Current Happenings in the Studio
Hello, October.
September in Words and Pictures
10.5 Oh, September. A flurry of rushing days, the start of school, complete routine shifts, early, early mornings, and chores in the dark. And, still, thankfully, moments of sawdust and paint and watching form appear on canvas and wood.
A fog of chaos, with hints of reminders in the soft blows of contented horses under the stars of the 5:00 a.m. sky. Reminders in the fading grasses and red leaves, the twinkle of the spider eyes in the evening headlamp light.
It’s still here. You might not see it, for now. But the truth of the seasons, the quiet of nature, the ever-rolling peace of deer moving across the hillside and thin coyote howls across the alpenglow of the hillsides…it’s still here.
Only towards the end of September have I been able to breathe. To listen. And it’s fleeting. The transition into the school year starts with an extreme abruptness for all. It’s an icy snowstorm in the fall. You know it’s coming. You’ve prepared. You remember. But, still, the ice pulls the tender changing leaves in a fierce way you’ve forgotten. Cold pulls you into yourself, tucks itself into your shoulders and ears with a chill that reminds you, of yes, now I remember.
Memory is a funny thing, a companion that holds back, tells you the story, enough to think you understand, but keeps some pages to itself.
So, school. For almost all of us, dare I say 99.8%, we know the routine. We’ve gone through the years. Some of us, we have children in it now. And some of us are the adults in the system. For even a fewer percentage, we are the teachers, the ones in the classrooms, striving to balance the input and needs of the district, the standards, the curriculum, the calendar, the school, the families, and, most importantly, our students. A diverse array of levels, of interests, of personalities, of attention spans, of trust and try and abilities and temperaments….
But I digress.
This is not about education.
Or perhaps it is.
It’s also about finding a space for time. For self. For practice. For quiet. For understanding.
For art.
So, in it all, I held small pieces deep inside under the shell of pressure. A memory of movements, sight, transparency, and sound. And be them yet few, the moments of studio time did offer a memory of core.
A fog of chaos, with hints of reminders in the soft blows of contented horses under the stars of the 5:00 a.m. sky. Reminders in the fading grasses and red leaves, the twinkle of the spider eyes in the evening headlamp light.
It’s still here. You might not see it, for now. But the truth of the seasons, the quiet of nature, the ever-rolling peace of deer moving across the hillside and thin coyote howls across the alpenglow of the hillsides…it’s still here.
Only towards the end of September have I been able to breathe. To listen. And it’s fleeting. The transition into the school year starts with an extreme abruptness for all. It’s an icy snowstorm in the fall. You know it’s coming. You’ve prepared. You remember. But, still, the ice pulls the tender changing leaves in a fierce way you’ve forgotten. Cold pulls you into yourself, tucks itself into your shoulders and ears with a chill that reminds you, of yes, now I remember.
Memory is a funny thing, a companion that holds back, tells you the story, enough to think you understand, but keeps some pages to itself.
So, school. For almost all of us, dare I say 99.8%, we know the routine. We’ve gone through the years. Some of us, we have children in it now. And some of us are the adults in the system. For even a fewer percentage, we are the teachers, the ones in the classrooms, striving to balance the input and needs of the district, the standards, the curriculum, the calendar, the school, the families, and, most importantly, our students. A diverse array of levels, of interests, of personalities, of attention spans, of trust and try and abilities and temperaments….
But I digress.
This is not about education.
Or perhaps it is.
It’s also about finding a space for time. For self. For practice. For quiet. For understanding.
For art.
So, in it all, I held small pieces deep inside under the shell of pressure. A memory of movements, sight, transparency, and sound. And be them yet few, the moments of studio time did offer a memory of core.
A Study of Practice
Allowing for change as an artist is a bit like the season’s passage. A hopeful and continual cycle of beginnings and growth and thriving and maturing and curing and resting and storing and beginning and growth and, well, you see.
Many artists and musicians, writers and actors, creatives, have made mention to the pulse of ideas that flow through them, as if the ideas themselves don’t come from them, but rather a tapping in to a collective well of energy.
My current carving, well, also my current paintings, are an even more fully-embraced embodiment of that as I grow as an artist. It’s a sacred, spiritual event to be able to listen, fully listen, and then allow. A letting go of expectations and then seeing what emerges. A loss and a gain. A sadness and a joy.
