Carol Beth Icard

compost

2011-11-09T11:17:00.000-05:00

"Compost", oil on panel, framed

When I'm in my studio I sometimes wonder how I do what I do. I'll begin a painting full of anticipation, hungry for the satisfaction that comes when colors, lines and spontaneous gestures come together and say "aaaahhhh." More often than not, though, I know I have to bring the painting to a deeper level, so I paint over what has pleased before and keep reaching for something richer. In this way I am discarding what is no longer needed but building something better from what is underneath.

One of my recently completed paintings taught me how important it is to keep pushing my work until it blossoms. This particular panel was an unusual size for me, 14" x 17," and in that way alone became a challenge for composition. For weeks I kept adding new color, digging back into the surface and even washing parts of it away with mineral spirits. I began to despair of it ever growing into a viable entity. One day I knew it had finally turned a corner and had become dark and vital in some mysterious way. Every time I looked at it I felt a nudge of gratitude.

Not long after completing that painting I decided it was time for me to work on a project I had long postponed. Last year when I was undergoing radiation I received permission from my oncologist to take photographs from my perspective on the treatment table. The technologists assisted me by placing the equipment where it normally is for treatment, then handing me my camera. I took several photos but the most evocative ones for me were when the overhead lights were off just prior to being radiated. When I took out my folder of photos with plans to make work based on that experience, I was stunned to see that my recently completed painting felt like it represented that dark radiation experience.

I titled this work "Compost." In so many ways I mixed together discarded bits and pieces of color and marks until they became the black gold that helped something new grow strong. Being treated for cancer was compost for this new work even though it wasn't consciously decided.

I call my genre of work "introspective abstraction" because I've long recognized that my paintings compile and distill my experiences, emotions and the deep thinking I am prone to. I can't often explain "What is it?" when someone asks, I can only describe how it feels. "Compost" feels like an affirmation for continuing on this path I have chosen, to paint with my whole heart.

simple pleasures

2011-07-18T14:38:00.000-04:00

unobstructed view of grackles bathing

Sometimes it's the simplest things punctuating my days that give me the most enjoyment. When I walk by the windows at the back of my house, I have a view through the open blinds of the birdbath just outside our back door. I often catch a glimpse of splashing, and I'm compelled to pause, sometimes for several minutes, delighting in the activity. Certain birds seem more likely to splash than others. The mockingbirds, blue jays, grackles and finches are the most raucous. They'll wade right in to dunk themselves, flapping their wings over and over. I especially enjoy seeing the blue birds. The cobalt of their feathers becomes more intense when ruffled and wet. On the other end of the spectrum, the mourning doves seem reticent to dishevel themselves. I've come across them sitting sedately in the middle of the bath, calmly soaking in the shallow water. Or they gather at the edges, daintily sipping water like gently bobbing metronomes.

Most of the time I encounter bathers it is a single type of bird. Others may be hovering, but it's pretty rare to see two different kinds bathing together. That's why I was so astonished yesterday to encounter a tiny Carolina wren alongside a brown thrasher, both flapping happily. Every once in a while I'll be walking by the windows and observe what I think is a bird I've never seen before. But if I watch until the bath is complete, the large, fluffed up bird the size of small hawk settles down to preen on the edge of the bowl and I realize it's a robin after all.

view through the blind slats of a crow dunking his bread

Even the large crows that live nearby come to quench their thirst. The only dunking I've seen them do is with a morsel of dried bread they've scavenged somewhere. As for other species, I've encountered plenty of squirrels taking a drink and once I even saw a cat. I was a little worried the cat would hang around looking for a meal, but so far I've seen no evidence of that.

The pleasure I get from these small creatures is long lasting. Smiles carry over into my studio. I'm thinking one of these days the spirit of a happy bird will most likely show up in painting or two.

beans

2011-06-01T16:52:00.000-04:00

One collection of recipes

Last week I prepared Boston baked beans. After soaking the dried navy beans overnight, I had to change the water and simmer them for about an hour before putting them into the bean pot with the other ingredients. As they cooked in their water bath, foam rose from the surface and I skimmed it off with a metal spoon. My mind leapt out of the kitchen and into my studio. With beans, the undesirable foam rises to the top. It is almost the opposite process in my studio.

The preparation for a painting has a certain rote quality to it. My tools and paints are already gathered in my studio, so I simply choose the size of my prepared support. My most important task at this point is to cover up that white expanse of gessoed canvas or board, using arbitrary colors. As I keep adding marks and purposefully chosen color, I cover up what "simmers" underneath. Experimentation with educing forms, playing with value contrast and making spontaneous gestures in the paint with any number of implements, bring the painting along. At unspecified stages I scrape or dissolve back the surface until what "rises to the top" is satisfying enough to let it stay.

I can remember learning to cook when I was barely a teen. I loved the chemistry of mixing ingredients together, and with the application of heat, they were transformed into cookies or casseroles. It wasn't until much later in my life when recipes often became mere guidelines or suggestions, not something to be strictly followed. Sometimes my results were less successful than I'd hoped, but every new attempt gave me pleasure.

There is definitely a correlation between experiences in my kitchen and my studio. I've learned to wing it more and more in both places, but in my studio there are never any recipes. Certain parameters underlie the process, but there is an enormous amount of trial and error since I have no fixed idea of how the finished painting will look. It is with the "heat" of my own passion for making art that an alchemical action takes over. When a painting is complete there is no remembering how it arrived before me.

"Artifact" is an 8 x 8" oil and cold wax on board

"Rain" is 24 x 18", oil and cold wax on board

As I grow as an artist, I still rely on the basics I learned years ago, and like preparing tasty food, I use the best ingredients I can afford. But something mysterious intercedes when I am in the midst of creating, and I feel directed towards a conclusion. Like some dishes I prepare, some paintings I make are not as successful as others. But there is always the next one and the next one... no beans about it!

reinvented studio

2011-05-10T20:54:00.002-04:00

Reinvented studio space

Since last fall when I took time off from painting on canvas and board to create some one-of-a-kind greeting cards, I've been realizing that I really enjoy looking down at my work on a table This gives me a different perspective than when my paintings in progress are hanging on the homesote wall I use as a prop for keeping the work upright. The recent art workshop I attended reinforced the insight that I like working on my smaller paintings on top of a table.

