Laura's Art Blog, Exploring the Material World

Here it is, dear readers “The Conversation.” This new encaustic painting is hanging at the Canyon Gallery in Boulder, Colorado at the Public Library as part of the Open Studios show.

When I started writing about painting titles my plan was to stop here with a story about “The Conversation.” But I’ve changed my mind. The power of abstract painting lies in its ability to inspire reverie, no? Which at its best is a highly personal, moving experience. I don’t want to pull you out of your own experience of this painting by saddling you with mine. So I’ll limit myself to sharing some background info. Stop reading here if you don’t want to know.

Painting titles usually pop unbidden while the painting’s being made, or soon after. This one was different. I felt stumped. I went back to the source for ideas – a memory of an afternoon spent photographing teasels. Gorgeous, spiny, weedy things. Teasel ideas started flowing. But nothing with the world teasel in it would do. Too literal. Too weasly.

But then something happened. I noticed I felt an emotional charge when I looked at the painting. This doesn’t happen equally for all paintings. And it’s a wonderful thing when it does. The charge had something to do with nostalgia. The process of forgetting and remembering again in a bittersweet way. Something about homesickness. And autumn too. I wanted a title that could hold all these ideas while still being specific. Titles based on the words nostalgia, remembering and forgetting felt too passive. I needed a story. Desperately. Back to the painting for more thinking. Stories arose (insert yours here). When I tripped on “The Conversation” it jangled. The choice was clear. Hope you like it too.

Here’s something interesting… It’s a string of art titles. I pulled them off the price list for the Open Studios show hanging at the Canyon Gallery in the Boulder, Colorado Public Library through October 14th. It’s a thought snapshot. An abbreviated peek into what a cross-section of Boulder’s artists are contemplating these days. Notice any trends? Curiosities? Sleeping potions? Can you guess which one’s mine?

San Michelle: A Place for the Soul; Princess Lollipops Teapot; Natural Fibers #1; Evening Light; Reversible Shadowboxes; Solomon Squared; Three Moons; Earth Wind Fire Fusion; Convalescent Rain; Illicit Poppy; 171; Siren’s Song; Midnight Flame; untitled; Toroweap Overlook, Just Above Lava Falls; Respite in the Garden; Sand Dunes; Lilies and Apricots – Full Bloom; Natsu, Upheaval Dome; Her Cousin; Kokoro (Spirit); Orchid Kimono; Study in Blue; Dreamscape: Land of Indian Blankets; Taos Bird Bush; Take a Gander; 16 Going on 17; Future Guacamole; Fish Jar; Tea Set; Raku Vase; Harvest; Portals of Peace-Matrix I; PP Revisited; The Grandmother; untitled; Construction Over Boulder; Buffaloes Grazing; Doubletwist; Challenge; Disco Dancer; Home Office – If the Client Only Knew; Red Scarf; Death in Our Forests; Alternate Paths to the Beginning; Psychedelic Mona Lisa; untitled from Caddo Lake; Zebra Finches; Walking Tea Set; Trust; Caribou Trai – The Aspen Gulley; Kohler Mesa; American Beauty; Dawn; Mystic Mark Series; Playing in Rainbows; Porcelain Teapot; Fading Summer; Dreamscape; Two Loops; Slotted Composition; Bend in the River; Rufina, Italy; Chautauqua Rhythms; Pelle Come Home; The Magic of Tango; Moody Chautauqua Morning; Hello Beautiful; Intervals I; Poseidon’s Treasure; Africa; Rainbow Tidepool; Spring Fling; She Who Watches Over the Hill of Slane; Tank 2; Inspiration of the Putti; Daydreamer; To Die For; I Wish to See Her Smile; Expanding Heaven; Bamboo and Poppies; RKS; VIEW (Visit Imagination Enchanted Wonderland); Fjordland in Orange; Phiale; Spanish Dancers; Ruby Fleur; Course; Dinner Set; Gaze Into Stargazer Lily; Lucha Libre; Lotus Flower Fountain; Cherry Blossoms; Sunset Maple; Monhegan Light House; Autumn Glow; Abstract #89; Sunburst; Passage; Indonesian Stella; Ring of Fire; Dining Table, 10 Chairs, Sideboard; Harvest Jug; Clouds at 2:54 p.m.; Wow!; Where Earth Meets Sky; Pitcher and Bowl; Solstice; One Summer Night; Practice, Practice, Practice; Brothers and Sisters; Neighborhood Place Setting; Vine Spiral; Crescent Phase; Thetis, Mermaid Goddess, Last Light; Sunrise Reflections; City Lights; Alaska on My Mind; Aspen Fire; Fandango; The Conversation; Ewer; Pine Cone Opus; Beach Baby; Mesa Verde Memory; Day Dreaming; Indian Peaks Sunrise; Breaking Trail; Spring Vines; Caramel Apple; Cherry Blossom Reflections; Calling Up the Morning; Vessel in black; Pablo’s Baby; Spooked; Under a Blue Cloud; Water/Foul

“Hello Beautiful.” Great name for a painting, eh? It’s by Sarah Kinn and it’s hanging at the Open Studios show at the Boulder Public Library through October 14th. I love this title so much I almost don’t care what the painting looks like. The fact that it’s lovely just lends bonus points.

I’ve spent a lot of time watching viewers interact with paintings at Open Studios and other shows. Titles are a huge deal, especially for abstract work. Viewers look to titles for clues about how to understand a painting, to make a connection, or to confirm thoughts they’ve already formed.

As far as I can tell, there are two kinds of titles for abstract paintings. Descriptive and evocative. Descriptive titles act as tags that describe the physical qualities of subject or paint. (“Blue Fern” comes to mind.) They can be strong. But they’re grounded. Grounding. Evocative titles (like “Hello Beautiful”) are more poetic and action or story oriented. I’ve used both. I still use both. But these days I’m loving the evocative. How about you?

