TTT

More images of Totally Terrific Texel!

And more to come!

Texel Time

Texel is a municipality and an island in the Netherlands, in the province of North Holland. It is the biggest and most populated of theFrisian Islands in the Wadden Sea, and also the westernmost of this archipelago, which extends to Denmark. (Wikipedia)

And for four days it was heavenly. Here's how I saw it:

One word - space. Ok, another, peaceful. Just one more... sunshine. The triumvirate and holy trinity all rolled into one and just what the doctor ordered. As Spring began tickling the ivories of nature and before the tourist take-over I left my sketchbook at home and just pushed a button. Who knew life could be so easy?

Bedtime Stories

My eyes are tired. From looking. Deeply. Into. Everything. Sleep, you might say. Close your eyes and dream, but then I'm still looking. Shall I describe the colors? Blue, black, embedded stars in the sky, white light. I hold tight to the ledge to keep from falling down and wake with clenched fists around the wooden handles of my brushes. It shouldn't be this hard, but sometimes it is. Sometimes it stretches so wide it breaks into ribbons of taffy that is too sweet and sticks to the roof of my mouth. So much to remember, color, line, form, warm, cold, proportion... I have doubts...

Then, today, with the fickle sun shining through the colored panes, I too entered the age of enlightenment (at least for the moment), realizing that it is not with eyes that one sees, but the heart. Just the facts, ma'am. Let the facts lie, as they do. I prefer the mythology of my own reality. Cream no sugar, thanks.

Then and Now

So, recently I showed you what I was doing back then, now I'll show you what I'm doing right now... well, not right now, but this last week, including today, when the sun was out..

So, firstly, here is a painting I've been working on of my father-in-law, Michel. I'm about three layers in but there'll be a few more coming, bringing the large masses together and softening edge, bringing in more light in some areas, reducing it in others, adding hue and taking it down a notch... you get the picture. He has requested that a bird be added so he does not feel alone, so I'm thinking about that one. It's tricky because I don't want the bird to be a distraction. I was tempted to get completely silly about it and have one coming out of his pocket or pulling a bee out of his ear ear or something... well we'll se what happens with that, time will tell. It's a bit blue and overexposed due to my slow learning curve in photography and Photoshop. I'll get that one figured out some day.

Sleeping Beauty

Some time ago, over four years ago now, actually, I was working on a series of batik paintings based on the story of Sleeping Beauty. The images I made came from figure studies I had done. I love that story, how she is enveloped in sleep and the roses and thorns grow up around her. They are supposed to be hiding her from her salvation but I wonder if somehow they aren't meant as protection as well. Anyway, wasn't she lucky? She didn't have to go through the whole dating game, she just had lovely dreams waiting for Prince Charming to come and save her. It seems to me she had it pretty easy! But I digress...

So, I've been going through my textile "stash" as I've finally decided that that period is over and I found a piece that I worked on quite bit but still with some wax on it. It took some boiling to get most of the wax off and I still have some work to do. I think I had in mind to do one more layer, but hey, bygones. It's done for what it is, unless I decide to do some embroidery on it. I think I'll turn it into one big pillow. She has two sisters which I'll eventually get around to showing you. The original drawing hangs on the wall of a collector. If I find a photo of it, I'll post it too.

Here's to past endeavors and new discoveries. Perhaps there's more sleeping beauty to discover and, no doubt, more thorns to endure.

Harnessed

"You are sentimental," he said. Because I kissed your harness before I gave it to the dog pound. It was not premeditated. It's just that it was yours and its synthetic feel reminds me of the softness of your fur, the curls in front and the caramel color which has now made me like orange, even though that used to be my least favorite color. Well, at least it's more of a rust-colored orange. Can't be going over to the other camp entirely.

Did you see how big the swan babies have gotten? The last day we walked together they were new. Mr. Swan was so protective the other day that he almost ate a small dog. You wouldn't have blinked an eye. Not you, the brave one who swam after the swan after you jumped/fell in the canal. He had his wings spread and was glorious in his whiteness, otherwise I would have noticed that you were walking too close to the edge. He came at you in full regalia but you steadfastly swam on, head on. A swan knows when it sees determination, I guess, because he hightailed it, or rather tucked in his tail and headed South. Not that that deterred you. As a mother I was fretful on the sidelines, but as a dog-in-spirit I was urging you on. Fearless. Luckily you stopped before the bridge and were willing to be pulled out, by your sturdy, red harness. You were feeling cooler after a swim, and quite a bit wet. You smelled of dog, wet dog, a wet dog with dry grass clinging to him, but exhilarated and I confessed to a desire to roll in the grass with you. I didn't though, I just kissed your harness at the kennel door. After all, it was the least I could do.

