sit still. listen. try to make art like you meditate. this means no judging. it also means no texting, or snacking, or internetting. make some space and make it sacred. this is easier if it’s late at night or early in the morning or in the woods. clear the clutter. breathe, and sit there breathing. bat away the distractions, and be gentle. keep batting them away. sometimes a whole session is spent doing this. sometimes you have to write things down, or yell, or break something, but keep coming back, and keep listening. stay still, let things come, and do what you are moved to do. be open. pick up a pencil, or a chunk of clay, or move your body. let it be easy. within the fight to create a quiet, sacred space, let it be easy. because it is.
listen.
sometimes i come charging into the studio ready to give the painting what it needs. ready to wrap it up, check the box, put my time in to get the end result i’m after, and the painting says no. it’s asking for patience, and attention, and languid generosity. it’s asking me to listen. some of them are tough nuts. i have to be gentle, and present and patient, sometimes at the moment when that’s what i least want to do. and i have to believe it’s going to work out.
and i think of the people in my life, how sometimes i want to swoop in, give advice, wrap things up, move on. a hug, a resolution, a speedy recovery. we ask this of our loved ones, of ourselves, of our country. but it doesn’t work, it won’t ever work.
give yourself over to the conversation. listen. be open to wild, new, unprecedented possibilities for this wild, new, unprecedented moment. be ok with sitting with a conversation, learning, listening, being open to change, to asking what this moment needs instead of reaching for all our old tricks and tools to fix and finish. be ok with not finding a solution, or a resolution. build your courage, advocate, assist, fight. for the painting, for yourself, for everything in our world that is changing and growing and asking to be new.
but first, and always, listen.
suncatcher
something important:
listening is crucial: yes.
presence is crucial: yes.
erasing the fear and the preconceived notions of how it will be: yes.
but there is a layer that’s deeper and even more crucial that i touched today. i haven’t been here in a while, and now that i’m here, i remember it’s the most important thing: today i put myself into this painting; i don’t know how else to put it. maybe i always do that, but it was so tangible today. the painting became part of me, and i became part of it. memories came up that i didn’t know i still had. it was mystical. i want to report that it happened, although i will not forget; it shows me each time i look at it. i don’t know how i got here, but i want to say out loud: this is the only place i want to go.
if you have the chance...
maybe the whole point of art is to strengthen our faith: faith in ourselves and in our ability to move towards the unknown; faith in our resilience and in our ability to think of something strange and beautiful and alluring and to move gently towards it. it's feeling the connection to our own hearts, to spirit, to courage. it's experiencing the act of showing up in front of a project, even though it feels scary, and learning that it’s not so bad, it was the thinking about doing it that was the hard part. and letting this make us braver and more able to speak up, and speak clearly, and speak honestly. it's letting art be a path to freedom.
olive + magenta. 2x2 inches, oil on board.
on failing.
in the act of stretching and putting together a big canvas, there is a commitment to making it work. by the time you have the canvas assembled and are ready to paint, you have already invested a significant amount of time and money and you must trust that it will come together.
but sometimes it doesn’t. it's the worst when you have to throw away a big canvas and chalk it up to learning. it is easy to get frustrated and mad. i used to get very discouraged when that happened (and it has happened a lot).
but now i am more gentle with myself. i understand that failing is not failing, it is learning. failing is a good thing. failing means i am reaching past my comfort zone and i am trying new things.
and i have also learned that failure is a lot easier to handle when i don’t have quite so much to lose. a while ago, when big paintings were not coming together, and i was lost in the work and failing every time i tried anything, i pulled back. i realized that i needed a lot less pressure on myself, and i needed more room to learn without the devastation of steadily pouring hours and piles of paint into huge paintings destined for the bonfire. so i went tiny: really tiny. some of them (like this one) were 2 inches by 2 inches. that seemed to be the place where i could find what i was looking for. i experimented. i tried the same idea over and over and over. i used a bunch of different supplies and techniques and ideas, and loads of them failed.
but some of them sang. and then i discovered that it is another thing entirely to translate tiny victories into big paintings, but i am learning that, too. they are coming. and the in the meantime, i have a lovely, curated collection of teeny tiny paintings.
and now i am offering them for sale, one by one, in emails here and there. i have nothing but love and gratitude for every single one of these, and it’s hard to let them go. but i’m delighted to report that it’s getting kind of crowded in here.
