Sand, Sun, Sea
Things have gotten so quiet and simple. Canvas dipped in the Gulf and laid out on the sand to work.
Work, read, film, walk.
Boat ride to the mainland. Boat ride back.
An outdoor shower, dogs, sunset.
Sand, Sun, Sea.
All of a piece, no separation.
The Intimacy of the Present Moment, and Painting
Meditation is at the very core of my work. I don't use mantras or much breath work or lotus positions, but rather sit comfortably and quietly, resting in the rich experience of what is happening at that very moment. It's truly resting; there is nothing to do, to work on, to adjust, except noticing and being totally and completely present and aware. Thoughts don't stop, but they are noticed as thoughts and the attention remains on the razor's edge of the moment. In a sense, Jane disappears, the experience of the world comes to the forefront. While it may sound detached, it's a very intimate experience.
Years ago I created a conceptual video to describe the process, here's the short version, and while all is pretty quiet, the music reflects the drama of one's thoughts:
My view is, most of humanity has evolved increasingly towards using our thoughts to interpret the world, which is quite useful at times but has robbed us of our actual, lived experience. Mostly we experience the world by how we think about it. For the kind of painting I do, engaging in a fixed mental state is not conducive to the flow of creativity. Surely thinking and analysis is useful along the way, but not useful as the energy that springs into motion and begins creativity. I'm interested in reflecting that felt sense of the world, and to do so, all of me must be connected to everything around and inside of me.
Photo credit, Julie Denesha
So I sit, sometimes before beginning to work, more usually in the midst of a painting flurry, when thoughts take over, to stop and settle and reconnect with what is being experienced. Tuning in to what is felt, heard, being fully aware, using this beautiful instrument of the human body to open up to the surrounding environment, and to the universe.
To me, this is not woo-woo, it's "not out there" in any way, it's what is real. It's extremely intimate. Therefore while the paintings become public, they come from my deepest experiences, appearing on canvas in the most honest way I can muster. They are a window into this being's experience of the world.
The Island, and the Natural State
I’m living and working on an island off the gulf coast of Florida, unconnected to land by even a bridge..
We come here in January when it can be stormy and cold, very raw, and hardly anyone else is here.
There’s electricity and water on this laid back beach house with few amenities, and minimal cell coverage. There’s nothing for sale on the island, not even a cup of coffee.
It takes a lot to get settled into this small home on stilts, bringing by boat 3 dogs and enough groceries and batteries and jackets and books and painting supplies to last a few weeks.
Our beloved goddaughter is always our only visitor, and stays for a week. We celebrate our twin birthdays, fish, read tarot cards, explore matters of the heart, and all things creative.
When she leaves, I get very quiet. It's an island retreat.
I’ve set up a studio in the sand under this house-on-stilts, a table made from stray wood planks, a water hose and a clothesline set up to hang wet canvases.
I’m rereading Anne Morrow Lindberg’s book “A Gift from the Sea”, published in 1955, written when she lived alone on a very primitive island off the Florida coast for two weeks, leaving her husband and five children at home. She writes: “How wonderful are islands!.... an island from the world and the world’s life….The past and the future are cut off; only the present remains. Existence in the present gives island living an extreme vividness and purity. One lives like a child or a saint in the immediacy of here and now. Every day, every act, is an island, washed by time and space, and has an island’s completion.”
Photo credit: EJ Rost
I'm keenly interested right now in what I'd call the natural state, sometimes called a state of grace, which is nurtured by being on this island. I'm giving my all to peel away the layers that allow this to be seen, felt, lived. Not some ethereal idea of grace, but actually moving through one’s world with ease, something from deep inside. I realized early on that it’s vital for my work as a painter, but what's experienced from living in this state goes far beyond that. This is a decades long focus, but recently I've been laser focused on it. It feels urgent.
This idea of a state of grace showed up in Lindberg’s book last night, as she writes of her wish to fulfill her obligations: “But I want first of all—in fact, as an end to these other desires—to be at peace with myself. I want a singleness of eye, a purity of intention, a central core to my life that will enable me to carry out these obligations and activities as well as I can. I want, in fact—to borrow from the language of the saints—to live “in grace” as much of the time as possible. I am not using this term in a strictly theological sense. By grace I mean an inner harmony, essentially spiritual, which can be translated into outward harmony. I am seeking perhaps what Socrates asked for in the prayer from the Phaedrus when he said, “May the outward and inward man be at one.” I would like to achieve a state of inner spiritual grace from which I could function and give as I was meant to in the eye of God.”.
