models needed

i usually sketch from memory for these portraits, but i prefer to have photos. when i see someone i want to paint, i rarely ask for photos. it feels too tender, even outrageous, to ask. i love these ladies so much. it's all beauty and grace and humor to me, i can't stand it.

i am these ladies. i mean, technically, not yet, but god willing. i look at these women and i think about what a privilege it is to grow old. i know, i know the so, so many ways that it is not a privilege, i know. i do. but still.

would you trade it?

i send art to inboxes every friday, and i’d love to send it to you.

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feels like frustration

[image is a pile of mixed paint overlaid with the words “Art often feels like frustration”].

just a reminder. frustration is the word that often describes the feeling of trying to figure something out that you don’t know yet. it comes with the territory of most good things.

i send art to inboxes every friday, and i’d love to send it to you.

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economy of form

[image is piles of pink paint overlaid with a handwritten text that says: finding the minimum amount of paint to convey the feeling is a worthy goal, but don’t be fooled - the confusion and the murk of the journey are all part of the beauty of the destination.]

i send art to inboxes every friday, and i’d love to send it to you.

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net repair

(image is a pile of green-yellow paint, overlaid with handwritten text that says: sometimes the hardest part is properly mixing the paint (IE: preparing). But you can’t skip that part. It can’t all be sexy paint-slinging . . . when fishermen can’t go to sea, they repair nets.)

i send art to inboxes every friday, and i’d love to send it to you.

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sometimes you just need a bigger paintbrush

(image is a messy mix of paint, with text overlay that says: don’t let your mind trick you into thinking it’s all awful and no fun and nothing is coming together and you need a new career - sometimes you just need a bigger paintbrush. CALM DOWN.)

the chocolate ritual

i recently read an article about commuting. it was about the benefits of commuting; about how people who used to commute and now do not are missing it. about how it provides a buffer in between home life and work life, and is a kind of signal to shift into the work mindset on your way there and into the home mindset on the way home. this is helpful, and we are not surprised - we who have ever tried to get work done at home. yes. yes, we need a buffer. we do. otherwise it all mushes together and gets stressful and overwhelming and nothing gets done properly. or maybe i am just speaking for myself. 

i do not have a commute, as my studio is in my house. i don’t have any kind of built in buffer so, over time, instinctively, i have created some. for example, there used to be two entrances into my studio, and i sealed one up and then i hung a curtain on the remaining one and it signals to me that i am in my studio now, and it also signals to my family that i am working, and they should come in quietly and respectfully and maybe not at all. and that works pretty well. i get all my stuff together before i go in and going through the curtain is an acknowledgment that work is beginning.

i also have some rituals and when i read that article i realized they, too, help me transition into work mode. they evolve and are sometimes long and sometimes short. they feel personal and meaningful and they remind me that i’m entering into a sacred space - which i am. i have a new one i really love. i have a little alter of sorts where i sit before i begin, and i started carrying two little pieces of chocolate with me into the studio. when i get in there, i place one on the alter and i eat the other one. i’m not sure why. it feels like i am treating myself to the one as a reward for arriving. and then, when i am done for the day, i eat the other one, as a reward for finishing. i don’t think about it too much, i don’t know who exactly i am offering the chocolate to, and i’m not sure why i then eat it at the end. but that’s ok. i like the ritual of sweetness at the beginning and sweetness at the end. and i like asking for help and bringing a gift in the process. 

so if you need help preparing yourself for something that is asking for your attention, you should try it. take two of something delicious, and before you begin, close your eyes. put one in your mouth, and put one somewhere safe, but where you can see it while you work. enjoy the first one, say thank you, and ask for help with the task at hand. and then do it for as long as you can and at the end, say thank you again and eat the other piece, and move on.

Creativity is sacred, and it is not sacred.
What we make matters enormously, and it doesn't matter at all.
We toil alone, and we are accompanied by spirits.
We are terrified, and we are brave.
Art is a crushing chore, and a wonderful privilege.
Only when we are at our most playful can divinity finally get serious with us.