My studio was already cluttered with assorted stands and shelves to accommodate my palette, supplies and oil paintings as they dry, so I didn't have much hope for adding a table. I had a counter high stand near the window, though, and I figured I could work on that, especially if I kept the small works on moveable sketching boards that could be shifted from stand to nearby chairs or floor space. I was happy with this change when my husband Danny reminded me that months ago we had been given a really sturdy workshop table by a friend who was dismantling her pottery studio. I didn't dare hope it would be possible, when he went to the barn where the table was stored and came back to announce the measurements: 6' x 3'. I just knew it would never fit, although I still tried to figure out a way. My last ditch idea was to have it project out into the middle of my studio, decreasing my walk around area, but this was actually the best plan.

I began clearing the floor, and Danny got the power drill, screws and the photo our friend had provided, and in about two hours we had the base upright, awaiting the table top. I asked if he could find a couple of long boards to use across the bottom supports to create a storage space underneath the table. He went one better and cut out a piece of used plywood to fit snugly around the uprights. I now had a large, strong area to store materials on. I was able to empty three deep shelves in the closet that are now the perfect space on which to dry paintings, out of the way. With the addition of my new work table I was able to take away the cumbersome drying rack and the sculpture stand I had been using to hold my paint palette.

I now have a more purposeful space that will allow me to have many more paintings in progress at one time. And the bonus is, in reinventing my studio, I reinvigorated my dedication to working harder than I ever have.

Level II

2011-04-26T10:01:00.002-04:00

"Rolling Right Along" was finished right before I attended the latest workshop

In early April I attended a Level II oil and cold wax workshop in Asheville, North Carolina, taught by Wisconsin artist Rebecca Crowell. Last June I took her introductory three day workshop, learning an array of techniques for incorporating cold wax medium into my paintings. In the months following the first workshop I continually experimented in my studio and was gratified by my new ability to deepen my painting surface and energize my underlying concepts.

The Level II workshop at first seemed like a review of previously presented material, but each day I realized I was writing copious notes on the demonstrations. I was especially stimulated by the power point presentations Crowell delivered during each day's lunch break. The material presented would quite clearly have been less useful to me in the earlier stages of my work with cold wax. Rebecca Crowell is not only a superb artist, but she imparts knowledge with skill and generosity. Her presentations on Visual Thinking and Form and Content were invigorating additions to the workshop.

I experimented diligently for three days, trying to make the most of what was offered, yet I know the best is yet to come. It will take me a while to assimilate all the stimuli generated in the intensive classroom environment. I believe in time lapse absorption, as the capillary thinking of my peripheral thoughts and new ideas cohere with the vein of my current work.

These are casual photos of works I began in my workshop and finished in my studio

My artwork arises from my life's observations and experiences, layered like an old wall. The process of working with oil paint and cold wax allows for the strata of built-up color and texture to be scraped back or etched into, revealing new meaning, like half-remembered dreams. Each painting has a past, much like human life. Our experiences create character or even scars, but we grow richer and deeper from all these layers of life.

imperfection

2011-02-23T13:34:00.000-05:00

Rome sidewalk

South Carolina sidewalk

Paestum museum

It has been weighing on me for a long time. Why am I so captivated by the weathered exteriors of old walls, concrete walks, or abraded floors? It doesn't matter if I am strolling up town or visiting another country, my eyes gravitate towards the effects of aging on manmade surfaces. I am infatuated with the lines, forms and layered colors evident in places that have been worn down by motion or the weight of time. I am one of hundreds, if not thousands of artists who are attracted to similar themes.

Rebecca Crowell is an internationally known artist whose work is a rich exploration of external deterioration. On reading my recent post about my visit to Atlanta and my attraction to the faded floor in the gallery, she commented "My own work is inspired by such things as sidewalks, floors and old walls...sometimes I wonder, why make art at all when these things already exist in such perfection? (except I can't help myself!)"

Lost Wall #1 by Rebecca Crowell

This is a heady subject to explore. If I'm tempted to answer Rebecca's rhetorical question I would suggest that it is through her eyes and her process that she gives the world a new appreciation for nuances of color and light that are inexpressable in any other way.

When I open my eyes to the beauty in what is cracking and peeling, I am also investigating my own life. My art making allows me to internalize what my eyes see and my introspection explores, so that what remains on my finished painting is an expression of my Self, weathered by my experience. Perhaps in enjoying and emulating the manifestations of decay and stress, I can allow myself to get beyond some unattainable perfection in my own life, or my own paintings.

"sidelong memory," mixed media on canvas, Carol Beth Icard

"Incantation," oil on board, Carol Beth Icard

"oh happy day," oil on board, Carol Beth Icard

The transitory nature of our world includes not only weathered surfaces wrought by decades, but the kaleidoscope in nature that changes moment to moment. When I look at the clouds in the sky, the pattern of birds on a wire, or a silhouette of bare branches against a sunset, it all goes into my thought process as a painter. But what remains on surfaces, like the wonderfully layered walls in Pompeii, or the painted design on a tired floor, attracts me for its very perseverance. It gives me courage and is inspiration for my own endurance.

Atlanta

2011-01-31T11:12:00.000-05:00

approaching the megalopolis

Last week my friend Linda invited me to join her on a road trip to Atlanta. We planned on visiting an exhibit at the Fulton County Library which included one of her wonderful painted scrolls, as well as exploring several art galleries. I love looking at art and seeing what the galleries are showing, but I also anticipated the inspiration I would uncover in viewing what was on display. I've often felt really "charged up" by visiting galleries in other cities, and come back to my studio with new vigor. There is something about observing and contemplating either historical or contemporary art that just gets the juices flowing.

