Upcoming Show

After taking a self-imposed sabbatical from showing for several years now, I am finally taking a tiny step towards re-entering the public art world with a show at a small bookstore and coffee bar that has invited me to show there (which was cool as I hadn't approached them first). My work opens on the summer solstice next June which is perfect for me for many reasons, except that I sure could use a lot more time to put together a cohesive series of pieces.

In the time I have been away from deadlines and commitments, I've discovered that I work on a much, much different timetable than I did back when I was a slave to showing in public venues. I've become a world class futzer and lollygagger and I can easily work on a single piece for weeks or even months at a time, fussing endlessly with all the little details. But I really shouldn't be doing that now as I need to complete at least one piece every two weeks to have enough new works to fill the small gallery space I'll be in. And I haven't exactly been keeping up with that schedule very well. Between the odd sensation I get when I think about once again putting myself out there for public consumption, still being without a studio (we're on track for getting me in there next spring), the impending holidays and all the work involved with them, a very bad head cold and a lingering flu-like virus, as well as a finger nearly torn off in a car door and stitched back together, I am now far behind where I should be at this point in time.

Still, I'm trying to stay in the moment and not get too worried, and besides, there's still six long months between now and then to churn out everything that is currently only in note and sketch form but waiting to be transformed into beautiful works of art. If I need to, I'll channel my inner Vincent and work at a blistering pace come spring. But until then, lollygag I will until I am happy with each and every work.

Surprise!

Griffin made a joke today about his lunch (a hamburger) being art and it immediately took me back nearly twenty years ago to a small gallery here in Boston and a multi-artist show that briefly ran there. David and I were at the opening reception, and as with most exhibits that showcase a group of different artists, the pool of talent in this bunch ran the gamut from very good to very bad. And with the exception of a friend whose work was in this show, I can remember only one other artist: Zesty Meyers. He had one piece in the exhibit and it consisted of a very large side of frozen beef hanging from a meat hook in the ceiling and dangling over a heated pan placed on the floor beneath it, causing the meat to slowly thaw, drip and stink. The smell in the gallery was off the charts with the body heat from all the guests speeding up the decay of that enormous slab of flesh. I thought that evening, as I do today, that that installation was by far the worst piece of art in the place. But obviously, it worked, didn't it? After all, all these years later I not only recall the details of that work, but the artist's name as well. And so Griffin and I talked about Zesty and his meat installation and then we moved on to other things and I really didn't give it much more thought. Then just now as I prepared to write about Zesty and his beef of so long ago, I thought "What the heck? Let's see if Zesty is still out there" and lo and behold, he is. After forming a groundbreaking installation and performance art group, he also co-founded the R 20th Century Gallery in New York City and is currently writing a publication on Brazilian mid-century masters. Who'd a thunk it? Certainly not me, but it sure has me thinking now.

Philosophy of Art

We have art so that we may not perish by the truth.
An artist chooses his subjects: that is the way he praises.
The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.
Art is the proper task of life.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Edison Sketch

Sketch of Edison Jack Sitting, graphite on paper, 2009

Apples

This was done in a somewhat small sketch book I carry with me when I'm out and about. I've been setting up still lifes, photographing them and then drawing from the various sized shots. While it's nice to be able to draw whenever and wherever I feel like it, I'd really very much prefer to work from life since I obviously have to work from photos for my dog sketches and it can get rather humdrum, to say the least. But as I am still studio-less and it really isn't fair to expect my family to stay the hell away from my arrangements for days on end, nor is there any way to keep my obnoxious cat away from my work, photos are for now the way to go. Better to draw the only way I can than to not draw at all.

Three Apples on a Napkin I, graphite on paper, 2009

Journal Page

A photo journal page of images from my childhood. From late 2008, early 2009.

Ravine

Ravine, October 1889.

X-ray of Ravine showing the first painting beneath.

Wild Vegetation, the pen and ink drawing that corresponds to the painting beneath Ravine.

The Museum of Fine Arts here in Boston (which owns this lovely Vincent piece), in conjunction with the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, discovered upon x-raying the MFA's Van Gogh holdings at the request of a group of scholars studying the technical aspects of Vincent's works, that there is, in fact, another of Vincent's paintings lying beneath the surface of Ravine.

It is believed that the first painting underneath was painted in June of 1889 during the early part of Vincent's stay at the Saint-Paul de Mausole Asylum near Saint-Rémy, and he then reused the support for "Ravine" when he was without any fresh canvases a few months later in October of 1889. The x-ray showed that the first painting matches up perfectly with a small drawing titled "Wild Vegetation" that Vincent sent in a letter to Theo in July 1889. In fact, the Van Gogh Museum has a dozen drawings that Vincent sent to Theo in July of that year to show his brother what he had been painting that summer. Up until this discovery, there had never been a known painting that corresponded to that drawing and it was the only one of that group of drawings from that summer without a painting of it, which had always puzzled the Van Gogh scholars. But now this lost painting has been rediscovered.

How exciting that almost 120 years after Vincent's tragic death, new and exciting discoveries can be made about his work and his life. To me it's absolutely thrilling!

Photos courtesy of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Bram

I know I said I was going to work bigger for the next study, so let's pretend that this little sketch of Bram at 6x7 inches was just a quickie warm up to something bigger, to flex my fingers if you will, for the next big thing. It took me only about nine hours over four nights or so. I find if I try to work too big it can be self-defeating, as I haven't the time to finish those larger pieces as quickly as I'd like. But what I really need to do, aside from actually creating some really big drawings, is to stop saying things here that turn out to be just not true!

Study of Bram Reclining, graphite on paper, 2009

All Roads (and Visits) Lead to Vincent

Yesterday David and I finally made it to the Greene and Greene show at the MFA and while in terms of the objects on display it was a fairly enjoyable exhibit, overall it was something of a letdown. The original drawings for their homes, their amazingly delicate stained glass and the furnishings were beautiful works of art in themselves (after all who doesn't love arts & crafts period furnishings?), but the show was really small and sparse. We were in and out of it in less than half an hour, and that was with me lingering over wall texts too.