There's nothing new in her words, many have written about this, but right now I feel this deeply. Isn't this what we all long for?
For me, it takes a long time on this island to settle into what Lindberg is describing. I tend to work very hard through the year, obsessively, both mentally and physically. I can run myself to complete exhaustion, with nothing left to offer. This happened in 2018, and by the end of the year, my well was dry. When I got here this year, the marionette strings that animate me through the year, are still pulling arms legs and mind. It’s stunning to see how contracted and incessant my inner world shows itself to be, and what a stark contrast to living on this quiet island that has little else on it but sea, sand and birds.
But now, and at last, the surf is taking me, through sound and osmosis. It's allowing me to join a different pace, tune in to the wind, the pelicans, the never-ending crashing of waves, the sand that settles into everything, the brilliant evening sky that glows for an entire hour after sunset. From this calm and conscious place in one's being, is the very richest place to create, to work, coming from pure source.
From this place, expression simply happens, as Lindberg describes "....and give as I was meant to in the eye of God.”. The hand picks up a pencil, or a camera, or a bunch of lumber from a dumpster, to assemble, draw, photograph, write. It's so interesting to work from this balanced place, there’s no concern or idea of error. What is beautiful remains, what is awkward is simply smoothed into another shape, or obscured by a wash, easy as a river flows, with no burden of right or wrong.
I've slowed this movie down to see the sea's movement.
Certainly all of us know what it's like to solve creative problems from this open, expansive state of grace. Not just those of us involved with the arts, but most everyone who is putting together a project, developing plans or solving problems with a customer, a child, a loved one, have experienced this ease of creative movement when in a state of grace.
This long time spent here allows the well to fill up, entirely, and nourishes my work/me through the year. At last, my mind and body settle, not moving from one activity to the next, not anxiously needing to paint, to express, not trying to be productive, but to live and breathe and if it's offered, to paint.
Journalistic Abstraction
There's a journalistic component to my abstract work, coming from the neighborhood of the subconscious. If I try to cook up a visual idea of some event or place, the painting turns out to be a remote translation - stilted and awkward, lifeless. If I am able to paint with a more open focus, working from a felt sense of color and mark in a conversant way, there's a better chance of mining something more authentic, and the painting can carry something closer to the direct experience of my surroundings and recent history. It's an odd thing to try to describe from a process experience, but evident in the work itself.
Having recently returned from living on a quiet island off the Florida coast, some of the work that has emerged continues to reflect the memory of the seashore, the high winds and storms of January, the ocean and sky teeming with life. There's a sense of the experience of living and walking and swimming there, taking in the sea oats grasses, dunes, occasional turquoise waters and washed up lobster baskets. Also the sea life shows up: tunneling hermit crabs, fish wriggling down a pelican's long throat and being swallowed whole, starfish, clams, octopuses, blow fish, scallops, mullet, fish bones washing up on the shore. A few painting details shown here:
Below, I've included a painting image from an earlier post along with a photo of the woods near the studio, to look at the the different imagery arising from experiencing the midwest in February: north winds, silvery tree skeletons, golden sedge grasses and the hardy wildlife that survives the harsh winters.
Getting a Few Things Off My Chest
I've been rattled by events of the world, and wasn't able to let the angst go in order to work in the studio, so I invited the misery in and pinned up a canvas to get a few things off my chest. It was very helpful, and while I softened some of the initial output with more marks and washes, the cacophony of words and imagery were pleasing. In this video, the painting is nearly complete.
How Paintings Begin Sometimes
Paintings don't begin with paint. There's canvas to unroll, size, dampen, colors to mix. Even then sometimes it feels good to simply be in the studio for awhile, checking brooms and brushes, watering the plants, opening the windows, staring out at the landscape, until there's not a sense of time, but rather of being aware.
I usually start a painting the day before I'm going to work on it - getting the basics out of the way, and maybe laying down atmosphere, pouring thinned pigments and mediums into the raw canvas, letting it dry completely. The second day, it may get pinned up on the wall, and internally driven mark making process begins.
