Last night we went to Hickory for our co-op's (Full Circle Arts) long awaited live auction. All in all, it was a surprisingly successful time. We even made a buck or two. But the best of it was meeting other artists whose work I have loved from first sighting. There is nothing like pursuing these contacts: Instantly, issues and discoveries near and dear to the heart are the focus of rapidly moving conversations. I have missed that and have forgotten its value, buried down here in the studio, mulling over questions asked and answered by myself.
In other news....
On the eve of our Irish trip, when access to money is at a premium, I've just ordered about $150-worth of brushes. Do I already have brushes? Why, indeed, yes. But to you, Dear Blog, I have a confession to make: I have a fetish for brushes. I buy brushes when I have no specified use for them because they are exquisitely made (by nuns in Brittany, for example) or because some rare, soon-to-be-extinct red martin fox in Siberia sacrificed a tip of his tail to be bound in a seamless nickle-plated ferrule for my tabletop. Some of them come in elegant packaging, sunk cunningly in slots of felt-lined boxes. Brushes are beautiful. I clean them lovingly with Ivory soap and brush cleaner after each use, and they remain in good shape for years. This does not mean that I needn't add to my collection: I buy brushes the way gourmet cooks buy kitchenware, poring over catalogues of shiny, silver-chromed implements the rest of us have hardly heard of, let alone felt a need for.
Now I'm waiting for them to arrive. The anticipation builds. This is exciting, and I'll tell you more tomorrow!
PW
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
August 26, 2009
I stepped outside on a fresh, foggy morning last week and felt that undeniable hint of fall weather, though I'm hard put to identify just what the markers are. Nevertheless, it's coming. This is the inevitable truth that haunts every summer's day, every balmy, open windowed night of crickets and cicadas, every full flowered garden: Fall is coming. While, in early summer, I can chase the threat away, that's harder to do at the end of August.
Last winter I just about perished from the sad-and-fat syndrome, and I dread the onset of those short, dark, cold days when the shroud of it hovers before dropping again.
The disabling characteristics came in a group: inability to create, inability to move, inability to shake the overarching sadness, inability to eat sensibly. One subsists on a diet of television and chocolate. I'm going to apply every bit of imagination I can muster to fend off the blahs, but the prospect of the campaign make me tired at the outset.
Actually, so far, so good. But tomorrow waits in the wings.....
PW
Last winter I just about perished from the sad-and-fat syndrome, and I dread the onset of those short, dark, cold days when the shroud of it hovers before dropping again.
The disabling characteristics came in a group: inability to create, inability to move, inability to shake the overarching sadness, inability to eat sensibly. One subsists on a diet of television and chocolate. I'm going to apply every bit of imagination I can muster to fend off the blahs, but the prospect of the campaign make me tired at the outset.
Actually, so far, so good. But tomorrow waits in the wings.....
PW
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
August 25, 2009
I've about had it with arts and crafts fairs. I went to one known around the state as "high end," and it was extremely tiresome. Quantity is not quality and, after a long haul past one booth after another in full summer sun in the midst of people's kids, everything begins to look the same: one jewelry display looks like every other jewelry display, one woodturners' beautiful wares look like every other woodturner's wares, one shelf of ceramic coffee cups looks like every shelf of coffee cups. What's worse, the whole craft fair looks like all the other craft fairs one has attended since the beginning of time. The tents are the same, the amplified music is the same, the sno-cones are the same, the presence of religious handiwork is the same.
I think entries should be juried (which defeats the purpose of the local arts and crafts fair, I'm sure), so that you see less but better stuff. That way, though you'd be tired after winding through it, but you'd be able to see and make sense of more. I'll bet they'd sell more. The planners could say, "We're going to have three (or four, whatever) bead jewelry booths." All beaders who want to show would present samples of work and the three best, whose jewelry demonstrated the greatest variety in bead jewelry, would be selected for show. So it would go for all media. There'd be no booth rental but a percentage of sales.
I have, also, formulated plans for world peace. I've no doubt they'll be just as easy to implement as this reorganization of the arts and crafts fair.
Always glad to help.