So instead, I spent the bulk of our time mooning over the Van Goghs. Whenever I go to the MFA I always visit my beloved Vincent and his heart-wrenching works in which I could lose myself for hours. The MFA has only a few pieces and they aren't even remotely my favorites, but beggars can't be choosers and if these are the only Vincents that I'll have in my life, then I'll take them, and happily too. I hate the fact that right next to the version of La Berceuse that he was working on in Arles the night he had chopped off his ear is a Gauguin. I am firmly of the belief that Gauguin played a major role in Vincent's breakdown. I know that Vincent was on a lifelong collision course with madness and I'm not so naive as to believe that Gauguin was the sole reason for his psychotic break at that time, but I truly feel that Gauguin's own behavior didn't help the situation any and as such I think he's partly responsible (and I think he did too, based on his own memoirs later in life). But that's not why I hate Gauguin's work. I hate it because I think it's just plain horrible, nothing more and nothing less.

So the day was redeemed by my extended visit to the Vincents. His colors, his subject matter, his sensitivity, his heart and soul poured into every vibrant stroke make me more joyful than anything. There is no one who will ever be like Vincent and I could spend my life, until my dying breath, sitting before his works. Someday I'd like to visit the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, but the danger with that is that once I'm inside I'll never want to leave, ever again.

Edison Jack

While still small, this sketch is a bit larger than the last one I did of Bram. My next sketch is going to be substantially larger than both of these. Time to work big again for a change, just to mix it up a bit. I've also been collecting photos of friends' dogs for me to use for additional studies, also to keep things interesting. I'm contemplating selling custom dog portraits. I know this is a really weird concept and not something I would normally do, but I love to draw dogs and on a few of the occasions I've done a drawing for someone simply because I thought they'd like to have one of their best-friend-with-a-tail, they've gone nuts and insisted I need to do be paid for my work and should never just give it away. While it's nice to make money while making art, it isn't the driving force behind anything I do. Still, if I'm going to draw dogs (which I will) and people want to buy drawings of their dogs (which apparently they do), it would make sense for me to be the one getting paid, right? Until I make the final decision on this, or even find the time to make this a regular part of my already busy schedule, I'll just keep on drawing my own two boys and making my friends happy with surprise portraits of their own beloved animals.

Study of Edison Jack Looking Over His Shoulder, graphite on paper, 2009

A Tiny Mixed Media Collage

This is another of those hand painted photo collages I've dug up. This one is quite tiny at just a few inches square and is another piece from that period where I was using day glow pink spray paint on everything in sight. Go figure. I seem to have some very patient birds, as like Trixie Bee before her, Zelda Pearl is also a top-notch little model.

You Were Saying?, mixed media on paper, 2007, from the series Things With Wings

Dresses From Nature

I've always been someone who makes clothing for myself and I've even on occasion made clothes from unusual items: a skirt made entirely of flattened bottle caps for instance, or a dress made from the used wrappers of a thousand York Peppermint Patties, but that's nothing that hasn't been done to death. This artist, however, completely blows me away and on so many levels too. Utterly.

These dresses appeal to my driving obsession with Marie Antoinette and the fashion of 18th century France. They feed my need for the spiritual in that they are very much like the sand mandalas made by Buddhist monks and nuns in that they embody the idea of impermanence. Spend a great deal of time and effort to create a truly breathtaking piece of art but know that in the end it will ultimately be destroyed. Clothing from leaves and flowers has a very short shelf life and I'm not sure I could bring myself to create something so exquisite knowing before I even begin that it will be gone in little more than the blink of an eye.

Everything about these dresses is a joy to behold: their construction, their materials, their artistry. I would have loved to have seen them in person.

Dresses from the Weedrobes series made by Nicole Dextras, nicoledextras.com

Journal Cover

The cover of a journal where I worked out some childhood issues through art. Freud would be tickled pink.

Childhood Journal

I haven't journaled in quite a while due to a serious lack of time to devote to the fun and the frivolous, but I did finish one a few months back that was initially going to be all about my childhood. It wasn't long in the process of creating the book that it inevitably turned into a deeply psychological manifesto on my father's death. This is one of the pages from it.

Small Portrait of Bram Ebenezer

After a long hiatus, I'm back to drawing again (albeit sporadically) in the late evenings. Finishing this felt wonderful and has made me realize just how much I missed it. I really need to make sure I make time to draw every day, even when I'm consumed with other artistic endeavors that have sucked all the energy from me by day's end. It's important, not only to keep my skills honed, but to feed my soul as well.

Small Portrait of Bram Ebenezer, graphite on paper, 2009

Mixed Media Hen Collage

This is another found piece from my foray into hand tinting photos. The hen is Trixie Bee, who poses surprisingly well for a chicken. I was sort of all over the place with this one: spray paint, bleach, the hand-tinted photos. If I remember correctly, I was feeling rather giddy at that time and it's reflected in the uber-bright colors and ten thousand layers of various media used on this work. It's quite a thick piece, depth-wise.

What Do You Make Of This Life?, mixed media on paper, 2007, from the series Things With Wings

A Found Collage

As much as it's a pain in the ass to be forced to work in a corner of the kitchen, constantly needing to root around in boxes for various paper, canvas, brushes or "that thing I really need right now (insert name of badly needed yet totally elusive item here)," storing my things in our damp cellar, and tearing my hair out daily with the chaos of dealing with no studio while my new one is being built, it does have its advantages.

Having to poke around in all of those cartons, portfolios and crates over and over and over again has unearthed some artwork I haven't thought of in months or in some cases, years. Every last piece is totally insignificant (trust me on this), but each represents my experiments with new techniques (for me at any rate) at the time they were created.

This collage was one of the first large-scale pieces in which I used the technique of hand-tinting photographs with oil paint, an extremely time consuming process that lost its thrill for me super quickly. Those in the photo industry back in the early 20th century must have rejoiced with the development of color film because having to hand create color tinted photos sucks. It really does. That said, I used it on a few mixed media and photo collages before I grew immensely tired of it all and moved on. This was one of them.