After seeing the show at the library, we headed to The Atlanta Contemporary Art Center. The work on display was diverse and thought provoking, but what I responded to most was the outside of the building. There is a section that felt like ruins, yet is truly beautiful. Just the way the trees hugged the old walls made me want to stay there awhile, but we had a lot more to accomplish and had to move on.

This view appeals to me on so many levels. I see the "writing on the wall" and the "black doorway" (a series I painted from 1996 to about 2005). But I also really like the subtle colors and the sign in the background, (which reads We Will, We Will, Feed You) gets a Queen song rocking in my head.

Moving on to a variety of other areas of the city, we stopped at no less than 7 art galleries. One after the other of the galleries left me feeling sort of empty. I couldn't get excited about what I was seeing. Except at one gallery where I received permission to photograph their floor! Yes, the artwork was pleasing, but I was most moved by the peripheral sights.

By the end of the day I did come away with gratitude for seeing some extraordinary works at Timothy Tew Gallery and Alan Avery Art. And the exhibition of Scott Bellville's drawings at Moca Georgia was psychologically provocative. But I realized, on reflection, that I don't have to look at art to find inspiration. The way my eye perceives shapes and the way my mind makes metaphors and meaning out of seemingly innocuous objects, is what becomes important.

do you see the angel in the washcloth I dropped in the shower?

healing

2011-01-11T11:37:00.000-05:00

I feel as though I lost a good bit of my life in the last few months after I heard the words that rocked my world. "You have breast cancer." First came the total disbelief and shock, then the floundering in a sea of emotions, until I was rescued by my daughters, sitting on either side of me, shoring me up with their caring, steadfast love. All this in a matter of moments.

Art making took a back seat to the path I was prescribed. My body and thoughts of my future were all I could manage to think about. Surgery for a lumpectomy and sentinel node biopsy were to prove that I was very, very lucky. The words "no invasive cells" were an incredible gift. I had "passed go" and could proceed to radiation treatments.

I have now completed 30 visits to radiation therapy and am left to heal, in body and spirit. The whole experience has been traumatic. But I am so grateful for the doctors, nurses, and technicians at Spartanburg Regional Hospital who, without exception, treated me as an individual they cared about. I feel humbled and honored by the incredibly kind support given so freely by my husband, my daughters and some very special friends.

I expect that I will make paintings that help me process my experience, but right now, feeling great joy at being finished with my treatments, all I want to do is create paintings that are filled with the light and joy I have in my heart.

Celebration flowers and ringing the "I am finished" bell all made me cry. What comes now is a daily appreciation for my life.

Bethan's flowers

Marcia's flowers

Ringing the bell!

My daughter Bethan took the photo of me ringing the bell. She was with me at the radiation department for every treatment, and I will miss our time together very much.

ripples

2010-11-15T10:47:00.000-05:00

Late this summer I joined a marvelous online project whose goal is to allow people to send and receive postcards from all over the world. Except for the cost of stamps and postcards it's all free and I've been enjoying the process tremendously. postcrossing.com In mid September I was diagnosed with a very scary medical challenge. My mind churned up tortured thoughts and had me all wound up with "what ifs." Postcrossing was a terrific distraction and one sweet card in particular hit me just right. It came from a nursing student in Taiwan and she signed it with the words "Always be happy!" It was just what I needed to hear. I started looking at life through different eyes and I began signing my e-mails with her closing words. Friends started offering additional "always be..." phrases and one of my favorites was "always be kind" because you never know what another person is going through.

By October I decided to share those words with even more people. Since it was the "political season" the landscape everywhere was dotted with voting signs. I realized I could make my own sign with a different outlook. My husband found an outdated sign in our barn, cleaned it up and painted it white to create my "canvas." I then took it to my studio where I covered both sides in abstract swirls of color and lettered messages. When it was dry I proudly installed it by the edge of the road in front of our home.

Every time I saw my sign I would smile and feel good about my own version of "changing the political landscape" and a good friend of mine who is an artist decided to follow suit and create a sign for the top of her driveway.

I wish I could say that I am still smiling every time I see these signs, but unfortunately someone decided to remove the sign in front of my house. I'd like to think that he or she really needed it in their lives and that they put it out in front of their own house. But I'm pretty sure that is a fairy tale.

Every day life changes. Sometimes it is hard to be happy. But for just a little while I think my messages may have added a spark to the thoughts of people passing by, and who knows where those ripples spread.

Always laugh out loud!

studio visit

2010-08-20T10:46:00.002-04:00

This is an overview of my studio supplies. I keep my paper palette on my sculpture stand, and my tubes, pigment sticks, oil bars, cold wax medium, OMS, pastels and powdered pigment are all right where I can reach them. I do have other paints and supplies tucked away for other forms of creativity. I actually took over the dining room table this week so I could experiment with some paper and inks.

I've tried to separate my colors by transparent and opaque, but that is pretty much a lost cause. If my space were pristine, or even organized, I think I'd have a harder time working.

Even the board behind my workbench surface is covered with quotes, photos, postcards, letters and other ephermera that lend their spirit to my space and my work.

I work on many paintings at the same time. These are in various stages of completion. Even when I think I am done with one, I have to wait a day or more before I can confirm that it is finished. When I walk into my studio and my heart leaps with joy, I know this is the way it needs to stay.

p.s. I can't seem to master the new editor on blogspot. Bear with me as I figure out how to make it look better.

why angels?

2010-07-23T15:19:00.005-04:00

When a new friend asked me in an email to talk about why angels often appear in my work, I replied that I really didn't have an agenda for using the angel image because I prefer that people bring their own meaning into the visual dialogue. I recognize that a winged figure is very much an iconic shape, though, and one that carries a spiritual connotation. I probably first truly noticed angels as a child. But aside from an admiration for their ability to fly and a nebulous belief in their protective characteristic (as in guardian angels) I didn't think about them much until my first visit to Italy in 1996. I had just graduated from a local college with a degree in visual art and, of course, had viewed many photos of Annunciation paintings in Art History class. But when I arrived in Florence and visited the Uffizi, Santo Spirito, San Marco and many other sites of paintings and sculptures of angels, something inside me turned toward the concept that an angel is truly a messenger of God.