PW
I think entries should be juried (which defeats the purpose of the local arts and crafts fair, I'm sure), so that you see less but better stuff. That way, though you'd be tired after winding through it, but you'd be able to see and make sense of more. I'll bet they'd sell more. The planners could say, "We're going to have three (or four, whatever) bead jewelry booths." All beaders who want to show would present samples of work and the three best, whose jewelry demonstrated the greatest variety in bead jewelry, would be selected for show. So it would go for all media. There'd be no booth rental but a percentage of sales.
I have, also, formulated plans for world peace. I've no doubt they'll be just as easy to implement as this reorganization of the arts and crafts fair.
Always glad to help.
PW
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
August 18, 2009
I think the earlier disaster has been redeemed. I still haven't found the nerve to put varnish over it. Time will tell soon enough.
We took the trip to West Jefferson, where they have all sorts of amenities for artists, and I'm left with two questions: What, exactly is meant by "amenities," and Is there a danger in expecting the Arts Council to do everything for us as artists?
By amenities, I mean first of all an atmosphere that is welcoming to artists, in which artists are appreciated and our artworks are respected. Perhaps the city would like municipal places and objects adorned; perhaps the city coould purchase one painting a year from an artist and rotate the honor. Then come the shows, festivals, and projects--some of which are coordinated with the performing arts..
Should we want the Arts Council to do everything for us? It's tempting, because the one in Ashe County is so successful and has so many projects in the works. But a still, small voice tells me that, if we are to thrive, we need to be fully responsible for our own marketing and exposure.
There won't be any easy answers, no matter what ball we can get rolling.
PW
We took the trip to West Jefferson, where they have all sorts of amenities for artists, and I'm left with two questions: What, exactly is meant by "amenities," and Is there a danger in expecting the Arts Council to do everything for us as artists?
By amenities, I mean first of all an atmosphere that is welcoming to artists, in which artists are appreciated and our artworks are respected. Perhaps the city would like municipal places and objects adorned; perhaps the city coould purchase one painting a year from an artist and rotate the honor. Then come the shows, festivals, and projects--some of which are coordinated with the performing arts..
Should we want the Arts Council to do everything for us? It's tempting, because the one in Ashe County is so successful and has so many projects in the works. But a still, small voice tells me that, if we are to thrive, we need to be fully responsible for our own marketing and exposure.
There won't be any easy answers, no matter what ball we can get rolling.
PW
Thursday, August 13, 2009
August 13, 2009
Some of my stuff seems to be snake bit from the beginning. All I wanted for this one was a smooth gray background, minimal figuration, and a varnish. The first thing that went wrong was the gray field: It was streaked and not one color, even after three coats. Then it was the figuration, so I ripped it off with pliers and rather liked the remains, thinking I'd keep the design. I needed to bring the gray up to the new edge of the figuration, which now did not match the gray of the background. That meant a new gray background. I'd forgotten the specific formula for that gray, so the background was becoming a different (wrong) color.
Finally it seemed to be finished, and I applied picture varnish to the whole thing, feeling that I'd put infinitely more effort into this "simple" piece than I ever dreamed necessary--only to find that it had dried milky and full of tiny bubbles like acne. Worse than that, the whole gray background was again multicolored and smeared. I threw that bottle of varnish in the trash.
I sanded the acne and mixed a new batch of gray and began the process all over again. It looks fine. All that's needed is the final application of picture varnish. Should I or shouldn't I?
Am I willing to screw this up for the hope of a final coat? There's no reason it should go wrong--except that everything else connected to this piece has--and I'm a great believer in the chance-taking facet of artmaking. Besides. Life's a gamble.
PW
Finally it seemed to be finished, and I applied picture varnish to the whole thing, feeling that I'd put infinitely more effort into this "simple" piece than I ever dreamed necessary--only to find that it had dried milky and full of tiny bubbles like acne. Worse than that, the whole gray background was again multicolored and smeared. I threw that bottle of varnish in the trash.
I sanded the acne and mixed a new batch of gray and began the process all over again. It looks fine. All that's needed is the final application of picture varnish. Should I or shouldn't I?
Am I willing to screw this up for the hope of a final coat? There's no reason it should go wrong--except that everything else connected to this piece has--and I'm a great believer in the chance-taking facet of artmaking. Besides. Life's a gamble.
