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I’ve been thinking lately about artists, writers and spiritual leaders whose work has influenced me over the years, and I want to acknowledge the role they’ve played in shaping my artistic vision and my spiritual journey.  They say it takes a village to raise a child. I put forth that it takes a village to make a painting.  Each painting I do is the cumulation of influences and life experiences. I am not aware of these while I am painting, but I can see them afterward, woven through the layers of paint.  And so, what follows is an attempt to pay homage to some of my teachers.

There are the celebrated painting masters - most notably Franz Marc.

And contemporary masters:  Wolf Kahn, Peter Rogers, John Nieto, Rocky Hawkins, Sharron Evans, Jean Richardson.

Then there are the artists who I am privileged to personally know. Most of these artists live and work in Colorado. Their work is singular, expressive, creative. Beyond that I have learned from each of them something that has helped me on my vision quest.  In no particular order:  Amelia Caruso, Bob Coonts,  Lance Green, Ken Elliott, Jennifer Scott McLaughlin, Clive Tyler.

The writings of Peter Rogers (A Painter's Quest), Ken Elliott (Manifesting 123), Don Miguel Ruiz (The Four Agreements), Eckhart Tolle (The Power of Now) and Ted Andrews (Animal Speak) have all added to the fabric of my creativity.

The life and teachings of St. Francis of Assissi, Jesus of Nazareth and Guatama Buddha.  My parents, who taught by example how to be empathetic, kind and courageous, and the value of hard work.  My children and their children, who teach me daily how to see with fresh eyes.  My husband, who quietly encourages me to keep painting.

Other influences include contemporary Indian art as well as traditional textiles (persian, native american, turkmenistan, african, etc.)

All of my designs are painted spontaneously and intuitively, reaching deep into my subconscious.  There are reoccuring patterns and shapes, but no two are alike. Sometimes the painting is all about the design, sometimes the design falls within the confines of an animal. Sometimes the paintings are loose, other times tight, almost graphic. But always, they come from my heart.

Last night I was flipping through my journal – the journal that I haven’t opened in months – and came across an entry from the full moon in June. I had drawn a spiral, starting in the middle and moving outward with maybe 20 layers, which ended in a straight line pointing up, symbolically to the North.

At the time, I felt lost in the labyrinth of family problems and was struggling to find my bearings and keep moving forward. The trouble with a labyrinth is that while inside, you have no idea where you are in the process, and it seems like you are dealing with the same issues over and over again, albeit from slightly different perspectives. The journey is long, the end is not visible.

I’ve found that over the summer, I have learned to be more patient with my painting -  “Love is Patient” took me over three months to complete, with layers and layers of color and patterns, re-drawing, adding and subtracting until she felt “done.”  In many ways the painting is a meditation on love, acceptance, patience, strength and wisdom.

In my Totem animal paintings, I start with a loose, intuitive, abstract painting, adding calligraphic marks, organic shapes and color until I am able to see the hint of an animal. I then block in the background negative space, and spend many hours “meditatively doodling” in the shape of the animal. In these paintings, the focus is on the power of the animal guide, and on the lessons we learn by holding the vision in our mind. The abstract patterns within allow the viewer to bring his or her own story to the painting. I’ve been told – and in fact notice it myself – that at different times I discover new “paintings within the painting”.

Paintings such as “Eve,” (above) take the concept of intuitive painting and approach it from a different angle. The start is similar, but instead of creating an animal with a defined space, these more narrative paintings evolve in harmony with the background.  These paintings tend to have human figures in them – sometimes the figures are prominent, such as in “Totem Woman” and sometimes they are hidden as in “If You Could Read My Mind”.

Although these paintings are deeply personal in nature, my hope is that through the use of iconic figures, they will connect in a spiritual way with my fellow travelers.

A month and a half after my father's death, I am still struggling. I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't - not for the emotional upheaval, the feelings of being adrift without an anchor, the sadness of my loss mingled with the happiness of knowing that he no longer suffers in a body and mind that were failing. I guess I didn't expect to feel such a profound sense of loss. The waves of grief wash over me, sometimes leaving me unable to breathe, sometimes leaving me cleansed and at peace. I hear his voice in my mind; I know he is ok. And I know I'll be ok. But it still hurts.