In the years since then I've photographed dozens of stone angels and used transfers of these photos in my paintings. I began drawing angels as a means of abstracting the shape so that it became more personal. As my process for painting has become more intuitive, angels have often appeared in my gestural surfaces, and when I spy one I entice it forward.

If I had to affirm my particular meaning for angels, my immediate response is that they remind me, messenger-like, to pay attention to the precious moments in my life that often go unnoticed. I can trudge through days oblivious to simple pleasures and small kindnesses. But then, out of the corner of my eye or heart, I catch a glimpse or feeling of something beyond rational comprehension. For a fleeting moment an unexpected angel touches down.

seduced by a sink

2010-07-15T08:47:00.002-04:00

A dream I had a couple of nights ago has stuck with me. I was wandering through a rather large old house that was for sale and wondering if I could live there. The rooms had high ceilings but the walls looked as though they were made of metal. The whole place felt awkward and off putting to me and I sensed I could never live there. Until I reached the kitchen. The walls there were just as ugly and the lay out of the room was clumsy, but then I spied the kitchen sink and fell in love. It was an old commercial kitchen sink, with two parts. One part was very deep and would be wonderful for filling huge pots with water. The other side was less deep but as wide as a kitchen table. I pictured myself at that sink, washing vegetables, readying magnificent meals for appreciative guests at my dinner table. Daydreaming in a dream? My reverie broke and I looked at my surroundings again and realized that the sink was the only redeeming quality of the entire house. Better to not buy the house, but to find a better one and buy a similar sink.

In my studio I often get seduced by "sinks." I'll be working away on a painting and not really getting where I want to go, when suddenly I spy a wonderful passage of paint that I fall in love with. I start daydreaming about how great it is and how everyone is going to recognize my talent which is deep and wide. I work around and around that beautiful "sink" until I have to admit I just can't buy the whole package just for that one fixture. I need to look some more for a better solution, giving up that seductive part of the painting.

facing anxiety

2010-06-01T09:36:00.006-04:00

This morning in my email from "Daily Good" I received word of a young man from NYC who gave up his job as a civil engineer to walk across the country. In reading his story which is ongoing right now, I was impressed with his ability to face his fears and act on his dream. You can follow him at http://www.imjustwalkin.com

I am an introspective person who is always finding messages in the small universe I inhabit, so I took his story to heart. No, I don't dream about walking across the country, although I most certainly agree with his stance of paying attention to small details instead of letting life whiz by. I was most affected by his admission that he was acting on his desires despite his anxiety. This is a good reminder to me, not only in my daily life, but as an encompassing mood for my studio.

I finished a painting last week that seemed to come from an intuitive leap of faith, and I have been savoring the result, while wondering if I can get back into my studio with anything approaching that freedom. It has been several days since I have squeezed out any paint on my palette and I have to acknowledge that I am anxious about starting anew. I have two beginning paintings that have been in the same state of incompletion since I diverted to the last one.

How can I possibly NOT proceed now that I have read about Matt's adventure? If he can set out to walk from one side of our country to the other, without any preconceived notions of what the possibilities are, then surely I can take a deep breath and walk into my studio, anticipating the journey ahead.

tie-breaker

2010-04-06T13:23:00.003-04:00

"The Lightness of Being", 30 x 40" oil on canvas

This morning I drove to Pickens, South Carolina with two of my paintings for submission to the Pickens County Museum of Art and History's 31st annual juried exhibition. As always, my hopes are high to be included in the selection of the juror. I am doing my part in following the advice of an art marketing workshop I attended to "Get your work out there!" This is the fifth juried exhibition I've entered since January and it will be the tie-breaker. I was rejected from two exhibitions and accepted into two exhibitions.

Entering these competitions for recognition and exposure entails a great deal of work and expense. In some cases, the actual paintings are delivered to the exhibiting facility so that the juror can see them in person, rather than in a digital file. In other cases, the exhibition committee prefers digital submissions that have to be formatted in a very specific way. Whether I am sitting at my computer or driving 90 miles, like I did this morning, the business of getting my work "out there" is quite time consuming. If one or both of my paintings are rejected in Pickens, I will be driving another 90 mile morning next week.

Finding a balance between creating my work and "getting it out there" is an ongoing dilemma. I want to be in my studio, not filling my day with the tasks of entering shows. Yet I understand that the more people who can see my work, the more opportunities I have to sell it. And getting into juried exhibitions adds to my "saleability." Wish me luck!

cross pollination

2010-03-08T09:39:00.003-05:00

My mother loved african violets. At one time, years ago, she had a collection of over 100 different plants. Not long before she passed away, I brought two of them home. One was a large "double white", and the other was a "single deep pink." Over the years I've propagated these violets from broken leaves and have separated countless plants into new pots to give to friends and family. Currently, on a shelf over my kitchen sink, I have some beauties. One of them is kind of magical to me. I'm no biologist, and can't explain how it happens, but somehow I've grown a "double shell pink." It is obvious to me that by some alchemy the deep pink and the white have come together in a masterful new creation.

This cross pollination can also occur in art. An artist never lives in a vacuum, and if you are like me, you look at art everywhere: museums, galleries, on the web, in friend's studios, and in a different way, in nature and architecture. Ideas and images recirculate, inseminate and birth new creations continually. My work may not be directly influenced by one other artist, or one school of thought, but when I am drawn to a person's work, or a particular viewpoint, my explorations can impact how I think when I am composing a new painting.

Recently, I was delighted to come across access to podcasts of Artist Talks available for free on the internet from the Art Institute of Chicago. http://www.artic.edu/aic/visitor_info/podcasts/artist_talks/index.html

I immediately gravitated to the talk given by Rhonda Wheatley on Cy Twombly, an artist whose work has always intrigued me. As I listened to Wheatley, I found her web site (http://www.rhondawheatley.com/) which illustrated for me the compelling connections between her work and that of Twombly.