Elizabeth Gilbert

maybe.

once i got a sea urchin spine stuck in my hand. it wasn’t one of those thin ones that break up and kind of disappear over time, this was a chunky one, kind of like a grain of rice, and it went deep. it hurt when it happened and when it healed i could tell there was something still in there, but i didn’t do anything about it. i thought about soldiers with bullets lodged in them for years while they were otherwise healthy and i felt some solidarity.

it lived there, in my hand, for a while. i don’t remember how long. i could push on it and kind of feel it in there. i was even a little proud of my benign underwater battle wound. but then, over time, it started to look different. i watched it and could see the spine coming closer to the surface until, one day, months later, i pulled it out. no drama, but kind of astounding in the way that when something weird happens to your body your mind is blown even though you know weird things happen to other people all the time. it came out - just like that. when it was ready. or probably when i was ready.

and i think about that spine sometimes. it’s not just sea urchin spines that come to the surface when they are ready, it’s other things, too. like trauma and truths and fear and sadness. they disappear in us, and we think we’re done. and then one day we start crying for no reason, or we can’t sleep, or we can’t get out of bed. or we’re awfully angry. and maybe then we realize that there is something trying to come to the surface - to be felt. that’s usually what it is. maybe something we weren’t able to fully feel or understand when it happened - maybe we weren’t safe, or capable, or strong, but now we are. or maybe it’s a big thing that keeps coming to be felt, over and over and over. or maybe it’s a change that’s asking to be made, but it’s not clear and feels scary. it’s weird and uncomfortable and inconvenient to have this thing and these feelings bubbling up, and we want them to go away.

but then i think about the sea urchin spine, and it helps. just let it come out, i think. i can feel something in me that needs to come out. i’m often not sure what it is, or how to do it, but i think i’m probably going to feel better after it does. maybe i’ll need some help. maybe i’ll have to do something i don’t want to do. maybe relief will come slowly. but maybe it will be easier than i think. and maybe i’m ready. 

Let us look for secret things
somewhere in the world,
or on the blue shore of silence
or where the storm has passed,
rampaging like a train.
There the faint signs are left,
coins of time and water,
debris, celestial ash
and the irreplaceable rapture
of sharing in the labour
of solitude and the sand.
Pablo Neruda

more space

recently i was daydreaming about a little house by the sea that i have dreamed of before. it has a garden, and a record player, and a rowboat, but it has no internet or cell service. maybe i will actually live there someday (i hope so! there are goats!) but in the meantime, i know when i start dreaming of this house that it is time for some changes. 

so i banned myself from the internet (mostly). 

it wasn’t that bad before: youtube talks, instagram here and there, internet research in little bits all day long, email, blah blah blah.  i was not on it that much compared to many, but it was too much for me. i was having trouble creating, and being quiet, and sticking with anything, and i was returning library books unopened - it was not good. and i had work to do. 

so i made new rules: no willy-nilly internet browsing - i now keep a notebook near me and anything i want to do or research i put on the list, and then, an hour before i pick up una from camp, i get on there and do everything i need to do, and that’s it. i can stream music, but i did google ‘ipods’ on my recent internet foray, and (yes - they still exist) i love the idea of having one of those instead of streaming. remember when we used to buy albums? i want to do that again.

and - guess what? - it’s working. i’ve had a great week in the studio, and i am reading library books! instead of scrolling around on a break, i just sit in the sun for a few minutes. paintings are coming, things are flowing, i am excited about all sorts of things. i can feel myself in a deeper, more connected place and the best part is that it happened right away - i didn’t need a week of no internet to feel more calm and peaceful, i felt it immediately - the very first day i instated all these new rules. it’s a good reminder. so if you, too, dream of a retreat, or a wilderness trip, or a secluded island house, well, go do it if you can! but if you can’t right now, for whatever reason, maybe just make some new rules and stick to them and commit to a chunk of time where you, too, put the internet away in whatever way you are able, and see how different you feel. i know lots of people are doing this and i’m here to join in the chorus of voices saying: it works. and it’s really, really worth it. 

For the listener, who listens in the snow
and, though nothing himself, beholds
the nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Wallace Stevens

fortitude

[image contains a background of bright paint smears, and handwritten text that says: i used to get so discouraged if it wasn't coming together. i'd throw up my hands and pronounce it terrible and walk away. but now i see - maybe it is terrible. but it just also might not be finished yet - i'm learning and that's what it looks like. love it for what it is and then put it aside, or wipe it off, or start again. you don't have to give up - just say thank you.]

birth of the cool

this is barkley hendricks, incredible american painter, beloved teacher of mine.