Metamorphosis, mixed media on board, 2008

Encaustics VI

Edie and Andy

In the early 80's I went through a Warhol phase, not surprisingly, given that I was studying printmaking in my freshman year of college. Actually, it wasn't so much Andy that I was enamored of as it was Edie, his mid 60's muse. Jean Stein's amazing book "Edie: An American Biography" had just come out in 1982 and I devoured it. Edie was the perfect fashion icon, 60's mod New York personified. To this day I still adore Edie, in spite of her tragic, drug-fueled spiral to an ugly and far too early death.

Andy, while also an iconic figure in the pop art world, was more talented at marketing himself and his image than in creating his actual work. It's now believed that others in the Factory did the work for him, while he merely wandered about the canvases asking his lackies what they thought would look best. I'm not sure if this is entirely true or not, but that said, he was a unique individual who turned the art world on its ear. He was long past his prime when I met him not too long before his (also early) death.

I think it was 1985 when I went to a book signing at the Boston Public Library at which he made a rare personal appearance with the 'ordinary people'. The place was mobbed, but not as much as I had anticipated, given the resurgence of Andy-mania courtesy of the reincarnation of Edie's star. I had him sign a couple of his art books and one of his entourage was surprised to see a photo of Andy that I had with me, as it had been taken by him many years before and he wondered where and how I had gotten my hands on it (I only vaguely remember the photograph and I sure as hell all these years later have no clue where I had gotten it). After a brief chat with the photographer (as Andy said not a word), I made my way out of the room and out of the crush of people waiting behind me. The whole experience lasted only a few moments and then it was over.

Being rather young, I had brought my mother with me, and after the brief meeting with Andy, she had gone upstairs to the library office to get a replacement library card. Being a big and busy city library this took some time and while she was off getting her card, I waited alone in the empty upstairs foyer outside the office. It took what seemed like forever, and apparently it did take awhile, because while I waited for my mother the autograph signing had ended. Looking out a big window I could see all the people spilling out of the doors and onto the sidewalk below me.

As I turned from the windows, my mother called to me from the next room and as I turned to face her direction, while we spoke I kept walking backwards in the direction I had been moving in. As I spun around to face forward again, I slammed into Andy who had been walking backwards talking to a member of his extensive entourage and had also only just begun to spin back around to face forward again as well. We smashed into one another and both of us dropped the things we had been carrying. I apologized, he sort of apologized, and I took a moment to tell him how much I admired him which embarrassed the hell out of him, made him stammer for a moment, hurriedly thank me and then rush off with his people.

It was surreal at best and over very quickly, but that day left an indelible impression on me. It brought briefly to life a period in time that I so wish I had been old enough to have experienced: the art, the fashion, the social statements of the iconic mid 1960's.

A Lifetime in a Box

I was cleaning up the other night and in tidying up the room I was in, rediscovered a treasure I hadn't thought about in a while: an enormous box of vintage slides I picked up at an estate sale on a very cold and snowy winter day some time ago. The box itself is a vintage gem: very large and two-toned with multiple brass hinges and a bakelite handle, like a huge nearly perfectly square suitcase. But it's the treasure inside that sent me to haggle with some very obnoxious people running that sale (trust me, if this wasn't so amazing a find, I would not have even considered dealing with them).

Row after row, side by side and stacked on top of one another, are hard plastic trays full of hundreds and hundreds of slides that I presume were all taken by members of the same family throughout the years, from the early 1950's through the mid-60's and ending just before the counterculture exploded and changed life forever life as we knew it. Many are dated and labeled, but many are a complete mystery as to when or where they were taken and often even what the point of the shots were, leaving the viewer to guess what was in the mind of the photographer. Only the mile markers of fashion and interior design are a hint as to the year.

The earliest dated slides are of a farm, with big gorgeous draft horses and some lovely old cars and trucks in the shots, enormous spotty great danes and children, green apple trees dotted with red apples ripe for the picking, all of them in eerie ultra color, like they were taken with a lomo.

There are endless photos of vacations to exotic places and cruises to the Caribbean, with now nameless men in high-waisted fitted bathing suits and women in one-piece shirred suits sporting cats eye rhinestone-studded sunglasses and bathing caps dotted with gardens of plastic flowers. Palm trees sway overhead while suntanned ladies in summery dresses sit with sweaters draped over their shoulders, and in their hands are drinks capped with real flowers and brightly colored paper umbrellas. The rhinestone sunglasses have been replaced with horn-rimmed cats eyes for the evening. And some of the evening shots are amazing: deep azure and purple sunsets breathtaking in their intensity, the black silhouettes of palm trees, and behind them the frame covered in the glittering signs of night clubs and hot spots of another era.

There are slides of empty offices replete with mid-century modern furniture: teak credenzas, bright orange upholstered minimalist chairs and sofas, and wall to wall carpeting with large crazy geometric patterns like you'd find today in a bowling alley that hasn't been redecorated in half a century. Rows of metal desks with a distinct "Jetsons" feel to them, molded plastic chairs in hideous (and bright) colors and the ugliest paneling you can conjure in your mind's eye.

And then there are the inexplicable ones: dozens upon dozens of shots of an empty store, its displays waiting for customers. Racks of very cool shoes: wingtips for the men and for the ladies flats and heels with sharply pointy toes. There are neat men's suits with tiny lapels and narrow-legged trousers, skinny ties all in a row and endless rows of full skirts that are so detailed in their color and patterns that I swear you can hear their crinolines rustle just from looking at the slides. There are exterior shots of the store during the day, and then of the sign at street side by night, lit up and beckoning customers. And finally there are a few slides of the parking lot full of cars (most of them big black Chevy Bel Air types) and the store with people shopping. I wonder if this family owned the store, but as there are no shots of the now-familiar faces in any of these pictures, it remains a mystery.

While I adore my box of slides and get an incredibly happy rush when I sit and look at them, I can't help but feel a little sad. After all, this was someone's life, carefully labeled (for the most part) and saved in a beautiful case and then one day there was no one who cared about it anymore and it ended up in the filthy cellar at an estate sale run by mean and ugly people who didn't care what was in the box or what it stood for, but simply how much they could get for it. Even in great joy there is always a hint of sadness. Kind of like art.

