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.
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.
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.
Building a Studio: The Fluidity of Sheetrock
The sanding crew was warm and fluid this morning, and moved as one, finishing each step within a minute of each other.
This time lapse clip shows them perfectly orchestrated, and they were synchronized with the many guitars on the radio, which isn't heard now.
When they were packing up, I showed them this time lapse clip and they laughed uproariously, slapping their legs and taking their hats off, running their hands through their hair, HAHAHAHA!!
They kept laughing all the way down the 3/8 mile long driveway. Then I could hear them turn onto the pavement, still laughing. These patterns make me feel like my lungs are filled with oxygen.
Building a Studio
Five years of planning a new studio, now becoming a reality!
The tallest wall is 17', and the footprint is 32'x60', which will allow tacking up multiple large scale canvases at once to view and complete, as well giving the physical space to really breathe and expand. For years, in order to get perspective and fine tune the piece, I've been tacking huge canvases up on the side of the house on a windless day, or spreading large work out on the grass and climbing to the top of the house/studio, dashing up and down the stairs to pour paint and make marks.
The building process is extraordinarily beautiful, feeling much more like a large scale sculpture project, than building construction. Long thoughtful planning to consider shapes and balance, placing windows and doors for best light and to track the sun's movement, are now lifting off of the flat page and taking form! To walk under the trusses with the sun and sky above them, is to watch a beautifully choreographed, rhythmic dance.