click here to buy this painting, and if it’s not available, then someone else must have clicked first. more to come. join list here to get new work in your inbox.
the weight of the world
i used to let this stop me: the feeling that the world was a mess and why should i be in here painting? shouldn’t i be doing something more useful? what good am i even doing?
but now i understand that it’s not my job to know why i paint, it’s my job to let things come that are asking to come. thankfully, i’m better at this. partly i had to learn a new way of painting, and partly i had to remember that just because painting is my job, it is not the only thing i do. i can still be an activist, and that doesn’t have to happen in front of an easel.
also i want to say, though, that making art is a service. it is enough. i don’t believe art is a luxury. it can be, and it is certainly a privilege, but it is - at its heart - a connection, and a prayer, and it heals.
homeschooling in the studio (during a pandemic)
The first week was rough. I was not on emotionally or mentally solid ground, and I leaned on the excellent advice of trusted friends and professionals, and made a schedule on the chalk board in the kitchen, with my daughters help. We were excited about it, we agreed, we dove in. And it was horrible.
I spent all my time “teaching” and she had no freedom. I wanted to paint and enjoy my time with her, and she wanted to do projects alongside me and with me. None of this was happening. This stage ended with me wiping out the schedule in a fit of anger, throwing a cutting board across the kitchen, and going for a loooong walk.
Eventually I found my footing. I am embarrassed to tell you my daughter is in kindergarten. I am not the kind of parent I described in the last paragraph, I do not know what happened to me. I mean, I do. A pandemic happened and I lost my mind a little bit. But when I found it again, along came our new rhythm.
And now we have pretty much abandoned home schooling. We watch her teachers morning videos, we choose the things that seem fun, we may or may not tackle them. I prioritize painting, especially in the early part of the day, and she does whatever she wants, which often involves writing and drawing and legos and guinea pigs. We count things. She makes books. We sing and go for walks.
And I love it. I don’t get nearly as much done, but my time has become concentrated again, in the same way it was when she first arrived and I was a new mom trying to find time to paint. And she’s delightful; I’m lucky to have a kid who loves quiet projects in the studio as much as I do, so we’re blessed with compatibility for this experiment.
I’ve been reminded about how it feels to play in the studio, as she is such a natural at it. It’s reminded me it can be as easy as walking in in my pj’s and picking up a project from yesterday and rolling right into my day, without any of the quiet prep I lean on to get centered. sometimes I still do those practices, and look to books and meditation when I’m not sure what to do, but in this moment I’m grateful for this child in my studio, teaching me how beautifully simple a creative practice can be.
there are no rules
Please apply to all art making sessions and life events, as needed.
solstice
I love winter. I LOVE IT. This morning when I got back from walking Una to school, I came in and said, ‘It’s freezing out there. Whats the temp?’ and Drew handed me his phone and I pulled up the weather and it said 20 and I said “20?! No way. It feels like 14” and - poof - the phone updated and a 14 popped up. I mean, that’s insane! I know the difference between 20 and 14 in my bones, and I still love winter.
I sometimes suspect I moved to Maine for the winter (though I did not know or admit that at the time) and when the solstice approaches, I feel like I’m not ready. And I know that’s crazy. I love summer, too, but I also want to hibernate; bring on the darkness and the cold and the invitation to turn inward. That is the medicine of winter, and I’m taking it.
Tonight, in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s the winter solstice: the deepest, darkest night of the year, and the very end of a wild and difficult decade. I’m going to find some warmth, and some quiet, and some twinkling lights, and enjoy the darkness. I’ll see you in the New Year. 2020! It’s going to be a good one.
DON'T DO IT
Painting is not my work; my work is to get quiet and listen, and then sometimes I paint. Or maybe I clean up a mess, or take a nap, or write. But these other things, I know now, are usually making room for painting. And so sometimes I try to skip those first steps: skip the getting centered and the listening. And sometimes, instead, I go straight to the painting part, thinking I can figure it out myself without all the work of connecting to that quiet voice. But it never works; it never works. It just messes things up.
When I get stressed out I tend to feel short on time and that all these things need to happen NOW. And so when it goes south - when a painting goes south, say - my instinct is to push through: DO more. I panic. I think ‘this must happen’ and I keep going and then it gets worse.