Artists may share the same stimuli and explore identical themes, yet processing the information through the filter of their own experience, they produce unique work. Like my double shell pink african violet, the influences of border plants have had an effect, but the outcome is an uncommonly lovely flower.

Biography

2010-02-10T11:20:00.005-05:00

My friend Linda and I attended an art marketing workshop in Charlotte, North Carolina not too long ago. For over 4 hours we listened to a gallery owner from Scottsdale, Arizona speak to his class of 50 eager artists. Jason Horejs introduced himself as the son of a full time artist, and as someone who had always loved the gallery side of "the business." After working in galleries for several years, he opened his own, Xanadu Gallery, in Scottsdale. He discovered, to his dismay, that most artists had no concept of how to approach a gallery. His desire to help artists achieve their goals led him to write a book called "Starving" to Successful The Fine Artist's Guide to Getting Into Galleries and Selling More Art.

His seminar was his book brought to life, and my friend and I carried home new energy for approaching our goals in the art world. One of the many suggestions we were given that day has had quite an impact on me. He proposed that every professional artist needs a biography, written in third person, describing how s/he has come to make art. Much more than a resume, a biography can speak to a collector on a personal level, creating an understanding of the artist as a person.

Writing a third person biography was a challenge for me. All my self doubts rose their ugly heads, mocking me with their mumbling insinuations about my small education, and a long list of "I'm not good enough" thoughts. But I was so encouraged and inspired by the Horejs seminar, I stifled them all and began writing about my life as an artist. Although it took me over a week of continual revision, I found strength in my own story and my new capacity to explain what and why I paint.

I have posted my biography on my web site and of course hope that potential buyers will read it. I have given my galleries a new tool for selling my work. But perhaps the most valuable facet comes from having written it. I now have a stronger understanding of my progression as an artist, and how events as well as my own dedication have strengthened my desire to communicate with my art.

falling in love

2010-01-01T16:07:00.002-05:00

I began reading two new books today. One is an audio book, the other is traditional. Between the library and my own bookshelves, I have more than enough reading material for several lifetimes.

Yesterday I began five new paintings. Actually, what I did was to paint oil gesso over older work that no longer satisfied me. I guess you wouldn't actually call that painting, but it really is a new beginning. The first step into new work, just like the first page in a new book.

It dawned on me today that I always like to have some "space" for savoring the books and the paintings that I've just finished. There is something satisfying about remembering a story well told, the depth of the characters and how they lived with me for a time. I also take a great deal of pleasure in walking by my newest paintings, even as I think about sizes and subjects for my upcoming explorations. My most recent work is always my favorite for a time, and can stymie new beginnings if I let it. Oh, the doubts that creep surreptitiously into my good intentions...how did I ever make such a wonderful painting? How can I ever be successful again?

But I have to paint! So I take the plunge and before long I'm deeply involved in the problem solving and intuitive gestures that layer by layer create my next new favorite! It is the same with books. I find myself wandering through the shelves of choices, still thinking about the ones I've just finished, knowing it will be difficult to find one to compare. To compensate for my struggle, I choose more than one and begin them all. It takes the pressure off. That's why I like to give myself more than one canvas at a time. I can "play" a little more freely with what I like and don't like, and see where the journey takes me. Reading and painting, I fall in love again and again. What could be better?

wordless

2009-11-03T11:32:00.004-05:00

"Wordless"
Oil on canvas, 40 x 30"

Ever since I took the Bonney Goldstein workshop this summer, "Working the Surface," at Castle Hill in Truro, I have been overflowing with experimental notions and play. It has really helped my art. Getting rid of that critical voice...well, let's be honest...it's more like I'm talking BACK to that critical voice, has freed my inner audacity. Feeling the heat of my ardor and imagination, I have given myself over to the process like never before.

During a recent studio visit from a friend, I was rewarded by her appreciation for my enthusiasm as well as my results. Oh, how I eat up those kind words. Knowing that my passionate resolve was recognized, nourishes my determination to continue my explorations.

Art Group

2009-10-27T08:50:00.004-04:00

Almost two years ago, a few of my artist friends and I began meeting on a monthly basis to share information about marketing opportunites, materials resources, and personal experience in the "art world." Our group has remained small by choice, so that our conversations can be productive and supportive within the confines of 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Having the encouragement and assistance of like minded friends has been a benefit to me in both tangible and intangible ways.

I also feel pretty fortunate to be part of an ENORMOUS art group...the internet. I've connected with artists that I've never met, but admire, and have learned a lot from information shared in blogs, on social media, and on web sites. I now consider my time on the computer to be part of my continuing education. The only difficulty is confining the time spent to an hour or two at the most.

frustration

2009-10-06T07:46:00.003-04:00

I have been struggling lately, with some little things that I let become big things. My intention this morning was to write about a specific topic that has been bothering me. But when I signed into my blog, I saw I had a comment from someone, and I have never learned how to follow through to read the full comment. I've spent some time just now rereading the instructions in the hope that the next time I have a comment posted, I'll remember what to do!

Last night I had a great conversation with an old friend in Massachusetts, and she told me that she had tried to post a comment on my blog, but it wouldn't let her for some reason. I'm not sure why this happened, and fortunately she told me what she had wanted to write.

So, instead of writing about my intended topic, I am diverted by my endeavor to learn how to operate my blog. This type of distraction tends to remind me what a messy desk my mind is. I'm sifting through all the stacks of paper I've piled up with reminders and lists, trying to find that one certain object(ive), and before I know it, I can't remember what I was looking for in the first place.

Maybe my problem began, with the title of this post... making that adage "what you think about, expands," more true than ever.

writing

2009-09-24T06:50:00.004-04:00

I can hardly believe it has been three weeks since I have written anything on this blog. I'm questioning whether or not it is important for me to continue. When I began writing it in July, my enthusiasm carried me from day to day and I felt power in voicing my observations and musings, while challenging myself to be creative and precise in my use of language.