PW
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
August 12, 2009
Despite all the rhetoric to the contrary, I don't think a woman can be a dedicated anything (artist, academic, scientist, etc.) and be a decent mother at the same time, in the same life. Denying this is wishful thinking, if I'm to look at myself, my friends, and our domestic situations.
Elizabet Ney was an unparalleled sculptress of the 19th century, and one of my favorite characters of all time. She and her husband, a Dr. Montgomery, came to east Texas from Germany (I think) to create a social utopia. Obviously, they failed in this, so he plied his craft as a horse and buggy doctor, and she pursued her own interests. The locals found her "odd." She lived in a large, Victorian home near Hempstead, Texas, wore "trousers, bobbed her hair, and smoked cigars." Worst of all, she herself cremated the body of her infant son. She moved to Austin, now the state's capital, and lived in a hovel on the outskirts of town for the rest of her life, sculpting.
It is her statues of Stephen F. Austin and Sam Houston that live in Washington's Hall of Statuary as Texas' "favorite sons." She is featured and exhibited in the Institute of Texan Cultures in San Antonio, clearly the most notable of all Texas artists until that time.
Referring to her move away from east Texas to the capital city, the narrative in her exhibit says, "Having failed miserably as a mother, by her own reckoning, she shifted her focus to sculpting..." She knew, even back then, that each was a calling of totality in time, effort, and commitment.
No one could be a more ardent feminist than I, but none of us is Superwoman. We can't have it all, do it all, or be all of it: They lied to us. We still must choose, and there will be a price. If we refuse to do that, the choice will be made for us by others and by circumstance.
PW
Elizabet Ney was an unparalleled sculptress of the 19th century, and one of my favorite characters of all time. She and her husband, a Dr. Montgomery, came to east Texas from Germany (I think) to create a social utopia. Obviously, they failed in this, so he plied his craft as a horse and buggy doctor, and she pursued her own interests. The locals found her "odd." She lived in a large, Victorian home near Hempstead, Texas, wore "trousers, bobbed her hair, and smoked cigars." Worst of all, she herself cremated the body of her infant son. She moved to Austin, now the state's capital, and lived in a hovel on the outskirts of town for the rest of her life, sculpting.
It is her statues of Stephen F. Austin and Sam Houston that live in Washington's Hall of Statuary as Texas' "favorite sons." She is featured and exhibited in the Institute of Texan Cultures in San Antonio, clearly the most notable of all Texas artists until that time.
Referring to her move away from east Texas to the capital city, the narrative in her exhibit says, "Having failed miserably as a mother, by her own reckoning, she shifted her focus to sculpting..." She knew, even back then, that each was a calling of totality in time, effort, and commitment.
No one could be a more ardent feminist than I, but none of us is Superwoman. We can't have it all, do it all, or be all of it: They lied to us. We still must choose, and there will be a price. If we refuse to do that, the choice will be made for us by others and by circumstance.
PW
Sunday, August 9, 2009
August 9, 2009
This coming weekend, several artists in the county are traveling together to the mountains to see some successful art programs there. The Arts Council is expecting us, we'll be royally treated, and we'll come home wondering what it would take to have these amenities in our little redneck corner of the Western Piedmont.
What it will take is the fervor of many local artists who are willing to make the sacrifices in time, effort, and any useful personal resources to see it happen. Since I am the one who has beat the drum the loudest, I fear it will land on me to be the sustained inspiration for all this. I see a problem here: I have enough trouble trying to sustain my own inspiration. Being the driving force behind a Cause, Movement, or Vision really is a bridge too far.
I've agreed with myself to just see what happens. If it takes off, it was an idea appearing at the right time and place. If it doesn't, the time for the idea was wrong. In that case, it must be carrried forward by younger artists of willing spirits....
PW
What it will take is the fervor of many local artists who are willing to make the sacrifices in time, effort, and any useful personal resources to see it happen. Since I am the one who has beat the drum the loudest, I fear it will land on me to be the sustained inspiration for all this. I see a problem here: I have enough trouble trying to sustain my own inspiration. Being the driving force behind a Cause, Movement, or Vision really is a bridge too far.
I've agreed with myself to just see what happens. If it takes off, it was an idea appearing at the right time and place. If it doesn't, the time for the idea was wrong. In that case, it must be carrried forward by younger artists of willing spirits....
