July 30, 2009

There is a load of housekeeping chores necessary to the creative process, I believe, no matter what process that might be, or what tools you use. If you create beautiful meals, you'll have to wash dishes and clean the kitchen. If you paint, you'll have to wash brushes and keep the work surface clear. If you don't, the mess you'd ordinarily make will be worse and you won't be able to find things.

A friend was in the studio the other day and said, "Are you always this organized?" I glanced around, noting the clutter and soaking brushes, and said, "I guess I am. I don't have time to stop what I'm doing and hunt for a pair of scissors or a color." (I have learned to forego the temptation to point out my own foibles, thereby insulting the person trying to compliment me or my work by saying something like, "What? This mess? You call this organized?")

Additionally, brushwashing and straightening up can be terrifically therapeutic. When I hit a rough patch and just don't know what to do next, I can always grab the soaking brushes and spend several reflective minutes at the sink caring for them.

(This is what God did on the seventh day. What He did on the eighth, I don't know; from the look of things, not much. Must have been a week's gig, and this is what we got.)

PW

July 29, 2009

My 14-year-old grandson e-mails me that the one thing he wants to do with his life is skateboard. Having prepared myself well, I didn't say One Word to the contrary. But I've been thinking about this and what my most helpful response should be. (And while we might think our moldy opinions don't count for anything with this generation, I believe they do. I believe they really influence how we count with them.)



Last summer, when I went to New York for the purpose of seeing fine art, I remember thinking longingly of lost years and the better choice I might have following high school--to set out for a charming loft in the City, endless conversations with Frank Stella, Jasper Johns, Helen Frankenthaler, and Robert Rauschenberg, and a lifetime devoted to painting--and what my mother would have said and done in reply. Texas girls in my generation did not even conceptualize such plans, let alone voice them. The choice just wasn't available. At least, not to me.

This past May I went home to a class reunion. I was pleased to meet (again) our star quarterback from the ninth grade, heartthrob of all females in junior high. He's a physician these days and talks about his only regret in life being that he didn't play professional ball. Here he is in a lovely house, surrounded by a beautiful family and all the blessings wealth can provide, and a dreamy look comes into his eyes when he talks about his youth--on the football field. I know he would have been a terrific pro quarterback, just like he is a terrific doctor. But he would be happier today, maybe, and pleased that he did what he wanted to do and not what he should have done.



So I cheered my grandson on. Years from now, I don't want him to watch an Olympic skateboarder and think: "That could have been me if anyone in my family had really listened and respected my passion for skating. I could have been a champion and known the happiness of someone who fulfills his destiny by following his bliss."



Skateboarding, like golf or quarterbacking or problemsolving or painting, is an art, too: It is making something beautiful. I could wish no greater happiness for him than that.



PW

July 28, 2009

It could be that an image has an identity, or integrity, of its own; that it shares itself with us as the painting goes along, like Michaelangelo "freeing" a sculpture from a stone. It is when we say, "I want it to look like thus and so," that creating it becomes a struggle. Imposing one's will on an emerging artwork just doesn't work very well. When it's finished, the piece is overembellished and exhausted. These are the remains of war: bits and pieces lying around that are perhaps in tact, having missed the devastation somehow.... but in a dismal context.

Maybe we should communicate with the image in front of us that is trying to be born, to proclaim itself, and help it do so. Then it wouldn't be a struggle at all. So much of life demands that we abandon our notions of domination, and listen to the voices around and within us. Maybe imagemaking is the same. Once more, our challenge is to listen and work with rather than over.

I don't think I'll be able to live long enough to learn all the things life wants to teach me.

PW

July 27, 2009

Mistakes are a peculiar phenomenon. If they always turned out for the worse, they would not be peculiar. I'd just see them as a bad thing--and sometimes they certainly are--and begin a remedy as soon as possible. Other times, though, they provide a very nice situation in my work and are welcomed as a pleasant surprise.