Lately, I've been asking myself why should I write at all. My answers are pretty simple, really. I like to share my thoughts, and I love to make words flow together like colors in one of my paintings. I could write all day about what I am thinking if I were just "journaling," instead of thinking about grammar, structure and sound. Like facing a new blank canvas, an empty page challenges me to "get it right" and communicate something new that only I can say.

"Once begun, half done," pops into my head. I don't know who said it, but they were wrong in my book. Starting a project, like writing a blog entry or making a painting may be intimidating to me, but once I've jumped in, the real work begins. Editing my words for creativity and flow, is much like the painting process. I can lay on paint with audacity, reveling in the way the colors compliment each other or create a dialogue. I can add images with form or line, then veil or remove them entirely, according to how it all works together. It's a continual questioning, stepping back from a canvas, or reading my words out loud to get the most juice from the composition. A painting can take a week or a month before I feel the glow inside that says "YES!"

Writing this blog is a time commitment, but for an hour or more, not days or weeks. Is it worth it? I don't really know. But I'm glad to be writing this morning, as the stars faded and dawn opened up my day. Now I want to go into my studio and continue working on my latest efforts, while my sense of accomplishment sharpens my mind with pleasure.

ambiguity

2009-09-03T06:52:00.004-04:00

Yesterday on my way to Tryon I was following a pick up truck piled high with "stuff" in the bed. I saw an interesting chair perched on top, leaning to the right, sort of bouncing along. It seemed to be an old metal chair, painted blue, with rust spots, and it conjured up a whole story in my head. Chairs do that to me. I wondered whether the owner of the pick up truck had found it by the side of the road, awaiting the trash collector, and recognizing the life still left in the old dear, had stopped and rescued it from its fateful trip to the landfill.

I imagined how the chair was feeling pretty jaunty now, being saved from an ignoble end, and happy to be on its way to a new adventure. Perhaps it would be placed under a tree, ready for its new owner to bring a book to get lost in, or binoculars to view the nearby field for birds. Or maybe it would get sanded and repainted and be proudly placed on a front porch to watch the world go by.

As I followed that truck, watching the chair jiggle with excitement about its new life, I wondered what else was in the truck. I realized with a start, that there was a wheel behind the chair. A rubber wheel. And then it dawned on me that my lovely blue chair was actually an upside-down wheel barrow! The handles were "the arms" and the flat supporting piece between the legs was what I had seen as the back of the chair.

This ambiguity and my subsequent inner narrative reminded me quite poignantly that "truth" is a viewpoint, often miscontrued because of our penchant to see things through the lens of what we already believe. Strangely enough, my little interlude of fantasy, conjured for the non-existent chair, didn't distress me, now that I knew I had been wrong. It just made me smile and remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The wheel barrow's rusty blue paint was still attractive to me, although I laughed thinking that it was never going to be parked under a tree, cradling the bottom of some lucky reader.

authentic voice

2009-08-25T11:03:00.005-04:00

I am struggling in my studio to find my personality. I feel like an awkward teenager, wanting to be an adult, but not quite willing to give up the pleasures and ease of childhood. I have put myself in the position of growing as an artist and I'm suffering the pains that go along with new developments.

Yet, like a teenager, I'm always hungry for sustenance, and feed my creative spirit by studying numerous art books, noting what I respond to and learning new ways to expand my vocabulary. Recently I went on a "feeding frenzy" by attending a week long art workshop on Cape Cod. This nourished my desire to paint with all the new tools I learned, but now I'm trying to make MY work, not an impersonation of what I have been admiring in someone else's vision.

I have to find the balance between learning something new and being genuine. Growth means change, and change makes me uncomfortable. I miss the facility I used to feel when I made my paintings, a certain sureness of hand, even while I sought new discoveries. But now my work requires that I go beyond my comfort zone, while still recognizing my true nature and my authentic voice.

demolition

2009-08-21T07:52:00.003-04:00

A few days ago I spent the morning with my daughter Bethan doing errands. She's a medical transcriptionist and makes a daily visit to Spartanburg Regional Hospital to deliver her work and pick up more. I stayed in the car while she took care of business, and she had parked directly across from a fenced in demolition site. I was fascinated to observe the slow waltz of the two pieces of heavy equipment as they synchronized their swinging jaws. I was mesmerized by the finesse of the operators and their ability to grasp a single piece of wood or metal with the huge appendage on their machine. After gripping and dropping a whole mouthful of waste, the other could go back into a large pile and select one little crushed window screen.

But as usual with me, I began to think about the underlying story. I wondered what that half demolished building had once been. I imagined the excitement of the owner who had built those brick walls and filled the rooms with personal taste.

As I watched the metal fingers of the machine take away a door and then a wall board, I thought about the house being like a person. Born, then growing into an adult and aging. All the strata of psyche and soul that create the rooms of ourselves we carry through life. A sudden wave of empathy hit me as the insides of this former home were exposed, layer after layer. But it seemed to me as though the operators of those dismantling machines had a respect for the process they were a part of. That gave me comfort.

roommate

2009-08-12T06:57:00.003-04:00

In Michael A. Singer's "the untethered soul, the journey beyond yourself," that I've just begun to read, he talks about the voice in your head that continually comments on what is happening. He calls this voice your "inner roommate." I really noticed it this morning while I was sitting down to eat my breakfast. I don't like having the same breakfast every day, so today I fixed an egg that I slipped inside a little toasted pita bread. I was thinking how much I like variety in my life, when this roommate roared with laughter. "Oh sister, who do you think you're fooling? Variety? You LOVE routine!"

I started going down a mental list of what my days are like. Well, yeah, I get up and walk just about every morning. Well, sure, I eat breakfast and get ready for my day in the studio or at my job. And yeah, okay, I have to check my email and look at Facebook to see what's new. But I really DO like variety in other ways.

