a e s t h e t i c w o r k

A Changing Light on the Landscape

2012-01-16T16:02:00.000-05:00

Working on some new approaches to landscape painting, trying to avoid that "pat" formulaic technique -- tree here, water there, etc... Looking for the light, too. Not necessarily the beautiful light of a summer's day but rather the tempestuous light of a passing storm . . . scudding clouds roiling over a stretch of marshland in the early evening hours when shadows begin to creep across the land.

Passing Storms

oil on canvas

12 x 16

The other kind of light, which is much more difficult to capture, is the night. This painting, working from some photos I had taken at the Cape, was an attempt to evoke the light of a large, luminous moon. You know the type -- the one that looms up over the horizon while you're driving and you just about slam on the brakes because it is so awesomely beautiful it takes your breath away . . .

Harvest Moon

oil on canvas

9 x 12

Both are quite different in my approach as I truly beat these canvases to death, poor things, trying for that impressionistic, lost edge look. I painted, scraped back, etched with tip of the brush, smudged with fingers. You name, I think I did it. The camera shots are not good; I took them rather quickly as I brought down the show at Aetna, so my apologies. But with winter upon us I didn't think I'd have much opportunity to do a shoot outdoors, which is usually what I do to avoid costly professional photographer fees. It's also another reason why I usually paint on a smaller scale so I can scan the painting and then upload, print, etc.

Here are a few works that I've admired for years from the American Tonalist school of artists that painted in the late 19th century and early 20th century. Their works celebrated the natural landscape, especially in light of the encroaching industrialism in the East. Henry James wrote that their shared vision was one of experiencing the natural landscape as a "personal epiphany" -- ah, yes!

George Inness' Early Autumn, Montclair

James Whistler's Nocturne in Black and Gold

Charles Warren Eaton's Sunset Glow

Painting is by nature
a luminous language.

Robert Delaunay

Simple Gifts

2012-01-08T14:12:00.004-05:00

Although the weather here is not too bad, warm actually in comparison to last year at this time, one misses color. If you're a gardener, this is about the time when we pour over seed catalogs, planning for the spring. Today while food shopping I grabbed a lovely little pot of yellow kalanchoe, which now sits in the kitchen overlooking the dirty dishes -- ah, well, at least it's in the sun!

Trying to organize all my photos before the computer overloads and goes into a tailspin, I browsed through my flower pics -- Oh joy!!! So I thought I would share a few with you all, perhaps brighten your January afternoon --

There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.

Celia Thaxter

It's Wide Open Now

2011-12-21T15:56:00.001-05:00

It's wide open now. My blog, that is. Could be painting or it could move into another realm altogether, such as knitting, quilting, weaving -- even gardening when spring comes round again!

I have decided that this blog, as was originally intended, would be my space to explore and to share with others. It should not be a space to sell my work. I already have a website for my formal portfolio. That is enough. And I do not intend to immerse myself for hours on end between Facebook, Twitter and more blogs. After all, most fellow bloggers that I've come to know over the years are artists. So it is sort of preaching to the apostles, as the saying goes.

What have I been doing these past weeks to relax and find the joy once again? Returning to the terrain of fiber in its many forms -- knitting, quilting, a little weaving. Just trying to find a quiet space somewhere in the midst of this holiday madness. Here's my latest attempt -- knitting cables. Scary stuff, to me anyway. I'm making neck muffs for my daughters using a Norah Gaughan pattern from Berrocco:

and big beautiful yarns by Gedifra, heathered and textured like a Highland moor --

I just have to finish off the edges, add some funky buttons and voila! It's so good to feel something "grow" under your fingers; also to feel the rhythm of the needles and the yarn.

So it may be art next week; maybe something else. I can't guarantee anything. Life is too short to limit oneself, and there's so much to explore, even the small, seemingly insignificant counts.

I hope you'll stay with me and visit now and then. But if you don't, that's o.k., too.

Between Sky and Water

2011-11-21T16:27:00.001-05:00

A Clearing in the Distance

oil on canvas

8x10

Now that the vivid colors of autumn and summer have faded, drifting into piles of leaves and such, the subtle beauty of gray November days is here. It seems as if the light has changed, softened. And there is a paucity of distracting elements when looking out upon the landscape -- the crowds at the beaches have disappeared, only random dog-walkers, lovers and retirees wander across the sands. The skies seem more vast, true vistas rather than just blank, blue sky. Scudding clouds roil and tumble, nudging the watery sunlight here and there.

This small painting will be in the Aetna corporate show in a few weeks. I've decided, for organizational purposes, to follow a theme, something I've never had a chance to do before. Realms of Sky and Water is what I've decided to call it.

This is the smallest piece (8"x10") with the larger works coming in at about 24" x 30." I like the fact that I've returned to painting landscapes although I do love abstract also. Maybe it's a seasonal thing, but I feel as if late autumn affords the painter the last opportunity before the snows arrive and blanket everything in white (and we spend hours shoveling) --

After this show I think it will be time for a rest and to kick back and enjoy the coming holidays. I hope you all enjoy Thanksgiving (for those who celebrate it) and the holidays that follow shortly thereafter!

Getting to know Pastels

2011-11-09T16:21:00.002-05:00

A Gray Stillness with Pines

It's been a long time coming, my getting to know pastels. A kind of last frontier, you could say. I've written about this before -- the dust, the white shorts, the sense of clumsiness and frustration.

It's not that we all don't try to extend ourselves beyond the comfort zones we've come to know and love. It's just that, for me, there has always been this sense of embarrassment. I think in today's society, we tend to believe that "if I think it" or "if I study it" long enough, I have mastered it. Reminds me of the Holiday Inn Express commercial: because you stayed there, you are now capable of performing brain surgery or running a touchdown for Notre Dame. Pretty funny but probably truer than at first glance.

For several years now I've visited and admired other pastel artists' sites and blogs, marveling in the rich mixtures and nuances of pastel painting -- Casey Klahn is one in particular, another is Debora L. Stewart's abstract pastels. So I decided that whenever I travel, I will take this little box of pastels and a small 5" x 7" Strathmore Visual Journal sketchbook with me. Nothing can melt. Nothing is wet and sloppy. No squeezing tubes or dealing with smelly pseudo-turps. Here's what I've discovered (as if no one else has ever -- ha!):

pastels are immediate and they offer deep rich color or delicate mists --

they are fun to smudge -- like being back in the sandbox --

one is often tempted to eat them they are so yummy-looking (but I wouldn't recommend that -- every time you burp, you'd be sending out puffs of colored pastel dust) --

pastels seem to love the smooth surface of bristol paper --

spraying fixative really does work -- I've always been a skeptic of rules and guidelines --

yes, pastels are messy but a pack of baby wipes does wonders (and smell so good) --

So I think I have found my travel medium, my most satisfying sketch medium -- and maybe someday I'll progress to paintings on a larger scale. But one step at a time. For now, I've moved beyond the messy white shorts stage -- finally. Here are some sketches I did last weekend in my travels up to the last big quilt show up in northern New England:

Glow on the River

Road into the Berkshire Mountains

Update on Creative Paralysis & Procrastination

2011-10-27T16:00:00.000-04:00

So I've tried to follow what I wrote last week, trying to build up that "one thing" creative savings account throughout the week so that my weekends are relatively task-free.

Tuesday I did this one thing:

If you haven't heard about MOO cards, check it out -- it's fun, very user-friendly and you can't beat the price! I love the tips that other artists and marketers share. I will post a pic when I get mine next week.

Wednesday I did this one thing:

I have used this company before -- again, very efficient and easy on pricing: Documounts for custom-cut mats and backing, as well as a host of other accessories most artists need.

And today I cheated a bit -- nothing to help my art business but rather something to help my spirit. We all need that from time to time, don't we? I found Copper Canyon Press, a wonderful publisher of contemporary and international poetry. What I love about the site is that you can sample bits of poetry from the various books and then share them via email with friends and colleagues. Cool! If you download their catalog, you can browse through and read excerpts. That's where I found a backlist of Pablo Neruda's works -- excellent treat for such a wet and dreary day.

So now I've cleared the deck of "have-to-do's" and can devote that much more time to working on the art. I've still got so much more to do before the Hartford Open Studio weekend, but now I feel I've achieved a bit more balance by keeping the menial things off to one side.

Out of clutter find simplicity;

From discord find harmony;

In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.

Albert Einstein

Creative Paralysis

2011-10-21T14:40:00.001-04:00

Last weekend I was feeling overwhelmed with too many projects, deadlines for shows, my workspace cluttered and confusing, other demands on my time. I know that when this becomes unbearable, I become paralyzed with not knowing where to start, what to put aside and often just wondering where the heck is everything I need to get started?

So much you want to accomplish but so little time . . . sigh.

And then that growing stagnation, that feeling of why bother? begins to take hold. Did you hear that? That was the sound of your creative life coming to a screeching halt, of slamming into the wall of despair. This happens in my work life, too -- budgets, grant deadlines, building projects, keeping up with technology -- the list goes on and on.

What to do?

We've all heard it -- the whole is the sum of the parts, but sometimes there are just too many parts, and they tend to scatter like a herd of kittens. The solution is not to be overwhelmed by the big picture but to deal with the parts one at a time. Not easy to do in this society that thrives on multi-tasking, is it?

So back to basics, back to dealing with the one part, to distill all the lists to one element that is conquerable, do-able now, today, this minute, this hour.

Just do one thing today, just one thing that will help your art, your passion.

Just do one thing that will take no more than an hour, preferably less.

One thing, no matter how small or insignificant, that you can point to when done and say it is done.

One

Thing

And when you've finished, you will write that one accomplishment down and feel good about it.

And tomorrow you will start again -- just one thing.

And as the days go by, these one things will add up so that by the weekend you will not feel as stressed to get ALL things done because you've accrued these little one things all week, a kind of creative savings account.

And you can feel good about that.

Two books I recommend are:

Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit

Eric Maisel's Fearless Creating

2011-10-03T16:27:00.001-04:00

It's that time of year again. Autumn is creeping in, bringing roiling skies and chilled winds from the north. The light is fading earlier each evening and, no matter how I race home from work to grab a few minutes on the deck, I never quite make it, the light dipping down below the stand of pines . . .

This season is quite dull, so far. The tropical storms from late August ripped so many trees apart, scattering branches and leaves that now there isn't much for autumn to work with -- all is sere and brown. The splendor of a New England autumn is a faint memory from years past . . .

But the beauty of autumn is still there if one looks hard enough, long enough. Maybe it's not something you see but rather feel through the other senses -- the smell of the north winds, the crisp cold air that tingles and tantalizes, the first bite of pumpkin pie or a macintosh apple, the warmth one gathers from the fireplace, a truly wonderful spot to sit and dream . . .

weaving thoughts and memories around like so many strands of ribbon and yarn. And as the garden slowly moves into its yearly slumber, a stand of old bourbon roses waves as you wander by, lifting their drowsy heads to give one last scent, a parting gift . . .

A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively,

wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically

that he remakes it in his own image.

Joan Didion

(all artwork and photography by K. Marszycki)

Piecing One's Dreams

2011-09-20T16:24:00.000-04:00

What sits on the margins, forgotten, shoved aside in search of something "better?" In another effort to sift and sort, to organize my workspace, to dig and toss the detritus of years of making, one stumbles upon little projects, items that intrigued months, years ago . . . and then were shoved aside. Perhaps not intentionally, but life has a way of shoving the small aside, including people.

These were little works, bits of flotsam and jetsam, like puzzle pieces that I had pieced together for some reason, maybe for no other reason than that I love the idea of Italy, of traveling someday to Venice and Florence, to the Italian Lake District (remember that wonderful movie, A Month by the Lake, with Vanessa Redgrave?) or to the Italian Riviera (another great one, Enchanted April) --

So this was my way of bringing Italy closer to me, by finding an old 1920s Italian grammar book filled with lovely phrases, and making these small collages. And then something else came along, and they were slipped into a drawer until the other day.

Funny, though. Once again they brought a smile to my face, a fleeting glimpse of standing on a canal or on a seaside cliff, speaking Italian effortlessly with the locals, sipping golden wine alongside my husband who would be draped in a soft linen jacket and wearing a panama hat just like Edward Fox in A Month by the Lake (don't tell him about that point, though) . . .

Well, all I can say is that at least now I have finally renewed my passport -- that's a step in the right direction, which I believe is due east and about 3,000 miles away. Ah, some day . . .

Venice, the flattering and suspect beauty -

this city, half fairy tale

Still reeling after Irene

2011-09-07T16:53:00.000-04:00

Holding Back the Chaos

acrylic on yupo

It's been more than a week since hurricane Irene struck New England and we are still recovering. Odd to think that New England, particularly Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont, as well as the shorelines, took the brunt of Irene.

The community where I work is still without power in many areas and people are grappling with downed trees, wires, transformers and such. This is a fairly rural area and pumps and well water are out of commission, schools delayed, etc.

But what everyone is muttering about is the sense of disorientation, of having daily rhythms and routines disrupted, of being confused at to what day it is. It's as if summer never existed, just a faint memory as the rains continue and the temperatures drop. Whipped and destroyed trees are shedding leaves and roads are filled with downed leaves. It looks more like November than early September.

Chinese traditional medicine pays great heed to the junctures of changing seasons, of when forces disrupt and anxieties rise. It is a tumultuous time. This entire year, weather-wise, has been chaotic, heightened, strained -- a winter that never seemed to quit, tornadoes, an earthquake in the northeast followed quickly by a hurricane that slipped up the coast, missing where expected, landing where unexpected.

This is a painting I did last winter amid the weekly snowstorms that hammered New England -- and it still captures how I feel about these past days, these past months -- unsettled, wary, waiting for that other shoe to drop . . .

not a good place . . .

Nature in turmoil

2011-08-25T13:51:00.001-04:00

earth in turmoil

skies heave 

waters thrash

such anger . . . 

darkness

descends 

but the dreaming tree

holds fast 

and waits . . . 

