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"Be the silent watcher of your thoughts and behavior. You are beneath the thinker. You are the stillness beneath the mental noise. You are the love and joy beneath the pain." - Eckhart Tolle

This painting was a great teacher. I started it in the fall of 2020. I wanted to revisit the way I used to paint in oils and see if I could combine that with my more intuitive/abstract approach. (Usually, I start with an abstract painting, and let the image present itself, then add in drawing if needed to bring the image out.)  So I started with the drawing and I wasn't liking the result. Too stiff. The deer seemed separate from it's environment. But there was something there, something like a memory, or a dream that you can't quite remember.  So set it against the wall in my studio and lived with it for well over a year. Every once and awhile I'd set it back on my easel, thinking I would work on it.

And  a funny thing happened. The deer seemed to talk to me. She implored me to keep my distance, to move slowly, to stay quiet. "Have Patience," was the signal I received; though faint, I heard it. I have to admit, I am not a very patient person, either by nature or by nurture. I have a tendency to want to Get Things Done. To check them off my list. "Finish painting" was on my list. But I resisted the urge to Just Try Something And Get 'Er Done! Instead, I shut up and listened to the wisdom of her quiet gaze. In the stillness I found solace. I couldn't rush. If I rushed, she would feel too much pressure and would bound away, and I was determined to get to know her on her own terms.

And then a few days ago, she beckoned me. I put her on the easel and she was relaxed. Setting up my palette didn't worry her. She let me walk right up to her and work around her with my brush. Every once in a while I would brush over her edges, each brush stroke relaxed her more until I was tickling her belly and caressing her ears. As I painted, moving over her body with quiet confidence, keeping my mind silent and my eyes soft, she joined up with me and the separation between us blurred. And then, I knew, and I stepped away and we both stood still for a long time, just watching each other, listening to the soft rustle of leaves, the distant birdsong, the hum of bees collecting pollen. And in that moment I remembered our meeting a long time ago on the edge of a woods. We connected then, and again now.

This week I’ve been painting pretty dark, odd things, while also playing around with new ideas and techniques.  And also some “back to basics” color charts.  I feel like I am on the cusp of something, and when that happens it is somewhat frustrating – because what worked before isn’t working for me now – but also exciting, because it’s new territory, deeper work, a little (ok, a LOT) scary.  I have to put aside my tendency to want to rush to the finish line and just enjoy the process. Not easy for a somewhat driven person like myself. But I will say that this week in the studio I have made a conscious effort to just let go and follow my heart and stop worrying about supplying the galleries and will this new work sell and is it even any good. 

A post on Facebook by a sculptor friend of mine really hit home to me.  In it he talked about a failed patina.  But it was so much more than the patina didn't turn out as he had wished (and, not knowing much about patinas, I don't know if it is something you can remove and start over, or if the pieces are absolutely ruined.) But what hit me was his reference to the "rush" and "push" that happens at one time or another (and most likely several times) to artists who are actively selling their work through commissions and/or galleries.  Creativity is not something you can turn on and off like a light switch. It is more than "thinking up" new ideas.  It is a process in which stagnation is a death knoll; as artists we are constantly striving to do better, dig deeper and evolve our work. 

And then there's the part about life...most of us don't have the luxury of not having to worry about money, or family issues, or our own physical or mental issues, or all the things happening in the world.  Our lives, and the art we make, cannot be separated - nor should it. Art, in its myriad forms, is an expression of who we are, and that expression, if it is to be honest and true, must include all aspects of our selves. The good, the bad, and the ugly.  That pure, complete expression leaves us vulnerable; it exposes our weaknesses, our flaws, our insecurities - all the parts we try to mask in polite society.  But it is exactly that part - even more so than the parts we show, the parts we are comfortable with, the parts that we deem "acceptable" - that part, which some call the shadow self, needs to have a seat at the table and a voice in the choir. 

But when we are pushing and rushing, trying to make something happen, trying to meet a goal, trying to be "done" with a piece so we can move on to the next, the work suffers.  It becomes contrived and superficial, and it lacks the spark, the gut punch, the raw emotion that makes a piece exceptional.  Sometimes we have to know when to set something aside and work on it later.

In a recent social media post, I showed a picture taken of my studio, and I had a dozen or more paintings hanging on the walls in what I phrased "various stages of doneness."  This is how I tend to work: I start a lot of paintings and get them to a point where I am stuck. I don't know what to do next - which is an uncomfortable and soul sucking place to be. It is where all my demons - my shadow selves - conspire to convince me that I don't know WTF I am doing, that I should hang it up, that I should, as my sculptor friend (remember him? That's what started this post...) said, " Having one of those days where I want to throw my entire body of work in the nearest lake, then drive up to the top of Tava, lay down in the snow until I feel warm and sleepy..."

The one saving grace is the little voice that tells me, "just start another. And another. And another. At some point something will click, and you will know what to do with all the others."  It's part of my process, the part I hate, because it is uncomfortable and triggers every insecurity I have about myself as an artist. But it is the only way through. Because instead of relying on what worked before, I have to experiment and try something new. That's what keeps the work fresh and edgy, and keeps me excited and motivated. And when this happens I am on top of the world in my studio.  

Without the darkness, there is no light.