Variations on a Theme

How does one envision an image? How does one interpret that vision?

I love the coastline and spent many summers on the beaches of Long Island, NY where I grew up. Not only summers but every season really and in all types of weather. Actually, Long Island is like one giant sandbar, as my Dad used to joke!

I'm not sure if it was the wide open spaces of the beaches or the vast skies or that thin scrim of a horizon line between ocean and sky that I loved the most. Or perhaps the dunes and the waves. In the midst of February, all these images and smells and sounds fill my head.  These two works seem to evoke some aspect of those memories, yet in very different ways and methods --

Coastal Haze

This is a fairly small work done on Wallis pumiced paper with acrylics and touches of pastel, done quickly with large mop brushes.

And this one was painted with oils on a thick heavy 200lbs. acrylic paper by Strathmore, which sold a few months ago at the Hartford Open Studio weekend.

Wetlands, Orleans MA

Different mediums, different approaches -- and yet both seem to capture a sense of the coast and surrounding wetlands. And I suppose that's the best one can hope for --

In summer, the song sings itself.

~William Carlos Williams

Indirect and sideways . . .

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

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

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

Art Forms for Labor Day Weekend

Haze-ridden Coast

Grey Coastline

Working with gouache and acrylics, mostly on Wallis archival sanded paper, I tried for a loose, more juicy effect, allowing the paints to run and drip, mix and flow -- a bit like how I'll be working with dyes and silks in the coming weeks. These started in response to the days at the beach on the Cape, where the weather has such a profound effect upon the land/seascape. Somehow, heavy oils just did not seem to work; however, the acrylics and gouache captured the effect I was seeking. Working on the Wallis sanded paper, usually for pastel work, helped achieve those rivulets and runnels one finds at the beach.

Well, in the next few weeks I'll be working with the dyes and silks for the festival in October. I often work with the Japanese arashi shibori technique (arashi means storm, as the wrinkles appear to be like wind-driven rain) where the silks are wrapped and tied on poles, then dyed and over-dyed and allowed to dry for several days. Here's an example of a finished silk scarf:

It's always a surpise as one cannot see what's happening under the wrapped layers, so a degree of patience and faith is needed, trusting in the process and allowing for "welcome mistakes" Maybe next entry I'll post some in-process photos -- it truly is a lovely mess!

Art and the Contrast of Topographies

Rocky Shores
acrylic & gouache
6" x 8"

Summer Crossroads
gouache
6" x 8"

Here in New England we have the wonderful ability to drive within minutes between landscapes which are so diverse -- the rocky shorelines of Connecticut up through Maine, then to wander back roads past old tobacco fields, cow pastures, mills and working farms. As a child I grew up on Long Island, which is really a glorified sand bar that stretches about 120 miles out to sea starting at the shores of New York City. Flat, flat, flat . . . I love the beaches and the (then) wide open skies but that's about it. My folks were always taking weekend roadtrips up to New England and as soon as we crossed the Throgs Neck bridge, my dad would shout, "Off that g-d sandbar!"

One of my favorite drives is up Route 7 through the Berkshires of Massachusetts right into Vermont -- wonderful! Summer Crossroads reminds me of that drive. And Rocky Shores is not unlike Meigs Point at Hammanassett Beach in Madison, CT.

Well, I'm off to the World Quilt Festival in New Hampshire tomorrow -- another road trip! Hopefully, new vistas await -- I'm packing my pastels in the hopes that I can do some sketching while I'm up there. I keep working at those pastels . . . someday it will click.

Happy weekend --

Spring is here and getting itchy . . .

Well, finally! Spring arrived at 7:44am here in New England and not a moment too soon. It's cold yet but you know that winter is over. It's definitely a "mental" thing.

Another "mini" to add to the collection:

"Farmhouse on the Ridge"
2" x 2"

This is probably the smallest of the batch -- again, it was part of a larger floral still life that just didn't cut it. So I did -- cut it, that is. I once read that Monet kicked his boot through the canvases he hated because he didn't want future generations to see them. Dramatic but very effective.

Well, I have only a few more weekends free before the garden demands my presence, so I hope to spend hours in the studio both days. Morning coffee, a walk and then to paint -- then a good book and some wine later to reward myself for persistance, if nothing else . . .

I cannot wait.

Miniature Art continued . . .

"Garden Window"
3" x 4.5"
oil pastel

Another diminutive piece to add -- of course, there are others but my time to scan is a bit strapped these days! Working with these smaller pieces has made me see things a bit differently. Now when I'm looking at a large artwork, my eye tends to drift around the image seeking out, almost wrestling out sections that create their own pictorial plane.

This weekend I was painting with watermedia on heavy weight paper -- Nujabi -- which is a coarse, handmade Japanese watercolor paper, about 200 lbs. I was trying to paint a still life. After about 4 tries and 3 hours later, I gave up in total frustration.

Why? After pondering the mess I had created, I realized that I do not like still life. I don't have still life works in the house, I just do not like that static, lifeless image staring back at me. Also, the light was rigged and the flowers were "sad" to say the least. Everything seemed to be working against me.

On Sunday I sat on the deck, soaking up the sunshine after this long winter and didn't go back inside until about 4:00pm. I dragged the dining room table up to a north window, brought out the paints again and decided to paint what I like, what I continually seek when driving, etc. -- a horizon line with a distant perspective. Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote that "a healthy eye demands a horizon" and I think he was right!

Several hours later when the light had faded, I had several small(ish) pieces done, mainly in acrylics treated as watercolor. I might go back into some with oil pastels or pastels and continue working the surface. One of my favorite artists is Helen Frankenthaler -- actually she is the best -- and was re-reading about her works on paper, many of which are acrylic with oil pastel or pastel markings, which is what sparked the re-negotiation of acrylic on Sunday.

Then, oddly enough, to come back to my point about seeking out these miniscule "paintings within paintings," I took a mat with a 2" x 3.5" opening and began moving it around the picture plane. Amazing! Within the larger paintings I could find several hidden gems, some landscapes, some more abstract. So there may be one or two larger pieces I will "trash" so as to rescue the smaller pieces that lay within.

never, ever give up . . . the paint, the surface, the marks -- all will tell (eventually) . . .