There is probably a profound lesson, here, about life and charting one's course, but I don't know what it is. It reminds me of the description of the Fiddler on the Roof: someone trying to scratch out a tune without breaking his neck.

On to a good week!

PW

July 26, 2009

It's early morning here, and the best time of day. I love the sunrise from our mountain, looking east across the Catawba Valley. Just the fact that the sun is rising again seems to be an affirmation of faith from the night before; and now, as first light brings shapes out of darkness, the day stretches before us full of mystery and promise. Nothing that will happen has happened: Like runners at the line, we are poised in one long moment waiting for the starting gun.

The garden is still and quiet. Even the bugs are still asleep. In a few minutes, I'll finish my coffee and put in my half hour walking. But for now, I am still and quiet and peaceful, too.

This is when art is born, I think. The unworkable from yesterday can be fixed; questions can be asked and answered; the insurmountable has a ready solution. We, and all our paintings, are babies born to greet the dawn.

PW

July 24, 2009

Here it is, the end of July, already. I was up at 6:00 this morning and realized that the sunrise was barely beginning to happen, meaning that fall approaches with its inevitably shorter days and whisperings of winter. I wish I didn't hate it so much.

The uppermost thought I have, while messing around in the studio, is the show in May. Can I possibly put out enough pieces by then that I really like--enough pieces to choose from--that will group well for an exhibition? In the wee small hours, when I wake up in the dark worring about this, I feel like the character in the fairy tale who was confined in the tower to make straw into gold. (She called on Rumplestiltskin who did the trick, you remember, and saved her hide.)

Agreeing to an exhibition is really stepping into the void and trusting that you will get firm footing and keep it. It's a great act of faith, or it's a most arrogant show of bravado imaginable.

We'll see. Sigh.

PW

July 20, 2009

Where I am today: I have two things on the table top, one a turkey that needs redeeming, and the other a turkey being born.

I'm interested in achieving full membership in the Society of Layerists, but I'm discouraged by the requirements of the application. They want 10 pieces submitted (no problem, there), accompanied by a statement of intent about each. I have no intent; or, if I do, I don't know what it is.

While it is useful for the artist to step back and analyze his or her purpose in making art, I can't help but think that it matters little what I tried or wanted to do. The whole thing is what I did do. This is why we're told that a piece should speak for itself--at least, that's what the art historians say, those folks whose careers are made on speaking about art, and always somebody else's art at that. But there is a point, here: If a poet followed each poem with an explanation of what the poem meant, it wouldn't be a very good poem. Again, the piece should speak for itself. Of all the arts, poetry bubbles up from the experiences of an entire culture. If its meaning is cloudy and resonates with no one, can it be a poem?

Well, so much for that. I'm going to think about this application further and see if I can come up with an intent for each of the rescued turkeys. Dear Blog, there is more on this coming.

PW

July 19, 2009

Something to add something about the phenomenon of getting good ideas or, more specifically, an unexpected good idea:

It may be related to a definition I heard once of magic: "A human being's change of mind." In other words, for whatever reason, we hear someone expressing a thought quite vigorously one day, and then hear the same person expressing the opposite thought the next. What brought him or her to a new consciousness, or point of view, when the person him/herself can't identify its cause? The ability to identify does not disturb me (as it might disturb a totally left-brained individual), but rather gives life extra excitement; such as, we will continue to be surprised by new understandings, new ideas, our whole lives long.

It makes living an art, not a science.

This is very good news for us right-brained types!

PW

July 18, 2009

I have neglected you, Dear Blog, because I've been in the clutches of dental angst. I think that the most courage I have ever mustered to meet the greatest challenges I've ever faced has centered around my teeth: Stop, What You Are Doing Hurts and The Thought of What You're Doing Is Making Me Sick; and, How Am I Ever Going To Pay For This?