in my senior year of college, i would carry my paintings across a huge expanse of open field, across campus to the art building, sometimes barely making it depending on how big the canvas was and how strong the wind was, and he would always welcome me warmly, laughter in his eyes, and sit with me and talk about whatever i was working on. i'd had him as a teacher before, but this year it was just me and him, as he worked with me on an independent study project. it was hard to get information out of this man. he didn't speak like the rest of us; he spoke in verse - all the time. it was confounding . . . most people gave answers to questions, but not him. i would let his words wash over me and guide me, even though i would often leave and have no idea what he said or what i should actually do about whatever it was i thought i needed help with. but i wouldn't leave feeling confused, i would be soothed. his humor, his steadiness, his warmth, and the generosity in his choice to treat me as a peer - an artist - did more for me than any words possibly could have. his message was consistent: yeah. it's crazy. yeah, i don't know your answers. yeah, this is what it looks like. over and over and over and it paved the way for my life and work as an artist to unfold. i was too embarrassed to say out loud that i was going to be an artist back then, to most people, and if he - this charismatic, beyond confident, incredible painter man (his retrospective was literally titled birth of the cool) could see me as a painter, well, then i definitely could do this. what a gift he was to me, how lucky am i to have had even a sliver of his attention.

and i felt him with me recently when i painted this:

the gosling. 12x12, oil on board. contact JAG Gallery for details.

the inspiration for this piece came directly from my friend ajike, as i watched her talk one day, but then as i painted, barkley came too. i thought about this painting of his:

steve, 1976. barkley hendricks, oil, acrylic and magna on linen canvas, collection of the whitney museum of american art.

and i felt his humor, and his warmth, and his support, and my gratitude. i looked at his color choices, and i recognized how he was in me, as all the artists i love are in me, coming out in small and big ways, just as all the people we love are in us, and they come out of us in small and big ways. and i don't know if barkley would like this painting, i have no idea. he never, ever said anything like that. he just smiled, and nodded, and shifted his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, and approved. not of anything specific i'd done, but of the heart, and the desire, and the reaching i was doing. yeah, that's right. that's just how it's done. RIP, barkley. and thank you.

you made the motherf***er, you better be able to carry it.

Barkley Hendricks

[image is colorful brushstrokes under handwritten text that says: if you don’t see anything big to do, do something small. get the paint moving. invite the path to open. take it if it does. and be ok if it doesn’t.]

(all i can do is rest.)

my body is in the middle of a poem.

nayyirah waheed.

shame.

once i brought a palette to an art class and i had forgotten to scrape the paint off from the last session, so i didn’t have a clean center in the middle to work from, and because of this, i felt shame. shame! for having some old paint on my palette. i now recognize that shame for what it was: shame at being a beginner, for not knowing what i was doing (which i didn’t), shame at posing as an artist, but not really being one. and now, standing at the other side of that, with my feet firmly planted in front of my easel, i say fork that. how would any of us get anywhere without being a beginner? can we change that mindset? can we praise beginners? can we praise not knowing, but doing it anyway? can we praise failure? yes, please. we are all artists - let’s let ourselves play and fail and try and feel good doing it. i am still doing that, only i’m a lot more comfortable with the label, and with all the forgotten, crusty paint on my palette.

songs.

text: some paintings sing from the very start. it’s amazing and it’s also confusing because they don’t all do that. so it’s tempting to trash the ones that don’t work right away. but don’t do that, because some of those come together and the muckiness it took to get there becomes part of the beauty. it’s like any relationship: some are perfect right out of the gate, and some take a lot more work. and some are just meant to teach us something on the way to the trash can.

forgive them for what they could not give you.

now, give it to yourself.

Della Hicks-Wilson

courage.

Painting a flower does not seem like an act of courage, but sometimes it is. If you want to paint something, and you let yourself do it, that is a kind of courage. It’s the same courage that asks you to stand up to injustice, to speak, to walk away, or to make a change. It’s strengthening a muscle - the one you need when things feel hard and important at the same time. Painting a flower, or making a bowl, or writing a poem, or taking a trip, might be you practicing listening to yourself. And doing this, even though it may not be practical or useful or even all that well done, is a step on the path back home to yourself. Who are you to know what waits for you further along that path? It could be anything. It could be beautiful paintings of flowers or it could be speaking to thousands in Washington DC. But don’t paint the flower because it might bring you to Washington, just paint the flower and know that the resistance you overcame is the same resistance you’d encounter on the way to the podium and all great change comes from small acts of resistance. 

We can choose courage or we can choose comfort,
but we can't have them both at the same time.