"HAH!" my roommate challenged me. "Tell me ONE thing you like to change around, other than breakfast!" Well, ummm...I'm peering around the room to see if I can find any clues to prompt me. Well, I've begun to meditate every morning. "That just means you added something to your ROUTINE, dummy." Oh. heh heh. Ummm...my mind roams around my recent days, sure that I can find another example of how variety is the spice of my life. Damn! My roommate is getting cocky now, and I'm desperate to find a rebuttal.

Then I realized that the reason I'm reading Singer's book is to kick that roommate out. I'm tired of living with her and she's fighting to prove her superiority so I'll back down! HAH! I'm breaking routine. I'm kicking her out of here NOW!

s l o w

2009-08-11T06:37:00.003-04:00

This morning's walk was more like a swim in a mud puddle. The air was so hot and humid, that my legs seemed to warp into slow motion. I felt as though I was still in bed, dreaming that I was walking. Even a car coming out of the darkness towards us, seemed to be gasping for breath and struggling to make headway. As it lumbered by us, I had the illusion of being on a treadmill, going no where. Eventually, we decided to cut our route short and return to cooler, air conditioned existence. The walk was a struggle, but I was content to have prodded myself into exercising, no matter how abbreviated.

That is what my studio time was like yesterday. No matter how much effort I made to resolve one of my paintings in progress, I was mired in the mud of exertion. I plodded away, trying to advance my work, but I was stuck in a wearisome round of attempts and failure. I finally gave in to my lethargy and began to clean my tools. When looking back at what I had accomplished, I realized it wasn't so bad after all. I had not reached a revelation, or any kind of final resolution, but I had made progress. Some days are like that. Slow is better than no go.

UGH!

2009-08-10T08:59:00.004-04:00

There are just too many bugs in my world. Earlier this year we had round after round of fire ants, but when the drought hit in July, they seemed to disappear. Now, after just a few good rainstorms, they are back in full force. They've invaded my blueberry plants and one bush is struggling to survive. I hope I can save it.

Another scourge we've been dealing with daily is an infestation of grain moths. No matter how hard I've looked, I can't find the source for these invasive pests. We see them flying in almost every room, too, not just in the kitchen. I have checked every possible cause, short of opening up brand new boxes of pasta and crackers, and have come up empty.

The worst one, though, that raises the hair on the back of my neck, is in my garden across the street. After some online research, I discovered the name of it. Leaffooted bug. UGH. They are large and long and are covering certain tomato plants, hanging all over each other like some sort of obscene bug orgy. They are stealthy, slow moving, ugly things, and I have to gird myself to knock them off the fruit before I reach in for a handful of baby romas.

One day last week I was washing a whole basket full of tomatoes when I realized that one of these creatures had traveled home with me. I screeched and reached for my kitchen scrubbie to grab it and squish it. I couldn't do it, so I raced to the back door, squealing in fear as I struggled to make the latch give, and threw the scrubbie out the door with the bug clinging to it. I was covered with goosebumps and ashamed of myself for my overly squeamish behavior. A minute or so later, after I checked the rest of the kitchen counter and sink for more interlopers, I went back out and stomped the bug into the ground. Maybe that wasn't a nice thing for me to do, but it gave me back a feeling of control. I had to take back my world.

the train

2009-08-06T07:25:00.004-04:00

There's just something about a train. The rhythmic clack of the wheels, the blare of the horn announcing its arrival and the gasp of the brakes as it comes to rest, all make me run to the window to witness the occasional freight train that loads at the nearby chip yard. Growing up in a neighborhood where every house looked the same, (and so did all the faces,) I'm delighted to now live in the South, across from railroad tracks that used to carry people, not just boxes filled to the brim with ground up trees.

One recent evening I was amazed to see an engine pulling two passenger cars. The horn gave a very different sound as it passed our home and headed for the street that crosses the tracks. I raced out the front door with a big grin on my face, then quickly came back for my camera. I knew the train would have to come back our way because the tracks are cut not far beyond that intersection. While I waited on the front porch, my neighbor Darlene came out on hers and she told me that distinctive horn signaled a passenger train, just like it used to every week when people would come up from Spartanburg.

After several minutes passed and the train didn't return, Danny and I walked up the street to find it. By then it was getting dark, but I took some photos just the same. Except for in the engine room, there were no lights, and no silhouettes of passengers. The name on the cars said "Norfolk Southern," which gave me a little thrill since I was born in Norfolk, Massachusetts and now I am "southern," at least by location!

The second car had "Research 36" printed under the row of windows. That made me hope that an investigation was underway to bring back train service to Landrum. There's just something about a train. The sound of the past whispering in my ear? Or could it be the future? I would like to think so.

too many choices

2009-07-31T07:45:00.002-04:00

I've been researching cameras in preparation for selecting a new one. The more I read the more confused I become. At Danny's suggestion I posted a question on Facebook asking advice from my friends about two brands I am considering. I received varied opinions, some off the cuff and others with solid facts. The trouble is, I can't find the exact cameras I'm looking for locally. Shopping has changed. We no longer have one or two camera stores that carry the small selection that used to be available. Now we have mega choices and mega stores that can't even stock every brand, let alone all the models.

This plethora of choices extends to almost every area of our lives in the 21st century. We don't go to the butcher and ask for the whole chicken to be cut up into pieces. We go to the supermarket and buy just thighs or wings or breasts. We can buy organic chicken or chicken "enhanced" with 12% solution of something or other, or factory pressed, ground or preseasoned slices. And that is just the chicken.

The decisions that we have to make every day may not seem earth shattering, but we have become so attuned to making the BEST choices for our health, happiness and pocketbook that it would be easy to go stark raving mad just trying to come to the correct conclusion.

The challenge would be, how do we decide which pill to take for the problem?

fate

2009-07-30T07:43:00.005-04:00

In the early years of my existence I believed that "life happens." I was like a leaf, wafting from a tree, blown into a small stream, then caught on the rocks. After a heavy rain, I would be dislodged from my position and be pushed to another place, drifting along with the current until I came to another stopping point. I was moved only by the outside force of fate.