And it’s also uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to share such esoteric considerings, for I like straight lines. I like definite answers and a clear path. The steady stream of knowing and schedule and clarity.
But, also, then, there’s a large chunk of cottonwood, as massive as can be. Seemingly solid and sturdy, but with exploration and carving, reveals that its interior has become a space of decomposition; a place of returning to the soil from whence it came. So, to pull from that a growth of solidity while allowing for the remnants of change.
That, that becomes the story.
Many artists and musicians, writers and actors, creatives, have made mention to the pulse of ideas that flow through them, as if the ideas themselves don’t come from them, but rather a tapping in to a collective well of energy.
My current carving, well, also my current paintings, are an even more fully-embraced embodiment of that as I grow as an artist. It’s a sacred, spiritual event to be able to listen, fully listen, and then allow. A letting go of expectations and then seeing what emerges. A loss and a gain. A sadness and a joy.
And it’s also uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to share such esoteric considerings, for I like straight lines. I like definite answers and a clear path. The steady stream of knowing and schedule and clarity.
But, also, then, there’s a large chunk of cottonwood, as massive as can be. Seemingly solid and sturdy, but with exploration and carving, reveals that its interior has become a space of decomposition; a place of returning to the soil from whence it came. So, to pull from that a growth of solidity while allowing for the remnants of change.
That, that becomes the story.
September
The transition to fall. Autumn. Cool mornings, earlier nights. A slowing down and a speeding up. Summer closes down, and, as a teacher, it’s on to school. To a different set of goals. To a different busy.
It becomes a time of conservation, a storing of energy and shifts toward other growth.
And, also, time set aside for art. For noticing. For listening. Thinking. Processing. Quiet.
Early mornings with a cup of coffee in a circle of lamplight.
Perhaps a wind down from the day, although the creative spirit is hard to tune into after a day of teaching.
So, once again, to set an intention. A quantitative goal isn’t terribly productive for me, I learned through the July series. So, what then? It is as yet to be determined. But, I will start with a goal of painting the birds from this summer, as they begin to gather up and prepare for their migrations.
It becomes a time of conservation, a storing of energy and shifts toward other growth.
And, also, time set aside for art. For noticing. For listening. Thinking. Processing. Quiet.
Early mornings with a cup of coffee in a circle of lamplight.
Perhaps a wind down from the day, although the creative spirit is hard to tune into after a day of teaching.
So, once again, to set an intention. A quantitative goal isn’t terribly productive for me, I learned through the July series. So, what then? It is as yet to be determined. But, I will start with a goal of painting the birds from this summer, as they begin to gather up and prepare for their migrations.
Carvings
Massive burdens of wood.
Cottonwoods fed by the waters of Pryor Creek.
Energy converted and energy stored.
Sun and sugars and weather and seasons.
And me.
And machines.
And horses.
And influences.
And learning and growing and erring and leaving alone and then working obsessively.
Still a vision, and yet, ever closer.
Cottonwoods fed by the waters of Pryor Creek.
Energy converted and energy stored.
Sun and sugars and weather and seasons.
And me.
And machines.
And horses.
And influences.
And learning and growing and erring and leaving alone and then working obsessively.
Still a vision, and yet, ever closer.
July Series: 31 Days
When I was a little girl, art was my refuge. A place, a time, of safety. Quiet. Time to marvel, to appreciate, to look, and to wonder. I would sit with my pillow lap desk, my paper, and my pencil and marker set, and just, draw.
And love it.
Without any real expectation other than to have the experience. And connect with it.
And, we grow up. We focus on all of the things that we need to do, need to accomplish, need to make right, be a certain way, by a certain time. Responsibilities guide our days, as they do. Comparison and value and assessment and outcome color the process.
At least they do, for me
This series is in honor of that little girl, to find her again.
*I no longer have a pillow lap desk, and my supplies have definitely improved in quality, but I still love to sit on the floor and draw animals. And eat candy while I’m doing it.
And love it.
Without any real expectation other than to have the experience. And connect with it.
And, we grow up. We focus on all of the things that we need to do, need to accomplish, need to make right, be a certain way, by a certain time. Responsibilities guide our days, as they do. Comparison and value and assessment and outcome color the process.
At least they do, for me
This series is in honor of that little girl, to find her again.
*I no longer have a pillow lap desk, and my supplies have definitely improved in quality, but I still love to sit on the floor and draw animals. And eat candy while I’m doing it.
