Playing in the Gap

For a while I thought my representational images were my real paintings, and that my play paintings, my in-betweens were of less merit, because at first glance, they seem more whimsical than finely crafted. But as I continue to explore spaces between, it becomes increasingly difficult to discern what is real. For sure the between is intangible, and it seems to have more of a connecting, inclusive energy than of separation. I think the between is about possibilities.

I started calling these paintings the In-Betweens because I work on them between my more realistic style paintings. At first the In-Betweens were a reprieve from the intense concentration required for realistic artwork. They were a breather. A break from normal. They filled that period of time between finishing a realistic style painting and beginning a new one. The In-Betweens are an exhale. I just let go. I paint with no preconceptions. They are a dream-world where colors are emotions, smells, tastes and sounds. The colors define shapes creating a rhythmic composition. To simply follow them with complete abandon is the greatest fun of all. It's satisfying to be lead around the picture plane that way after exhausting myself on a realistic piece that requires precision and unwavering attention to detail.

The In-Betweens are a total change of pace and mode of working. I begin with an old painting (you know— one from the "I wrecked it, I quit pile!") and scrub off most of the old paint. I like the paper to be roughed up to add texture and to show a hint of whatever image was there before. Then with pencil I draw a pattern of skewed shapes and creatures. The real fun is glazing one color over another to create patterns and rhythms dancing around the page. I change shapes by glazing and by lifting color out. Every new layer changes the one below, creating a new composition. As the layers deepen and colors become richer, the picture plane that started out flat and two dimensional, develops depth and a surreal landscape appears.

If you think about it, we are always in-between. Betweens are infinite. We're between waking and sleeping, birth and death, between this thought and the next, between lunch and dinner. And what of the gap between each breath? There is the space between you and me that we call relationships. While seeming empty, those spaces between are alive with potential. Inevitably we fill them up with the expectations and desires that create our world. When you meet that vibrant potential, how and what do you choose to fill it?

The Sweet Peace of Being Unplugged

For a brief time this fall, I was a person without a computer. I'm amazed at the calm I felt the day my hard drive died taking five years of data with it. At times I felt so carefree, a kind of déjà vu, like a child running barefoot in the summer sun. Peace. Freedom. No entanglements. Design client files— gone. My new web site— gone. Scans of my painting inventory— gone. No Facebook, no blog, no news readers, no email. I couldn't even get into my back-up disk. Just me and the great wide shimmering world alone together.

In The Deep End

Being unplugged is such sweet peace. That experience lead me to a personal credo: Question everything. I don't know what compels the questions. I prefer to think it's healthy curiosity. Anyway, now I'm questioning the value of being plugged in. Because I'm so mesmerized by this electronic miracle in a box, I paint less, my eyes hurt, my shoulders ache, my brain cells are tense. I feel like my life has been swept away by a tsunami of craving for attention. It's not just my craving. It's bigger than that. It's the craving of friends of friends ad infinitum. I want to support them all with follows, thumbs-ups and likes. It's impossible, of course, yet I'm still overwhelmed by the desire to help. I could unplug from the dream world on my computer screen. (Maybe I'd get more painting done.) I do have a choice, but here I am again, back in electronic samsara, wrestling with this new dharma gate. Sentient beings are numberless; I vow to friend and like them all.

Oft spoken rules of art-making get my questioning hackles up. How about the one that speed improves skill? Working quickly does create its own unique artistic characteristics. So does a contemplative approach. There are merits to using both ways of painting as learning exercises. We live in a culture that breeds speed. Bigger, louder, brighter, faster everything. It's easy to be swept along believing faster is better, aware only of maybe some tension in a shoulder, or an anxious feeling. But what if you stop with the hurry-up-all-the-time routine? What if you examine your inner world through the process of painting? What will you find? Possibly you'd feel excitement, then thoughtfulness, or then "Yikes, this is harder than I thought", or "I've wrecked it! I quit." Over time you might begin to see a pattern to your creative process. How many paintings have you tossed in frustration? The —I've wrecked it so I quit— stage is pivotal. It holds the potential for the greatest amount of learning and self expression to take place. That's when speed demons move on to a new painting forgoing a great opportunity for growth. We can choose to dig deep or skip along the surface. Sometimes we need to metaphorically unplug ourselves from all the chattering of workshops, art instruction and well-meaning advice, and reconnect to that still point within. From there we can see more clearly our own unique way to paint through the —I wrecked it— stage and in that process develop confidence to meet new creative challenges whatever your medium.

It's important to explore, practice and hone your technique as an artist, and examining your state of mind can free you from creative hang-ups or blocks. We are indoctrinated to speed by the culture we live in but we can choose to investigate the unconscious habits that rush us through a painting, relegating yet another one to the "I quit" pile.

To Simplify— Focus On Design

Design principles must guide every thought and mood while your subject is being smelled, tasted, touched, listened to and looked at. You paint with all 5 senses. You must be emotionally and sensually involved with your subject. —Edgar Whitney

Every time I hear someone suggest simplifying a painting, my mind goes numb. The simplify instruction is so commonly used by instructors, it's almost a mantra. It shouldn't be. It won't make you a better painter. Simplify! What does that mean!? Sim•pli•fy: make (something) simpler or easier to do or understand. Try to follow such a broad, vague instruction without knowledge of design and you'll put us all to sleep with your paintings. So what to do when you encounter this instruction? Dust off your design tools! The elements and principles of design will show you how, when, where and most importantly why to simplify. So wake up those brain cells, peeps! Get thee to designing your compositions.

