In several recent paintings I've built up texture and somewhat random shapes and marks to try and capture the sense of fragile and intricate life forms in this seemingly barren environment. Warm, subtle color is broken by jagged and frenetic line. The high desert is a place of contrast with a sense oif deep time.
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| Untitled, 16"x16", oil/cold wax on panel. |
I've also been using dry stalks and other plant remains that I pick up on my walks for mark-making in paintings and drawings.
Here is a drawing done with gouache and ink. The gestural marks are made with a dry yucca leaf.
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| Untitled, about 12"x18", gouache, ink on paper |
It amuses me to gather these bits of nature, bring them back to the studio and play around with what kind of marks can be made. But they also serve a serious purpose of connecting the work directly with what grows in the desert. I feel I'm getting closer to expressing an essence of this place, at the same time that new ideas keep unfolding.
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