[photography by K.E. Marszycki] 

Paintings for August

2011-08-17T16:21:00.000-04:00

last weeks of summer

sea change in the air

humid weight lifts and 

gardens spark with a clear, bright light

wading through ocean waters

dizzy with currents 

that ripple and tug
pulling you further
and further
beyond the shores

drifts of sea thrift and thistle

fairy wands that tap the sunlight
calling you to the dance 

shadows at twilight

lace treetops and the

last rays spill 

through tired leaves . . . 

A Summer Evening with Twombly

2011-08-02T16:04:00.001-04:00

Over the years how many artists do we encounter and fall into a deep, passionate love of their works?  Whether old masters or contemporary painters, I'm sure we have many -- or perhaps only a few that evoke such devotion.  For me, there are a few: Frankenthaler, Rothko, Turner, Inness, Matisse, Mitchell, Diebenkorn . . .  

. . . and Cy Twombly was one.  Only last month I stumbled on a wonderful short clip on YouTube -- Cy Twombly: the Lepanto Cycle -- of an exhibit of his work in Germany.  I replayed it over and over just to gaze upon the massive canvases, to listen to the amazing soundtrack that seemed to float and carry Twombly's images across the screen, a composition by Giovanni Battista Pergolesi.  Twombly created these twelve paintings for the 2001 Venice Biennale. 

The other evening while sitting in the garden watching flowers dance in the soft evening light, I was reminded of Twombly and decided to pay my humble respect --

poppies

watercolor, gouache, charcoal

profusion

watercolor, gouache, charcoal

A recent issue of RA carried a wonderful article about the exhibition of Twombly and Poussin at the Dulwich Picture Gallery in London, a combination that at first strikes one as a bit odd -- but it intrigues the imagination, without a doubt. 

august evening

watercolor & gouache

There shall be eternal summer

in the grateful heart.

~Celia Thaxter


May evening find you gracious and fulfilled.
May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected.
May your soul calm, console and renew you. 
a Celtic blessing

The Palest of Pale

2011-07-29T13:34:00.001-04:00

"The light of memory, or rather the light that memory
lends to things, is the palest light of all. . . . 
I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming
or remembering, whether I have lived my life
or dreamed it.  

Eugène Ionesco



"There is such a thing as the impression of luminosity." 

Ludwig Wittgenstein

momentary lucidity

2011-07-20T15:07:00.004-04:00

lucid

photo by K. E. Marszycki

dappled shadows on the lawns,

prisms sparkling on the river,

then sliding into the purpled edges of the shoreline,

ocean sunlight so bright it makes one slip back

onto the sand and drift asleep . . . 

momentary lucidity

2011-07-15T15:58:00.000-04:00

moving quietly

through morning light,

trying to listen more,

talk less . . . 

to drift into pools

of sunlight

and not think about

reaching the edge . . . 

a lovely stillness

in july

2011-06-07T16:03:00.001-04:00

A Borrowed Density

acrylic on paper

9" x 12"

It's been a bit since I posted last -- busy in the garden, then my son's 21st birthday arrived and family matters took over! Hard to believe the baby of the family is a grown man. Where does time go?

Funny that when you're focusing on other things -- family, weather, gardening -- suddenly odd things start to happen with your art. First, notice that the gallery was closing (not a good thing); then, a corporate sale of five pieces that the gallery negotiated before the closing (a very good thing); then an email from an overseas acquaintance who is producing a book of poetry and would like to use my works on paper throughout the book (a very amazing thing) . . .

And where was I during all this? Rummaging around under the roses, yanking out weeds and dragging 20 lbs. bags of mulch from car to perennial beds, trying to corral family members for a big dinner out of the 21st. Just goes to show -- what, I'm not sure. That when we're not trying to force a situation or on bended knee praying for that sale, good things happen?

Reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe's imp of the perverse -- that quirk of nature that, when we do not look directly at something, when we do not focus on a problem, we suddenly "see" that slight shift in our peripheral vision and spy the thing in question, suddenly find the answer we were seeking, that eluded us no matter how hard we concentrated.

So, this summer I think I'll spend more time under the roses and trying to enjoy my painting for the pleasure it gives me, perhaps take a workshop and learn something I already had learned but forgotten. What about you? What will you do this summer? I hope you take the time to smell the honeysuckle, stroll on the beach, maybe play with finger paints like when we were young . . .

"Life is what happens when we're planning for it."

John Lennon

A Lighter Touch for Spring

2011-05-10T13:08:00.002-04:00

Untitled: acrylic on paper, 11" x 14"

The season demands a lighter touch,

to sweep brush on paper,

to let colors swim and play, to caress,

then slide away.

Keep the white --

a reminder

of things to come, of what has been left behind,

of spaces for breathing,

for dreaming --

Time for Art-Making

2011-04-30T14:40:00.004-04:00

Virginia Woolf's seminal work, A Room of One's Own, described three elements necessary for a woman to succeed in this world: her own space, her own money and her own time. These days I believe that time is the most elusive, that our lives are being whittled down, byte by byte, despite all the gadgets that are supposed to save us time.

So it was such a pleasure this past week to take a vacation with nowhere in particular to go except to work in the garden, begin a quilt for my brother's new baby, walk, swim, read and mentally just wander about -- no required destinations, no agendas beyond watching the weather.

Obviously between digging in the dirt and other things, I made time to simply play about with paints and papers, not trying to create something for the gallery necessarily but rather to explore and enjoy whatever evolved. It was also my idea to use up as many materials on hand as possible rather then drive around buying more stuff -- the old "use up what's in the refrigerator first" concept -- and if I could recycle any old scribbles by priming over and beginning again, that was just fine with me.

First Blossom

9" x 12"

acrylic on Nujabi paper
$175
or Matted Print

The Earth Forgets Nothing

12" x 16"

acrylic on Nujabi paper
$175
or Matted Print

An Oblong Day

12" x 16"

acrylic on Nujabi paper
$175

Zephyr

12" x 16"

acrylic on paper
$175

"Eloquence is spoken through the labor of hands . . . "

Terry Tempest Williams,

Finding Beauty in a Broken World

Reflected Light

2011-04-08T14:12:00.004-04:00

Evening Reflections

24 x 36

oil & wax on birch panel
Available at Left Bank Gallery

I haven't posted many pics of my recent work, which are now at the Gallery. Sometimes in the heat of the moment -- trying to get them packed and delivered -- I forget to take any photographs. On this last go-around, I did try but the camera was not cooperating, probably needed new batteries, and my patience was wearing thin, so I apologize for the fuzziness. And because I'm working on a larger scale now, obviously it's not possible to scan. But what I'm excited about with these paintings are the new techniques and surfaces I worked with.

Detail of Evening Reflections

These two paintings are oil and wax on birch panels. I was having trouble with the panels even though I had primed them several times. The primer seemed to sink into the wood, and I could not get a good surface on which to work. Then I added several layers of acrylic glazing, and that seemed better. I had begun these paintings with acrylics but after several days again I had that sense of flatness, of things sinking and losing their freshness.

Reverie du Soleil

oil and wax on birch panel

24 x 36
Available at Left Bank Gallery

So I put them aside and a week later came back to them armed with oil paints and cold wax. Aha, now I was getting somewhere! And the more I worked the surface, the more the vestiges of the underlayers came through, giving a rich, textured surface.

Sometimes it takes awhile to become familiar with new materials and how they react. And by now my approach was kill it or cure it, probably not the best attitude to have when painting. But it had become a battle and my learning curve was improving.

The other interesting thing in this whole process is that these paintings began as abstracts, similar to the one below. But when I moved over to the oil/wax combination and began finding those hidden layers of sparks, glints of light -- they shifted to landscapes, more impressionistic in their celebration of light and reflected light.

Summer Haiku

16" x 16"

acrylic on canvas
Available at Left Bank Gallery

This was a smaller piece on canvas working very loosely with acrylics -- I think we were in the midst of our last big snow storm when I did this one. Can you tell? But I enjoyed the looseness, the quickness of this painting. Everything seemed to flow and dance without much help from me! Again, the medium and the materials seemed to steer me one way or the other.

And now it's April and the weather is warming up and the garden needs some TLC big-time. So, I think the brushes will be put aside for rakes and trowels -- at least for the next few weeks. Happy spring everyone, and be back soon!

2011-04-01T12:40:00.000-04:00

Sometimes time is compressed and one's ability to create is limited. So, what to do? I haven't been able to take any further life study classes and my friends and family seem unwilling to sit for me -- why ever not, I'm not sure. Could it be my continual scowling, my abrupt commands ("Now, tilt your head. No, not that way! This way... Stop fiddling!"...) and the fact that texting in the middle of a sitting just does not work, spoils the feel . . .

So I decided to digitally create my own models. Here's an example of one I hope to work on this weekend:

I found the above photo online when I searched Google images for tango dancers. I love the way the bodies melt into one another and the sensuous line. Then I pulled the image into PhotoShop and began to alter it, erasing the male figure as I wanted to isolate the female form. By using various effects, such as charcoal and pencil, I ended with this variation, which gives me a clear sense of line and of light & shadow. I'll probably enlarge this to page size (8 x 10) and work from there.

So when desperate for a model to sketch/paint from, why not give it a try? There are other variations I'm trying also -- the effect of stone would be cool or manipulating the colors and adding layers of texture to reach a more "painterly" look. And the beauty is -- these models do not talk back, do not fidget, text their friends or change the pose. Think about it . . .

"the imagination spins and weaves new patterns . . . pure inventions,

absurdities, and improvisations."

August Strindberg

2011-03-25T12:23:00.004-04:00

Spring Thaw

acylic on paper

9" x 12"

Available as a Matted Print (click here)

Well, we thought we were out of the woods with winter behind us -- but yesterday another snowfall. Ugh. But luckily the sun slowly made its way through the clouds and all had melted by the afternoon!

Spring Thaw is the mate to the painting below, which I did last fall. I painted it on heavy 200 lbs. acrylic paper by Strathmore, which holds up well under multiple layers of water and paint, scratching and rubbing. I may continue with this series, hopefully creating a sense of seasons, of nature's rhythms; also exploring the sensibilities of colors -- what conveys a sense of a season, its feel, its weight or its lightness . . .

Late Autumn

acrylic on paper

9" x 12"

Available as a Matted Print (click here)

I don't usually work in series but rather randomly hop from one thing to another. But now I feel I need a bit more structure, more discipline to the act of painting. Perhaps because time is so compressed for me -- essentially only having the weekend to paint -- I tend to skip about the creative arena. Two series -- this one and the ink sketches of the human body. I should be able to handle that, you would think? We'll see how it progresses, depending upon the gardening season and the weather.

No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time.

There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,

a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.

Martha Graham
American Choreographer

Altered Lines

2011-03-11T15:53:00.000-05:00

The last few days have been filled with rains and wind, slowly washing the snows and ice away. This is the first time I've seen green grass since the end of 2010. In a few weeks the gardens will demand my time and attention, so am trying to get in as much painting and sketching as possible.

Last weekend I worked on two paintings for the gallery: an oil of a sunlit harbor filled with sailboats but in a very non-representational manner, working only with slabs of cold wax and a palette knife. It's a large one -- 22" x 28" -- and was begun last summer, then placed against the wall in frustration. But when I pulled it out last week, the colors sprang to life and gave me a thrill. See what a few months' worth of snow can do?

Below is another ink sketch of my daughter, using walnut ink and a double-pointed knitting needle (ha!). I found the knitting needle a bit more blunt and that it didn't gouge the paper.

Then, on a particularly rainy night, I took the scanned image and played with it. I applied several layers of texture by Jerry Jones at Shadowhouse Creations, then used the difference and exclusion blends. Suddenly I could see constellations appearing, the sketch lines now altered to look like celestial navigation lines of some old map. A few custom brushes and added text and a totally different image!

Change of Pace

2011-03-01T16:42:00.004-05:00

Recently I took a break from painting, seeking out another path to follow for awhile. Suddenly I had felt the need to "cleanse the palette," to return to the basics of paper and ink. I've written before about nudes and my love of the human form; however, I've only taken one life drawing class, which was cut short by snow storms last year. I continue to dabble, sketching people at the beach, sitting in cafes, waiting in airports, etc. There is something about the body in moments of quietude, when the person is totally unaware of being observed -- staring off into space over a mug of coffee, laying on a beach soaking in the rays or trundling along the sidewalk walking a dog -- those are the moments one hopes to capture.

The Pin by K. E. Marszycki
11"x14"; ink on paper

It's more difficult during a posed life drawing, as the model is aware and often posed in a stilted manner. Time is pressing, you can hear other members of the class grumbling, whispering, the model twitches, the instructor rambles on and on giving well-meaning advice . . . then "bing!" the timer goes off and you're just getting warmed up.

Seated Nude by K. E. Marszycki

14" x 17"; gouache on paper

The fun thing about these sketches is that they were done from my head -- sorry, Madam, but I'm removing your bathing suit but just this once, I assure you -- from people I recall or, as in the case of the sketch below, taken from a beautiful sculpture by Rodin of his lover, Camille Claudel.

Rendering of Rodin's Savage Sweetness by K.E. Marszycki

17" x 14"; ink on paper

I hope to continue this series of ink sketches as I believe they are loose and spontaneous with little time to fret over whether the scale or dimensions are correct, that there are no facial features thus giving them perhaps a more universal feel. I liked the feel of the ink on paper and, whenever I found myself tensing up, I turned the bamboo stick sideways and rolled it, thus breaking up the line, letting my clumsiness convey an added edginess.

Maybe a bit later in the spring I will have some of these sketches framed and bring to the Gallery . . . we'll see. Sometimes it's difficult to let one's work go when it has given you such pleasure, such freedom, has taught you well . . .

Digital Pre-Raphaelite

2011-02-23T16:46:00.003-05:00

Rossetti's Orchids

In 2008 I visited my brother in San Francisco. The first place we headed for was the Botanical Gardens, both being gardeners -- where else? These dainty blossoms were so white that the original photograph did not come out very well, so I decided to play with it in Photoshop.

After working from the negative, altering hues, adding textures and custom brushes, I felt that the image seemed to hail from a William Morris print or by one of the Pre-Raphaelite artists, such as Rossetti or Waterhouse. And the way the light acts in the negative format warms the entire piece. Sometimes moving into the realm of the fantastic works wonders for one's spirit -- hope you enjoy!

"Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye . . .

it also includes the inner pictures of the soul."

~ Edvard Munch

Available as a matted print; click here
Available as greeting cards; click here

Small Studies

2011-02-18T14:01:00.003-05:00

Color Study I

(gouache and ink, 6"x6" on Magnani Acquerello paper)

Available as greeting card -- Click here

Available as a matted print -- Click here

Color Study II

(gouache on Magnani Acquerello paper, 6"x6")

Available as a greeting card -- Click here
Available as a matted print -- Click here

Color Study III

(gouache on Magnani Acquerello paper, 6"x6")

Available as a greeting card -- Click here
Available as a matted print -- Click here

Threshold

(watercolor and gouache on 200 lbs. acrylic paper, 9"x12")

Available as a greeting card -- Click here

Available as a matted print -- Click here

working small, touching water to paper

colors creep seeking points to merge or not,

to blend or not.

scratch the surface,

stumble,

stay with the clumsy gesture

for it is true.

outside whiteness falls

into puddles of black ice,

the sound of winter

no sound . . .

A Rummaging Kind of Day

2011-02-06T15:20:00.001-05:00

Enough is enough. Too much snow and ice. Too much white. My soul craves color -- luscious, edible color!

So today I went rummaging through drawers, in dark corners where things are stashed from years ago, from times when one was just learning and yet hesitant to toss out those small fledgling paintings that helped spur the creative act yet seemed so elementary, so child-like at the time . . .

Well, I dug through those little guys and found I was laughing, mostly at the titles I had given them! But the colors made me smile and counter-acted the grimness of what lay beyond the windows. So I will share them with you in the hopes that they make you smile, too:

An Intense Pair of Pears

I can only think that this series was painted because I was hungry; must have been dieting for my daughter's wedding --

Available as a matted print; click here
Available as greeting cards; click here

Anjou and Bosch

Sounds like a law firm . . .

Available as a matted print; click here
Available as greeting cards; click here

Smokin' Java!

This was before high blood pressure hit; now on decaf, most of the time anyway -- :-)

Similar to our "bad hair" days . . .

Available as a matted print; click here
Available as greeting cards; click here


A Stormy Pair

Just look at those lewd colors -- what was I thinking???

Bouquet in Shadow

And with this painting, I leave you with thoughts of spring to come, of flowers and birdsong, of balmy breezes wafting through your hair, of an exquisite bead of sweat trickling down the back, of bare feet on a warm deck and a chilled glass of wine close at hand . . . ah, perchance to dream!

Now pardon me as I have to go back out there and chip away at a frozen driveway . . . ugh.

Snow Journal Redux . . .

2011-02-01T10:44:00.000-05:00

Another storm has descended with a second wave beginning later tonight of sleet and ice . . . here is my thought on winter:

"Winter: the pearled edge of lunacy"

. . . which is actually one of my bright orange day lilies inverted to negative with added textures.

Ironic, uh?

Off to shovel . . . the question is: where to put it all?

Just think -- we have at least 6 weeks left of this . . .

Let it snow, let it . . .ah, heck!

2011-01-27T14:05:00.001-05:00

Not much to write about -- lots of white stuff came through yesterday and today; drifts and piles now up to about 6 feet -- spent hours digging out cars and driveways and decks, carving paths like a troop of ants . . .

This winter is sapping any creative juices that still exist. There's no continuity at work -- open, close early, hope the staff and clients get home safely . . . Come home only to pick up a shovel and attack as the paths and drives begin to narrow again . . .

When I do another run to the laundry room to get things dry again, I glance over at my workspace. Now blank white canvases make me angry and resentful, too much like snow -- I wonder if I could create some kind of painting incorporating rock salt and sand -- ha!

You see, just like that wonderful classic novel of 19th century America, Ole Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth, the pearled edge of lunacy creeps in with the snow drifts . . . or like Conrad's Heart of Darkness when the Congo River and the jungles carried men along to madness . . . With all our technology, we are still very much at the mercy of Nature, a force that has no allegiance, no likes or dislikes. It just is. No matter how hard we rail against it, it wins.

Well, at least the sun is out and fairly high in the sky. The sparrows and buntings flit about chirping happily (that's one more path -- to the feeders -- that I must keep open), with a battalion of crows flying maneuvers, riding shotgun on the winds.

God, what I wouldn't give to see a bright fushia hibiscus blossom right now . . . Take care and stay warm everyone. Until better times are upon us . . .

Sketches & Lines

2011-01-18T16:11:00.000-05:00

Another winter storm has just about halted daily life, at least for a few hours. Yesterday was cleaning; today seems to be a split existence: outside shoveling, clearing paths, thawing out cars; then inside to warm up, drink hot coffee and sift through old sketch pads that have been stacked up for months, years. I was surprised at some things I uncovered, so I thought I would share some of these sketches. Below is a drawing of Egon Schiele's Moa, done in 1911. As I had worked on this sketch, I had jotted notes to myself:

Sketching Schiele's Standing Nude (the dancer Moa), intrigued by the "feel" of the line -- judging its weight, its thickness or thinness, the need for broad strokes or delicacy, thinking what will capture the feel of this person . . . With Moa I feel a sense of fragility, not like his other nudes that are edgy and raw. Moa is different. Schiele's line is lightness itself, a hint of eyeglasses, the thin arms hug her upper torso as if sheltering herself -- the hips push forward accentuating the thin frame, yet there is a healthy tuft of pubic hair, unlike Schiele's other nudes. As my hand moves around the paper, my sense is that he felt a sense of protectiveness, of respect, love for the little dancer . . . ?

Here is a sketch I did about a year ago based on a nude in pen/ink I purchased 20 years ago in an antique shop. I fell in love with it the moment I spied her sitting in the shadows of the shop. I cannot read the signature; my guess is that it was a work by an art student somewhere in the area (there are 7 colleges and universities within a 10-mile radius). She has been hanging by the side of the fireplace keeping me company for a long time.

But how different from Schiele's work! Moa needs this woman as a friend and protector because this woman is bold, confident, perhaps a bit brazen? She is a force to be reckoned with -- and the lines show it. The artist's strokes are thick, full of energy, with only the suggestion of a turban to add a touch of the feminine. The curves and angles thrust and parry the open space of the paper. Vastly different from Schiele's Moa, and I found I had to work harder, applying pressure and literally tackling the space of the paper.

So, I tried to emulate those same differences in these two drawings, one using a heavy, thick stroke, mostly in shadow with a pale patch of light on the breast and stomach. Very private, secluded, a closed feeling with only half the body visible.

Half Torso (charcoal on paper; K.E. Marszycki)

This drawing I tried something different, using ink and a long, thin bamboo stick. I wanted to convey a sense of lightness, of openness. Again, a private moment. She may be sitting after a bath or maybe sunbathing on a beach. The stick was used not only as a pen device, but also rolled to break up the lines and keep a kind of kinetic energy going. Don't know if it worked but I think so (this is a section of the entire drawing; I could not fit the entire work on the scanner).

Seated Nude (india ink on paper; K.E. Marszycki)

And finally, here are a few oddities that I discovered. These sketches have been in the book for probably two years. One is of Felix Nadar's photograph of Sarah Bernhardt. What attracted me to this image were the voluptuous folds of her gown, not quite off the shoulder, and her thick mass of hair. Nadar took this photograph of her when she was just beginning her stage career and I love it.

Below is the "oddity" -- the charcoal left a ghost imprint on the opposite page, which I like better than the original sketch!

The same happened with my copy sketch of El Greco's nude -- original sketch

and on the opposite page, a ghost imprint. Not quite recognizable but suggesting a muscular torso, very Michelangelo? Like that better, too!

So, as the afternoon light fades and another winter's day is ready to close, I pile up my sketch pads in the bookcase and light some logs for the long night ahead. I hope you enjoyed the journey. I also found this quote that I wrote in one of the pads:

"Every single piece I make brings me varying degrees of disappointment, devastation and pain. Ironically, these are the very reasons that allow me to confront new work. Even though I know I will fail -- because I cannot bring to a new work the exact vision, emotion or imagination that is in my mind -- I will try to make it as close as possible.

The question is how to make it happen, what direction to go, what boundary to push . . . to what degree to be free or to limit myself."

Soonran Youn,
Surface Design Journal, 2003

Deep into Winter

2011-01-13T14:23:00.000-05:00

north light,

textures,

colors leeched by
snowfall . . .

the body rests,

the mind restless,

watching veils

blow about

sleeping gardens,

rustling a lone bird

back to cover . . .

summer

a faint memory

of sunlight and sea salt

breezes

that tapped and danced

along rooftops and down alleys

seeking a way back

to the beach, to home waters . . .

Capabilities & Possibilities

2011-01-08T15:45:00.000-05:00

Last Memory (encaustic, oil, and found papers on 6"x12" cradled panel)

Pale (encaustic, oil, monotype fragments on 8"x8" cradled panel)

Solutions (encaustic, oil & found papers on 8"x10" cradled panel)

Working more with the encaustic method and exploring the capabilities and possibilities of this medium. After several burnt fingers and waxed appendanges (don't ask!), I find myself in a love affair. It's as simple as that.

We argue and fight; we grapple and dance to ultimately find middle ground somewhere on the surface of the panel.

Things I had not anticipated occur -- small bubbles and striations that make me think of old walls and pitted stonework.

I rub and scrub and the oils converge with the hot wax and beautiful hues emerge. Bits and pieces of old works sink into the wax and take on a patina that I could never achieve on my own.

Over the hours the hot wax, the oils and the papers continue to converse with me, and I with them. We become better acquainted and agree to meet again soon.

Who knows what will happen next? But they will leave me, just like the others. Off to the Gallery next week and someone else will fall in love (I hope), and they will no longer belong to me. . . sigh . . .

For the New Year

2010-12-31T17:13:00.000-05:00

I want you to understand that there are no colors in the real world,

that there are no textures in the real world,

there are no fragrances in the real world.

There is no beauty, there is no ugliness.

There is nothing of the sort.

Out there is a chaos of energy soup and energy fields.

Literally, we take that and somewhere inside ourselves

we create a world.

Somewhere inside ourselves it all happens.

Sir John Eccles

(Nobel Prize Winner, Physiology)

A time for hush

2010-12-22T11:56:00.000-05:00

White Rose of Moonlight

When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,

the brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,

in windless cold that is the heart's heat . . .

T. S. Eliot

Encaustic Explorations

2010-12-11T15:48:00.018-05:00

Sometimes it works, sometimes it's a drudge. But one can't give up as there are so many terrains to explore in the hope of finding a medium that "works" for you, that helps express the inexpressible --

Today was a "teach myself something new" day, something I haven't been able to do for some time. Putting the gardens in order, work, the holiday, then trekking up to some awesome Open Studios in the Amhert/Northampton area in Massachusetts have all kept me on the go.

Detail of Solar (6" x 18" cradled panel)

But today was for finally girding up my courage and tackling the intricacies of encaustics. So, armed with the encaustic medium, heating pans and heat gun, I ventured forth and was amazed at the process and with the encaustic medium as a creative tool.

There's so much to learn, to try, to experiment with that I lost track of time, then ran out of the medium. The sun was going down but my spirits were soaring.

Vernal (5" x 5" cradled panel)

What did I find out? One, that encaustic and oils seem to love one another, that now I can work with oils in layers almost immediately. Thank the art gods on that one, I say! Two, that it truly does buff up to a brilliant surface once cool. I stuck some of the smaller ones in the refrigerator to speed up the process, I was so pumped.

And three, I now have a way to incorporate my shibori silk, dupioni and organza scraps from my days of dyeing scarves. These fabrics are so beautiful, even the "mistakes," and I've been hoping to come up with some way to integrate these with other mediums. I feel that the encaustic method will be ideal for this.


Terrain (8"x8" cradled panel with hand-dyed silk organza fragment)

Another aspect that I want to experiment with is using wood plaques with the encaustic, especially circular ones. Over the years, mainly due to my own inability to follow through on finishing a project, I've kept my quilting projects in embroidery hoops and hung them around the house. I have one in the living room by the fireplace and find the abstract patterns of the batiks couched within the circle very meditative. Perhaps the same for encaustic paintings? Always something to try . . .

The only rule in art is what works.

Lee Fleming

Thoughts of Solstice

2010-12-02T16:39:00.000-05:00


*encroaching*

silent light

solstice

approaching

light shifting

mutating to bleak

listen to the hush . . .

A Wish for You . . .

2010-11-24T11:10:00.000-05:00

Don't eat too much,

Don't drink too much,

But do laugh and hug very much.

Cheers!

The Weight of Time: A Short Tale

2010-11-19T12:45:00.000-05:00

Magpie Tales #41 Challenge

The door swung open, groaning on rusted hinges. A shaft of light spilled across the pitted floors as dead leaves scuttled with the breeze. A smell of smoke still lingered in the air as well as a deep musty odor of small animals and droppings.

She stepped inside the house dodging a large cobweb that swelled and sunk like a breath. All was dim and silent. Pocketing the key, she roamed the downstairs rooms, side-stepping fallen plaster, around puddles of rain and mud. The beauty of the rooms was still apparent, like the bone structure of a beautiful woman. Here and there a piece of ceiling had caved in, probably from the fire.

In the deepening gloom she headed for the upper rooms, the bedrooms of her grandparents, of her mother and sisters. Despite the damage and decay, the stairs held her weight, creaking with each step. Somewhere above she heard the sound of wings as something flew past, leaving a trail of shadows across the wall.

Each room remained as she had recalled it, nothing had been changed. Time had stopped. It had been over forty years since she had been in this house, when it had been alive and vibrant with life, with laughter. Now it was a tomb encapsulated in its grief and despair, the detritus of life.

The last room she entered with fear, fear at what she might find. The door slid open at her touch and suddenly she was surrounded by clocks, clocks of every imaginable size and shape. She stood entranced. A massive oak bed stood in the middle of the large room, her grandparents' room. Other than a set of night stands, there was nothing else but the clocks -- clocks on the walls, propped along the base of the walls, some appeared to be hanging from the rotted ceiling where bits of sky were visible, ready to come tumbling down at the slightest touch.

