When too much is too much

The last few weeks, while I’ve been waiting for the canvas I ordered to come in, I’ve been reworking paintings, some old (five years), some not so old (recent). It’s been an interesting, even educational experience. I have wanted to make them be the same as the ones I’ve started recently. Sometimes I’ve come close, even made them say things I hadn’t realized they needed when I first did them. That’s been good.  But it has been getting tedious, waiting to start something fresh.

I usually work and rework paintings until I am satisfied I can do nothing more.  Often it is rewarding, eventually.  But I’ve come not to like a heavy buildup of paint.  Sunday I did something I haven’t done in several years:  I took some paintings off their stretchers.  It was sad, seeing them lying on the floor, their stretchers empty so I retired them to the waste bin.  I quickly found two small pieces of canvas large enough to fit the 30″ x 30″ stretchers and got to work on them.  Somehow my enthusiasm must have been a bit much because ultimately I sprained my wrist in the process.  And who said painting is not work!

When animals roam

People often ask me if I’m afraid walking in the woods alone.  Not really. I have Lila with me.  But also, sometimes it seems like there are other animals there, possibly a giraffe:

or an armadillo:

and maybe what they eat:

and of course, there’s my traveling companion, Lila:

Last summer there were several bear sitings around the area.  So I didn’t go in the woods during that time.  Instead, there was the lake.

And a walk in the woods

Lately when the days have been so cold and often windy, Lila and I have been hiking in the woods by the brook.  The trees protect us.

The snow lays like cotton candy all around

We had a heavy snow last night. It’s cold and blowing. I can’t say I mind the weather. But after two beautiful warm sunny days, it is quite a contrast.  The January thaw is over.

Unexpected pleasures

I’ve been restless lately, itching to start some new work but low on necessary supplies. I ordered a roll of canvas from the supply store at the Art College but it hasn’t come in yet. I ordered some more paint from Aboveground Art Supplies in Toronto but it hasn’t arrived yet. I have enough paint to do some work, but not all the right colors I want. Aboveground didn’t have ultramarine violet in the large size, only the smaller size, which I would use up in a few small minutes. So I will have to order them from the manufacturer, R&F Paints.

Yet this morning, I cleared the frustrations away and put in several very productive hours working on reworking work.  To my surprise, it was exhilarating.  Paintings that I had thought I had (maybe even several times) finished, blossomed with what seems to be constantly growing insight into what can make a painting work.  And work better.

I suppose it isn’t really work in the traditional sense.  It’s just so intuitive, so immediate, spontaneous.  Maybe even thoughtfully spontaneous.

So when is a painting finished?  When it feel right, completely right.

Really

Sometimes I wonder if I die tomorrow, would I leave a decent body of work behind.  This is not a depressing thought, just a reality check.  I often wonder have I accomplished what would make my paintings memorable.  I think maybe so, but on the other hand, I know I can keep painting for years to come.  There is much more I want to explore.

These thoughts were brought home this morning by two things.  First, I am low on supplies and it makes painting difficult.  It makes me want to take a break until I can gather up the canvas and paint I need so badly.  I’m getting very tired of going over older pieces, making them more satisfying to me.  It’s not very satisfying not to have something new to work on.

Then too, this morning I had a conversation on the road with a neighbor.  We often stop and chat when walking our dogs.  The dogs sit there obligingly as if waiting for the school bus.  My neighbor was telling me she is making funeral arrangements for another neighbor (who has moved away) who is near death.  The woman who is ill, her husband and my neighbor-friend are calmly discussing the details of the funeral, who will preside, who will sing and play music, where it will be and such.  Death is a reality.  In this case, it comes with warning.

Imagination

I went to see The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus yesterday.  The theme of the movie is, as the title suggests, the importance of imagination, its role in how you think and live.  It begins with a fetching idea: of storytelling being what sustains the universe. In many ways it is: in truth, non-truth, and consequences.  Some stories have more “imagination” than truth; some, like what painting is to me, are all “imagination”.  And there are so many possibilities within the realm of imagination:  a whole new world.  Even fantastical, as in the movie.

The movie itself revolved around a very enjoyable story about the consequences of personal choices.  In many situations, the choices had extreme results, a matter of life or death. If only politicians were more in touch with the truth of the stories they tell us, of the choices they make.

The painting process is all choices.  One of my favorite stories is from when I was living in Duncan’s Cove, along the coast of Nova Scotia.  One of my neighbors was a scientist who seemed to like to stop by just as I was sitting down to dinner.  So then, sometimes, it was dinner for two.  Once he said he thought artists and scientists were basically the same.  Both working with the premise:  “What if . . . ? If I do this, then that will happen.  And then I may have to do something else.”  It’s about choices–and deciding what the painting is supposed to do, it’s role, it’s function, it’s life.

