Change is . . .

Change is a big word. That one word has led to many discussions over the years.

I usually point to my military childhood as responsible for my ability to adapt (not always willingly). The brother next to me in age stands as a direct contradiction to that statement however. He is in the same area we landed when my father retired and will probably never move. He’s one of the most stable people I know. I, on the other hand, have moved many times and many miles.

Change doesn’t have to be geography either. Maybe my brother has made many changes internally that I’m not aware of. I still see him as a cute little two year when I look at him so maybe I’m not as good at change as I’d like to believe.

This leads me to believe that our innate ability is either part of our fabric by nature or by concerted effort.

Regardless of the source. We are all capable of adapting to the change that fate may throw at us. We can either rail against it and spend our energies in that fight OR we can accept things and become more like the water that flows around the rock.

Art is . . .

Art is an unexpected burglar.

Art can come into your life abruptly.  It comes in through a door you didn’t even know was there.  I see it every day at the gallery.  People that are surprised by how their hearts can be touched.  People brought to tears by the suddenness of it. 

Yet so many of us turn away.  We deny the concept that we deserve to have an environment that inspires us.  One that speaks to our soul.

I meet people all the time that passed on a painting and years later they still remember it.  Miss it.

It takes courage to allow yourself abundance.  We rerun conversations that we shouldn’t ask for more. That we are being selfish to allow ourselves happiness. We can break those patterns but it takes courage.

In daydreams I like to think I’d be part of the French Resistance during WWII.  Would I?  Would you? If we can’t allow freedom and abundance for ourselves, can we fight for it for others?

One Artist's life

Have you ever followed an artist’s career?

Over the course of a lifetime an artist can change styles greatly or maybe change mediums time and time again.

This was a topic during a discussion with a long time friend. She commented on how much my artwork has changed over the course of years. I am lucky to have physical evidence of how I’ve evolved as a human being. The early ones were mostly academic attempts and then environmental. I became sentimental in some pieces as life changed. Then back to academia as I explored getting better at my craft. Suddenly I became internal and then philosophical.

That exercise of looking at the progression prompted me to look through the works of Frida Kahlo, Pablo Piccasso and Georgia O’Keefe as well as others. Noticing how some of them changed and grew both as an artist and as a human being.

To pull back and view my own work over the course of time offered an interesting insight. Depending on which pieces I choose, I can create a narrative that may or may not be true to my heart in the moment.

Isn’t that what this experience of life is like? We can focus on the trials and traumas and weave a yarn about an oppressed soul. OR we can look back at the accomplishments and accolades and tell the tale of a hero. I’m trying to keep that in mind when I talk to myself.

What do you choose to focus on in your own life?

Revel in the Fugue

I am painting. Every relationship with the canvas is different, similar to people. I let the colors go where they may for a while. It’s in it’s infancy, a baby painting. Just starting out. Taking it’s first few steps.

I study it for awhile. Falling into the energy and the restfulness. I try to stay open and feel what it can be. Do I see someone sleeping in there?

I put in the pose. Is it right? Does it feel like that’s the one that was trying to be borne

No.

Change it.

A different pose. This one is right. It feels right.

I push the paint around. Tightening the noose against it’s random, chaotic beginning. Different colors emerge. Older colors. Colors emerging from the baby steps. Patterns reveal themselves. Worlds within worlds.

Light shining through? Planned randomness.

I’m almost done.

I look up and it’s been hours. It felt like minutes. Minutes of discovery. Minutes that take me back to the rivers of belief. Rivers of dreams.

Start of a season

A close friend of mine recently confided that her husband has been cheating on her.  This triggered a cauldron of emotions in me.  I wanted to cry for her but it was more than just empathy.  I felt my own loss welling up inside me.  The anger and hurt of that betrayal is still there.

I was down in the cavernous clutches of this despair but despite that, I headed to a Kava ceremony I had been invited to attend.  It’s a ritual of gratitude.  I desperately needed it but in my current state of mind I didn’t know if I should attend. I was sure my eyes would be red and puffy from tears in the car.

I went anyway.

I entered the ceremony room at my friends’ house.  Pillows and coconut cups were already positioned in a circle on a large lau hala mat.   The room, filled with artifacts and indigenous art, has an immediate and reverent aura.  The organic tentacles of its spirituality gently made their way into my brain.

As I sat cross legged and waited for everyone take positions my mind raced to find something to mention. After the opening prayer of the ceremony everyone takes their turn with their own intention or prayer

What would I say?

Immediately I thought of my friends/family in California.  This Thanksgiving they will not be in the comfort of the home they’ve spent the last few years pouring love into.  Fire ravaged their community in Paradise and left it uninhabitable.  My thoughts came to rest on the fact that I’m grateful they are safe and not on the ever-growing list of missing or fatalities.

Gratitude has an amazing energy.  It feeds itself. One thought leads to another and then another.

My prayer was short but I could feel the invisible hands of comfort cradle my aching heart as I listened to everyone else.

Loss is not just the end of something.  It can be a freeing circumstance to achieve something new. I need to remember that.

Getting in touch with my voice

The moon phases of my journey as an artist have been varied and sometimes extreme.

I recently attended the unveiling of Alex Grey’s newest painting honoring Ram Daas. It was wonderful hearing the man whose art I have admired for a VERY long time. Listening to Alex and Allison’s journey was fascinating, inspiring and so very different from my own. I admire their commitment and purpose. Their accomplishments shine bright.

Unlike Alex and Allison, my path was never single minded. Many times I chose family over art. Sometimes a different career over producing art. Real life, I guess. Ups and downs. Over the long expanse however, art has maintained my sanity and my soul.

In this current phase I can’t seem to shake off the feeling that I need to “catch up”. It’s not an entirely logical feeling; I understand that. I find that very often I have to remind myself that I need to quiet down and reach inward to touch the light of what I want to say.

It’s a game game of spinning plates though to maintain growth and balance technique and expression. Somewhere along the line I feel I’ve gotten closer to singing with my own voice. Saying what I feel. Opening up my soul and taking the risks of it being seen. The phrase “experimental realism” came to mind this morning. I like it. I think I’ll try it on like a new dress and see how it feels.

I will always feel like my best paintings are ahead of me. There is never enough time to paint. But then, that’s what I signed up for, isn’t it?