Poetry Friday is good for me, even though my grasp of words and acceptable language arrangement is frequently dismal. It gives me a challenge to be a better me once a week. Some people need a moderate sense of structure in their lives to feel purposeful, and I am one of those people.

I’m not so rigid that I plan out my entire life on a day planner and bristle at the thought of grocery shopping on a non-designated day, but I do like knowing that I will go to yoga on Monday and Wednesday, and workout three times a week. These are self-involved task, but they help me feel I am progressing toward something rather than miring myself in inertia.

It felt weird not posting something for Poetry Friday, so here is a small panel painting. It’s a reflection in the outdoor water feature at the Chicago Art Institute, one of my favorite museums to visit.

Untitled
Oil on Panel
7″ x 5.75″

The Spouse and I sometimes take photos of ourselves like this:

It’s interesting to observe our likenesses and dissimilarities. When I gaze at our shadows, he doesn’t seem as tall, but my hips seem unpleasantly accurate..

Sometimes it feels like humanity pays more attention to the shadows people cast that it does to the people themselves. Our brains can get wrapped around the axle of a distorted two-dimensional impression we get of a person, rather than considering the depth and complexity of their entire person. Easily digested impressions require less interaction, and releases us from the obligation to engage ourselves.

The past few years I have been more intrigued by soft shadows. Often these are cast through organic objects like trees or plants. The distance from the light source to the subject lends itself to softer edges which deemphasize the representation of the object and leave behind an abstract dreaminess. An example:

These photos are the basis for a series of abstract paintings. The resulting execution resembles little evidence of the original concept, but the dreaminess remains largely intact.

Untitled
Oil on Panel
7″ x 5.75″

Pen & Ink, Marker, and Colored Pencil

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone and if you don’t celebrate, then Happy Saturday!

Mixed Media: ink, marker and colored pencil

My first thought was this website, but it’s an illustration of desperation and the seedier side of ingenuity, not that self-sufficiency shouldn’t be honored, but it lacks a romantic notion that befits the return of Poetry Friday.

I have a friend who cans homemade jellies and relishes each year to share with friends and family during the holidays. It is truly a labor of love. I waste spend excessive time on various art projects, but to confine myself to the kitchen making preserves, is more than my inner martyr can handle.

Peach Jelly from a Friend
Pen & Marker

because typing on my cell phone is exhausting. smart phones are useful but they aren’t exactly laptops….and the place we’re staying is stingy w/ their wireless, but life continues.

a few weeks ago, i was at the chicamagua dam photographing tree swallows. i had never seen them before. the tva puts up nesting boxes for them next to the tennesee river. they are one of the first birds to return in spring. while there, i managed to photograph a grey heron diving for fish. the heron photos were more graceful and made a better sketching subject. i want to go back and try for more pictures

Like the incoming season of spring, I find myself at a loss as to how much of myself to put out there and how much to hold back. It isn’t desire to conceal my flaws (those are obvious), but to restrain the verbal diarrhea of ordinary existence, and to refrain dwelling on the pointless annoyances I cannot alter.

Middle class privilege is partially to blame for my relaxed complacency. But, who in their right mind complains about existing in a fierce calm…..especially when you are aware it only takes a single moment for everything to change.

In recent conversations with my yoga teacher a common theme has emerged. I think perhaps she sees pieces of her daughter in me, and it has prompted the “relationships are hard” statement to appear more than once. Like women, when we read to much into things, I thought this was a pointed statement, and a rather curious one since I rarely allude to my relationship with my partner, or to things of a personal nature. Later, it occurred to me the repetition might have less to do with telling me, and more to do with reminding herself.

The sentiment is a useful one, and dammit, relationships are hard, with ourselves, our family, our friends, and even the clerk at the car tag office.

After this post, Sabra asked which was my favorite. I had difficulty choosing one so I kept two for dust collectors/ studio inspiration. And because I have free time, I named them. The striped one on the left is Bandersnatch (a wonderland inspiration?) and the strong silent one on the right is Whooty Who (a woman’s codeword in singles bar, from a story my partner likes to tell).