Encaustics V

Edison Jack Portrait

I've decided that I like to draw and paint living beings more than anything else. I like to do portraits of my dogs who I love very much as well as people that I love or am simply drawn to by their heart and their personality. I used to love to do landscapes first and foremost, and while I still enjoy them as I very much love to be surrounded by the beauty of the natural world, I seem to now be more strongly pulled to subjects who reflect their heart and soul in their eyes and the expression on their face. I love the hard work that goes into recreating a face that makes the viewer feel what is there inside my model, be it an animal or a human. I'm not sure I could draw or paint someone I didn't much care for as it would be very hard for me to bring that light forth when all I saw was something ugly (and I don't mean this in the sense of being physically "pretty"). Fortunately, I have yet to be faced with someone that I could not work with. But to be able to make a divinely beautiful soul shine through on paper or canvas, in pencil or paint, is truly an art and it's something that I am now seeking to perfect as much as I possibly am able with the skills I have.

Portrait of Edison Jack Looking Up, graphite on paper, 2009

Fictional Biographies of Artists

Here's the second list of some of my favorite art books, this time of the fictional biography/historical novel variety. Once again, in no particular order are some books I really enjoyed reading and that I think you will as well, especially if you like a little drama with your art.

Lust For Life: A Biographical Novel of Vincent van Gogh by Irving Stone
Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland (Pierre Auguste Renoir)
The Passion of Artemesia by Susan Vreeland (Artemesia Gentileschi)
The Painted Kiss by Elizabeth Hickey (Gustav Klimt)
Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier (Johannes Vermeer)
The Agony and the Ecstasy: A Biographical Novel of Michelangelo by Irving Stone
Johanna: A Novel of the van Gogh Family by Claire Cooperstein
Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham (loosely based on Paul Gauguin)

Monet and the Trains

I just read a story about Monet and the series of paintings he did of the Gare St.-Lazare in 1877. I'm not crazy about a lot of Monet's work, but these paintings really thrill me with their enormous vaulted ceilings and steam from the engines clouding so much of the details at platform level. They're simply fabulous, every one of them.

It was Renoir who told the story of Monet, always self-assured and certain of his destiny as a world-renowned painter even when he was a nobody, who managed to secure permission to paint these amazing canvases. He showed up at the station in his best clothes and asked to meet with the director of the Western Railway, saying that he was Monet, a very important painter. The head man, embarrassed to have it thought he was an idiot for not knowing who Monet was, ushered him in to his office and asked what he could do for him. Monet then proceeded to tell the director that he wanted to paint his station, having at first been unable to decide between St. Lazare and the Gare du Nord, but as his station had far more character, it was the one Monet had chosen. He then said he needed the trains to be held for half an hour while he worked. Amazingly, all was granted and he left the station amid regal bows to him and promises that they would do whatever he needed when he came to paint.

Sure enough, when he arrived at the appointed time, the trains were stopped and extra coal was shoveled into the engines constantly to keep the steam swirling. While he worked, everyone catered to his every need and he left with several canvases of this incredible scene.

Renoir finished the story by saying that he was in awe of Monet as he would never have even had the courage to ask his local grocer if he could paint his storefront from the sidewalk, let alone shut down an entire train station.

I love this story for several reasons. First, because I love these paintings and now I know the incredible chutzpah that went into their creation. I love a compelling backstory when it comes to amazing art. Second, because I too would feel like Renoir did, as I could never be so bold as Monet when painting in a public place (which can be unnerving at times even when you're just quietly doing your thing off in a corner). And third, because it shows the importance of believing in oneself and one's art. Despite what anyone else thinks, we must remain true to ourselves and do what we need to do to fulfill our creative urge, however daunting it might be.

Encaustics IV

Last year I posted a few photos of some encaustics I did for a solo show and this is another one from that series. I don't usually post actual artwork here, only sketches and art journal pages, but occasionally I make an exception to my own rule. Today I felt like breaking the rules.

Pastel Self Portrait (Again)

I've done a little bit more work on this piece since it was last seen here. I actually would have done more in the way of completing it, but when I finally sat down with a fairly sizable block of time to work on it, I realized that I have very few flesh tone pastels as I seldom do portraits in this medium. Since I can't really make my face just pale yellow and a sort-of flesh-toney pink (well, I could actually if I wished to go that route, but I don't), I was forced to stop working after one quick undercoat. I fiddled with the background a bit, but otherwise it's been shelved till I get to the store and pick up a selection of portrait shades of pastels, preferably in my actual flesh tones.

Non-fiction Artist Biographies

Being the list-loving girl I am, I thought it might be interesting to compile a list of my favorite art books. And then I thought, even better still, I'd split it into two lists: one for non-fiction and one for fiction. It was harder than I thought to narrow both lists down to a manageable number of good books, so if I'm so inclined, the continuation of these book lists may appear at a future date. In fact, I could start a third list about what I consider to be the best technical books. Or even my favorite anthologies of artists' works. Maybe eventually I'll cover them all. After all, I could read nothing but art books of one genre or another every day for the rest of my life, so the lists could, in theory, go on forever and ever.

Here, in no particular order, is my winnowed down first list of some great non-fiction, biographical books on a wide range of artists. I highly recommend them all.

Jackson Pollock: An American Saga by Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith
Diane Arbus: A Biography by Patricia Bosworth
Leonardo: Discovering the Life of Leonardo da Vinci by Serge Bramly
Renoir, My Father by Jean Renoir
Edward Hopper: An Intimate Biography by Gail Levin
The Yellow House: Van Gogh, Gauguin and Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles by Martin Gayford
Chagall: A Biography by Jackie Wullschlager
Off The Wall: A Portrait of Robert Rauschenberg by Calvin Tomkins
Strapless: John Singer Sargent and the Fall of Madame X by Deborah Davis
Impressionist Quartet: The Intimate Genius of Manet and Morisot, Degas and Cassatt by Jeffrey Meyers

Little Head Study of Bram

This is a just slightly larger than life-sized sketch of Bram's head. I love the way he posed for the original photograph (I may actually end up with two dogs who will sit beautifully and take direction when I shoot them!), but I must admit that his eyes were a challenge to draw as they reflected absolutely no light whatsoever in the shot. I redid them a hundred times and I'm still not happy with his left one, but it is what it is. Time to move on.