The answer is the opposite: get more quiet. Take more time to meditate and find the quiet space where the directives come. And then I’m in the zone, and I lose track of time, and all the things come that I can get so worked up striving for.
When you know, you know. So when you don’t know, DON’T DO IT - you’re probably settling. I tell myself this a lot. And I don’t always listen, although, thankfully, I think I’m getting better. It takes a lot more energy to fix things than it does to take the time and wait for them to be right in the first place. But wow, that waiting (and the work it takes to get there) can be excruciating. But it’s always, always worth it.
SKIN HORSE. oil on board, 12x24.
Dick Nelson and the Watercolor Purists
I was in this color class once. The teacher, Dick Nelson, was knowledgeable and kind. He taught Albers color theory and he, and many of the participants, were purists. As in: You Should Only Use This Color And These Colors And Thats It and Oh-those-artists-who-use-a-million-colors-out-of-the-tube + eyeroll. And, ok. I can hang with those people. That knowledge is important and it’s my job to get good at everything I can in my field, so I do. I use their rules and I make paintings out of magenta and cadmium lemon and pthalo blue and white and that’s it and I can do it and I enjoy it and I keep my mouth shut. Sometimes.
And now when I pull out some random tube of color I haven't used before, I think of them. Because what I didn't say then but say in my head when I do it now, is: ‘You guys! The thing is, you’re just missing out on so much fun.’
They are right. It is important to know how to do what they do. But it’s also important - in art and in everything - to be able to throw the rules out the window and play around. Do whatever you can to make it fun. I have been painting for 20 years, and many days I love it, but not every day. And sometimes shaking it up and finding a new color that does some cool thing is what I need to jumpstart a painting. It makes me feel like a discoverer again, an explorer. And, thanks to Dick Nelson and the Watercolor Purists, a rebel. Which is exactly the kind of company I like to keep.
BRINE. oil on board. 24x48”
BRINE
Sometimes I see something that makes me feel this thing that I don’t know how to explain: it's like a clue that something wants to be painted. I catch my breath and stay still to feel it. In the beginning, it was skies: bold, bossy skies that taught me how to paint. There were lots of skies, and faces, houses, flowers, all sorts of things - they all taught me, and teach me still. And over time it became other things: seaweed, sea creatures, piles of things. Things that weren’t so easily painted; things that didn't clearly dictate what they were asking to become. I didn't want to paint the seaweed, exactly, but there was something there. The feeling was there, but the directive was murky.
And so I have to learn to swim inside my dreams,
in case the sea should come and visit me in my sleep.
-pablo neruda
the new part
learning to listen more than to represent is the new part. i was always listening, i guess. something was telling me what color to put where, but this is different. it's like starting over: humbling and difficult and satisfying.
it’s a delicate thing, listening. it’s too easy to plow through [everything] … it takes a lot more to stop and be quiet instead.
i guess what I’m saying, over and over, is that that’s the hard part. if i can get there and stay there, in the listening place, and trust what comes up, then painting (and everything) is a piece of cake. or, if not cake, at least more ease. and with that ease has come a flow, and a playfulness, and excitement. and i don’t get that knot in my belly so much anymore.
do it differently
paint every day they say. even when you have the flu, and feel like shit, and have a thousand other things going on. but, no. no. no, don’t do that. it’s not that. it’s not punitive and demanding, like a drill sergeant. you will ruin stuff if you come in like that. it’s not dragging yourself in, batting away the other things pulling at your attention, mixing paint with resentment and fear and exhaustion: no.
its crawling in sometimes, yes. it’s dried tears on your face, needing a nap, feeling wrung out and used up and flawed and humble and fragile and sad. sometimes it is. but instead of pushing, instead of ignoring all the difficult feelings and wishing they would go away, bring them. come in with your arms full of messy, human stuff, and offer yourself anyway. this is what it means to come as you are. don’t ignore it, don’t stuff it behind the couch on your way in and pretend it’s not there. hold it like a huge pile that you can barely see around and sit down with it in your lap.
‘here i am.’ you could say. ‘im empty and exhausted and fragile, but i’m here.’ (pause. take a breath) ‘does anybody need anything?’ you ask, feeling silly. knowing that you have so little to give, and you are asking for so much. just offer, and mean it. be willing to sit in your rocking chair and keep them company.
and then see what happens.
