Woebegone Art

I have something for you

In addition to working double-time to create new art for the upcoming Lake Oswego Festival of the Arts, I’ve also had to put my mind to marketing my art in an unfamiliar territory. It’s a fun if somewhat uncomfortable process; but since comfort can inhibit growth, I’m all in.

One of my first projects was to create a postcard. I’m hoping it will create interest in those who are unfamiliar with my art, much like a teaser trailer does for movies (except still, and on paper). I enjoy creating things that are multi-use: for instance, this brand marketing piece is also a bonafide article of stationary. And I would like to send it to you.

If you would like one of these new postcards, please visit my contact page and fill out a few simple fields. (I promise to keep your information confidential and never spam you or share your information with a third party.)

*Photo credit goes to the very talented Lise Colucci Photography. Please visit her website to see more of her fabulous work.

Doubling Down

Work in progress: dahlias and hummingbird oil painting

The good part about having a huge, looming show objective is that you’re given carte blanche to create your work. There is absolutely no bad part (except that there is still, strangely, never enough time).

More than ever, my head is filed with dreams and dolls. I scramble to get them realized before they dissipate. They also begin to compete with all the show logistics I’m struggling to understand: the commerce, the merchandising. The being in public.

I’m really hopeful to have a lot of new work to display come the end of June. I am juggling 3 dolls and 4 paintings at the moment, with thoughts and plans for much, much more. I paint and sculpt and sew and sand and seal in between everything else, then try to fit in a little bit more. I’m not going to lie: it’s heaven.

Except for the part about never enough time.

We’re in!

Three of my dolls, standing sentinel in the doll cabinet

On March 21, I found out that I’ve been invited to show my paintings and dolls in this 2016 Lake Oswego Festival of the Arts (I wrote about being in front of the jury in this post). I then promptly spent the next ten days or so completely overwhelmed and unable to form much cohesive thought.

Then I got back to work.

I’m very excited. Very honored at the inclusion. And very intimated at the prospect of standing with my work in front of an art-loving crowd. As someone who is most comfortable surrounded by dolls, covered in paint, and in the rowdy presence of dogs (in other words, within the walls of my art studio), this will be well outside of my comfort zone. But before I could deliberate, I signed the artist contract and sent it in. I’m committed.

In addition to creating new work, I am now deliberating things like branding and interior walls and merchandising. It’s a lot to consider, but luckily I have almost three months to get it together.

Watch for updates!

In celebration of rabbits (and bunnies)

It’s Easter morning as I type this, and I have a busy day of domestic duties ahead. So in lieu of extrapolating some personal data into a post, I offer instead: a visual celebration of rabbits and bunnies.

UNTIL | 2015 | pen and ink art card, 3.5″ x 2.5″

NERVES | 2015 | Oil on canvas

Devil Bunny | 2016 | commissioned doll

SINEATER | 2016 | oil on canvas, 10.5″ x 8.5″

BRIARS | 2015 | 4″ x 4″, pen and ink on paper art tile

2013 | Gallery 114 | Portland, OR

JACKALOPE

MAGICIAN RABBIT

LONG-EARED HARE

RISE | 2013 | 20″ x 24″, oil on canvas

REX RABBIT | 2015

WAS | 2015 | pen and ink art card, 2.5″ x 3.5″

BLOOM | 2015 | pen and ink on paper, 4″ x 4″

WANT | 2000 | oil on canvas, 28″ x 14″

HARBOR | 2016 | oil paint and sculpted flowers on wooden tray, 7″ x 10″ x 3″

Spring

REFLECTION | 2014 | oil on small canvas — REFLECTION |
2014 |
oil on small canvas

Today is the first day of Spring, but in the Portland area it arrived early: yesterday the weather was comfortably in the 60s with lush sunshine and lazy clouds overhead.

Of course, today we woke up to nothing but rain. It is Portland, after all.

But a week of extended daylight hours and the assurance of warmer weather ahead has seemed to soothe frayed nerves like a miracle tonic, and the world appears filled with flowers and a vulnerable optimism. I’ve been taking advantage of the time by spending even more time in my studio. And by painting flowers.

In Springs past over the last few years, I find myself drawn towards depicting the little, quiet things: insects, birds, flowers. As the world begins to come out of an internal hibernation, they often seem to usher in a more subdued, yet infectious jubilation. I watch them, and enjoy the grace in their unfolding: the quiet elegance of their reveal.

Work in progress: oil painting of poppies (first session), March 2016

(All except mice. Mice and rats skeeve me the hell out.)

I’ve started a new painting of poppies that will grow to encompass a spotted towhee bird, modeled after one who visits me just outside my studio window. And I feel like I may have to revisit caterpillars in my work, as caterpillars seem to me such busy, jolly emissaries of the hope of transformation, and the promise of Spring.

But as I mentioned, it’s raining outside this morning. Luckily, rainy days are perfect days to paint.

Remembrance

STILL | 2004 | oil on canvas, 24" x 20" — STILL |
2004 |
oil on canvas, 24″ x 20″

Enid was the first dog I’ve ever lost.

She was my Boston Terrier, the matriarch: a little General, my love, and my first model. When we had to say goodbye to her (after a great but much, much too short life, age 14) I couldn’t bear to look at her photographs. The pain was too sharp, and would make me catch my breath or dissolve. But her art I was drawn to. I found solace and comfortable release in the more abstract feel of her, and I could recount the little bits that comprised what made her whole: her thick neck, the arch of her back, the exact color brown in her eyes, and her crooked teeth. Her artistic essence was my salvation.