I dont’t consider myself to be sentimental, but it appears there are different, unspoken rules where my creative work environment is concerned. There is an endless array of random clutter that serves no use other than to be present until it reveals it’s purpose to me at a later time. Most of these items are brought back from walks or hikes. Things like small cones, sticks ,rocks, feathers, and nuts. Fora time I was unaware of my habit of bringing these homes. I think the randomness of the items and the absence of a filing system made it more difficult for me to notice a pattern. It wasn’t until I became aware of how many small piles of natural materials were appearing in the bedroom, kitchen, studio, and bathroom that I realized I might need an intervention….but then I said “screw it” and moved everything to one location so it can be incorporated into future projects.

Poor Yorick actually has a higher purpose than posing as a Samali. He frequently spends his time modeling. At a brief glance it would be easy to presume a preoccupation with the macabre, but that isn’t the case. What I have is a small obsession with structure, and few are as interesting to me as the complexity of the human framework, both skeletally and cerebrally.

This stoneware armadillo is from my first art exchange. There was a small college art festival, and I printed some t-shirts by hand from a linoleum block for professors, students plus one extra. One of the festival demonstrators, an exceptional functional potter offered to trade a hand sculpted figure for the only remaining t-shirt, which I graciously accepted.

It’s difficult to look at this parting shot without thinking about a woman squatting in the woods, but the real story isn’t the figure (which by the way wasn’t intended to look as unsophisticated as the end result. The shapes intended to dictate the composition eventually became covered by the composition thus the painting of a pale backside). The rocks are from the California coast brought home for the purpose of stacking. I like to think of it as a natural indoor installation that is constantly evolving. They are stacked in random configurations, the only goal being balance. I could say it represents the fleeting nature and unpredictability of the human condition, but the real story is the tend to fall over frequently due to footsteps making the floor vibrate. For now with the painting serving as a backdrop, the pile of stones are an accurate means of measuring the humor of those who enter the space.

There is an non-pragmatic, child-like aspect of myself that emerges when I look at art supplies. It doesn’t matter if it is in person or filtered through the the pages glossy catalog, my inner kid has a way of dominating my internal monologue, attempting to convince me this “shiny” will make me a better better artist, as if it the only barriers that separate artist from the craftsperson can be solved by writing a check.

The rational facet of my brain knows this is, in fact true, but the part of my brain that interprets what I see, doesn’t actually give a shit, because easels, well, they are absolutely stunning. The wood doesn’t have a single blemish, and the stain, a warm, cherry mahogany tone, looks like it should be displayed in an living room, not confined to the outer limits of a studio or basement.

As far as my brain is concerned, art supplies in general, easels in particular, are pornography. I look at them and I see the things I want to be, instead of casting the occasional glance at my surroundings and seeing myself for who and what I am.

Two years ago, I reintroduced myself to oil painting. Small stuff. Nothing serious. Mediocre execution at best, but that doesn’t matter. Success wasn’t the goal. The process: layering scratching and mark making, was. The early work was completed, seated at my drafting table, but I soon longed to stand and make the most of full arm extenuation, and the ease with which one can distance herself from work and see problems that are less obvious when viewed up close.

I converted a step ladder into an easel with a pair of bungee cords and a scrap two by four, I have an adjustable easel and a workable solution for storing a fiberglass ladder, all without taking myself or the process of painting too seriously.

Two months ago, I had a realization about my irrational love affair with easels. It isn’t about the shiny, the scent of stain, or even the functionality. It was about the things that weren’t there. The negative spaces.

Easels can easily by represented by a few quick slashes made with a pencil, but the story isn’t the easel itself, but the manner in which these linear shapes frame the secondary characteristics of the room, reducing the sum to cropped versions of individual components, encouraging me to evaluate the way I see ordinary objects.

Reflected Sunlight; Oil Painting; 9.5″ X 11.875″