Then, as it was beginning to snow as I left the theatre, my big decision was (taking a line from the movie) whether to take the high road (the highway) or the low road (the country road).  I took the highway.  It was clear (of snow).

Running over water

Sometimes I feel like Lila and Minnie, just want to run around on top of the lake, on the ice and snow, play all day. Sometimes it feels like that is what making art is, a chase, making the time to play, to run as fast as I can.  It’s snowing hard outside now.  Lila and I just came in from walking on the lake, playing ball, exploring the islands.  We were out there yesterday with some kids skating, Sunday with friends and dogs, on the lake every chance we can.  These opportunities don’t last all year, not even all winter.

This morning I finally made time to work in my studio.  Having been away for a few days, I could see exactly what needed to be done.  I went right for it.  It was good.  But I’m out of supplies, have ordered canvas, need more paint soon, so it’s just finishing up and/or redoing a lot of work.  I’m looking forward to starting some new pieces soon.  There seems to be a big difference between what I have started recently and what I am reworking.  There is fresh insight–not the kind to verbalize.  I can say the playing field has gotten bigger.

Days away

I think I like to tease myself, set it up so I can’t paint for a few days so that when I do get to work, my enthusiasm is even greater. Yesterday was tai chi, lunch with Aaron and then Traditional Chinese Medicine class. A friend came out this afternoon to help me clean up the mess in my studio. It’s been so bad working has been hindered. We’ve made a good start on it, clean paper on the floor, garbage taken out, but there is still a lot more to do. At least I can get to the paintings again. That won’t be until Tuesday, because I have appointments tomorrow, but I’m already looking forward to getting back to work.

My messy studio (with bubblewrap):

The year of reading dangerously

I read a lot of good books last year, 2009.  I tried to write them down but think I missed a few.  Nevertheless, I’ll tell you about some of them.

Gil Adamson: The Outlander. This was a bit too outrageous at first, hardly believable, but then I actually grew to take an interest in these odd characters, outsiders from the usual social norms, people who roamed the mountains alone, slept outdoors, valued their independence.

William Least Heat-Moon: Blue Highways. I enjoyed this trip around the U.S. via back roads as the author met unusual people living in small towns.  Running away from a failed marriage, looking for himself, he returned home.

Carl Wilson: Let’s Talk About Love: A Jouney to the end of Taste. I think I missed a lot of the references in this book because I am not up on pop music.  Nevertheless, it is a delightful exploration of what makes taste, an ever pressing question in my mind.  In the end, of course, it is highly individual. . . is it not?

Marilynne Robinson: Home. As one reviewer said, this is the saddest book I’ve ever loved.  A beautiful, subtle, quiet exploration of lost people, families coming together in pain and loneliness, rethinking the past and who they are now.

Kate Christensen: The Great Man. I’ve talked about this before.  A good book about the arts, relationships and age.

Cheever: The World of Apples. I really enjoyed the first few but then they seemed a bit thin.

When I was visiting Aaron and Joanne in Exeter last June, I bought three books.  It felt like they cost less in the UK than here but maybe it was just the pound/dollar exchange fooling me or maybe they just don’t have such high taxes.  They were all good books, worth the purchase.

Jlumpa Lahiri: Unaccustomed Earth. Beautiful stories exploring the immigrant experience:  feelings of loss, grief, dislocation yet still hope and dignity.

Anne Michaels: Fugitive Pieces. A very penetrating book, about friendships, relationships, it contains a memorable ending sentence: “I see that I must give what I most need.”

Bernhard Schlink: The Reader. As beautifully executed as the movie.  Maybe more spare.

I’m now reading the complete collection of Bernard Malamud’s short stories, over six hundred pages of stories.  I read a lot of his books when I was in my late twenties, a time when I was living in Manhattan, a Jewish semi-ghetto, and reading mostly books by Jewish authors.  I’m not sure it helped me connect to my “roots” but they were definitely good authors.  Having grown up in a gentile neighborhood, been faced with anti-semitic sentiments, it’s been a long journey to the point where religion is not a tender subject for me.  I’m a religious person in that I enjoy rituals and value compassion.  But the organizations of religion often discourage me.  I have devoted Christian neighbors here who genuinely and thoroughly embody their religious views and that enriches my life as well.

But, back to Malamud, it is fascinating watching the development of his writing craft.  At first all the stories were the same:  the story of a sad Jewish grocer in a poor neighborhood.  But now, more than halfway through the large volume, there is more inventiveness, more depth of exploration.  His writing continues to fascinate me.