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.
Prairie and Painting, a Process View
Working on our land and working in the studio seem to me to be two sides of the same coin. Both are connections to nature, rooted deeply in earth and sky, both feed the soul, one reflects the other reflects the other.
This week we burned the prairie, and while it'll remain charred all winter, in the spring, the wildflowers and native tall grasses will flourish. The painting that arose from the experience carries the feeling of the day.
Back to Tree Skeletons and Monotones
It's shocking to be back in the Midwest. The north wind blows through wool layers, the trees are bare and there are only the palest hues. There's been one hoary frost, that reminds me of winter's beauty.
Usually cold weather elicits a warm palette in the studio for balance, but right now, maybe just in the transition, it feels insincere. The monotones are reflected in the studio.
A trip to the Bloch Building at the Nelson-Atkins Museum, offered a quick transformation. Walking into the building is to be enveloped within a many hued white sculpture. As always, spending time in front of William Baziotes' Crescent, reaches deeply into the warmth of being. The tag describing it, is pure nourishment for a cold February day. https://art.nelson-atkins.org/objects/4685/crescent ,
The next morning, a little shadow and light feels like a visual ballet.
The beach is the barest memory...