In August my daughter and my grandbabies moved into their own home an hour awy. They have lived with Dave and I for two years, since Kolby was 18 months old. Kora was born here. And even though having two little ones in the house curtailed my painting time - and certainly sapped my energy - the joy of being intimately involved in their everyday lives in many ways made up for it. Now we see them once a week at most, and I miss them terribly.  There is a hole in my heart.

Painting helps put things in perspective for me. It gives me an outlet for emotions when words can't. That, more than anything, is why I paint. Matters of the heart are often obtuse, and the more I try to define them within the contest of spoken language, the farther I get from what I actually feel. Part of the problem is I don't always know what I'm feeling.

A few years ago I came upon an interview with Lance Green, a colorist and expressionistic painter. The interview brought me to tears, because it was the first time I had ever heard anyone describe their painting process that sounded even remotely like my process. Most painting classes and workshops teach the "correct" way to paint is through careful planning: preliminary sketches and studies and neatly laid out palettes. In other words, before putting brush to canvas, you should know where you were going to end up.  I tried and tried to paint that way. To my eye, everything I painted ended up looking stiff, devoid of emotion.

And then I heard Lance, and decided if I ever got a chance, I would take a workshop with him. That chance came just a week after my Dad passed. Without grandchildren in the house to worry about, I was free to take a Saturday to drive to Littleton and take the class.  I have to admit I was pretty nervous about the whole thing. I'm used to painting at night, in the sanctuary of my studio, with my Gypsy music and sleeping dogs. The prospect of painting in a room full of other artists was daunting.  What if I couldn't paint at all, couldn't get into a groove?

Lance gave a great demo and reminded us that we might or might not come up with a "great" painting that day - but that wasn't the goal. Opening our minds to a new approach to painting was the goal.  For me, it wasn't so much a new approach, as it was confirming the validity of my own process. Letting the canvas and the paint draw out the images residing in my subconscious mind. No, I didn't end up with a great painting, or even a good one. I was too distracted by the hub-bub of the workshop to focus and let my mind float freely and creatively. Although I tried not to be, I was embarrassed by what I ended up with at the end of the day.

That night in my studio I had a bit of a melt down.  I completely destroyed the painting, covering it with a coat of gesso, knowing that was the only way to save it. A few days later I reworked an old canvas that had been in my studio for 2 or 3 years, thick with the history of  a half dozen or so failed paintings.  "The Healer" is the painting that finally emerged.

In this painting, it is unclear who the Healer is. Is it the horse or the human?

Instead of New Year’s “resolutions” this year, I decided to adopt a set of three words by which to live my life -  Presence, Honest, Courage. 

Presence. To live my life today. Not dwelling on yesterday or projecting what might happen tomorrow. To be in the moment in everything I do, whether it is painting, working at my “day job”, taking care of my grandchildren – whatever. To open my eyes, heart and mind to the NOW.  Anger, disappointment, impatience, fear, remorse… those are all emotions that stem from living in the past or in the future. Real joy, real contentment, even real sorrow, exist in the present.

Honest. This word is related to Present. It has to do with being true to myself, not saying/doing what I think someone else wants me to say or do. In my painting, it means tapping into the core of my self, and creating visual metaphors for what is there. Honesty in art and life is not always comfortable. And so my third word is…

Courage. I will need plenty of courage if I am to be true to myself and live in the present. It means identifying and letting go of things that are no longer important to now. Letting go is a particularly hard task for me, being a sentimental soul! I tend to hang onto things long past the time when they are truly relevant to my life. It is my nature to both attract and repel change. So courage is needed if I am to evolve.

Over the past year, I have practiced being present, honest and courageous in my art. I will continue this year to build on what I have learned, and apply the same principles to life. (Life imitating Art!)  If you'd like to to join me in this journey,  subscribe to my blog by clicking the "follow this blog" link on the right side of the page.

Thanks to Barney Daveys and Chris Brogan for the inspiration to come up with Three Words.