She picked up a tiny pocket watch that lay on the nightstand, fingering the rusted metal. Its face was smudged, some parts totally obliterated. Turning, she spotted the huge clock face that lay on the floor, probably once on the wall which was now caved in. She squatted down to look more closely at this huge timepiece whose face was smashed in on one side, obscuring the engraved black roman numerals. Someone had kicked in the face. She traced the remaining numbers, counting off in her head, wondering how many years her grandfather had sat in this house alone, alone with his frustrations and anger, possibly his love.

It had been only a few years after her last visit, when she was five, that her grandmother had packed a small bag and taken herself out the door and never returned. Neither her own mother nor her aunts had asked why. All seemed to know instinctively why, that no explanations were necessary. It wasn't discussed much over the years, only an odd referral to the incident here and there. She had not seen her grandfather since.

The stench of old clothes and death was overpowering. She walked over to the window and gazed out upon the back gardens almost invisible under weeds and other wild things. The roses she remembered were strangled, but one or two struggled, straining for the final rays of sunlight. Without realizing it, she had raised her hand up to the glass and pricked her finger on the ragged edge of glass. A tiny bead of blood oozed and dripped down her finger. It was time to leave. Now.

One last glance at the gardens. No garden of eden here, she thought. Eve had abandoned it years ago, leaving Adam to bear the weight of endless time.

* * *

This short story was written by yours truly in response to

the image offered by Magpie Tales (#41)

November

2010-11-10T15:21:00.000-05:00

the gifts of autumn . . .

silver light on water, on delicate petals . . .

a shimmer of amber lacing the last fruit . . .

slow down in November's quietude . . .

feel the wind on your face . . .

trace the bare branches against the skyline . . .

listen to the crunch and skitter of fallen leaves . . .

the gifts of autumn . . .

Commuting Art

2010-11-04T16:22:00.000-04:00

driving the commute, car hurtling past autumn woods . . .

a glimpse, a glimmer flickers on the windshield, on the inner eye . . .

then gone.

sitting in the office, the image remains a faint impression . . . light, textures, a sense of earth, of sky and water . . .

in the moments between budgets and meetings, how to capture, to evoke . . .

gather up a texture file, another, one more . . .

graft and meld, crop, enhance . . .

add the mark of scratchings, faded text, the hint of a compass as a talisman to find the way back . . .

all ephemeral, a chimera, a sweep, a smudge as the car hurtles past . . .

Liar, liar . . .

2010-10-31T16:47:00.002-04:00

All right, I lied. I said I was going to take a break for awhile, the impact of autumn, loss of light and more got to me. I apologize!

Last week was frantic, hectic with emotions running high here on the home front. There was no peace to be had and the weekend was eaten up by running errands, food shopping, laundry, bills, what-have-you.

No art, no peace -- all was in abeyance. By the time I got to work on Monday, I was exhausted. Easier to be at work than at home sometimes (ha!).

But this weekend proved to be quieter. I put all menial tasks aside yesterday and today. My one "duty" will be to hand out candy to the little ones for Halloween tonight.

These paintings are the result of time to create, to experiment. Listening to Mary Ann at Blue Sky Dreaming and to Eva Macie, I tried working with Yupo and acrylics, learning how this paper keeps the artist hopping!


Turmoil

As you can see, turmoil was on my mind, and I think this illustrates how I was feeling last week. Incredible the number of textures you can capture so quickly on this paper! I did several more and plan to use them in my collaging, although I have so much to learn with Yupo.


The Weight of Winter

"Weight of Winter" is acrylic on bristol vellum, using a brayer to capture texture, as well as a bamboo pen. As November creeps over the threshold, I feel that the year is coming full circle, but that the weight of impending darkness threatens my inner balance.

However, as Emily Dickenson wrote: "Hope is the thing with feathers . . . " and "Summer River" brings out the deep warmth of a sunset on the Connecticut River, when colors deepen into that exquisite jewel-like quality.


Summer River

Well, the light is leaving shortly so I'm off for my walk before the trick-or-treaters start their nocturnal treks through the neighborhood. Next weekend we turn the clocks back, so we gain an hour -- and that's good!

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words . . .

Emily Dickinson

Visual Respite

2010-10-25T15:52:00.001-04:00

I seem to fall into this sense of fallowness in the autumn. I can see a pattern from previous years' blog entries, which makes me feel better (somewhat) in that at least I am consistent in my dullness!

So today's entry is "Visual Respite" -- no images, no artwork. An opportunity to rest before moving on to the next favorite blogger, the next set of images, the next thought that "Gee, I should try that."

It's taken me awhile to learn that I need to listen to my own thoughts, my own "what if's" and to let my mind wander through the myriad corners of its' own creative space.

Has anyone else reached this point? Blogland is great but it's a bit like being in a candy store with carte blanche. After awhile one feels bloated on the visual stimulation --

Now I find that I blog more to think, to throw out a few thoughts and observations, perhaps an image for fellow bloggers to review and tell me what they think.

But in the end, it's me that counts as the artist. I love everyone else's work, but the time spent viewing and cross-viewing sometimes gets in the way.

I look forward to November because it is the one time of year when the world around me is drained of bold, dramatic colors. The natural world is subdued, as if awaiting those first snows -- a hushed world of grays and umbers, of mists and frost.

So, I hope you've had a nice rest. Now it's time to move on. Thanks for stopping by, see you soon -- and Happy Halloween!

“I prefer . . . fall, when you feel the
bone structure of the landscape.

Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.”

Andrew Wyeth

fragile structures continued

2010-10-17T09:57:00.000-04:00

slightly frayed
silken petals
at the point of stillness . . .

seed pods
encased, brittle with life
needing only
a breath,

a whisper
to begin again . . .

fragile structures

2010-10-09T18:25:00.002-04:00

flight

Taking some time off from work, playing with a series of digital images -- Fragile Structures -- using manipulations of the software to enhance, to obscure, to render the ordinary into something "other" -- why?

Because we so often disregard what we see everyday, the mundane, the simple . . . and yet when closely examined, these structures are pure, even in the midst of decomposing.

As I begin to play with these images they often take on a new life, as in the hosta leaf above. It appears to be soaring off into space, on a trip of discovery . . .


detachment

This image has an altogether different feel -- dark and brooding, perhaps threatening. The detachment from the stem, I think, adds to this sense, and the leaf reminds me of O'Keefe's skull paintings, all bones and sharp edges.

The textures I used are from a wall of graffiti I photographed while walking through Fort Mason Park in San Francisco with my brother. It lends itself to the sense of times past . . .

I feel that autumn demands that we keep some kind of tracing of what is transpiring all around us before winter slips over the threshold and covers all in a blanket of white.

One can never study nature

too much and too hard.

Vincent van Gogh

Opposition

2010-10-01T16:10:00.004-04:00

Restlessness surging -- gray skies and clouds scudding overhead -- winds blowing, whipping trees into a frenzy --

The changing seasons always seems to make one unsettled, as if trying to get the sea legs squared away beneath one --

The urge to drive straight north up to the Canadian border non-stop, to see mountains and hillsides slipping gold and scarlet petticoats mixed with the scent of pine --

One theory in American history is that the westward expansion was fueled by the growing sense of claustrophobia here on the East Coast, with its' crowded cities and towns.

I believe it. Henry Thoreau's acreage around Walden Pond is surrounded by developments and corporations leaking out from the Boston area. The Cape is a long string of beach motels and cottages, many strung with for sale signs.

But one must slog on. Soon we adjust -- to the light, to the growing cold, to the crowded highways and strip malls.

An escape hatch is needed -- where do we find them?

Inside our heads as we feel for the edges of our space . . .

in one breath

leaves fall --

skies open wide

* * *

You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.
Rilke

Autumn Light & Shadow

2010-09-25T16:26:00.001-04:00

Autumn -- one of the most beautiful seasons with nature's array of colors, but also one of the saddest -- losing the light, deepening shadows conveying a sense of urgency, a growing awareness of decay beside such beauty.

Because of the drought we've experienced, the leaves are brittle and dry, curling up upon themselves before their time. I picked several hosta leaves that, to me, appeared almost mummified, frozen in time. I wanted to try and capture the delicacy of these structures. I knew I couldn't accomplish this with my camera, so I carefully scanned them, using a length of velvet as a soft weight.

I want to continue these explorations, this navigation through a shadow world that demands we look closely and spend time with these fragile structures.

So, as the light begins to fade and the orb of sun drifts down into the horizon, cherish the light -- grab those final moments and celebrate Autumn!

Come forth into the light of things.

Let nature be your teacher.

William Wordsworth

Translations & Obliterations: New Work

2010-09-12T15:52:00.004-04:00

Last weekend was a good weekend/holiday -- quiet with lots of time to paint and explore various ways to express thoughts and desires. The weather was perfect -- sunny, warm with intermittent cool breezes. One day it was watercolors and gouache, using papers that had been gessoed, painting watercolor/gouache on jajara paper (handmade in India). I found it could really take a beating -- scrubbing, multiple layers of paints, etc.

But now this weekend was good in an all-together different way -- weather was chilly, clouds scudding through, sun in and out (mostly in). So I worked inside trying out ideas on these 8" x 8" gallery canvases. There are "unsuccessful" paintings underneath, so that the primed surface was very textured and rough. Working with wax and oils, I scrubbed and rubbed, using fragments of other paintings and found translations from old Italian and French dictionaries published back in the 1920s --

Translation #1: I shall love


Translation #2: That I might love

While I let those dry, I moved over to the "paper" table and worked on more "Translations," using watercolor papers, fragments of old paintings and more dictionary terms. What great fun! Time slid by unnoticed, music played and incense burned. No inner critics around, either . . . :-)

Translation #3: I would speak

I'll continue to work on this series of translations and see where it leads me -- another creative trail to follow. There's something about these notions of ephemera that intrigue me -- flotsam and jetsam, bits and pieces of sentiments, thoughts, passing moments in time that drift into oblivion, obliterated from sight and mind . . .

Time flies on restless pinions - constant never.

Friedrich Schiller

Battling the Inner Critic

2010-08-25T13:43:00.000-04:00

I sit on the couch hunched over the coffee table. It is a cool evening with a swift breeze from the north coming through the windows. In front of me is my sketch pad, a pencil and a brand new box of crayons. That's right, crayons. I pick up the pad and begin to loosely sketch out some ideas that had been lurking amidst the little gray cells.

"Are those crayons?"

I ignore the question. Obviously they are. Anyone can see that. I continue to sketch.

"What are you doing with crayons? Have you reverted to your childhood or something?" The voice grates, my teeth clench.

"I'm experimenting, looking for a easier way to sketch quickly."

"Hmmph! One would think that you'd have grown up by now. Look at all that equipment you have in the studio, even in your car. Crayons are for kids. Didn't you eat some crayons once when you were a child?"

Probably. Like many kids, I felt the urge to consume the colors, become one with the color, be the color. Or, then again, maybe I was just hungry. I remember they had no taste at all. Very disappointing. I think at some point I even tried doggie biscuits (hence, the great dental checkups).

Silence follows as I continue to ignore the last remark. I look over the 64 colors ranged like soldiers in their 4 cardboard sections, a whiff of new wax tickles my nose. I reach for . . .

"What do you hope to achieve with crayons anyway? They're not "real" artist's tools. Why not pastels or oil pastels? Why not oil sticks?"

"Pastels leave dust everywhere," I reply.

"Oh, yes, I remember that time you wore white shorts. Ha! Not very bright, I must say."

"Shut up." I select one of my all-time favorite colors, periwinkle blue, the color of cornflowers, of summer mornings and warm breezes.

"Well, what about oil pastels?"

"They melt in the summer; freeze in the winter and snap." A loud hoot fills the air.

"Yes, yes! Remember that one, too -- melted oil pastels dripping all over your car, oozing onto the papers and your feet!" A snort of laughter follows.

"Go away. I'm busy here. Besides, crayons are fun. They're familiar, there's no preparation, they are easy to use and they blend so well. That's all I'm looking for -- ease of use and a time-saver since I work full-time. Now, go away."

Another favorite, violet, comes out of the box. A wide spray of violet covers part of the paper, mixing with the periwinkle -- yum!

"You have reverted. You're acting like a kid again, not a true artist. Well, if you continue to insist on this ludicrous behavior, I'll just have to leave you to your playtime." The sound of stomping echoes through my mind.

Good. My Inner Critic has finally left the building.

I think another pool of blue should go here. And then maybe some light green over there. Night rolls on . . .

* * *

The next morning I come downstairs, grab my first cup of coffee and sit on the couch, staring at the sketch pad I had left the night before, along with the pencil and crayons. All happy little soldiers lined up . . . hey, wait a minute . . . something's wrong.

One of the crayons is missing, Where's my periwinkle blue?

Ummmm. Could it be that maybe I've convinced my Inner Critic to put aside logic and have some fun?

* * * * *

Have you tried something "silly" or just plain fun to break out of the doldrums or to find an easier way to do something? Come and share!

The Price of Success . . .

2010-08-18T15:58:00.000-04:00

Daybreak on the River: SOLD!

Winding down for a few days away -- and not too soon, I may add. As the old adage states: be careful what you wish for.

Since June the Gallery has sold 7 of my paintings. It took me 4 years to earn representation, with a growing sense of anxiety that these works I had labored over, thought and dreamt about would forever be stacked against the workroom wall.

And then a few are placed in a wonderful space and sell. Oh joy, oh rapture!

Until you get the phone call, can you bring more?

They want more. Quick, dash into the workroom and pull the next candidates, grab another one off the dining room wall. Delivered. Phew! O.k., now I can go back to relaxing and enjoying the summer.

Another phone call -- more sold? Bring more . . . ? I glance around the walls of my house -- nothing. Luckily, I have a few ready for varnishing . . . (oils take forever to dry in summer -- arghhh!).

Delivered. Pour myself a glass (or two) of wine and put my feet up. The phone rings -- don't answer that, I say to my husband. He just laughs at me.

Now you know why I'm going away for a few days -- I'm hiding from the price of success. But then again, I shouldn't jinx myself -- pride cometh before a fall, doesn't it . . . ?