The Written Word

I should love to write, tomes, volumes, a page, a sentence, something to empty my head and paint pictures in yours. I'd like to put down words that make you see what I see, the light on the canal, the changing grays and blues of the sky, the distance to the horizon and the butter on my bread. I'd like to have you dip it into the coffee of your soul and blend it into a mixture of your own tastes, your own interpretation, including jam of course. I'd like it to lift you out of your seat and make you want to dance a jig, then put you down lightly on a cushion of feathers, under which would lie a hidden stone, from the brook of my childhood running through the back yard. I'd like to give it to you like a gift, wrapped in pastel papers that whisper in your ear as you unwrap them, with a knot that is a challenge but not an impossibility keeping them closely ensconced until you can no longer help it but must untie it, taking the time it takes to figure out a puzzle on a cold, winter's evening by the fire. As you open it you will hear a sigh, barely audible, escape because I have been holding my breath waiting. Ahhh....

The Nature of the Beast

Art is cruel, art is kind, art will come up to you and slap you in the face then tell you you are a god. Do you want an easy way out? Don't do art. Do you want to be challenged to your foundations and then challenged again on the new premises you have formed? Then choose art. Do you want to look into your soul, your heart, your psyche? Then do art. If you fear your own shadow, don't do art, or do it and learn not to fear but to explore it. Watch it grow in the evening and disappear only to show up the next day.

Art is a mirror in a fun house and you are looking into it hard but the second you think you know what you see the mirror changes and you morph into something else, don't look too hard, or, look sideways and you may catch a glimpse of what is real.

Art is mercury. Break the thermometer of society's rules and let the mercury flow out. It looks solid enough but try and capture it and it will split and break into new channels then rejoin again.

Art can capture reality, then reality changes, focus changes. You can see clearly or in soft focus or not at all. Art will teach you that every thing, every one is connected but you can also choose to show that they are not. If you miss the connection though, you will be looking only partly and miss the forest for the trees, the myriad of colors in the sunset, the texture of the air. Yes, you can choose not to take the challenge, you can choose to see only partly and you will get from A to B, Life to Death, but you might miss C, the process, the shear splendor of "being-ness".

Art is pen and pencil, paint and stone and chisel and brush and canvas, movement and voice, gesture and sound and word, but mostly it is a way of seeing. You can keep your eyes shut but you will still hear it come knocking and you can choose to answer or not. It could be a lion at the door or not and you may be consumed but like the phoenix you will rise again and again because you have begun a journey that is never ending, you have become aware.

Waterhouse

John William Waterhouse. Yesterday I went to see an extensive show of this artist's work at the Groninger Museum. I took a three hour trip because that's just how much I've liked his work. I was excited and filled with anticipation. I thought about the beauty and color he portrayed in his "stories" on canvas, thinking, "At last I will see these stories come to life!".

Exactly the opposite feeling awaited me as I gazed at each, technically perfect, painting. More, what filled me was the feeling of being in a crypt. His models (or should I say model because he seems to use the same woman for every face) were all posed like mannequins, beautiful and graceful mannnequins, but dead to the world. Everything was perfect, from the veins in his marble to the weave of his rugs and yet...nothing, no soul, no life breathed there. In fact, I was surprised to find that I like his paintings much more in print then in real life!

He does get some life going in his landscapes, then he drops in a model from the studio and the birds stop singing. The wood becomes dead and nary a leaf can be heard to fall from a tree. Not surprising then, that the one painting that struck me was "Saint Elalia", which can be seen here: http://www.johnwaterhouse.com/view.cfm?recordid=76 (One of these days I'll figure out how to post outside images here.) She is truly dead and yet he brings more life to this painting than to all the other "live" models. His studies have more life in them. Pity he couldn't carry that over to his finished paintings, or "killed" it in the process.

So, once again, I am reminded that perfection and control does not result in beauty, no matter your skill in reproducing the real. Because real is not perfect, it is flawed, it is unfinished, it is faulted and it breathes life. This can not be captured by turning all to stone, immovable and unchanging. Leaving the mausoleum, oops, museum I strolled through the Saturday market and was restored to life, all the more poignant for this contrasting point of reference.

Glazing Over

I've been spending much time reading about what others think these days so I thought I'd put in a few cents of my own. Actually, the time I've spent on others thoughts has been scattered in short increments, because for the last couple of months, I've been in intensive study of portraiture. Whew! What a process! It's been a struggle both personal and creatively, learning new techniques but mostly banishing old bad habits. ("Out, out damned spots!," she cried as the nasty bad habits clung to the hem of her psyche.) Currently though, things are going good, connections are being made and old memories of knowledge being mixed with new understanding.