Little Head Study of Bram, graphite on paper, 2009

Calendar Collage: Bears

Every year I ask for a small calendar for my Christmas stocking and every year some nice Family Santa Person (Griffin) gives me one and then it's put to very good use for the next twelve months. I always choose the 8" square size as I'm not a big fan of the serious, stuffy business-y books and the wall size ones are really too big for me to carry around even though I could more than fill up the space in each day's allotted block. Besides, these little ones have themes I'm drawn to: hummingbirds, French Impressionists, Edward Gorey stories etc, and the photos on each page are vividly printed. Being a super anal list maker extraordinaire, I tend to hang on to my calendars even after the year is over as I'm of the belief that I never know when I might need to go back and retrieve a tidbit of information that was jotted in a calendar from a previous year. That and I like to keep the artwork from some of them.

This year's calendar for 2009 is an Edward Gorey calendar complete with a delightfully twisted tale of a little girl who meets a rather grisly end (the typical Gorey story) and while I was recently making note of some appointments and whatnots that needed to be entered on their respective dates, I thought to myself that this size is perfect for quickly executed tiny collages. And, the fact that there's still seven months left to this year means that there's loads of time to fill my current one up with googly art as the year grinds on. Just so long as I keep the collages a month or so back from current time, I can still see what's on- or what was on- the agenda when needed. And I haven't done any collages in ages and ages, which are a nice non-hard work break from the usual workload.

This is the first one I did in my current calendar to kick off this new idea of mine. Fast, fun and an easy way to recycle a book for art purposes, even while it's still being useful in a traditional way.

Pastel Self Portrait

The very early stages of a large pastel self portrait. This one has an incredibly long way to go before it begins to even remotely look like something decent art-wise. I haven't had much free time to devote to it, what with juggling several paintings and another enormous pastel, and so this poor piece sits completely ignored for days and days on end, then I give it some attention for a scant few minutes and then it's cast aside once again for works that are much more interesting to me.

New French Easel

I'm so excited because the french style plein air easel I ordered last week arrived this morning. I desperately needed a new easel and while it was suggested I wait until my birthday as maybe the birthday elves would bring me one, I simply couldn't wait until then. Besides, my birthday is in August and the entire painting-on-site-from-life season will be virtually over by then.

I did a quick set up of it when I first took it out of the box, threw a work in progress on it to see how it felt to have an actual canvas on it, snapped a few quick pics of it, and then transformed it back into its fairly compact shape for easy carrying.

I'm quite pleased with it. The wood is lovely, it's very sturdy, it holds at its most open an enormous canvas for such a small travel easel, the two drawers are all metal lined and waterproof, it comes with a palette that fits nicely inside one of those drawers and most importantly of all, it makes me want to go outdoors right now and paint my ass off.

I can't wait to get out there with it.

8" x 6" Self Portrait

Small Self Portrait with Scarf, graphite on paper, 2009

Bram Ebenezer

I've finally finished this drawing of Bram. It's actually almost life-size, which isn't saying much since he weighs all of four pounds. I'm fairly pleased with it for a change, although each time I look at it I can easily see what I should have done differently and what's not quite "right." Believe it or not, given my penchant for drawing my dogs, I have no other sketches of either one in the works right now. Instead I'm working on two self portraits and a pastel of a room in my house. I think I've done the dog thing to death at this point, but that said, I'm sure I'll be back drawing one or the other of them again soon. It's an addiction of sorts. I've been asked countless times why I draw them so much and do I ever draw anything else? And the answer to those two questions are "because I like to draw them" and "yes, loads of other things, in addition to all the paintings that you'll never see here online." If Monet can paint dozens of paintings of the Cathedral at Rouen or haystacks or his lily pond over and over and over again, then why can't I draw the same two dogs over and over again? I hate being defensive about my art, but I also hate feeling as though I am being forced to defend my art.

Full Body Sketch of Bram Standing, graphite on paper, 2009

Nests and Eggs

I love birds and I love their eggs. I've been collecting nests and fallen, broken and/or hatched eggs in the wild for many, many years. I used to have an amazing little nest whose shape was absolutely perfect (an anal bird, after my own heart) and in it I had all the tiny broken eggs and feathers I had been collecting for eons. The eggs were of all different colors, from various species of songbirds and there were feathers of all sizes and colors as well. I kept the nest tucked inside a china cabinet where it was safe from my marauding cat until one afternoon when, in a lapse of judgment, I forgot to put it back after adding a new find to it. I went out to do some errands and when I came home all the eggs had been eaten with just tiny flecks of color left here and there on the floor, every last feather had been chewed down to nothing and the nest itself lay scattered in loose and broken pieces in a trail between several rooms. I was heartbroken, and angry at both the cat and myself. I have collected a few nests since then, but no eggs, and nothing has come close to the perfection of that one beautiful little nest.

I recently bought a book called, not surprisingly given this topic, Egg & Nest* and it's simply amazing. The photographs of the eggs and nests stored for decades in the Western Foundation of Vertebrate Zoology's headquarters are enough to take your breath away and the history of egg collecting is equally as fascinating.

I don't usually draw eggs as they're really rather simple and, to be perfectly honest, just plain boring to draw, but I do keep the more beautiful ones that my chickens and ducks have laid. In fact, I have an entire carton in my refrigerator of the first eggs ever laid by my little Bantam East Indie duck hen named Babette Fleur, all of which look exactly like Jackson Pollock's Autumn Rhythm Number 30. Since my girls are getting older and not laying many eggs at all anymore, I thought I'd draw a few of the different eggs they lay while they're still laying them, however sporadic that might be.

*Egg & Nest, by Rosamund Purcell, Linneas S. Hall and Rene Corado, Harvard University Press, 2008

Two Duck Eggs Flanked by Two Chicken Eggs, pastel on paper, 2009

Head Study of Bram

Surprisingly, considering how much I draw my dogs, this is the first sketch I've done of Bram in the nearly two months he's been a member of the family. How odd.