Damn, you just can't win. It must be that old catholic school training . . . guilt at success is like going straight to heaven, skipping over purgatory and dancing on the head of the devil. Dangerous stuff, that.

Maybe I'll get used to this. Maybe not. Next time I wish upon a star, I will think carefully and refer to a lawyer regarding the proper phrasing.

Care to share you stories of success, ambivalence and the accompanying guilt of not being thankful enough? I'd be happy to post them -- :-)

Nocturne

2010-08-13T13:48:00.001-04:00


dreamscape1

in the evening shadows
the garden shimmers
each blossom pulses
tossing its hues
to the fading light . . .

last night i sat in the gloaming
shadows stretching thin
across the lawns

birds swooped
as if scooping up the last rays to carry home
back to the nest . . .

fuschia and gold stained
the shadows that knelt
along the edges of the garden
cicadas rasped their vespers
seeking love in the darkness . . .

will i remember this come January?
yes
and yes again . . .

On an August afternoon

2010-08-03T11:42:00.002-04:00

Dunes

acrylic, gouache & pastel

august
summer winding down
a breath of north wind
tickles sun-burnt skin

dunes slumber
under the weight of heat
waters sluggish

tiny birds
dodge about wetlands
no longer wet . . .

i close my eyes
to the bright light and
dream of crisp breezes
and cooled stone beneath
my feet

autumn is knocking
at the door
on the threshold

i roll over . . .

Simple and humble . . .

2010-07-29T16:01:00.001-04:00

Taking a few days off and once again tinkering with my photography. Also, once again hiding out from the heat in the lower depths of the house -- soon I may turn into a mushroom!

I keep finding new methods, then try to take some time to learn the steps. Sometimes it doesn't work out; sometimes it does. I had been reading in The American Art Review about an exhibit that has been touring the country, TruthBeauty: Pictorialism and the Photograph as Art, and was intrigued by the images from the exhibit.

I have always been attracted to the works of Julia Margaret Cameron, some of which are quite famous, of Alfred Steiglitz and Edward Steichen, so famous they are iconic. But this exhibit also surveyed other photographers, such as Peter Henry Emerson, who worked more with pastoral landscapes.

In some ways, I think the Pictorialists were reacting to the growing industrialism in America and Europe, as were the American Tonalists -- thus the softened edges, the muted hues and colors, the graininess of the image, creating works that seemed to harken back to earlier times.

Today I used the early light of an overcast day to capture these two images, more interested in evoking those same sensibilities, but also to celebrate the elemental beauty of these pots. Over the years I have collected a few stoneware and raku pots. There is no perfection evident here, merely intriguing surfaces that are worked, chipped, scarred and, in the case of the raku, burnt.

I don't paint still life. Every time I have tried, the image is flat and dull, lifeless. But with the camera, still life can be evocative, almost painterly. So in a way I am able to pay homage to these simple vessels that have served a multitude of purposes.

I'll continue to fiddle and tweak to see what else I can come up with -- and perhaps use these images to create some paintings. We'll see. For now I am pleased with today's "fiddling" . . .

Blessed are they who see
beautiful things in humble places

where other people see nothing.

Camille Pissarro

Summer Thoughts to Share . . .

2010-07-22T12:38:00.002-04:00

Heat, ma'am! it was so dreadful here, that I found there was nothing left for it

but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones.

~Sydney Smith, Lady Holland's Memoir

Footpath to the Sea

oil on canvas

11 x 14

These past few weeks have been fairly brutal in the heat and humidity. It saps one's strength, one's resolve to do anything constructive other than lay around in a droopy mood. On the drive to work in the early morning I find myself drifting mentally into some kind of haze, steering the car as if on automatic pilot. The only summer blossoms one sees along the highway are the intrepid cornflowers and queen anne's lace; all else has shriveled up like dried cornstalks.

Shady Lane

oil on canvas

5 x 7

I finished working on these two oils recently; they seem to evoke the sense of deep summer, of how we almost instinctively seek out shade and cool shadowy spaces to escape the heat. My two most favorite times of the day are my first cup of coffee on the deck, sitting on the top step in the shade cast by the beach roses and hydrangeas, watching the birds at the feeder. It's cool and one can think clearly before the day begins.

The other time of day is in the evening when once again the shadows grow and stretch across the lawns. I sit in one of the adirondack chairs with a glass of chilled chardonnay and watch as the birds and rabbits frolic about in the shadows. I look up and watch the clouds, thin rivers of lace overhead -- or perhaps huge Wagnerian divas roiling across the skies presaging an incoming storm.

Tempestuous
digitally enhanced photograph

by the artist

It's odd how we complain about the snow and the cold; we complain about the heat and the humidity. I'm beginning to think that there is about a two-week window in the spring and in the autumn when we are content! Well, I hope everyone is enjoying at least some parts of this summer --

In summer, the song sings itself.

~William Carlos Williams

Fourth of July Playtime

2010-07-04T14:27:00.002-04:00

I guess those of my fellow bloggers who visit fairly frequently will have noted that I've been changing the format and look of my blog quite a bit lately. Whether I'm just finicky or suffer from attention deficit -- well, I guess I just like to tinker. However, that's the trouble with digital manipulations -- one can always fiddle, tweaking here, undoing there . . .

But now that Blogger is offering these new templates, I just had to play some more. I also wanted to create a banner that would signify what I am about (or at least like to think) -- maps and navigations, travelers and mariners -- that's what we are in life, aren't we?

We physically move usually at least once or twice in our life, probably more. We travel in growth from infant to child to adult. We attempt to map out our lives in our plans and daydreams. And our bodies begin to resemble maps with the delicate criss-crossing of lines and wrinkles, scars and such, like tiny routes that travel back and forth, around and about.

In our art and creativity, more and constant navigating goes on, attempting to explore and conquer our fears, new methods, perhaps materials and concepts. Our eyes traverse the canvas, the paper, the page; we scan the landscape with our photographic "eyes," like ancient mariners watching intently for signs of life. If we write, our pens or pencils move across the page, marching or lurching, backtracking and carving out thoughts and images on the page.

So, today, in order to stay cool against the 90+ heat outside, I sat in my studio/workspace and played with scans of pages in old books, textures, texts, a copy of a Raphael that I did a few months back and a series of old maps I had also scanned a few weeks ago.

I think my work (play) is done. I think I like this look, the theme and my new banner. I will leave it be -- for now! :-)

Summer Reading

2010-07-02T15:37:00.001-04:00

Often summer is devoted to children's summer reading programs, complete with game sheets and prizes. But nothing for the adults. How sad is that? Very.

So I thought I would share some of my summer titles that are lined up on the bookcase in the dining room, on my great-grandmother's hope chest in the living room and by my bedside nightstand. I won't list the various mysteries scattered about in my car, on my desk and in my handbag. Those are a year-round staple, my escape mechanism, especially British mysteries, old and new. But that's another entry altogether . . .

Every summer I go through this ritual of planning a series of books to read over the next weeks of warm summer nights, sitting on the deck or in the garden, surrounded by birds chattering and singing as they romp from feeder to feeder. These books must be special, not just your run-of-the-mill bestseller or mystery. Writing that is well-crafted is rare these days, so one should savor it when found. They are books that stay with you days, weeks after finishing. Phrases and images linger like a dream. You find yourself thumbing through them again to find that exact passage that made your emotional skin tingle.

Terry Tempest Williams is a phenomenal writer and fighter for the natural world around us. She is also a poet, creating wordscapes that amaze.

Another writer who I have written about before is Ellen Meloy, and this is the second book I am going to read. I anticipate surprise, as she leaves the reader breathless in her wonderful twists and observations.

To leap to another realm, I am reading Peter Turchin's work on the imagination, maps and writers -- what a combination! Sometimes it's a struggle, but I am intrigued by his insights and connections.

On my nightstand I usually keep a stack of poetry. I find that after a long day at the office, working with budgets and computers, the rhythms and lyrical sounds of poetry soften the nerves and ease the mind. I have most of Mary Oliver's works, Octavio Paz' A Tree Within and Eavan Boland, an Irish poet who now lives and teaches poetry in San Francisco, I believe.

Helen Humphreys is an intriguing writer, quietly serene in her writing, yet there is an underlying depth that is not obvious at first. In this book, she writes a series of short stories based upon each time the Thames River froze over. We shall see -- unique, I hope.

I know there will be other books along the way, the ones you stumble on in a used bookshop while on vacation or that a friend places in your hands and claims you must read this! And, of course, there are all those paperback mysteries scattered about as I mentioned before -- nothing like a few dead bodies to keep one's spirits up, I say.

I wish everyone a safe and fun holiday break -- and if you read 5 summer books before August 31st, you may win a prize -- who knows? :-)))

Summer Postcards

2010-06-27T18:03:00.003-04:00

Old Ferry Point

Summer reminds me of those old postcards

we sent and received over the years --

cryptic notes, smudged wishes, illegible names --

all crammed into 3 or 4 inches of space.

They always arrived on someone's doorstep

after we had been home for days, too.

Wychmere Harbor

And the choosing of just the right card for just the right person

always a tricky deal, wasn't it?

I remember sending postcards to my boyfriend (now my husband)

and hoping to strike the right tone -- not too mushy, not to trite,

how to let him know I missed him without committing myself ?

Grey Skies

They are usually scattered throughout one's house,

in drawers and small boxes labeled vacation

or something like that,

wrapped in a ribbon or with a bit of yarn,

tucked next to old letters and

the children's school projects in a jewelry box or drawer.

Treasures of our past lives, mementos of fun times,

fragments of a well-navigated journey

(or not)

Provincetown View

Years from now, will my children find these artifacts of my life?

Will they care and cart them back to their homes

to be tucked back into another drawer?

I hope so.

And every time they lift them to find something else,

a drift of perfume, perhaps a grain of sand,

will tumble past them

and I'll be

there . . .

All images are available as real postcards and prints
at my site on Redbubble;
(background textures created by Ghostbones,
Skeletalmess, Telzey and Playingwithbrushes on Flickr;
Custom brushes and text by myself)

New Exhibit & Partnership

2010-06-18T13:54:00.002-04:00

My new home

Selected art by moi

another view of LBG

more works by moi

love those wood floors and tin ceiling!

As artists we all dream about it, work for it, angst over it -- and then it finally arrives: representation. I'm still pinching myself!

The Left Bank Gallery of Essex, CT is a wonderful light-filled space, situated in a beautiful village on the Connecticut River where working shipyards, boutiques and restaurants, cafes and bookshops line the narrow streets and tiny byways of this typical New England historic town, complete with a green and an old-fashioned bandstand. Each month, the Gallery hosts a reception to highlight a particular artist, complete with music, good food and libations. Summer is a busy time for Essex with the shipyards, yacht clubs and harbor as it is on the route of the Intercoastal Waterway that goes from Florida up to Maine and the Canadian coastal areas.

Well, I'm keeping fingers and toes crossed that some of these paintings will find good homes, either on dry land or afloat!

Magic is afoot . . . !

2010-06-13T16:03:00.002-04:00

Summer Solstice is drawing near and images of forests, fairies and fireflies begin to work their magic, drawing us in at this most powerful time of the year . . .

If you walk out into the woods at twilight, what would you see? At first, it may be a bit scary, forbidding. But one continues to venture deeper and deeper . . .

But as the light slips away and the world of Oberon and Titania, the king and queen of the fairies, emerges, a sense of wonder takes hold, with tiny creatures flitting about, scattering stardust and magic. . .

and then, as dawn draws near, we find the center, the heart of the forest slumbering, dreaming of times past and of futures to come . . .

So, be ready and open for anything that may happen because magic is afoot . . .

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight . . .

Midsummer Night's Dream

William Shakespeare

Vacation comes to an end -- just thought I would leave a little gift for everyone -- :-)

(all photos by K. Marszycki; some textures from Playingwithbrushes and Ghostbones on Flickr)

Garden Reverie

2010-06-10T12:15:00.002-04:00

Give me . . . a garden of beautiful flowers

where I can walk undisturbed. ~Walt Whitman

I hope you will bear with me a bit more as I share these images with you? This has been such a glorious late spring and early summer. In my years of gardening, I have never seen such an exuberance, a lushness that is so bodacious and robust . . .

Gardens are hard work, no mistake. As I get older, I love it more but my back and knees say otherwise. I just hope I can keep up with this lust for life that is going on around me as this is often the only place I find a deep sense of contentment.

Flowers and plants, trees and shrubs demand nothing but a bit of care and water and sun. They don't argue with you but gently remind you to pay attention, especially if something is not quite right. They offer you wonderful smells -- the other morning as I took a walk I was surrounded by the smell of honeysuckle. I was so engrossed in thinking of other things that it took me by surprise. I looked around and there it was -- a huge climbing shrub of yellow and white honeysuckle, reaching up over the others, scaling a small tree. The heat of the morning had wafted its perfume out along the walking paths -- how generous of it to offer this gift of heady scent!

I hope you enjoy these images -- I return to work next week; just enjoying a small "staycation" at home with my husband, puttering around with projects and such, trips to the beach and a few dinners out -- a quiet and welcome respite.

It is good to be alone in a garden at dawn or dark
so that all its shy presences may haunt you and
possess you in a reverie of suspended thought.
~James Douglas, Down Shoe Lane

A Walk in the Garden . . .

2010-05-27T16:36:00.002-04:00

It's warm out this evening, a slight breeze ruffles the air . . .

Let's take a stroll, walk arm-in-arm like in olden days when the rustle of silk matched the song of many blossoms ~

when leisure was something that did not include cellphones and texting . . .

when the art of conversation or dozing under the shade of a tree was enough to satisfy a world-weary soul.

Gardens are still a bit of paradise on earth, for humans, flora and fauna . . . let's cherish them.

Note: many of my digital alterations owe a debt of gratitude to digital masters Skeletal Mess, Ghostbones, Telzey and Playingwithbrushes on Flickr, who share their textures freely!

Recommended readings:

A Gentle Plea for Chaos: Reflections from an English Garden

Childe Hassam: An Island Garden Revisited

pondering gesture . . .

