Blog

Once upon a time I aspired to write elegantly and insight-fully about my work.  I read books on writing artist statements, and tried to come up with short, intriguing "elevator speeches" to answer the question, "What kind of art do you do?"  Problem is, everything I wrote sounded contrived. The more I tried, the worse it got.  I wanted to write a blog that would be like a portal into my creative process. So for awhile I did that...and then the words dried up and I would sit at my computer and stare at the blank screen, the cursor blinking impatiently. Just be honest, it seemed to say.

Honest.  Authentic. Sincere. True.  Those words are at the crux of what I strive for each time I stand in front of the easel.  For me, a successful painting is one where I allow the process to happen. Where I disengage and let the painting dictate the pace. Where I relax enough to get past the filters of my thoughts, dreams, experiences, emotions, relationships, senses, beliefs...and into that common core which connects everything. That is where the magic happens.  When I am fully engaged without engaging, the painting comes effortlessly, time ceases to exist and everything that ever was or ever will be is right now.

But it is like seeing something floating in your peripheral vision. The second you try to focus on it, it's gone. I learned a lot about unfocusing from my horses. There would be times I'd go out in the pasture to bring them in and get embroiled in a game of "can't catch me". The more in a hurry I was, the longer the game would go on. The trick to getting them to come in was to not try to get them to come in. To take my focus away from them, to soften, to redirect my focus to something else. Like watching the clouds or fixing the fence. Sooner or later curiosity would get them and they'd all gather around to see what was up. Then they'd follow me wherever I went.

Paintings are a lot like horses to me, in that each one is an individual.  Some are firey and full of energy, some are calm and quiet, some need to be coaxed and reassured, some are bold and adventurous. Some are easy, and some are frustrating. Sometimes you have one that you just have to walk away from.

My best painting process is probably 3/4 indirect observation. Watching with soft eyes, listening with open heart, uncoupling from what I think it should be and opening to what it is. This is why I almost never work in a direct series. The minute I try to treat a painting just like I treated the one before it, the more I focus, the harder it is to see. The painting gets distant, hard, contrived, stiff and unresponsive. I get frustrated and impatient. I start thinking there is something wrong with me, that I am somehow lacking something, that I am a fraud.

My friend, mentor and art dealer Juliet Harrison gently suggests that I really do work in series. Just not one after the other.  I hopscotch around, returning over and over again to revisit themes. What I am beginning to understand is that this is how I work. It is how I keep myself honest and the work fresh. It is at times infuriating and frustrating, and at times exhilarating and liberating. I am constantly swinging between melancholy and euphoria - trying to keep a balance while understanding that the extremes are where the juicy stuff lives.