Sometimes, however, there's a piece of fabric or a form, or a line that had been seen on a Grecian urn, that ignites something inside me. This painting began with a begonia leaf, and later a pink bloom from a geranium. Usually the actual form is simply a catalyst, but this time the mark making came directly from these items.
Working in the Studio, and a Fresh Coat of Paint
I worked on many canvases over the last few months, many of them pinned up on the walls at one time.
It really helps the process to move from canvas to canvas, sometimes getting stuck and moving on to freshen up my eyes. When the canvases are wildly varied like these, it keeps me untied, and in a mode of discovery. Having many to work on at one time with no hurry to complete, felt so luxurious, and allowed them to unfold naturally.
Having completed most of the work, it was time to document, photograph, inventory and notify galleries - the nuts and bolts of the business.
Having done that, I decided it was time for a fresh coat of paint:
A fresh start! It seems so quiet here now. Imagining the stillness could be reflected in the next body of work.
Saturday Painting Frenzy
Saturdays have long been my favorite studio day. Even though I work every day, the luxuriousness of a Saturday from my corporate days lingers. The phone rarely rings, my favorite radio station has good music programs, and it feels free and unfettered.
Yesterday was wild - fast and furious energy, I pulled some older canvases to rework (always free-ing) and kept the camera going to watch the progression of some narrative work. When watching them all together this morning, these time lapses seem to capture the frenzy. Mozart's Symphony #25 sets the perfect pace.
The work is unfinished.
Immersion - Working Into the Night
I'm working on large scale narratives, and immersed in the studio, always alone, keeping focused. Language is uttered in color and mark. The large scale work is exciting, being much larger than I am, and the physicality of harmonizing the painting by moving from one end to the other makes it feel like we are one.
Often I'll shoot videos to watch the progress, slowing them down to see if I am leaving a better painting under the one that it becomes. Strangely, being shot as time lapse, it feels impersonal, and I'm comfortable posting the process.
This one tracks the sun lowering in the sky and eventually darkening into night. If I have enough snacks and water, there is no sense of early or late; as long as the energy is flowing, the work does too.
Photography Day, June 2016
This minute long film is from a time lapse that spanned 8 hours. Surely we walk five miles plus on Photography Day.
Music: Mozart Sonata in D for 2 Pianos, K 448, Molto Allegro, Murray Perahia and Radu Lupu
Photography Day - April 2016
With EG Schempf and Cassie Rhodes, respectively, Photographer and Studio Assistant extraordinaire.
Music by Beethoven, Piano Sonata #21 In C, Op. 53, Waldstein, 1. Allegro Con Brio, played by Emil Gilits
Photography Day
Photography day is always fun, with E.G. Schempf - photographer and Cassie Rhodes - assistant.
Music: Beethoven: Piano Sonata No.21 in C, "Waldstein"
A Short and Poetic Film About Building a Sculpture (the Studio), with Cello
While I've been in the new studio for nearly a year, the collaberative design and construction remains a memorable project, yielding a giant, functional sculpture. I recently swept together all of digital miles of video taken during the construction, and asked Gigi Harris, a talented young filmmaker, to make this piece.
Starring roles:
The general contracting (and construction) by Leon Morgan, construction and electrical by Keith Meeks, framing and roofing by John Ediger and crew, sheetrock by Ray Williamson crew, concrete by Dave Rockers and crew, Polygal installation by John Davis crew, water work by the Kenny Sloans, HVAC by GK Smith crew. Combine moving by Leon and Keith. Bin moving by Leon M., Keith M. and John H. (bin and combine events were spectacular). I worked between shifts.
The visionary architect: Steve Bowling, Hive Design Collaberative
The Impact of the New Studio - A Photojournalist's View
Kansas City's esteemed photojournalist Julie Denesha was interested in the impact of the new studio on my work. It was an honor to be interviewed and photographed by her while working. The resulting product is here, click the "Listen" button below photos for the interview:
con·crete: adjective/ 1. existing in a material or physical form; real or solid; not abstract.