I spent yesterday gallery sitting, and two thoughts come to mind about our work and preferences: first, as exhibiting artists, we tend to improve. We need to encourage each other because, if we don't, that growth and improvement will never happen. It is good to remember that, despite general opinion, Michaelangelo wasn't born knowing how to sculpt and paint. He had to learn like everybody else. Would we have the Pieta today if his early mentors had said, "This piece is terrible. Go back outside and pick grapes!"

The other thing about galleries (an eclectic one, like ours) is that one is constantly exposed to a variety of media, styles, and genres. Every time I've said, "Oh, I just don't like that period or type," I'll encounter something in that very period or type that absolutely thrills me. I've learned not to say such things before I've seen a lot of it, if then.

Our gallery is planning an auction, both silent and live. I'll submit something for the silent part, but I don't know if I have the courage to put something up for out loud bidding. I was flattered enough when the Board Chairperson asked me to help organize and hang the show.

More later, always....

PW

July 16, 2009

A couple of tricks from art school that are good to remember: When you're not certain about a painting, turn it upside down and stare at it for awhile. Then give it a quarter turn and stare it that way. The weaknesses of composition will become apparent. If you still aren't convinced, put it in the living room and prop it up on something and glance at it from time to time. The downside of this is that you will have a turkey in your living space, your turkey, haunting your comings and goings, surprising your eye with its unhappy, unfinished image.

If you're doing a portrait or some other representational piece, look at it in a mirror. The image will tell you if this is really what you want to convey. It will not tell you how to change it so that it will be.

This has been a crazy time. When I have to leave the house more than twice in one week, I resent it and feel harassed. It's the dentist this afternoon; after tomorrow, things should calm down. The operant word is should.

PW

July 13, 2009

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who will answer the phone every time it rings, and those who glance at the read-out, determine that they don't know anyone named, say, C U Later, and decline to pick up the call. While the first category is dwindling in number, I happen to live with one of its last, dedicated members; my home is visited by wrong numbers, panhandling police and firemen, and both political parties--none of which I have much interest in chatting with.

One of the few groups I readily belong to is that bunch of people who don't like to communicate by phone, especially with people we don't know. This renders us incompatible with the values of this electronic society. Take the "Twitter" question: "What are you doing?" Why would that be of interest to you, unless I've promised you I'd do this or that at this particular moment, and I failed to show. Moreover, why would it be of interest to me that you know what I'm doing, especially on some casual level? My privacy seems to be linked to my independence: What am I doiong? I'm doing what I want to do.

With several of the arts--perhaps all--there is the paradox of engagement: the purpose of communicating with others frustrating its method of solitary artmaking. I hope I live long enough to see what effect the current electronic frenzy has on writing and painting.

PW

July 12, 2009

For a long time, I've heard that we get great, novel ideas when we're dreaming, or when we're still in a half-sleep-half-wake state, and that we should keep pad and pencil on our nightstands so we can record them. I gave this up when I couldn't do it. Trying to recapture ideas that come from the edge of sleep is like chasing smoke with a butterfly net.

Once in awhile, good ideas come to me when I'm actually awake and cognitively focused on a problem. These are the ones I have to write down, because they'll for sure go the way of unsubstantiated trivia. (Of course, there's always the problem of remembering that an idea has been recorded, resides in one's jeans pocket, and should be logged somewhere. I have often found a scrap of paper in the dryer that reads something like, "Wedgewood blue and tomato red." At least I still have enough smarts to know what that means.) So it came to me while I was putting away dishes that the background of the current turkey needs a raw sienna background.

And that brings me to this morning's task. We'll see how good an idea it was!

PW

July 11, 2009

I didn't write a blog yesterday, so now I feel guilty about it. (God forbid I run out of things to feel guilty about.) I see that I have written 26 blogs: Imagine that! I had 26 things to say, or 26 ways of saying the same thing, which is the more likely.