OLIVER | 2014 | oil on canvas, 12' x 12' — OLIVER |
2014 |
oil on canvas, 12′ x 12′

Since then, it’s been my great honor to be called upon to create remembrance portraits for others. I try very hard to understand what made the subject truly them, and endeavor to include tiny sips of their life into their portrait. I hope that I’m successful.

If I could ease someone’s grief the slightest bit, then I’d be happy. If I could paint a safe harbor to grieve more comfortably, and if — eventually — that space could give way to a sigh or even a slight smile of remembrance, then I could ask for nothing more. Art is very powerful, but I think in no way moreso than to relieve suffering. I will always be thankful for the opportunity to act as emissary to the grieving, and attempt to build a bridge between worlds.

Facing the jury

Assorted_group

I am currently under scrutiny.

And the ironic thing is that I asked to be so. I have entered my dolls and oil paintings for consideration of entry into a prestigious local art festival. My application and portfolio is currently under jury review.

Applying for entry to this fine art festival has long been a goal of mine. My family is regularly in attendance, and I’ve always admired the outstanding art on display (and the artists brave enough to ambassador their work). And I would wonder, “Could I ever…?”

I am not a social person. I vastly prefer the sanctity of my insulated art studio to the chaotic world outside my window. And I have a hard time discussing my artwork: because I feel like I communicate honestly and sincerely through my work, it’s a difficult process to translate that in person; it oftentimes leaves me feeling bruised and vulnerable.

Plus I have a great fear of rejection. Perhaps the jury will think my work is not the right fit. Or, if I do get in, maybe no one will like my work. Maybe if I attempt to discuss my inspiration, a hole will open up in the ground and I will gratefully and graciously fall through it into realms unknown.

I mean, who knows. Anything can happen, and it can hurt (or not). But I took the important, brave, first step of putting it out there. I am willing to be scrutinized. I will stand with my art. I can face rejection. I dare to expose my neck.

I told myself I wouldn’t enter until I could accept a “no” without derailment. I’m proud that I was ready. And so I wait. But I hope it’s a “yes.”

Line by line by line

I LET YOU GO | 2016 | 7" X 5" pen and ink on paper — I LET YOU GO |
2016 |
7″ X 5″ pen and ink on paper

I am a naturally nervous person.

Anxiety is my constant bedfellow. I’m not sure what it would feel like to be calm, but in contrast to my default state I might imagine it would feel a little lonely; I can always count on my worries to ride along with me anywhere.

A lifetime ago, I used to smoke to help with my anxiety. I found the ritual of it all very comforting, the hand-to-mouth exercise soothing and gratifying. But, thankfully, I found that crosshatch drawing is much moreso of the virtues from smoking, without any of the dangerous — and offensive — side effects.

UNSAID | 2016 | pen and ink on paper, 9" x 11" — UNSAID |
2016 |
pen and ink on paper, 9″ x 11″

I don’t know how it is for anyone else, but for me, crosshatch drawing is a natural stand-in for zen. You draw one line and then the next, going for straight, hoping for evenly spaced, but knowing that there is no wrong: only an ink foundation upon which an image is formed. One point connects to another, separating background from foreground, changing muted to sharp. And when the picture comes into undeniable focus, it packs more clarity and magic than your future surfacing from the red mist of a magic 8-ball.

There is a delicate balance that must be sought in leaving white space to breathe, in making sure the image doesn’t get inked to death, mired in a swampy morass of black. And I have struggled through a rash of undesired wavy lines, the regrettable pen strike, and tragically: the disturbing smear you can’t take back. Still, the hum and click of line after line of crosshatch drawing does more for my blood pressure than I imagine the best diuretic could do.

Even though my fingers ache at the end of a marathon drawing session, weaving lines is the ultimate in self-treatment for me. And so I’ll keep my hoard of micro pen in full provision, outpacing my anxiety line by line by line.

Drawing it real

I was a lucky little girl, in that my mom regularly read to us children at night. It was a comforting routine in a largely uncomfortable world. One story that was very special to me resided in a children’s compendium of stories, so I can’t recall the exact title. I’ve come to discover that it’s an oft-told tale, but at the time it was like a rare jewel in its truth and its magnitude. It was the story of a little girl with a magic pencil.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard the story, but I remember the basics: a lonely little girl comes to own a pencil that she discovers is magic, because what she draws becomes real. The downside is that every time she draws the pencil becomes less, but in her hands is the ability to create worlds.

When you’re a child and at the mercy of circumstance and institution, such a notion immediately enters the realm of fairy tale. But I recognized the truth of it.

BABY STEER COWBOY | 2016 — BABY STEER COWBOY |
2016

Since that time, I will often attempt to harness my best intent into my art, drawing it real. I’ve had good results, though some scenarios take longer to others to solidify. Still, it’s a fun process.

Currently we are working towards the goal of acquiring some acreage and our own homestead, far and away from the thrum of city life. I know we will get there. In the meantime, this future is being reflected in the art I create, as I try to connect potential and probability.

Devotion

It’s Valentine’s Day as I type this.

On a day when the world-at-large celebrates being in love, I found myself wondering how that translates to my art. But like with other artists and self-portraits, my work tends to veer off more traditional paths.

‘Devotion (2011)’ is a painting in which I tried to explore the notion of loving someone or something that is not — by nature — capable of loving back in a reciprocal fashion.

Five years later, and I’m still exploring alien love.

COSSET | 2016 | oil on canvas, 10" x 8" — COSSET |
2016 |
oil on canvas, 10″ x 8″

This week, I just finished an oil painting that I’ve titled ‘Cosset (2016).’ In it, a fancy goldfish floats on air towards a feathery mum, whose petals attempt to communicate an urgency with the fish. the language of the petals and the fins are mirrored in the soft colors of each. But what they are broadcasting I couldn’t say.