When it comes to my work, even just the studies, sketches and journal pages I put here on this blog, I tend to see nothing but the flaws, the mistakes, the things that could have been done differently or improved upon. I'm really bad at not giving myself very much credit for what I do, and I seldom if ever toot my own horn when it comes to my art work, neither the serious stuff nor the lesser stuff. But that said, I have to say that I think I really nailed his tiny mouth here. I really do. Bram has a crooked and funny, slightly turned-down little mouth that looks exactly like the tiny rabbits in the Rankin/Bass Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Christmas special. You know, the stop motion one from 1964 with Hermey and Yukon Cornelius and the Island of Misfit Toys (which always makes me cry because they're all so unloved sitting out there alone in the cold, cold snow waiting for Santa each year)? Well, in the scene where Rudolph walks Clarice home after he's been booted from the Reindeer Games for being different (now there's the spirit of Christmas in action, eh?), the bridge of the song "There's Always Tomorrow" is sung by two little rabbits and two little raccoons and Bram's mouth looks just like the little rabbits' mouths (especially the one on the left). At least I think it does. And I think I did a smashing job of capturing his funny little lips in this sketch.

So there. And now if it ever comes up I can say I actually said something positive about my work. At least once, at any rate. And it was about something I love: Bram's odd little mouth.

Head Study of Bram Ebenezer, graphite on paper, 2009

Vincent Van Gogh

I’m in love with Vincent Van Gogh and I have been for as long as I can remember (in spite of my not having chosen him as my “Dead Soul Mate” here a few years back). Sometimes my feelings are in full-blown obsession, sometimes in merciful remission. Right now, I’m feeling it big time, baby. While I like Vincent’s work (I’m more partial to his lesser known graphite, chalk, pen and ink drawings than his Impressionist canvases, and among his paintings his self portraits over his landscapes), I personally am more enamored of the man himself. While the majority of people dismiss him as a madman, albeit a genius lunatic, there was so much more to him than the manic loony who lopped off an ear.

Vincent was an exceptionally intelligent, extraordinarily well-read person who spoke multiple languages and loved to hold in-depth discussions with people, in spite of the fact that most people routinely (and sadly) avoided any conversation with him at all. He felt acutely the pain and suffering of humanity, which was the cause of much of his troubles. He desperately wanted to connect with people, but was instead misunderstood and ostracized because he was so different from everyone else, even from those within the contemporary artist communities of his day. His loneliness and solitude were never a conscious choice, but rather a miserable condition forced upon him by society in general, and which only exacerbated his neuroses. His desperation and pain are palpable, even 119 years after his death.

I’m presently reading four books on Vincent all at once, cross-referencing as I work my way through them all: Lust for Life, the epic biographical novel from 1934 by Irving Stone, Van Gogh Face to Face: The Portraits, by the Detroit Institute of Arts which is the companion book to a 2000 exhibition of his portraits as well as a comprehensive volume of his portraiture in various media, I, Van Gogh by Isabel Kuhl, and my personal favorite which I’m re-reading yet again: The Yellow House: Van Gogh, Gauguin and Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles by Martin Gayford. I adore this last book.

While all artists tend to be colorful and somewhat odd people, Vincent in his individuality, his sensitivity and his manic and frequently intensely strange behavior makes all the others seem rather dull and boring by comparison. He saw poetry in the ordinary and the commonplace, and beauty in that which is most ugly. He knew that true beauty is found in suffering and in the depths of the soul and not in the superficial or the 'safe'. He knew that that which is the most flawed is also the most transcendent, much like Vincent himself was.

I couldn’t imagine life without Van Gogh in it. What a boring place it would be had he never graced this world with his magical presence. Thank you Vincent.

Vincent Van Gogh, Sien Seated, May 1882, graphite, ink and sepia

Large Edison Jack Sketch

This is a very large head study of Edison, which utterly dwarfs him in actual size. The nose alone on this drawing is bigger than Edison's entire face and the whole sketch is considerably bigger than his entire body. I think it might be interesting to go even larger, just to draw out the details in his face, but considering how long it took me to find the time to finish this one, that probably won't be happening anytime soon.

Head Study of Edison Jack, graphite on paper, 2009

Dog Sketch

Head Study of Oliver, graphite on paper, 2009.

Renoir Revisited

When I was a teen and then a very young adult, I was smitten with Renoir and his work. I loved Le Bal au Bougival and during that period of my life it was one of my favorite paintings, if not the favorite work. I would go and visit it at the MFA and easily could have stood there for hours dissecting the subject matter, the swirl of movement in the woman’s dress, the light, the colors (especially the red bonnet), the brush strokes. The only thing that would tear me away from it was a companion growing bored and begging me to please move on to something else. Anything else. I saw an enormous exhibition of Renoir’s work in the mid 80’s, a staggering collection of his life's work, and was thrilled to have been able to experience so many pieces in one place. But then my personal love affair with Renoir cooled. I’m not sure why I lost interest in him as I have always been into the French Impressionists, but I did. My tastes changed and my affections went elsewhere in art, I guess.

But I recently read a fantastic book about Renoir, and more specifically the summer he painted Les Dejeuners des Canotiers, and am suddenly finding myself rediscovering the artist I once was so taken with. I’m finding though that with age I have become far more discriminating in my tastes in regards to his work, with only very specific pieces holding my attention this time around, but I have also discovered some lesser known works of his that as a teen I never knew existed. And the book has also opened my eyes to other artists and other works that I had never given much thought to while in my youth, or that I knew but had no interest in, but now find I do.

I am completely in love with Gustave Caillebotte, an artist whose works were virtually unknown not only in his lifetime, but had gone unnoticed even as recently as the 1950’s. His work, while Impressionistic in many respects, is also very different from what the average person considers to be an Impressionist work. As an engineer at one point in his life, his architecture within his pieces is staggeringly beautiful: the buildings, bridges, ironwork on balconies. His light and his perspectives were radical for his day and are as stunning to behold now as they must have been when first painted. Except for what he accomplished in only a few short years, he gave up painting as a career for other pursuits (though he still painted occasionally for himself) and died far too young. He left a rather small collection of works in comparison with other artists of his day, which is unfortunate as he was simply brilliant. I guess the scarcity of his works makes them that much more special.