2010-05-17T12:49:00.001-04:00

Wing Sight

aqua media on vellum bristol paper

9 x 12

gestural marks . . . scratches, sweeps of paint, staccato dashes, stabs or swirls . . .

what is my mark? what is yours? are we aware of making them? should we be aware?

do they change with mood or with the material used? can i be identified by my mark? do i want to be . . . ?

questions, questions that lately plague -- the more i know, the less i am certain.

the more i paint, the less i feel confident about -- maybe that's a good thing

drop the confidence and feel the work in wrist and arm, in elbow and shoulder

to let fly with color, to find sight when blinded by ego

make one mark, make a thousand

listen to the brush, to the empty space that calls

taste the light

a leap of faith, a dance through minefields . . .

Recommended Readings:
The Demon and the Angel: Searching for the Source of Artistic Inspiration
Meeting the Madwoman: Empowering the Feminine Spirit

The Best Laid Art Plans . . .

2010-05-10T15:56:00.002-04:00

There's something about watercolors -- the way they capture and reflect light -- and their simplicity that makes them seem so much more accessible than oils. Maybe it's the traditions associated with watercolors, for in years past it was a popular pastime, an everyman's sport to traipse about in the woods and meadows with a small sketchbook and tiny pans of paints. And it wasn't just the men -- women took up watercolor painting and sketching with a passion, too. In the days when there were no television and radio, painting was a leisure craft taken up by many around the world.

It's also surprising to consider who painted watercolors -- certainly J.M.W. Turnerwas pivotal in making watercolor painting a most modern medium --

very little detail, purely atmospheric in his rendering -- incredible! John Singer Sargent who we associate with Newport and the heady world of the Astors and Vanderbilts, created beautiful watercolors while traveling

throughout Italy, and especially of Venice, where again the light and water reflections were magical. Other watercolor painters that I love to pour over for the simplicity and delicacy of their works are the Scottish painter, Charles Rennie Mackintosh

and the French painter, Raoul Dufy, whose paintings always remind me of the backdrop of the famous finale dance scene in the movie An American in Paris--

Well, contrary to my plans for painting outdoors this weekend, high winds and thunderstorms threw a bit of a stumbling block to painting outside! So I stayed safely tucked indoors and worked on some watercolors using books and photographs I keep handy for such occasions. This is one I am particularly pleased with -- I found him in one of my books on Scotland. Bit of a skeptic, wouldn't you say?

The Vest

watercolor on vellum bristol paper

9" x 12"

I have been painting watercolors on vellum bristol paper, experimenting with the "viscosity" factor. The vellum allows the paint to float more, leaving an open-ended type of finish. At times it can be aggravating, but I'm learning to watch and wait, not to be so quick with the paper towels, to let the paints creep and crawl around a bit more then usual. Next I want to try working with watercolor paper that's been coated with gesso or pumice gel -- I'm curious about how those surfaces will affect the paints.

As Rosanna Dana of SNL used to say, It's always something . . . !

Let's Take a Drive . . . Art Inspirations

2010-05-07T12:12:00.002-04:00

Typical New England Farm

Andrew Wyeth

Photography by K. Marszycki

Wolf Kahn

. . . two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

This morning's drive to work began as any other morning, dealing with traffic, stopping for gas (and going broke in the process) -- but then I took the other fork in the road, to paraphrase Mr. Frost.

As I was early, I followed a route that parallels the CT River and is dotted with old New England farms, rolling hills covered in green, feathered with clumps of azalea, rhododendruns and the last of the magnolias. The air was particularly crisp and clear, a sky so blue it took my breath away.

Again, another detour -- I climbed up into these hills and followed some signs for local orchards. As I drove up over the crest of the hill, small valleys and dales of line after line of orchard trees rolled out before me. Old white clapboard farmhouses were caught in the morning sunlight and birdsong filled the air.

I am lucky to live in a part of New England where many farms and homes date back to the late 1600s/early 1700s; in our town Washington actually did sleep there and plan the Revolution with local soldiers. It can be overwhelming sometimes when, as an artist, one tries to plan what to paint next -- there are so many choices, especially if considering painting en plein aire.

So as I drove this morning, I drew up my "battle" plan for the coming summer months: to do a series of watercolor / aqua media sketches of these sites but break them down into manageable portions based upon geographical locations. Otherwise, one becomes paralysed with too many choices and where to begin. In other words, I'll concentrate on one country lane and work my way along this stretch of landscape, painting glimpses of a time past that still continues to operate in today's world.

I feel it's important to try to capture these images as too, too often they disappear, plowed under by developers or just abandoned because of debt and foreclosure.

I hope to post my summer series here on the blog throughout the coming weeks. In the meantime, if you love barns, you should visit Mark and Remark, where Bob LaFond continues to paint a series of barns in pastel. Wonderful works as well as pithy remarks by the artist himself!

A new kid on the block --

2010-05-04T22:18:00.003-04:00

Just a quick aside -- I've moved my editing/coaching blog from Wordpress to Blogger, and I hope you will take a moment to give it a peek. If anyone is interested in writing, this may be of interest to you.

It is in its infant stages, so bear with me. As the saying goes, so many books, so little time -- the same could be said about writing!

So, click on the link: Words Worth

Prelude to Summer

2010-04-30T16:24:00.009-04:00

Oceanic
6" x 8"

thoughts of warm waters . . . glinting shards of bright light . . . pools of aqua blue eddy round my feet, caressing my toes . . . bits of sand and shell sweep back and forth and sounds of gulls careen overhead . . .

Harbor View
5" x 7"

looking across the bay, boats bob in the harbor, their masts spike the pale blue sky like minarets. The smell of tar and wet rope reaches me where I stand in a state of mesmer . . .

Sand & Shore
8" x 10"

as the sun sets, I walk back across the sands, leaving behind dreams and sighs, the sound of waves lapping the shore . . . I carry with me the taste of salt on my lips . . .

I will return.

Go to the Mat!

2010-04-17T16:42:00.018-04:00

How many times have we heard about the benefits of cropping and using an L-frame to find compositions? Lots and lots, but do we practice what we know?

This is a "short" weekend for me. I have an annual conference to drive to on Sunday, plus all the preparations of laundry, packing and such. So today is my only "free" day but too short to really begin anything meaningful -- i.e. messy!

Because I have made my plans for an Open Studio in the fall, I decided to begin sifting and sorting through piles of paintings, mostly on paper, to see what I have on hand and what needs to be matted and framed in the coming months. I have watercolors, aqua media, mixed media, collages and monotypes to sort through. But believe me, not all of these are what might be termed winners. Many are 3/4 of the way painted before I lost interest and put aside with the intention of returning . . . good intentions but often forgotten because I'm on to a new project.

So what does one do? Go to the mat! as my son used to say in his wrestling days. Absolutely. Let's see what I did with this one painting that truly was a playful exercise in moving colors around on the paper purely because I wanted to see the flow of colors, the slow crawling across paper, the effect of 2 or 3 colors merging --

Long Climb
5" x 7" acrylic washes on Fabriano watercolor paper

Summer Pond
5" x 7" acrylic washes on Fabriano watercolor paper

Approaching Storm
5" x 7" acrylic washes on Fabriano watercolor paper

The larger piece was about 12 x 16 and, in its entirety, too busy and overpowering. These three are smaller and the mat I used was an 8 x 10 with a 5 x 7 opening. I moved the mat around the surface of the larger work until I found compositions that intrigued me. I then cut them up and will simply leave as matted and ready for framing.

I also have mats, custom ordered from Documounts (wonderful work and great prices), that are 5 x 7 with a 2.5 x 3.25 opening, and these I plan for a series of "mini-works."

Every spring I travel up to the Paradise City ArtFest in Northampton, Massachusetts. Paradise City also travels to the Boston area, Philadelphia and Miami, and is just one step below the Smithsonian Craft Show . The artists and artisans that are featured in P.C. are amazing, and one leaves at the end of the day almost breathless. But I noted that many artists and photographers offer smaller works, often matted only, that are affordable and just as beautiful as their larger works. So that's my plan for the fall -- part of it, anyway.

Again I cannot emphasize how helpful a mat is when contending with artwork that is just not coming out as you originally envisioned. Let it go, come back to it -- but armed with the mat! Similarly, my aim to paint abstractly is often stymied, and I'll return to representational landscapes and such. But if I move a mat over the landscape, suddenly I'm finding smaller, abstract images embedded within. Oh, what joy!

Try it. It's like a kind of artistic Where's Waldo? :-) ))

Hey, if we can't laugh and enjoy our art, well . . . ho, hum.

It's the small things that count . . .

2010-04-09T11:09:00.007-04:00

Patterns
collage on watercolor paper
collograph remnant, rice papers, silk remnant

Whooeee! This morning I found a very small thing that made me very happy -- a little red dot beneath my collage in the 12th International Collage Exchange & Exhibit! To think that somewhere in the world, someone said Yes, I would like to own that work. Whoever they are, many heartfelt thanks to you from a struggling artist who undergoes serious self-doubts almost as frequently as there are full moons and high tides!

Oddly enough, I am home today because my car was doing a shuffle at red lights and stop signs. Coming home late last night from a board meeting, I wasn't quite sure I would make it. So today, up early and driving downhill with both feet, one on the gas, one on the brake, hoping it wouldn't die before I reached the garage. Then a walk home in the rain (a light one, thank goodness) without an umbrella.

But it was one of those spring mornings when the light rains are more like a mist, the birds are carousing and the tulips, daffodils, grape hyacinths and magnolias are in full bloom. The crabapples are beginning to bud forth, as well as the cherry trees.

First Light

When I got home, I went downstairs into my work area and started straightening the messes I left from last weekend, just puttering. The music was playing and incense was filling the space with a light scent of pine. Suddenly I had this sense of ease, of being "home" in this space, although it tends to be a bit dim at times. I felt that I would go back to some works I had set aside, I gessoed over others that weren't working and then decided to check my blog.

And there it was -- the little red dot. A sign perhaps? A gift certainly.

Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
~William Wordsworth

First Peek

2010-04-06T15:14:00.006-04:00

"First Peek"
original photograph by artist

A small but lovely treat from this past Easter holiday weekend! I had bought a Martha Washington geranium for the deck and just before sunset took this shot with my new macro lens. I love the way the tip of the bud just peeks over the edge, a small curl of new blossom ready to unfurl.

This morning I was out in my bathrobe and at 7:30am because clouds were beginning to roll in, and I wanted to catch the morning light on the star magnolia and the anna magnolia, both totally different in form and color. Thunderstorms were predicted so I wasn't sure if the blossoms would still be there when I came home from work. I hope to upload those later in the week.

As we move further into spring, I know I'll be running around with the camera like a crazy woman -- but what a way to go!

May dawn find you awake and alert, approaching your new day with dreams,
possibilities and promises. May evening find you gracious and fulfilled. May you go into
the night blessed, sheltered and protected. May your soul calm, console and renew you.
(Celtic Blessing)

12th International Collage Exchange & Exhibit

2010-04-01T16:05:00.011-04:00

"Deep Nocturne"

5" x 7"
papers, batik fabric, stamps & hand-embellishment

Dale Copeland has been running this international collage exchange & exhibit for a number of years now and I wonder how she does it, accepting shiploads of collages from artists all over the world, uploading images to the site, selecting the ones that will go into the "on the ground" gallery as well as the "virtual" gallery. Then dividing up the spoils so that each participant receives a wonderful package in the mail later in the spring filled with works from fellow participants.

Well, here's my heartfelt appreciation to all her hard work and dedication to this art form and to the numerous creative folk who participated this year. This was my first year, but I am sure I will continue to participate in coming years -- if Dale can hold up!

I've thought about the collage genre and why, for me, it is something I've been doing quietly for a number of years. When I first began, it was during a year that was extremely difficult for my husband and I as parents. Too much was going on -- elderly parent's stroke, an engagement and wedding coming down the road quickly, our teenage son's difficulties, work for both of us -- all just too, too much. For a time only fingering paper and silk scraps, moving them around, looking for pleasing combinations and making greeting cards for friends and family was all I could handle, mentally and creatively. Like worry beads, it would calm me down and give me a sense that I had not lost all connectivity to my art-making. It was portable. I could sit by the window with the light pouring in and just "play" with these bits of paper and fabric.

Even now, when stuck as to how to combine certain colors in a painting or how to balance this mass on the left with that on the right, I'll pull out my bag of bits and begin to move them around.

I also wonder if this is a seasonal or cyclical process? In the deep cold of winter, oils seem to work well, their viscosity and richness so replete with color and depth. Yet, come spring and summer, I often turn to watercolors and/or paper and fiber. Perhaps it is the tactile nature that draws one, just as the watercolors seem to reflect the lightness of the season, so too the papers and fabrics.

Well, whatever the reason -- to be able to touch color and texture, to build and take down and re-build again with whatever medium one chooses -- cherish this love to create. Nurture it and let it grow. Sometimes it may go fallow but that's natural, just like a field that must rest. But then, like Persephone emerging and returning to Demeter's world of spring and summer, it begins again.

Recommended Reading that seems to echo this entry: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.

Happy April to all!

Dreary Sunday Blahs

2010-03-28T17:31:00.006-04:00

It's baaccckkkk . . . good 'ole March has returned -- why should I be surprised by that? -- and it's windy and cold and windy and cold and cold! Walking this morning was like running hurdles (not that I do that on a steady basis, mind you) and the poor daffodils and snowdrops were being beaten by the slice 'n dice winds.

Came home and kind of banged around into walls, picking up this, putting down that. I hate these kind of Sundays -- no motivation to start a painting, to work on something new or to finish up something begun. So I just rolled with it. Ate chocolate cookies, drank lots of java (decaf) and played on the computer, visiting blogger friends, fiddling with some photos:

"Sunlight & Shadows"
digital image by artist

This is actually the same image, just duplicated and blended somewhat differently, then layered over a texture from Playingwithbrushes . This was truly an experiment, so am happy it came out.

This one is a bit different -- a shot of the Baldwin Bridge that spans the Connecticut River just at the point where it empties into Long Island Sound. There's a boat launch under the bridge, which I never knew. I took this shot last December -- a beautiful sunny day; the next day we had our first snowstorm!