Like most artists, I've always carved out a place to work that had one criteria: available space. Working for years in a 100 year old sleeping porch without heat or cooling; on the living room floor covered in plastic; pinning canvases on round hay bales to finish; tacking canvases up on the side of the house or barn, and on clotheslines. Most recently I've been working between an abandoned basketball court and an upstairs bedroom with a wall knocked out, hauling paints and water and extension cords out to the court 50 yards from the house, hefting stained canvases back upstairs to finish, stretching canvases in the front hall, storing in the basement, maneuvering large finished work over a balcony when it won't go down the stairs. So many stairs, so many 30 yard rolls of canvases and hoses and cords and pounds of paints and brushes on the move.
After years of dreaming and planning for this new studio, I've begun working on the completed concrete pads that are on two sides of the studio. There's shade, water, electricity. The surface of the concrete is perfectly to spec: a tiny bit of texture to prevent slipping when it's wet, but not enough to impact brush strokes on raw canvases laying flat, and smooth enough to avoid tearing up bare feet. Sawed cracks form golden ratios in key places for cutting canvases to size. It tilts a little less than industry standard, 1" over 15', so the paint will stay put when poured on canvas. The canvases can move directly from the pad, up 3 stairs and inside the studio to eventually pin on walls. The paints move on a table on wheels between work areas.
The ease and grace! Looking up from the intensity of the design, details, numbers, drawings and actual building, I'm catching a glimmer of how this can be.
The ever changing concrete patinas begin.
Connection, On and Off Court
Working extra large the last warm days in November, relishing the vast elbow room of the open air on the basketball court -
In part because I kept forgetting to bring the scissors, it grew wider, then wider.
I don't quite want to dip- or triptych it yet. It's called Connection and is 68"x204"(17').
The details...
Indulgence
Following a season of exhibitions, the dominant response in the studio is indulgence. Intense, garish colors are sought in all things - dreams, clothes, brilliantly hued foods on a plate - as well as on new canvases. As if to get something out of my system, I gave a week over to undisciplined unwieldy creative energy, abandoning any notion of a finished product or a successful painting. Slices of canvases follow.
I secretly love to pour color and tip canvases, lifting 90 degrees the other way, rivulets forming grids. The many-squared patterns satisfy something in my brain that wants to feel order, especially within randomness, ever since getting scrambled from a head injury several years ago.
The studio floor is the ongoing most beautiful, ever-changing chaos of all.
Magenta can be a reach for depth, showing up often as drama, and I’ve been trying to avoid it, so of course it showed up too, and not subtly.
Red washed over a completely dry gray blue made this hash of eggplant with silvery shadows.
In this attitude, there were no failures this week. The primaries were wheeled out as well as their brashly conjoined color wheel opposites, and laid one over the other to make welcome dark hot tones interspersed with nondescript muddy colors. They were painted for the sheer joy of watching.
Pattern, Painting and a Pig
While painting these last few weeks, there was no conscious concept of a wet spring snow, an old Ford grill, or a pig in a pen, but those images are all imbedded in recent memory, and have shown up on canvas. Simple snapshots that caught my eye, as well as the more laborious and focused photographs of finished work, were all nestled together on my computer by date, and inspired this piece on visual process.
The Pig, and Dissolution Part I
The Ford, the Galvanized bin, and detail of Linear Series - Shadow Barcode.
Song Birds, Ribbons of Blackbirds and the Doppler Affect
A blizzard blew in 12 inches of snow, creating a flurry of bird activity at the feeders.
Within a short time, the dominant Red Winged Blackbirds took over the feeders, leaving the songbirds out on a limb.
We'd kept the songbirds fed all winter, and here it was, a major winter storm, with their food source unavailable, and bitterly cold! I wondered how much feed it would take to have enough for any bird that showed up, and scattered 30 more pounds of seed (20 pounds already out) in ten raised bed boxes, and within minutes, there were ten boxes of Red Winged Blackbirds.
The sounds of their wings thrill. They take flight all at once, the wingbeats fading in and out like the doppler affect when a train going by, a f-f-f-d-d-d-dddddddddd-d-d-f then as they disappear.
The Blackbirds quickly became most interested in the ground seed in boxes. The songbirds returned and populated the feeders!
The joy of it built up until it was a sort of ecstatic energy, that ultimately led to painting, following the ribbons of movement.
In the studio: Six windows of birds, six - six foot paintings (The Bird Ribbons Series) are on the walls, another storm, fresh snow, more bird seed, and a spotted dog - bird movement seen and felt.