Brene Brown

grief.

sometimes art can help you move through it but sometimes you just need to sit with it. let it move through you and take over, it won’t last forever. if there are things you have to do, do them, but don’t try to do anything else that’s big, just grieve. this might be crying, or yelling, or staring quietly at nothing. it might be napping a lot, or watching netflix for days. that’s ok. grief is hard, and if you need to not do it so you can rest, that’s ok, too. it can come for all sorts of reasons, and you don’t get to choose the timeline or the end date. someday you’ll come back to the things that are calling you, and you’ll come back different. tenderness will come with you and seep into everything you touch. let it; it’s beautiful, and we will feel it. thank you, in advance, for showing me what it looks like, and making it easier for me when it’s my turn to grieve again. 

Still Water. 30x30, oil on canvas.

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry.

pull up a chair.

sometimes it's so simple. if you don’t know what to do, try asking the project. i was feeling nervous because i wanted to make progress on a painting i’ve been living with for a while, but it hasn’t always gone well with this painting, so it wasn’t easy. i skirted around it, procrastinated, avoided the situation and pretended it wasn’t important and i could just do something else. but it was important, and i knew i couldn’t do anything else and feel ok, so i pulled up a chair. i put the painting on the easel, and i looked at it. i pretended it was my friend. i said, hey, and then i read it a poem. maybe i was reading myself a poem, i’m not sure. and then i said: ok. i’m here. do you need anything? i’m not going anywhere. and it shifted, and we made progress.

art is

art isn’t anything in particular. it could be writing, dancing, speaking, building. art could be something as simple as making macaroni and cheese because art is about listening. it's about paying attention to the task at hand and letting it become something new. art is putting something from inside yourself into the world in a shape that hasn’t been there before. it is learning how to be someone who gently lets things come; someone who tries new things, and loves them, even if no one else does. you understand that the thing isn’t as important as the making of it, but still, you stand by what it is. not because it’s groundbreaking, or because it’s going anywhere in particular; you stand there because you listened, and you made something, and it felt good. there. stay right there, and rest with your heart open - that is the prize. there’s more where that came from. and if you stay there, making and moving and taking one small step after another, you’re strengthening your connection to yourself. is there anywhere else you’d rather be?

bonfires + collaborations

i have a little box of failed paintings that lives on my painting cart, and in it I recently found some gems. this is unusual for me because i love cleaning house and burning things in bonfires, but this box survived. and the other day una asked if she could paint with me, and, thinking it would be more fun to work on a painting that already had something going on, i reached for that box and i was surprised - i found lovely little paintings. ideas i am currently working on were present, and i saw that i had successfully executed them in the past. i also found half finished paintings that were full of life.

now i’m not so sure about those bonfires, but the cathartic release in burning things and clearing space feels so good. i hope i was discerning, although looking back at photos of half-finished ‘failed’ paintings, i may have burned some gems. i think, in some cases, i was too much of a perfectionist to let them be.

una and i had a good time painting together. she was ecstatic that i was letting her mix my paint with my brushes on my palette, and i was discovering how delightful it is to have a carefree collaborator.

so maybe don’t be too quick to burn those sketches, or journals, or manuscripts. burn some and clear out the clutter, but listen for whispers, and move those to a box somewhere safe. not too many (be discerning), but maybe one day you’ll pull one out and know just what to do with it. or you’ll see that you actually know how to do this already, or maybe you cull a few more and send them to another bonfire. just don’t be so hard on yourself. give it some time. we can’t always see a good thing, even when it’s staring us in the face.

the simplest thing

today, and many days when things are hard, what pulls me out is so simple. i know about being grateful, but sometimes i can't find it. i mean, i can, sort of, but it doesn't always help to try and think of all the things i am grateful for - it can be tedious and exhausting.

so i call it a day and stop trying. i go to bed. and in the morning, when the thoughts pile on and remind me of all the worrisome things, i whisper thank you instead, and hang on to that whisper like a life raft. nothing specific, i just keep saying it, like a mantra. more complicated mantras get lost in my thoughts, and i can't find them when i need them. but i can always find thank you. it's right there. it's quiet and soft and true.

if you want to try it, i recommend the early morning, because late in the day everything annoys you when you’re grumpy. but early morning brings a softness, and if you can remember to slip in thank you before the worries, maybe you can stretch the quiet longer. maybe you can find it all day, until you go to bed. maybe not. but, if you're lucky, at least you'll get another morning to try again.