I have turned out three decent paintings and have something else on the table as we speak. So far, it follows in the footsteps of the other turkeys, and I'm about to decide that this is the way I work. First, I have to make a mess. Then, I begin pulling myself out of the mess, or rectifying it. With luck, the thing can be redeemed with not-so-much effort; more than likely, it will take considerable effort.

There is much angst in this process, and varying degrees of fear, from mild concern to sheer terror. At this point, the current canvas occupies a holding pattern, waiting to be brought alive.

MORE WILL BE REVEALED!!

PW

July 9, 2007

Yesterday was an art field trip: We went to Charlotte to buy a painting, and then to Davidson to give one away.

The gallery in Charlotte is named, "Center of the Earth," and it's located in the Art District known as "NoDa," or North Davidson Street. It is a class act. First thing you notice is that the range of painting styles and techniques is quite broad; secondly, you notice that all of it is good. I had seen a painting there last October and had fallen in love with it, wistful that I didn't have the money to buy it. Since it hadn't sold by July, Ruth Lyons, the owner, e-mailed us that it was still available. I realized that I couldn't live without it....so it now rests on the bed in the guest room as I decide where to hang it.

It is called "Little Red Tree," by Scott Hill, an Atlanta artist. It is beautiful! I woke up this morning thinking about it, and how smart I was to bring something so lovely into my home.

What kind of world would it be without the beauty in our lives, and without the capability of making our lives beautiful?

PW

July 8, 2009

Following our meeting, I am curious about those communities that support vital art programs and those that don't. What makes the difference? Further, how do we get from being in the one category to being in the other?

We note that those communities with strong support for the arts are not necessarily in big cities, are not funded by federal grants, have not been created by some Big Name. This leads us to wonder if we, in the western piedmont of North Carolina, might oneday achieve a comparable atmosphere for those who make art and those who buy it (these groups are not mutually exclusive).

We are a charming little town at the foot of the Blue Ridge whose public celebrations center around automotive collections (the antique car show) and what you can eat in your hands (funnel cakes). But there are some human impulses that seem to be hard wired into all of us: the hunger for beautiful things in our lives, the drive to make them, the need to talk about them. This is true for the privileged residents of River Oaks, Houston, as well as the not-so-privileged on the outskirts of Mexico City.

I think we should be able to enjoy the antique car show and a gallery reception. These are not mutually exclusive, either, thank God. There are a few of us just waiting for the good idea that will move us toward the creation of the larger dream.

PW

July 7, 2009

This is the day when four of us call on a friend for advice for local artists. As I've said, there is nothing about Burke Couonty that could be interpreted as "artist friendly." We see the need to change this, as there are as many artists in these hills as there are anywhere. Our friend is a businesswoman who has worked for the city for years. She is also someone who supports the arts on a personal level and thinks they are important.

She's going to have us articulate our short term goals and our long term goals and then advise us on how to go about meeting them in, for, and with the help of this community. Since she's kind enough to have us in her home, we're bringing salad.

Maybe we can get something together and maybe we can't. We've been talking about doing this for years--if it doesn't go anywhere, it'll sit on a back burner for another 10-12 years until someone else wants to bring it forward and try again. There's something to be said for an idea whose time has come.

PW

July 6, 2009

This is a good day! The latter turkey has come round to a point that even I like it.

I was saying something about being "in denial." At some functional level, the meaning of this is pretty clear, but in time it has become overrated and hazier for me.

A friend once told me that her mother had just been diagnosed with cancer followed by a list of precedures that would make her well. I repeated all this to a mutual friend, ending with, "They're in denial."

She said, "So what? She will die of it no matter what they think." While this flies in the face of New Age principles, that's exactly what happened. At least her disease was met with an energetic and spirited commitment to life and she was able to die in peace, knowing she had done all she could do.

So I wonder: What has been denied? My reality, my take on the world. This week it happened again. Someone came into the studio and said, of the previous turkey I've already lamented, "I love this one! It's the best!" The painting is a mess, and she's "in denial." Right?