"Span"
digital image by artist

I was trying for a "vintage" look, and was pleased with how the opposite shoreline came out -- reminds me of a Constable or an Inness. Believe it or not, the texture is the bottom of an old cookie baking pan that I scanned -- ha! -- see how desperate one can get on a dreary Sunday afternoon?

Well, I'll stop complaining. Time to get things ready for another work week. Let's hope that Spring returns soon -- these cold, blustery days are wearing me down!

Wandering into the Margins . . .

2010-03-26T13:39:00.015-04:00

Digging for Blue
mixed media on canvas
11 x 14

Over the past few years I have traveled far and wide in Blogland viewing other artists' works, chatting, getting to know one another just a bit more. Oddly enough, I feel as if I know some of my fellow bloggers better than I know my neighbors who live next door! To find kindred spirits with whom one can talk about art and creating, exchange ideas, recommend a reading, share a disappointment means a great deal to me, as I'm sure is true with others.

But what I find truly exciting is to trace a trail of growth, to watch an artist begin to expand into and navigate new terrains, yet tentative in these new explorations.

I just stopped by Laura Tetrault's site, because the tiny image that popped up on my bloglist intrigued me. She has worked with still life and people, but this was different -- and yet recognizable in its' evolution from previous work. Somewhere I read about an artist who believed that his work should be such that the viewer wanted "to step inside as if in a dream." I think Laura has captured this through the fluidity and vibrancy of her painting.

But she also writes about being hesitant to detour from one's original intentions, to allow the painting to guide the artist, and this struck a chord as many a time my original intentions were other than where I ended up, almost the reverse of the quotation above: waking up from a bit of creative reverie to find something strange staring back at you. And you think to yourself -- How did this happen? Where was I during all this?

It's that sense of letting go, of giving up the Western mindset of control and power, of wandering into the margins of the unknown, exploring the blanks, the omissions of not only the paper or canvas on which you're working, but of within our own spirit that can be rewarding but also a bit scary.

To be a creative individual is to be a fierce navigator --
even when you're shaking in your boots!

Happy Friday Everyone! :-)

Drawing the Line

2010-03-22T14:53:00.011-04:00

Rocky Ledge
aqua media on watercolor paper
9 x 12

I had a friend once who, when upset and feeling distraught, would go outside (weather permitting, of course) and lie down on the ground, thus putting the earth beneath her and the sky above her. Once she had done this, she felt centered and at peace.

Wherever I go, especially if it is a new place I've never visited before, I make a mental note of where North is. It's this little unconscious ritual that I've done since I was a child. I do have Narragansett and Potawatomis blood in my veins, which may account for this internal compass. I also watch for lichen growing on the north side of trees. Go figure.

Ralph Waldo Emerson noted that a healthy eye demanded a horizon line, that centering line that divides earth from sky, sky from water. And in art I find myself seeking this line, just like the North, whether painting a landscape or a simple pot of flowers.

White Pot
aqua media on watercolor paper
8 x 10

If you do not know where your feet are or in what direction you are looking, how do you know where you truly are?

Sunday morning was a bad start -- anything I did on Saturday had nothing to do with creating, just a series of tasks that every weekend warrior performs. The day was so gloriously warm and sunny that I spend most of the latter part of the day on the deck with my daughter, reading, chatting and relaxing with some wine.

But by Sunday, I was feeling defeated. My sense of disorientation was overpowering: it felt like June, but it was March! Saturday had slipped away so quickly that I felt I needed another Saturday. My weekend was disappearing.

I needed to orientate myself, otherwise I would drift. I know this is true for me. Without a goal, I tend to sink into a been there, done that mindset that is pernicious, leading to a sense of paralysis.

So I drew up a Long-Range Art Strategy Plan -- sounds obnoxious, doesn't it? Everything that makes that right brain quiver in fear and loathing. But luckily this time I listened to my left brain. I thought about where I want to be with my art and creativity in 5 years and how I was going to get there from here (got your compass handy as this could be confusing).

My long-range goal is to open my own art gallery. At first, part-time as I'll still be working full-time. But eventually, it will be 3/4 time (the benefits of retirement). I know many artists and photographers in this area, as well as writers and poets, that I envision my gallery as a celebration of the arts & humantities.

But to get there, I need some in-between time objectives, such as getting my works into galleries, something easier said than done. And, of course, joining various art associations, which I think of as more of a "political" thing. Perhaps a self-published book via Blurb.com or Lulu.com?

But these are further off along my timeline. I need something to keep me oriented and motivated now. So move to Plan B -- are you still with me?

Plan B is immediate: to run an Open Studio this autumn in my own home. Why not, I ask myself? Plenty of people do so. Here in New England, the weekend of Thanksgiving you can practically stumble upon these open studios blind-folded.

So now I have my horizon line: Open Studio, early November, 2010. And to get there I will need about 3 dozen paintings, matted photographs and such.

Excuse me -- I must go outside and lay down on Mother Earth before I fall down from these dizzying heights of strategic planning . . .

In the Footsteps of Giants

2010-03-14T19:30:00.005-04:00

Imitation is the highest compliment, the saying goes. I'm currently taking a life drawing class with a professor from University of CT and loving it. Nothing like a piece of charcoal or a pencil and paper to get down to the nitty-gritty of art-making!

It's not easy though. Often my nudes look more like a dwarf from Snow White (probably Dopey), but one perseveres. Thank god for erasers.

Then I noted that Michelle at Following the Masters was offering another Challenge -- the Italian Renaissance Masters. Wonderful! If you're going to do it big, it might as well be the Giants: Michelangelo, Raphael, Leonardo DaVinci, Botticelli.

So today being a cold and rainy Sunday with my husband my son working, I decided to try and paint some nudes using one main oil color. Below is the work I submitted to Michelle a few minutes ago.

Raphael's Female Nude
copy by K. Marszycki
oil on archival board
8x10

Of course, in my haste to finish it and send it off, I neglected to paint in the figure on the far right and thus she looks like she's trying to hitch a ride by thumbing it . . . duh.

And this one is Durer's Female Nude; although not Italian, I do love Durer's work -- so solid and dense.

Durer's Female Nude
copy by K. Marszycki
oil on archival board
9x12

I found that working with the oil was a pleasant way to sketch, oil being a very forgiving medium if a stroke had to be removed. And working with one color -- either burnt or raw siena -- made the process simple and relaxing.

However, the dimensions of these women were another matter. We modern folk are so used to thinking in terms of waistlines and longer legs (after all, we are taller than the people who lived over 400 years ago), that I had to adjust my sense of density and bulk.

But for a rainy Sunday, these two sketches proved to be a great way to warm up. I then painted several more riverscapes, continuing a fascination I have with water and light. My goal is to have about 18-20 oils and mixed media works under this theme of waterscapes. So far I have 13.

Then, watch out New York! Well, one can dream, can't one? :-)

Matisse Works Red (the briefest of fiction) . . .

2010-03-12T12:33:00.011-05:00

Hours I have spent, carving slabs of paint onto canvas, willing the blank space to yield up what I desire, I crave. But nothing, nothing is what I had hoped. I cannot hold onto it. It all begins to cave in, crumble at my feet, submerge into the red that surrounds me.

I cannot breathe. I feel myself drowning in this desire to create something, anything that will speak to the dreams and vision I have. Hours after hour, day after day I stand here, planning, daubing this, dribbling that. This is craziness!

Maybe I am crazy? I look around me and all sense of place, of time fades into a wave of red, of carmine and vermillon. Walls slip into floors, floors seep out of windows. And where is the ceiling? I cannot look at my paintings – they float, dip and sway, dancing around the table like nymphs hearing lyrical notes that I cannot.

I must escape. Where is my hat, my scarf? I look around me and all begins to shift. I fall, I stumble, grabbing the table, knocking over tins of colors, brushes. At my feet they pool, an oozing glob of nothingness.

I fight for breath. I need air. I seek the window, open it and lean out into the late afternoon light. I breathe deeply and smell sunlight. I drink in the birdsong from the gardens below. I see my wife slowly picking tomatoes from her small patch of kitchen garden. She is humming. A simple task, plain yet necessary to life. Here is the answer to this craziness of mine.

I turn and look back into the studio, fearing what I will see. But all is right again, everything in its place. There is no mess on the floor. The mess was mine, in my head. I walk over to the canvas, still hearing my wife’s sing-song notes coming through the window.

I will paint her. I will paint her performing those simple tasks of everyday life. I pick up the brush and move the red, working it, filling the white space with warmth, with love. My shoulders ease, the wrist is loose and agile once again.

I have found harmony. I am working.

(original short fiction by Kelly M.)

Serendipitous Moments in Blogland

2010-03-09T16:36:00.006-05:00

It's funny how our sites and blogs and thoughts seem to intersect at varying points -- some of us have been writing about spring and this bout of warm weather we've been having; others are writing about their writing and poetry, while others are highlighting a favorite artist or inspiration.

I just visited Eva Macie's blog and she wrote of Pat Dews, a wonderful artist who inspires many via her books, workshops and DVDs. When I saw Eva's work, I had to chuckle because I had just loaded this digital image to my Redbubble site. I titled it "Dark Topography," which is what Eva's work reminded me of -- an intricate topographical surface -- filled with amazing cracks and fissures, crevices to investigate -- to let the eye wander over, again and again.

This image was a shot of a water-damaged wall. I inverted it to a negative, then played with the hues, etc. It reminded me of a moon shot, those grainy images of pitted and scarred surfaces of the moon that are relayed back to earth!

And then one of those moments when you stumble across a quote, a bit of writing and -- wham! There it is: image and text mingling and merging in the mind's eye:

my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune . . .

Samuel Beckett

So -- not a moonscape but rather looking down at the dark sands while drifts of water hide or reveal flotsam & jetsam, a catch of pebbles, a ripple of seaweed, little secret colors and textures that disappear as quick.

Don't you just love these serendipitous moments? Way cool, as my son would say!

Daydreams of Spring

2010-03-07T12:15:00.007-05:00

Morning Stroll

She stands in the winter-darkened wings, waiting to make her entrance, trailing silks and chiffons; like a great dancer, a grand jete will be her signature motion. But for now, she waves a bit silk to tease her audience, who wait breathlessly for the grand moment . . .

However we picture spring, we are being blessed with several days of 50 degree-plus, sunny weather here in New England. Yesterday, I sat on the deck and baked my winter-weary, pale white skin. Not the best thing to do, but it was a must. Sweat actually formed on my brow and I had to remove my sweater; I eventually took off my hiking boots and wriggled my toes in the warm air, letting them rest on the sun-baked wood. I did not go inside until well after 5pm. And next weekend is Daylight Savings, so the clocks will be turned ahead, giving us extra hours of light at the end of the day. Glorious!

This morning I took a long walk, not striding with purpose but rather strolling, ambling in the early morning sunlight, letting the cool wind wake me up. As I walked, I purposely looked up, not down, which is usually my habit, searching for little bits of twigs, which I collect for some odd reason. For some it's pebbles and stones, for me it's those quirky bits of wood that remain after the woodchipper has left or the flattened pine cones squashed by the snow plows.

Up above the sky was azure, cerulean, so clear and bright it seered these eyes more accustomed to dimmed winter interiors. Evergreens and birches pressed themselves against the china blue, cutting a fine edge of contours. Black crows scuttled from tree to tree, making screechy sounds, almost delirious with the growing warmth of the morning.

As I walked neighbor's windchimes gave off sweet, yet melancholy metallic notes that drifted in the wind, and these were answered by the chirrups and chuckles of goldfinches and chickadees darting among the still bare branches. There was little car traffic as this is Sunday, so the quiet was deep and delicious.

Green! How many greens can there be as we slowly make the curve into the new season? The darkened green of ivies climbing walls and chimneys lay against the brighter green of rhododendrons, melted snows revealed patches of mosses, grey-green lichens on dun-colored bark, white pine needles, like slender threads, offered slivers of green against the blue-green of a spruce. Even the magnolias offered a feathery sage green veil promising so many thousands of buds ready to break free.

With the growing warmth, the smell of earth drifted upwards, something that I had not met on my walks for months now. It was almost as heady as baked bread, making my gardener's mouth water. Yesterday I had done several hours' work in the garden, clearing out leaves and mulches, lightly pruning dead branches and readying the ground for the first signs of growth. Amazingly, my hostas and daylilies are peeking through, little fingers of green tipped in white and purple edging up through the ground. A primula flashes her ruffled leaves and soon will offer another heady smell if one bends low enough to catch it.

I have no series of images to offer today, except for those I have painted with my words. No matter how hard an artist or writer tries to capture the beauty and grace of Nature, nothing can compare. I think the closest we come to a true(er) expression may be through music -- perhaps Beethoven's Pastorale or Copeland's Appalachian Spring -- begin to capture the daydream that is spring.

She gathers her silks about her and retreats further into the shadows,
seeking a quiet corner to gather strength.
It is not time yet, not yet . . .

Gift from the Heart

2010-02-28T17:24:00.004-05:00

Jardin
3 x 5 mat opening
in an 8x10 frame

Song
3 x 5 mat opening
in an 8x10 frame

A few weeks ago, Neva wrote about framing her paintings and how the frames completed the works. Somehow, by surrounding one's work with a frame, we seem to christen our creation, giving it that final touch. And as an extension of that sense, I'd like to add the gifting of a work to someone we love as another final touch.

This afternoon, my daughter stopped by to visit (and do some laundry -- what else?), and we chatted, had some coffee and laughs and caught up with each other's lives. She has just moved into a new apartment and is in the process of decorating her space on a shoestring budget.

So I pulled out my box of "little works" and had her sort through and see what she would like; gathered some mats and frames and voila! -- a set of petite collages for her living room. She was quite tickled, and it made me happy to know these little ones were going to a good home.

After all, I don't want to be my own best collector. I would rather undersell or gift a work and see it move out into the world, living in someone's home or office, perhaps giving pleasure daily.

Art is a communication of the spirit, the heart, the head. If it sits on a shelf, waiting, there is no communication. It is mute, residing in limbo.

So my daughter is happy, I'm happy and this was a story with an upbeat ending for the last day of February! :-)

Snow Rose

2010-02-26T19:41:00.004-05:00

Snow Rose
photograph by artist

I certainly hope this is one of the last photographs I post that capture winter! Another storm hit the East Coast and New England, bringing snow, rain, sleet and miseries galore.