PW
Saturday, August 8, 2009
August 8, 2009
I saw a special on television not long ago about a young painter in California (where else?) who'd had a stroke. She was a pretty good painter before the stroke, but not terrific; she desperately wanted to be. She was spending her life very focused on trying to get better.
After the stroke, she was quite impaired: Her speech was affected, her gait, her coordination. Additionally--somehow--she had become a fantastic painter overnight. It was more than just a new quirkiness in brush handling or "style." Her work had achieved another level of accomplishment altogether.
I can tell you as I sit here that this would not have been my outcome. Following a stroke, I would be forever in a wheelchair without a clue as to my name, let alone what painting is.
I guess we should be grateful for whatever it is we have.
PW
After the stroke, she was quite impaired: Her speech was affected, her gait, her coordination. Additionally--somehow--she had become a fantastic painter overnight. It was more than just a new quirkiness in brush handling or "style." Her work had achieved another level of accomplishment altogether.
I can tell you as I sit here that this would not have been my outcome. Following a stroke, I would be forever in a wheelchair without a clue as to my name, let alone what painting is.
I guess we should be grateful for whatever it is we have.
PW
Thursday, August 6, 2009
August 6, 2009
It's interesting that Plato didn't like art of any sort--vilified theater strongly--because he thought its purpose was to create a mere appearance of physical Reality, which was already "one removed" from Truth. Art was dishonest.
This attitude of Plato can exist only where there is an Absolute Truth to be perceived by everyone, not "your" truth, or "my" truth, or differing but equally weighted points of view. It was the same in the USSR and Nazi Germany, where artists hungered for the opportunity to do what they could do and share it with the world. The Hermitage is filled with Impressionists' paintings not available for local viewing because the artists were demonstrating that perception was individual, fleeting, and valuable in itself. (Only Western guests were allowed in to see the collection.)
My favorite Expressionist, Nolde, created lovely landscapes. He was told by the Nazis to paint propaganda pictures, and he shrugged off the invitation, preferring his poppies blowing on a hillside. The SS broke into his home and dragged him out by the heels, and no one ever saw him again. Fortunately some of his works survived.
We love Plato's organized mind, and he deserves his towering place in history; but his opposition to art is very telling about his philosophy: There is One truth and our job is to learn it as best we can. That has precipitated the eternal carnage of all human history.
PW
This attitude of Plato can exist only where there is an Absolute Truth to be perceived by everyone, not "your" truth, or "my" truth, or differing but equally weighted points of view. It was the same in the USSR and Nazi Germany, where artists hungered for the opportunity to do what they could do and share it with the world. The Hermitage is filled with Impressionists' paintings not available for local viewing because the artists were demonstrating that perception was individual, fleeting, and valuable in itself. (Only Western guests were allowed in to see the collection.)
My favorite Expressionist, Nolde, created lovely landscapes. He was told by the Nazis to paint propaganda pictures, and he shrugged off the invitation, preferring his poppies blowing on a hillside. The SS broke into his home and dragged him out by the heels, and no one ever saw him again. Fortunately some of his works survived.
We love Plato's organized mind, and he deserves his towering place in history; but his opposition to art is very telling about his philosophy: There is One truth and our job is to learn it as best we can. That has precipitated the eternal carnage of all human history.
PW
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
August 5, 2009
Another strange turn of events in artmaking is stumbling across the quickie that works. This is the flip side of the laborious turkey: the happy accident that lays itself on the canvas with a minimum of effort in the shortest period of time, a one-shot deal that gets it right on the first try.
I've mulled this over for the Blog in the past. I'm just reminding myself to take it in stride, because it's happening again. I must remember to keep a level perspective on what I make and the way I have to make it: It's never a sign of successes to come, but rather an unexpected, unearned treat to be enjoyed as one can.
As they say, "Even an old, blind hog finds an acorn once in awhile."
Ever onward!!
PW
I've mulled this over for the Blog in the past. I'm just reminding myself to take it in stride, because it's happening again. I must remember to keep a level perspective on what I make and the way I have to make it: It's never a sign of successes to come, but rather an unexpected, unearned treat to be enjoyed as one can.
As they say, "Even an old, blind hog finds an acorn once in awhile."