May we always have this denial of others' attitudes, others' truth. That's what following our own star means.

PW

July 5, 2009

I remember my earliest art experiences. My father was someone who'd bring home an antique when there was no milk in the refrigerator, and he'd seen to it that I had books with prints of paintings by the time I was four or five. But in the second grade, some sort of travelling collection made it to our elementary school, and all the kids went to see it in the auditorium, class by class.

The lighting was terribly dim, so the room was too dark, and we were just marched by with no time to stop and ponder. But I thought it was the most magical experience possible: Huge, life-sized reproductions of famous paintings--Pinky and Blue Boy were two of them, I remember--rose before us in splendor. I didn't behold them, they beheld me. Life would never be the same.

Despite the explosion in technology, children--human beings--have not evolved from such early dawnings of discovery. Seemingly simple encounters still have powerful results. There is a passage in scripture that warns us about entertaining angels unaware, and I know that something was riding my shoulder that day.

PW

July 4, 2009

I read a piece some years ago about the lives of the signers of the Declaration of Independence following that first fateful Fourth of July. I wish I could remember where it came from, because it was remarkable: It spoke of the hard times--and some deaths--that befell all these men so that a break from England could happen and this new nation would be born.

Never has a country such as ours come to be, before or since. It is my most profound piece of good fortune to have been born an American and to have enjoyed a lifetime of all the good things that means.

That can and does affect our art. We have such freedom of expression here and are so accustomed to it that we forget to be grateful. We need a Fourth to bring it back to mind and to be thankful to all of those who won it and laid it in our laps.

Happy Fourth of July!

PW

July 3, 2009

For some reason, my mind has drifted to a professor I had once, years ago. His name was Gibbs Milliken, and he was in the Art Department faculty at UT Austin. He was just cute, first of all: slender, medium-to-long hair, usually dressed in chinos or fatigues and rubber tire-soled sandals. He painted rocks: portraits of rocks. He had been selected to paint the first group of rocks brought back from the moon. He made many trips through the wilds of South America photographing flora and fauna. He was quite accomplished, especially for someone who presented himself so casually, for someone who could not take himself seriously. He was a free spirit that wouldn't be trapped, though he was married to a woman he loved and respected; in all the time I knew him, I never heard that he had fooled around with students. I admired him for that then, and I admire him for it today.

One thing he said that I never forgot: He was talking about the years of diligence it takes to make a good painter, and how so few people understand this. He recalled one of his jungle excursions when a fellow "explorer" asked him if he'd paint a butterfly. So Gibbs went into his tent and reemerged later with his painting of a butterfly, and the friend was ecstatic.

"That's absolutely wonderful!" he gushed. "How long did it take you to paint this?"

Gibbs said, "Oh, about 20 years.... and 20 minutes."

I figure that until 20 years go by, nobody can tell if he or she is an artist or not, whether the ensuing 20 minutes will amount to anything. Personally, I have a few to go, and I just hope I live so long!

By the way, Gibbs died about 18 months ago with cancer.

PW

July 1, 2009

....just an added note about avoidance behavior: It can be a wonderful thing! Say you're looking at an unfinished piece, like my current turkey, and your window screens need doing. Both of these are unwelcome jobs, so you back away from the more dreadful and begin doing the slightly less dreadful. After a bit, your back hurts and you think maybe you were too hasty in taking on the windows. So you approach the turkey and put in an hour wrestling with it until you want to run from it. So you back away from that and return to the window screen project, putting in another dismal hour there. Then, after another hour, the painting seems to be a more attractive project, and you pick it up again. And what is the outcome of this alternation of miserable tasks? After a day or two, you have a finished painting and a houseful of clean windows!!! It's win-win.

Being "in denial" is another possibly good idea that has fallen into disrepute, but that's a story for another day.

I'm happy with the window screens and have a twinkling of hope for the painting!

PW