The Renoir book has reopened my eyes in a way they had never been opened before when I was a girl. I’m finding so many new and exciting things that came out of the mid to late 19th century French art world that either I had forgotten all about or never even knew to begin with. Old favorites and new thrills, all of them wonderful, and I find that in many ways I feel like I did as a teen, making art discoveries that stir my soul and make my art world exciting and really fresh again. If you think you know everything there is to know about a subject, you just might find that you have barely scratched the surface. And that’s such a rush. It really is.

A Very Old Bottle

I love glass bottles, the older the better and this bottle is one of my favorites. I love this bottle. I'm not even sure where or when it first made an appearance in my life, but I think it might have been while in our last home. When we moved in, the attic was full of the debris of numerous past lives, some of it junk and some of it valuable, like the ornate Eastlake fainting couch that we used in our library for many years until we sold it to another antiques collector. I personally prefer the mundane things, the little everyday items that were used and never thought much of, like the broken dishes and bottles we dig up every so often on our property while working, and the dusty odds and ends that turn up in the corners of musty old attics and cellars. I think this bottle was found dirty and forgotten on a shelf until I picked it up and wiped it off and saw the amazing rainbow of colors it presented when held up to the light, its brown appearance deceptive at first glance. I have been keeping it safe ever since.

Oddly enough, I have never painted or drawn it in color until now. I have some charcoal and pencil sketches of it done through the years, but nothing that even remotely hints at the amazing display of color when light passes through it. I'm not sure why I've never done this, but until now I hadn't. Go figure. Maybe this week I just felt I needed a bit more light in my rather dark life and pulled out my lovely brown bottle, the one who has waited patiently all these years to be presented to the world at long last in all its multi-hued glory.

Brown Bottle in Sunlight, pastel on paper, 2009.

One Lucky Dog

I completed this drawing of Edison last month, but never got around to posting it as right afterwards I got caught up in that other drawing of him that I decided to work on in stages. It looks exactly like the photo of him I used for it, yet every time I look at it only one thing comes to mind: that picture of "Lucky," the drawing quiz dog in the ads for the Art Instruction School that advertises on matchbook covers, in TV Guide and other shitty publications. You know, draw him, or the parrot or the pirate and they'll tell you if you're qualified to study art with them through the mail? I know Edison doesn't really look like that stupid drawing test, but the tilt of his head in this piece is identical to that ad and to me screams nothing but "Lucky."

Head Drawing of Edison Jack, graphite on paper, 2009

The Art of Letter Writing

I was recently talking with someone about pen pals. I have very fond memories of the ones I had in my early teen years, some from around the States and some from across the ocean. Letter-writing is a very beautiful and personal art form. I love to write letters and send them by mail. There's something exquisite about it that is utterly lost in emails and text messages. In one respect it's similar: in thinking one's words through ahead of the actual writing, choosing them with care, and nurturing a thought or a story until it has taken on a life of its own. But the physical act just isn't the same when the words are sent electronically. And taking the time- that precious and rare commodity that it is- to write to someone is a wonderful gesture.

I love the paper, the decision of which stationery to use. I love the sheets of paper held between my fingers, the thicker homemade papers, the crisp modern papers and on down to the thinnest onion skin of traditional airmail stationery. I love the smell of ink of any kind and the little dent I get in my right middle finger from holding the pen too long, pressed between my itchy fingers. Sometimes instead of a regular pen I like to use a delicate nib and a bottle of india ink in shades from deepest black to midnight blue and even the occasional sepia. I love to carefully fold my letter, with all its many pages sharing my life and soul with its recipient, into its envelope and then put on all the lovely stamps. One stamp with the proper postage isn't nearly as beautiful as many smaller priced stamps in different colors, sizes and designs filling the upper corner. For years, when I was more ambitious and had loads more free time, I would paint or color the outsides of the envelopes turning them into small, intense works of art in their own right. But now it's hard enough to find the time to write even a simple letter, let alone design a one of a kind envelope.

And receiving a letter is an equally fulfilling experience. To go to the mailbox and find something inside it that is meant just for your eyes, to share in another's life stories written in their own hand, to smell the ink and paper now a bit crunched from its journey, and even get a hint of the smell of the sender in it, now that's lovely. I'm not talking about the contrived letters of Nick Bantock's "Griffin and Sabine" trilogy here, but true art that is sent privately and from the heart.

As an artist I love having a real letter in my hand, one that is leaving me on its trip to someone I care about, or one that has just arrived from elsewhere for me to enjoy. It's a very visceral thing for me: to hold the thoughts and feelings of another in my hands, written in their own hand, inviting me into their life. There is nothing more personal and intimate than this. Letter writing: an ancient art form that is rapidly disappearing. How sad because there is nothing its equal to replace it.

Two Japanese Pears

I bought David some little japanese pears that caught my eye in the market. He loves sandwiches made of big fat slabs of sourdough bread grilled with goat cheese and pears, and these little guys looked like they would be very sweet and yummy (they were). But they were also far too lovely to not spend a little time drawing them before he sliced them up and sent them to their tasty demise. One chubby one in particular just begged to be preserved forever with its vibrant reds, patches of lime green and its jaunty little stem. These are the two relatively quick studies I did of it.

Japanese Pear, graphite on paper, 2009.

Japanese Pear, pastel on paper, 2009.

Anatomy of a Drawing: Final Photo

Okay, so I cheated a bit here. There is over five hours of work on this drawing since the last photo, which should really have been spread out over about three more photos and stages of work, but I started to draw last night and well, it was one of those nights and I just kept going until it was done. I really did intend to stop about an hour and a half or so into it, but then I thought, 'just a bit more will be okay' and that turned into a bit more and then I realized that I had been at it for almost five hours and the drawing was basically done. And then I put it down and took a shower and got ready for bed but kept flitting in and out of the room I had left it in, tweaking this detail and that until another half hour had gone by and I told myself that this was exactly what I had been trying to avoid in drawing slowly and consciously: stopping that part of me that keeps wanting to work just a bit more, to make the piece just a bit better, to not be able to stop once I start even when it's hours and hours and hours of working on something. I could keep drawing until my back is hunched and my fingers are cramped and gnarled. And sometimes I do.