Ever onward!!
PW
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
August 4, 2009
There is a serendipidous aspect to making art, but I don't know how significant a part of the process it is. In collage, it is huge: Should I make a lopsided shape with an extension to go here? Should I not? Rather, should I use the piece I dug up from the bottom of the scrap box simply because I already have it saved from time gone by, and it's my own scrap?
Think of this question presented to a sculptor: How hard do I press here with my thumbs? Do I want a serious hole, or just a subtle one? What is my natural impulse?
What do I need to do that results in something uniquely mine and, if possible, successful?
There is a quote from a Japanese Sumi painter that I included in a piece I did last year: "There are no mistakes. Where my brush goes, there am I today. And I am dancing in my own landscape."
Today, I vow to go where my brush leads and just try to dance in my own landscape!
PW
Think of this question presented to a sculptor: How hard do I press here with my thumbs? Do I want a serious hole, or just a subtle one? What is my natural impulse?
What do I need to do that results in something uniquely mine and, if possible, successful?
There is a quote from a Japanese Sumi painter that I included in a piece I did last year: "There are no mistakes. Where my brush goes, there am I today. And I am dancing in my own landscape."
Today, I vow to go where my brush leads and just try to dance in my own landscape!
PW
Sunday, August 2, 2009
August 2, 2009
Sorry about not having written. Yesterday was my birthday, and tomorrow is my dental surgery. On this day in between, I just feel older and feebler.
Last night my friends surprised me with a celebration. In the course of it, one remarked that she was not in the least creative. When I hear something like this, I try to put another thought on the table, but it doesn't change anyone's mind. I think that we, as artists, have done a number on people and have succeeded very well. We've convinced them that, unless the Art Fairy flitted over their cradles and touched them with their wands, or unless they completed a university degree in Fine Art, they cannot claim to be "creative," or choose wallpaper with any degree of confidence.
Thomas Aquinas defined Art as, "Right reason about that which is to be made." Made is the significant word, here. Have you tried to influence your children to become good people? Do you take pride in your garden? The quilt you made? The flowers you placed on the table? The golf swing you practiced a milliion times? Your excellent moves on a skateboard? The pot of stew your mother taught you how to make? The efficient system you designed and put into place for organizing the office? The kind of person you've turned out to be? (And that's the most important.) Well, these are the earmarks of creativity, in my book. And if you dress with an eye for color and style, you're artistic.
Maybe because we were afraid that our art was unimportant, we hid it in mystery. There is something off-putting about "specialized" knowledge. We convinced the world that we were the only ones who knew, and then we wondered why the other people claim ignorance. I, who have devoted much of her life to fine art, deliberately and with force, refer to myself as an "artist," wondering if the listener/reader will think me presumptuous and pompous.
Tomorrow I face my crucible. I hope I make a good job of it. I hope I do it artistically.
PW
Last night my friends surprised me with a celebration. In the course of it, one remarked that she was not in the least creative. When I hear something like this, I try to put another thought on the table, but it doesn't change anyone's mind. I think that we, as artists, have done a number on people and have succeeded very well. We've convinced them that, unless the Art Fairy flitted over their cradles and touched them with their wands, or unless they completed a university degree in Fine Art, they cannot claim to be "creative," or choose wallpaper with any degree of confidence.
Thomas Aquinas defined Art as, "Right reason about that which is to be made." Made is the significant word, here. Have you tried to influence your children to become good people? Do you take pride in your garden? The quilt you made? The flowers you placed on the table? The golf swing you practiced a milliion times? Your excellent moves on a skateboard? The pot of stew your mother taught you how to make? The efficient system you designed and put into place for organizing the office? The kind of person you've turned out to be? (And that's the most important.) Well, these are the earmarks of creativity, in my book. And if you dress with an eye for color and style, you're artistic.
Maybe because we were afraid that our art was unimportant, we hid it in mystery. There is something off-putting about "specialized" knowledge. We convinced the world that we were the only ones who knew, and then we wondered why the other people claim ignorance. I, who have devoted much of her life to fine art, deliberately and with force, refer to myself as an "artist," wondering if the listener/reader will think me presumptuous and pompous.
Tomorrow I face my crucible. I hope I make a good job of it. I hope I do it artistically.
PW
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