Skin (Sketch), 3x6 inches, oil on board.
ira + me
Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through. (Ira Glass)
and:
the gap doesn't go away. it gets smaller over time; you get more comfortable living with it. maybe not comfortable, but you understand that it’s not going anywhere. if it did, you’d be bored.
i have unfinished paintings and loose sketches all around me. they teach me and coax me forward: towards the paintings i can see but can’t make yet. i am starting another layer on a big canvas i started years ago. i put down the first three layers and then i stopped. i never minded it hanging around because i never messed it up — i let it live in the studio, unfinished, waiting. reminding me what i had done that worked. and now there are several smaller ones all at that stage, and i can see the path forward on the bigger one. i can get so impatient, but not with that one; that one is all about patience. here’s hoping i can keep it that way.
a secret
at some point i changed how i approach the studio.
i used to go in all stressed out and dreading the feeling of not knowing what i was doing. it could be kind of awful. sometimes that still happens. i look around and judge the work: too this, too that, not enough here, not right there. or: ooh, that’s beautiful and interesting and i love that.
but then i stop myself and i remember: it’s not about what they look like.
instead of offering my approval or disapproval, i go in and i listen. it helps to think of them as if they are my friends. how can i help? and what do you need? i ask.
the breakthrough isn’t so much the asking, it’s the direction of the asking. i can get really fetched up about how making paintings is helpful. how is this the best use of my time when the world is such a mess? how is this serving? isn't there something more useful i could be doing? but that is a dead end. it’s not my place. of course art is useful and important; i know that. other people’s art keeps me going every day. how my art is helpful is not my question to answer. once i understand that some paintings want to come, my question is simply to the paintings themselves: how can i help you? and that’s it. really. that’s when they come, and not a minute before.
placeholders
Most of the time I am at peace with the process. Some paintings I love and some not so much. Either way it’s ok. They are not necessarily here to be themselves, disconnected from all the others. They are here to teach and to lead the way to the ones that can stand alone. There are so many elements: stay loose, stay consistent, be open, listen, paint the way you know how to paint, let yourself paint differently, blah blah blah. The repetition keeps some parts consistent so the other parts have room to change.
Sometimes it’s the same thing - the same painting - over and over because I’m so busy I can’t give it the attention it needs to grow. Sometimes all I can do is use the same palette from yesterday, play around with it, remember there is this big thing that is trying to come, and take that knowledge into my life and make room for it. They’re like placeholders. Sometimes all I can do is toss out placeholders: ‘Hey! Hey! This again. Me again. Still waiting.'
So I make a placeholder and get back to the work in front of me.
humble pie
I said this was easy but it is not.
I said that when I was on painting 10 out of 100.
Once a boat captain said to me: after 10 dives you think you know everything. Then you realize that maybe you don't and you start to be a lot more careful. Then around 100 dives you think, well, ok, I am actually getting pretty good at this. And then - after many many dives - you start to realize you barely know anything at all.
It's all the same: diving, life, painting. I anticipate ease to trick myself so some work can begin, but this week was busy. On Sunday I was three behind and felt the lack-of-painting anxiety and I remembered what I wrote: sometimes the painting makes the anxiety go away and I went with that. I didn't feel it. I just remembered writing it and vaguely remembered it being true for me at some point and I didn't have much time and I had to paint three and so I started. And an old one that looked terrible caught my attention and I added a layer and started a different one in a different way and remembered that I have lots of ideas and the paint moved and pieces grew and I was right: it does make the anxiety go away. Sometimes. But it is definitely not easy.
10 down, 90 to go
Well, I’m doing it. 100 days of abstract paintings. I have two beloved challenge mates who cheer me on and so far so good. I am not in love with any of these in particular but every morning I connect with them and make something and hold the thread. I have been doing this in lieu of meditation and, instead, letting this be my meditation. One day I painted right out of bed, in my undies, before brushing my teeth, but most days I'm dressed and drinking something and thankful my kid loves to sleep.
This is easy, you guys. I mean, I had boards cut and ideas everywhere and I’ve been doing this for ages, so it was easy cause of that. And the 100 day thing; I get it. I didn't get it when I started, I don't think, it just seemed right, but now I do. It's pushing me through and letting it be fun and small and it's getting the paint moving every day. No more scraping off dried paint on Monday morning, it's always wet paint ready to go. Let it be easy I told myself. And it is.
note to self
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 paint brush. Calm down. #notetoself