Do you read the The Sun? This month’s issue (April 2007) features an interview with author John O’Donohue. I love what he has to say about wilderness:

“Sometimes you see a beautiful woman who quickens your heart. Then you meet her again years later and she’s become a domesticated relic of who she once was, and you think Where is the dangerous vision I saw in her? The same happens to men.

I think it is more interesting to be with somebody who still has his or her wilderness territory – and by that I don’t mean bleak, burned-out, damaged areas where wounding has occurred; rather I mean genuine wilderness.”

- John O’Donohue interviewed by Diane Covington in The Sun, April 2007

I’m wholly taken by this idea of wilderness as an inner, human state. But what’s he actually talking about? What’s “genuine wilderness” to a human? Aren’t humans, as social animals, domestic by definition? And why is wilderness desirable? Is he talking about sex? The forest? Danger? Mystery? Instinct? I’m not sure. Curious though.

Ooh, friends, I wish I had a picture for you. But your vivid imaginations will have to do. I just returned from another quickie trip to New York and here’s what I found… Kale gardens! Spectacular! They’re wee little gardens made of flowering kale and mossy bits accented with the occasional plastic flower or two. They thrive on street level windowsills and ledges, near where the garbage cans and recycling bins hang out. They have kind of a feral, aquarium-outside-your-apartment vibe. Charming. Wish you could see them in all their scraggly glory. Pictures next time. I promise!

A new project (whether it be a film or a painting) always begins with an image popping into mind. Most images pop and dissolve. But some stick around (patient and persistent ghosts) until I take the time to explore.

About a year ago I started seeing an image of a girl on a horse. It’s recurred often enough and feels charged enough to be the seed of a new film. I’m hesitant to dive into a new film project ’til I’ve wrapped up the initial marketing push for SISTER BEE. But feel ready to begin a quiet exploration of where this image could lead.

My first inquiry brought me to Diane Kennedy, of Equine Assisted Growth and Learning in Boulder. Diane works with people and horses in a therapeutic setting. She’s started a beautiful project that connects mothers of teenage girls with wild mustangs. I had the pleasure of meeting and talking with Diane back in February and our conversation opened a whole new world of inquiry. It’s two months later and I’m still reading about wild mustangs, thinking about girls and horses and letting things settle until I feel clear about what the next step will be.

The Maine landscape around where I grew up is endlessly inspiring. The thickness of the trees. The prickers & briars. The way in the winter you rarely see the sun overhead. How the sunlight’s always filtered by tree trunks and branches. Always over there. Far away. A little lonely feeling.

I drove up to Maine from Rhode Island in a rental car over Thanksgiving. It was fun watching the landscape change. From the soft brown deciduous trees in southern New England to the tall, spiky evergreens of Maine. Route 1 in Massachusetts plastered (as always) with billboards and businesses. A cardboard canyon of advertising bordering the highway. So much to look at! The Hilltop Steakhouse, Pizzeria Uno, that old diner on the east side of Route 1 (closed down for renovations), funeral homes, wedding stores, shoe stores, nightclubs. Trashy, crowded, noisy and ugly-beautiful. It was a relief to cross over into New Hampshire. And then Maine where all you see from the highway are trees punctuated by an occasional low-lying structure off in the woods to the left or right (the trees are always taller). No billboards. No come-ons. Just brown and green.

The isolation I felt growing up in Maine was depressing. In the past, when I’ve visited, I’ve been reminded of all the reasons I left. This time I saw only beauty. The landscape seemed unusually inviting, special. A little dark (as always) but enchanting too.

On Colorado’s Front Range, and in other places I’ve lived, humans dominate the landscape. There are buildings, roads and people over every horizon. In Maine nature dominates. Sure, there are buildings and roads there too. But the trees grow in so thick they seem inexorable. Inevitable. Ready to take over the world the very moment someone stops clearing brush. A great subject for painting.

The most surprising question to come up during Open Studios was this:

IS IT HARD TO LET YOUR PAINTINGS GO?

Selling paintings is sheer fun. Especially at Open Studios when I get to meet the folks who take them home. This is the first year I remember this question coming up and I heard it a few times. The bold assumption it implies – that I feel an emotional attachment to my paintings – is interesting.

I do feel a strong personal connection to my work while I’m making it (a lot of learning takes place during the process of making a painting). But once a painting’s done (from a few hours to a few days to a few weeks after completion) I feel ready to move onto whatever’s next. Some paintings take longer to be ready for sale than others. If I ever feel unsure about selling something I just hang onto it until I’m clear.

I especially love selling paintings to friends and acquaintances who’s homes I know I’ll visit. It’s a neat experience to run into an earlier painting in an unexpected place. It feels a lot like running into an old friend. “Oh, it’s you!” I think. “I haven’t seen you in FOREVER!” And “My, you’re looking good these days.”

Whenever I sell a piece of art space is created to make more. So selling paintings feels like an important part of maintaining a healthy creative flow.

My secret (and probably foolish) wish as an artist is to be able to control the pacing of events in my life. Does everyone wish this?

This year we’re doing our honey harvest and I’ve got the IFP Market and Open Studios all happening in a one-month span. Yikes! That’s a lot to prepare for between now and October. Still, these are all potentially fun events and I’m thankful for the opportunity to participate in all of them. (And as a friend gently pointed out, at least they’re not literally happening all on the same day.)

I wonder what would happen if I COULD control the pacing of events in my life. Would I like it? Not sure. I think I’d miss the sense of freedom that comes from letting go of control.