We are dealing with glazes now as we add color to the layers of grisaille. It is magic. I was lost for a while watching the magic, then I remembered a painting class I had back in college, back in the day as they say... The teacher was Frank Hobbes, a local painter and he was only there for a semester or a year, I believe. Too bad they didn't keep him because I would have taken any class I could have gotten from him and learned perhaps a bit more of what I am now learning years later. He had me paint a copy of a Rembrandt, a self-portrait (one among many). With that portrait I learned about...glazing! And with that memory comes back the knowledge that I can apply today. It's a case of adding a glaze of color to push back the painting into the shadow, and then adding more light, then when that's dry doing it again, and again, till it becomes clear and full of layers of light and color. It never ceases to amaze me how it works, pushing it back, then pulling it back out again into the light.

Pondering this miracle, I was thinking it's not unlike the process we go through in life. We have these moments where the light gets in, then times when it is pushed back down, then we must look for the light again and pull it out of the shadows. This happens in layers upon layers all our lives. It's so easy to stay in the shadows, feeling our way but never coming clear. So difficult to know where to look for the light, to pull it out of the murky darkness. But there it is, and when the light is revealed we become more three dimensional, more whole.

Some of those things that were in the shadows can remain. They don't need illumination, and actually lend to the beauty of the light. They have their own colors that will be reflected in the light to give it life. Without those shadows, there would be no light, only flat color. So now, as I paint my glazes, or perhaps in quiet moments of reflection such as this, I am observing the shadows, their colors, how sometimes I was in the deep shadow but reached for the light, no matter how feeble. I can feel my skin vibrate with the interplay of the two and their own nuances as I watch the portrait of my life develop and become whole. When it is done it will look just like me.

P.S. Thank you, Frank Hobbes, for believing in me. You once said I had the guts to be an artist and those are words I still cherish.

Creatures of Habit

Every morning my cat wakes me up in that very special way that cat's have. She begins by standing, stretching, then carefully walking all over my body. If this receives no response, she tickles my face with her whiskers, that failing, she will go scratch the rug, a sure-fire way to get me out of bed to keep her from destroying it. We go downstairs where she will circle, show her leg, rub against my legs, in other words, plea in no uncertain terms that she must eat or starve. A guy named Pavlov figured out why all this takes place a long time ago and since we're all familiar with his theory, most of us, I won't bore you with the details.

Now, right up there with Pavlov's star in the sky, I have placed Twyla Tharp. She has hit the same nail on the head, but at a different angle and it has gone straight to my heart. She has written a wonderful book called, "The Creative Habit". I haven't read the whole thing yet, so I can't comment on all of it right now, but what has had a major impact on my day is her concept of ritual. Well, it's not really her concept, because it has been going on for centuries, but her application of it is so clear that it can't be ignored. I won't rewrite her book for her, but I want to tell you how it's affected me.

Since reading her book, I began getting up at 6 am, feeding the cat (no need for an alarm when you have a cat) and doing yoga. Then, I have breakfast in front of the computer, do the rest of my morning preparations and go for a walk for an hour. When I get back I make a big cup of chicory and oat milk (my substitute for coffee) and face the canvas. This is my new ritual. I'd say I've been doing it for about two weeks now. Previously, I got ready in various ways without examining my "ritual". Some days it worked, some days it didn't.

This works. Not only does it work, but I've discovered something important this morning since I've changed my ritual. I slept in an hour extra, or tried to, anyway I lost an hour. I'm not doing yoga this morning because I have yoga class this evening and yesterday I changed it too; I didn't take my morning walk and went to the store instead. What I have noticed is this...it is unsettling. I woke up this morning needing that stretch and I'm not getting it. Something seems amiss. I have to think about what I'm going to do next. I feel out of sorts. I did this last week too, missing my yoga in the morning and it took me all day to get some sort of creative flow. (I hope that's not the case today.) What I'm saying is that I've developed a habit. Just like the cat. If she doesn't get her morning meal, she thinks she might starve. Her stomach tells her that too. Just like me trying to sleep in, my body woke up at 6, ready for it's morning stretch to start the day.

This is all probably not new to those of you who have a routine. All the more so since most of you have a job to go to in the morning. For me, it is a surprise. I've always seen myself as someone who has shirked the "routine". I've never made myself consistently do it because I thought I couldn't stick to it. Now I see if you don't set up a routine, you will inevitably make one. Why? Because we are "creatures of habit". For the first time I understand that phrase. Habit, routine, ritual brings comfort, stability, and room to breathe because if the routine is there then other stuff can happen without too much crisis, like when the cat throws up or my knitting goes awry, that's O.K., because I've had my routine (cup of coffee, morning run, hour of the morning news, shower, whatever works for you).

I spent 7 years going back and forth from France to the States every three months, only to discover that I craved stability, staying put. And now, at (almost) 44 I've discovered the blessing, the freedom, of routine. Who knew? This same routine is getting me in the studio every day. I feel like Twyla Tharp handed me a key to a new door but the key seems very familiar. Over the years I've had routines to get to work, but never looked at them this closely. Never said, "O.K., this is what works for me and I'm going to use it as a formula to get work done". That has all changed, I am now a creature of habit.