This delicate little beauty somehow made it through, still clinging with a touch of color, petals like parchment, iced over like a candied sweet from fairyland.

So, amidst the wintry dreariness, nature offers us a treat, which I share with you -- stay warm and dry this weekend!

Beauty is not caused.

It is.

Emily Dickinson

Dream Studio

2010-02-23T15:13:00.009-05:00

Maragaret Ryall has posted some great photos of her studio and, judging by the comments, many of us were quite envious of the dedicated space she has for her creativity. It made me wonder about how we use space, how we move through it and how we allocate space for particular tasks.

The photo above is my "dream" studio -- a large open space with high ceilings and light cascading in through a big skylight, white walls to offer freshness and to give the colors an unsullied space to glow. One would be able to open the studio for open houses and celebrations. And definitely, music would be flowing throughout the room.

But I wonder if I would actually "work" in this kind of space? Especially if there was a beautiful view to look at or a set of french door opening out onto a slate terrace filled with pots and trellises of flowers where I could lounge with a glass of wine and a good book.

My actual workspace is more cave-like. Sounds horrible, doesn't it? And there are times when I despair of ever having anything remotely like the above. But, on the other hand, there are positive aspects to my cave:

>Not too many members of my family search for me when I'm "in the belly of the beast" and, as a mother, that's a good thing. Otherwise, it would be a constant barrage of questions, trips, tasks, etc.

>I lose track of time because the windows are small and don't admit too much natural light, which is good as I am not conscious of the change in light, of time passing. It's warm in the winter and cool in the summer, too.

>I feel no compunction to clean up my messes, leaving used rags and empty paint tubes scattered around, coffee cups, etc. (I do clean up, just not always).

I think you get the picture.

If I were surrounded by such a beautiful space, my mind would wander, my urge to splash things around would be curbed, and it would become more of a "decorative" space than a "work" space.

But that's me. And, believe me, if someone handed me the keys to the above studio, I would run like the wind to take possession!

Someday, somehow, I'll have a space that I would be proud to show the light of day. Just not right now . . .

UFOs spotted in the Studio

2010-02-21T18:46:00.005-05:00

Sprout Wings
collage of banana, rice & marblized papers;
hand-embellished with India ink
6" x 9"

O.k. I know it looks a bit like a baby zeppelin that has lost its moorings and is adrift in a sea of paper, but what can I say? One must love one's creations; otherwise, we could end up like Dr. Frankenstein, and we all know how that story ended.

Seriously, though, I could not repeat last weekend's dance performance. I was actually so sore a few days later, I found it a bit hard moving around at work. I hadn't used some of those muscles in years! I have much more respect for dancers now, believe me. Did you know that Fred Astaire danced every day for 3 hours until well into his 70s? Phew. I think I need more gummi bears . . .

This weekend was quieter, more subdued than last weekend. I spent more time sorting through things, discovering fun little projects that I never completed (probably too busy dancing and eating).

So now I'm thinking about challenging myself -- maybe opening this up to my fellow bloggers. How many UFOs are floating around your studio? By "UFO," I mean "unfinished objects" that we tend to shove to the side, slip into drawers, use as bookmarks -- all in an effort to avoid completion.

Why? Because completion is a scary thing. Once a work or project is completed, we are forced to reckon with it. Oh, that terrible word: reckoning. It sounds so final, so apocalyptic . . .

But better to have a finished work than a half-baked one. Or perhaps we could de-construct a UFO to take parts of it and use with another project. Re-cycling a UFO is better than a dormant one, I would guess.

I need to think about this some more. Procrastination is integral to UFOism . . .

Breaking Away

2010-02-16T18:01:00.009-05:00

Riding the Rim
oil & acrylic on canvas
12 x 16

This was a holiday weekend, three days off, snuggled into the house warmed against the drear, cold grey & white world out beyond the four walls.

When I stepped into my work area, I didn't follow my usual pattern -- lighting some incense, turning on a classical CD, trying to work my way into a painting, sort of side-winding into the process, tricking the timid mind into thinking it is going to "just play" for awhile.

Nope! This time I slapped some Brazilian jazz into the boom box, grabbed my brushes taped to long sticks (a fun tip from Bob Burridge to loosen up), filled some pots with water and broke out the colors!

This time of year I crave color. I guess we all do -- unless of course one lives in Australia or Hawaii or Rio. With predictions of more snow on the way, this was a time for bold moves -- or else . . .

Working on large canvases -- some of which had half-baked paintings already on them but were dying of boredom -- I scrubbed and slopped and wiped layers and layers of colors, as I rocked and swayed to "Girl from Ipanema" and other sambas.

If I didn't like what I saw in front of me, I wiped and re-dressed the canvas with gesso. I also ate two boxes of gummy bears and swedish fish -- maybe that had something to do with my elevated levels of energy??? Hmmm.....!

So, after about 6 hours (with short dancing breaks and refills of decaf coffee -- after the candy, who needed full-strength?), I ended the day with the painting above. Quieter but definitely RED. It was a painting I had done about 4 years ago, then shelved and forgot about. And the reason was: it truly was not finished. It was half-baked.

I saturated the canvas with colors -- carmine and crimson, vermilion and violet -- with just that dash of bodacious orange on the rim. It had begun as a river painting years ago, trying to capture that moment when the sun has set, the skies are deepening toward twilight but there is still that hush of deep, deep red coloring everything -- the river, the banks of trees and rocks, the sky.

And one knows that one is riding the rim of twilight, resting on the cusp before dipping into night.

The music is quiet now. The gummy bears and swedish fish are at rest, as am I.

My work is done.

Time to light the fire and dream of warm breezes and summer gardens . . .

Indirect and sideways . . .

2010-02-12T13:14:00.011-05:00

A Sense of Place
digitally altered photograph by artist

To continue from my previous post . . .

Keiji Shinohara, a renowned woodblock artist, stated once that he adjusted his approach to creating when he returned to Japan to help his aging father. It was then that he noted the beauty of Japanese garden design, specifically the technique of "shakkei," the borrowing of the landscape in the distance to blend with the foreground of the garden design.

Borrowing the landscape -- is that how it begins? As we move through our lives, do we borrow the landscape, the scenery from a trip or a childhood memory and work it into our creations? But at what point does the scenery turn into something more spiritual, more visceral?

And, more importantly, when does one's self become a part of the land, the earth, the river, the oceans and mountains? The loss of one's self-ness is difficult, especially for Westerners. We have been brought up to believe that each of us is a unique individual. We pride ourselves on our uniqueness, our resolute oneness. That is what we've been taught helped build this country -- the stalwart individual against the odds.

Maybe therein lies the problem.

Ellen Meloy, who wrote works such as The Anthropology of Turquoise and Eating Stone, seemed to come to grips with this symbiotic relationship between human and earth:

"The sandstone was filled with secret veins that only the flesh could find. Press the stone and feel its flex, I thought, take the shape of its harrowing embrace. The sun would rise east of my hipbones. Color struck like blows. The light ratcheted up its blaze and flashed through each nerve, a net of flame, a field of exquisite friction. I was seized by something that could never be wrestled down, a feeling not unlike sorrow and ecstasy compounded. Then came the sweet drift of longing, and I hung on to the earth's curve for dear life, breathing the comfort of stone during my ride."

Meloy died an early death but left several books that delve deeply into our brief contact with this universe.

I intend to read all.

I intend to keep all.

I intend to re-read all.

It is the least I can do.

"The idea of paints . . . to open my hand
to a looser muscle of expression.
I hope to make pictures like I walk in the desert -- under a spell,
an instinct of motion, a kind of knowing
that is essentially indirect and sideways."

Ellen Meloy
1946 - 2004

Topography of a River

2010-02-10T21:13:00.010-05:00

Daybreak on the River
oil on canvas
11 x 14

How does a landscape, a certain place become a part of one's self? When is it so integral to one's breathing and thinking and dreaming that it no longer is simply a "landscape," but an unconscious drawing together of elements from the experience of the land -- or in this case, the waters that flow southward, that are no longer observed but rather felt?

I have traveled along the Connecticut River in my daily commute for almost 15 years now. I have seen it totally frozen over, a thick slab of white, crackled and rumpled with layers of ice and snow, but knowing that beneath currents still travel south to the Sound, pulsing with sleeping life.

Shadows on the River
photograph by artist

During the spring, with the northern thaws up in Vermont and Massachusetts, the River swells and shoulders up onto the shorelines, often sweeping into buildings and over docks. In late March the crew teams of Wesleyan and Trinity skim the surface like tiny dragonflys, zipping along in the late afternoon light -- a sure sign that spring has arrived. Pale pink clouds of dogwood and mountain laurel rim the shadowy edges as I drive home in the dusk.

River and Rocks
collage with lokta and banana papers;
batik cottons on Nujabi paper
9 x 12

In summer the River runs lean, eddying gently along the rocks and shorelines, as if saving its strength in the heat. Boaters and tubers frisk about and, here and there, small dockside restaurants spring up to serve the locals.

Autumn brings rains and swift waters again, swelling the River in its last effort to round out the cycle of the year. Now the River is in its full glory with crests of gold and russet trees, dark green pines thick with cones hemming its' edges, reflected in its' deep blue surface, offering twice the beauty.

As I sorted through my works this snowy day, I noticed how often the river appears, in some way, throughout the years -- paintings, photographs, collages -- a waterscape that moved from the decorative to the felt, becoming one with the inner topography of the heart.

“A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically
that he remakes it in his own image.”
Joan Didion

The Metamorphosis of a Young Stream

2010-01-29T16:16:00.009-05:00

A Delicate Blush
original photograph by artist

While another storm has spread a thick skin of ice and snow, I played "pretend" with my photographs, working with different techniques learned over the past few weeks.

When working with this image, I kept recalling the images and illustrations from children's classic literature, particularly those by N.C. Wyeth (Andrew Wyeth's father), Arthur Rackham and Maxfield Parrish.

There is a kind of woodcut look to this particular technique and believe me, it was pure hit-or-miss.

Sometimes we stumble along various paths, not quite sure where the path is taking us, just letting the mistakes and back-tracks lead and guide.

So, digitally, I wandered -- until I reached this point.

I had to stop, not because of any pride at what I had done (that was the question: what had I done?), but because the nature of the image had morphed, had spread little delicate wings and offered me a peek at the blush of its' newly softened hues, the quiet of its' waters and the dreaminess of its' new self.

I was honored.

Give us unquiet dreams
leaning softly out
from ferns that drop their tears
over the young streams

William Butler Yeats

Mid-Winter Thoughts

2010-01-25T14:35:00.010-05:00

"Winter Trees"

original photograph by artist
(background texture by Telzey)

Closing in on the middle of Winter. Although the light is slowly returning -- what a delight not to drive home in the dark -- the bleakness of it all is wearing me down. It's right about now that I yearn for tropical colors that punch and pulsate and for fragrances that make one swoon.

I feel like I have been wearing black, brown and gray for decades. The house is filled with cooking smells and the scents of frustration, entrapment and just plain old crabbiness.

So, I feel a shift in palette coming on -- let's break out those fiery reds, those neon yellows, those party-animal oranges! Turn on the salsa and brazilian jazz and dance around the living room, scaring partners and the mailman alike . . . or not.

The spring will be here soon enough, along with the list of gardening jobs to be done, the spring cleaning -- all of which I am anxious for, don't get me wrong. But that also signals to me that my quiet hours of being holed up inside my studio area are over for the time being.

So, it's a catch-22. We humans are such an odd lot, never satisfied with the here-and-now, always glancing over the next ridge, hoping for a quick skirmish, a climb up Mt. Everest, a leisurely swim across the Channel.

Another thought to leave you with, my blogging friends . . .

" . . . the living world is the natural domain of the most restless and paradoxical part of the human spirit. Our sense of wonder grows exponentially; the greater the knowledge, the deeper the mystery and the more we seek knowledge to create new mystery."

Edward O. Wilson, Ecologist

Creativity and Chaos Soup

2010-01-12T15:47:00.006-05:00

"Chaotic Pips"
photo by me - :~)

The age-old question: what am I doing here on earth? how can I create? where did I put my ATM card? Burning questions that badger us, shove us around in a kind of whirling dervish spin until we drop from mental and emotional exhaustion, and quite literally end up doing nothing.

And where does it get us, may I ask? Same spot, just deeper into the hole.

I was just reading Marla Baggetta's blog where she writes: " . . . I dance to the stupid songs every day. I keep myself happy and warm. I live large in my own little world. . . . Did you make something? Did you write something, paint something . . . ? I hope you did. If you did, you made this world a better place."

Or in the words of Sir John Eccles, Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine:

“I want you to understand that there are no colors in the real world.
That there are no textures in the real world.
There are no fragrances in the real world.
There is no beauty, there is no ugliness.
Nothing of the sort.
Out there is a chaos of energy soup and energy fields.
Literally.
We take that and somewhere inside ourselves we create a world.
Somewhere inside ourselves it all happens.”

That is my entry for today. I hope it encouraged you
to dance with your energy soup of chaos!

Serendipitous Emphasis

2010-01-10T15:55:00.013-05:00

Sometimes, when least expected, odd things happen. You're tripping along, doing this, doing that -- and then wham! Now this could be a good wham or it can be a bad wham. Today, it was a good one.

I was working on a new digital image and, after two hours' work, I decided to take a break. I needed to just play for awhile, poking at some old flower images I had stored on the computer. Here is the original photo, nothing special except for the beauty of the blossom itself --

I then shifted it into its negative state and played with the hues until I reached this point --

Now I was intrigued. I opened an image of water in a glass vase I had taken this summer, overlaid the blossom and began to fiddle some more. After a few minutes of experimentation, this is the final result --

"Abstract Rhodie"

I feel like the photographic nature is almost gone except for the shape of the blossom, while the painterly aspects of the manipulation have evoked another image altogether, filled with energetic brushstrokes, highlights and a palette of colors I would not have thought of on my own.

Like I said -- wham!

"It is only by selection, by elimination,
by emphasis that we get at the real meaning of things."

Georgia O'Keefe