We make art to visually convey our unique personal perspective. To identify that perspective, one needs to be able to call up feelings and emotions relating to the subject of the painting and express them visually. This is where your understanding of the elements and principles of design can aid and develop artistic expression. It's the interplay of design elements and principles that guides the viewers' attention to the expressive meaning of your work. Simplicity per se doesn't function well on it's own. It shows up best when partnered with detail. You need them both or you'll end up with a painting that's too uniform— in other words, a sleeper. So how will simplicity and detail interact in your composition? Will you use contrast, create rhythm, balance, repetition or harmony? Or will one so dominate that the overall unity of the composition will be destroyed?

There are so many dimensions to a painting— far more than the obvious two dimensions of the paper or canvas. Design tools open up all those other dimensions— emotional dimensions that are so difficult to express in words are magically unlocked using pattern, line, shape, value, color or size. The way we use these elements creates an emotional resonance with the viewer. The design principles themselves seem to have an emotional resonance.

As the foundation and building blocks of good art, design is a topic that deserves ongoing study and discussion. My purpose here is to point out that simplification happens very naturally when working with design principles. Simplicity is not the first law of painting. Without design as a guide, simplifying by rote dulls creative expression. Shift your focus to design and simplification will take of itself.

Minnesota State Fair 100th Fine Arts Exhibition

Chill Your Monkey

If you go to the Minnesota State Fair this year be sure to stop by the fine arts exhibition and say hello to this guy. His penetrating gaze beckons us to let go of the stressful, striving mess of our lives and take the path of simplicity and grace. It's as though he's saying, "Come along. You can be free." In Zen Buddhist circles, there is a metaphor for our crazy stressed out minds. It's called "monkey mind". Our minds are naturally alive with a never-ending stream of thoughts that we chase after creating story upon story upon story. We become so distracted and enmeshed in these stories that we toss and turn at night, we become forgetful, we're easily irritated... you know the drill. We just want to be happy! But there's all these worries, aches and pains, and confusion! There is a way out of this suffering. Chill your monkey.

Bugs, Sweat & Tears

I really am a studio painter, but the outdoors has been calling. So last week I ventured outside with paint and brushes. Not only am I an inveterate studio painter, but I also have a nasty habit of learning things the hard way. I couldn't just take a simple walk with a few paints and brushes. No. I had to spend days, making sure I had just the right equipment. So off I go for an afternoon in the great outdoors with everything but the kitchen sink in a backpack that certainly must have weighed half a ton. I even brought extra socks in case the mosquitoes might be particularly ferocious. It was pushing 90° and the air was dripping humidity. As you might have guessed, I was worn out before I even began to paint. If this is going to work, I'm definitely gonna need a sherpa.

I met some veteran plein air painters in a local Japanese garden where I started this painting. I had so little confidence, I brought some cheap inkjet paper to paint on. The paper actually melted under my wet brush, forming little pills all over which I tried to make into leafy looking, outdoorsy things. But wait! There's more! Everything kept moving and changing before my eyes! And there's so much of it! Painting en plein aire there are no boundaries to help focus your attention so you have to concentrate like never before. All of your senses sharpen dramatically. You're aware not only of your composition, but also of your immediate surroundings. What creepy crawlers are sharing your spot with you? It's enough to make a grown woman cry. This reminds me of my first summer sesshin at Hokyoji in southeastern Minnesota.

In August at Hokyoji the fields are lush, bursting with wild flowers and wild life. It is a magical sight to behold. Early in the morning the valley is shrouded in fog that burns away as the sun comes up revealing a sea of spider webs and dew. August is the peak of bug season. I can tell you I have never been so awake as I was that summer. I was frantic, relocating bugs and spiders from well-trodden pathways where priest and novice robes would certainly brush through their webs and carry them to an uncertain end. And of course during zazen I was wide awake to note any "wildlife" that might be wandering near my zabuton. The mice at Hokyoji are not those cute little gray city mice either. Those guys are big, brown ones and they are not afraid of humans who sit perfectly still for hours on end. Sleep during zazen? Who could possibly sleep?!

I spent the past year and a half helping to sew Zen priest robes, from the Okesa all the way through to the under garments. They are not my robes. While I am happy for the person who will one day wear them, there is still an ache in my heart, a sadness over the path I'm on and the one I couldn't take. Buddhists (the ones I know) are a bookish lot. I like books okay, but I'm wary of an identity that depends on books. A wild flower can teach us more than any amount of words could ever convey. A simple wild flower in her Okesa made from spider silk and dew, dependent on nothing but the earth, sun and rain. If I were to fashion an identity, that's what I would choose— a simple wild flower. In the end I don't care about words. I wouldn't choose to spend my last breaths with a book, thinking or talking about some bookish ideas. I would choose to hold and smell and feel a flower and to marvel over every wondrous facet of it's being.