There are still some things on this drawing that need to be reworked, but for all intents and purposes and for the sake of this thread, it's done. If I took a photo of every little change I'll make to it- until I'm mostly satisfied with it- that the average eye could never discern (but mine can see as glaringly obvious), there'd be no room for anything else on this blog. So consider it done. Time to move on to the next thing.

Anatomy of a Drawing: Photo 3

And still another couple of hours worth of work. I'm not used to working in such slow stages, and as I do my drawing late at night, having to wait until I shoot it the following day in the same light as the previous drawing stages before I can continue working on it has been strange, but slowly I'm getting closer to finishing. And having to stop and think about how far I've gotten in the drawing and where to stop and then where to pick up the next night really has forced me to think more about what I'm doing. It's been odd but interesting.

Anatomy of a Drawing: Photo 2

This is about another ninety minutes of work on the drawing.

Anatomy of a Drawing: Photo 1

I thought it might be kind of cool to post photos of a drawing I'm currently working on as I complete it. This will give me the chance to see what I do as I'm doing it from outside the moment, which could be helpful to me. I thought of it after I had begun a new drawing of Edison (I really need to get working on a subject other than him for my sketchbooks before this gets to be incredibly dull, but he's just so damn cute, I can't help myself. Besides, it's a good excuse to sit and draw every single day and look at my darling doggie a whole lot, too) so this first one is already a little more than just roughly sketched in. I spent about an hour and a half, maybe a bit longer, on his right ear (which isn't remotely finished) and his right eye (which is for the most part complete). Keep watching for more of this drawing to make a slow appearance depending on time-allowed for photographing and posting it.

Hitting a Really Rough Spot

I adore everything art. I always have and I always will. I love to see art, I love to touch art and I love to read about art, so why am I having a problem with reading it for those who can't read it for themselves? For the last almost four years, I have been reading regional arts and entertainment news for the blind at a local radio station. I have never broadcast this part of my life believing that if one is going to do something charitable, it's far better to do it on the down-low than to make a big deal out of what you are doing. Keeping it quiet keeps it more from the heart and less from the head. But to be perfectly honest, I have grown weary of the weekly grind. It's difficult to admit this, but it's true. I still love to read about exhibitions at museums, book reviews, New England theater, et al, but for some reason having to read it each and every week and make it interesting each and every time has become something of a grind. Deciding what to read, what to cull, making sure it all fills the time frame required, and then listening to myself reading it all a second time through for any glitches is tedious. I had a few weeks off this fall due to circumstances beyond my control and I found that I liked not having to read. Loved it, in fact. This makes me feel guilty and selfish considering that it's only a couple of hours a week. But spare hours and time for working on art is hard-earned and lately not as frequent as I'd like, so I find myself resenting anything that drags me away from it. I wouldn't stop doing the reading in spite of my feelings of unrest about it and obviously no one is forcing me to continue offering my time, but each week come Sunday night I find myself thinking, "Arrrgh, I need to go read for this week." And then I not only feel shitty because I have to take the time to tape my allotted time for the week, but because I feel guilty for feeling shitty about it. I hope this is just a phase I'm going through and I'll find the joy in it once more, the feeling I had when I first began to read, but for now I just have to try to not overthink it and do as happily as I am able what I know is right. I'm not proud of feeling like this, but I am being completely honest about it. Hopefully saying it out loud will make it less horrible.

Paint By Number Heaven

Last week I was out with Griffin picking up some varnish and fixative, but because I was lazy and didn't feel like going all the way into town to my artist supply store, we went to a local craft shop. They didn't have the exact varnish I wanted, but I did find a can of photo preservative designed with a home scrapbooker in mind, which is far less toxic and dangerous than my professional grade photo preservative, so I picked up a can of that too. As we were heading to the register, in my peripheral vision I noticed an entire aisle that was chock full of paint-by-number kits, so naturally, I just had to check them out up close and personal.

When I was a kid, I loved paint-by-numbers and did them all the time. My favorites were pictures of horses grazing in a field or running in a group. The first set I picked up this time was of a small group of horses standing around a meadow and I thought it might be fun to do it, but then I came to my senses and said to Griffin, "What the hell am I thinking? Painting a paint-by-number picture of horses- what am I? Ten?" and I put it back on the display. But then I saw a crumpled box on the floor under the display that was bigger than all the boxes of puppies and kittens and horses. It was a Winslow Homer painting, was quite large, and was in terrible condition. The box was torn open, the oil paints were separating and/or dried and there was at least a half-inch of dust covering the whole thing. There wasn't a price on it and there was no place on the display for it either. I took it to the register and the girl price-checked it for me: $19.00 despite its awful condition, so I passed on it.

But when I got home, I got to thinking. If there was this one masters' series painting then there had to be other ones, so I got online and sure enough found a few more that were available at a couple of art supply places. I went berserk when I found two van Goghs. I ordered them both: a sunflower painting and his bedroom in Arles. I was really, really hoping that someone somewhere had Starry Night, but alas it was not to be. The two I bought came this morning and I am thrilled with them. Part of me is thinking what a goof I am to be so excited about paint-by-numbers, but a bigger part of me can't wait to get started on them. These kits have changed a whole lot in the last thirty five years. Mine say they're for beginners, but they require mixing paint colors, sometimes more than two or three colors for a section, which I think is really cool. And if I use up too much of the paints and run out before I'm done, I obviously have all the colors I need for both paintings so the warning on the box not to mix too much doesn't matter a whit.

And in the end, I'm going to have both the fun of re-living a favorite childhood hobby and get two van Goghs (even if they are cheap paint-by-number van Goghs) out of it to boot. The smell of the paints in their little cups and the feel of the thin printed canvas board, when I opened my boxes this morning after the UPS man left, took me instantly back far, far too many years to count. I can't wait to get started. This is going to be a total gas.

Self Portrait, acrylic, gesso, graphite and charcoal on glued paper, 2009.