Gradually, I began to wake up to the idea of choices. I still followed convention, being buffeted by my desire to please others, but eventually I opened a door in my mind that offered a new view of life. There was no brass plate anouncing what I would find, but once through, I understood there was no turning back. I found art and fell in love with life.

Through education, experimentation and travel, I have found tools to help me navigate my path, but I realize that the experiences I had as a mere leaf in a stream helped create and strengthen my desire for change. Was that fate too?

meaningless?

2009-07-21T14:47:00.002-04:00

Over the course of the last twenty years of painting, I have learned to let color and form help me explore my inner thoughts. And since traveling to Italy for the first time in 1996, I have followed an Italian muse, at times with expressionistic renderings of real places, as I return time and again to the country I love. But more and more I have progressed towards the evocative framework of abstract art, searching for a means to convey my appreciation for life.

My recent journey to the Truro Center for the Arts at Castle Hill has helped me to see painting in a different way. "Working The Surface," taught by Bonney Goldstein, a painter I have admired for some time, was a revelation. Five days of experimental play with new techniques and new materials stunned my senses and sent me home changed to my core. Now when I go to my studio I hear her voice in my head, "don't overthink." My self applied pressure is abating and I am remembering the joy I felt in class, coming to terms with the idea of having no ideas. It is all about the paint. The way the colors juxtapose, the way the line and value and composition happen and happen again as I layer and add and subtract with my instincts, not with my mind.

Maybe it's my age, or maybe I was just ready for a change, but I've been such an introspective painter for so long, it may just be time to go for the meaningless and see what happens!

sore loser

2009-07-20T07:50:00.005-04:00

I never would have guessed that I'm a sore loser, but that side of me is raising its ugly head. I was recently rejected from a juried art exhibition, but that is not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about my garden.

Back in March I carefully planted my Italian vegetable and herb seeds into peat pots filled with seed starter. I checked them for moisture every day, carefully watching for tiny green shoots breaking the surface of the soil. When the babies erupted I placed the pots in my sunny dining room windows, turning them cautiously every day to allow for strong, straight growth. Eventually the plants grew second leaves and I had to force myself to trim out all but the strongest growth in each little pot...so hard for me, but a good lesson I can apply in my painting studio. Keep only what is best for the plant or painting and eliminate the weak parts.

Soon my little nurslings grew into transplants. They went into big ceramic vessels, my reconstituted straw bale garden from last year, and the "in-the-ground" garden across the street in our neighbor's back lot. For a while, everything flourished, including the bean and squash seeds planted directly in the ground. Rain was plentiful, the sun shined and all was right in my world.

The sun shone relentlessly. No rain. The clay soil baked and cracked and the stalwart plants stood their ground, but began to breathe shallowly. Despite carrying water across the street, it was never enough to stop the downward spiral for that garden. Stressed by the weather, my plants are losing their battle to survive and I am really mad. I hate to lose what I grew from seed, nurtured into strong plants and tended with such expectations. Mad at the sun!

But like my rejection from that art exhibition, the death of my garden will not end my continued hope for next year. I rant and rave against what I can't control, but it's time to move on. Back to the studio, and oh, I can't wait until my new seed catalogs come.

identity

2009-07-10T07:19:00.002-04:00

Having recently returned from a trip to Massachusetts where I attended a weeklong art workshop in Truro, I've been "processing" my entire experience. The teacher of the workshop, Bonney Goldstein, was enthusiastic about sharing a wealth of information on materials and techniques, and I know my own work will benefit from her instruction. She was, however, heedful about having us watch her work, not wanting us to attempt the recreation of her paintings. This caution was a gift that ensured we identified how we could incorporate her knowledge and directions into our own vernacular language.

On this same journey, I had the opportunity to visit relatives, some of whom I had not seen in years... aunts and an uncle in their 90's, cousins who are my age, and my only sister. Seeing family brings back many memories, and being a reflective person, I began thinking about growing from the child I was into the "mature" woman I am today. My nature, nurtured by a family with specific traits, helped make me who I am. Yet, like my recent class experience, I understand that I've taken the materials and techniques of being a part of the extended Munro/Vaughn family and made my life my own. I can't be anyone else but Carol Beth Munro Icard, colored and shaped by experience, using my own voice, my art.

playing

2009-06-23T07:27:00.002-04:00

Driving to the bank yesterday, I had "Performance Today" on the radio. I was so captivated by a tune that had violins, that instead of proceeding to the drive-through, I parked my car and listened to the end, making notes about the title of the piece and who was playing it. Later in the day I tried to find it on the internet, but for some reason the "listen" link on the radio station's web site didn't work for me. I did find, however, other performances of the same composition on "you-tube," Waltz No. 2 from Jazz Suite No. 2 by Dmitri Shostakovich. There was something in that music that made me think about motion. I visualized a young woman riding a bicycle, gliding down a hill and around a curve, her head thrown back in sheer enjoyment of the breeze in her face and the scenery flying by.

Suddenly, I too had to move. It wasn't the kind of music I would dance to, and there was no way for me to hop on a bicycle, so I pushed my chair back from the computer, threw my head back to see the spinning ceiling fan, and propelled myself in circles in the desk chair. The music and the motion combined made my spirits soar as I enjoyed the most delightful fun I've experienced in a long while. I let go of my 60 years of propriety and played.

perception

2009-06-22T07:44:00.002-04:00

This morning, setting out in the dark to walk, I was startled for a brief moment by what I thought was a flattened snake in the road. I was mistaken. It was a crushed soda can. Hmmm...
I have no idea why my mind leapt to the scary conclusion of "snake," since I've never found soda cans threatening.

After breakfast I went out to water my potted tomatoes, and was dismayed to find one of my best ones damaged at the base. A large section of it was breaking away from the main stem. I immediately blamed our local squirrel population, ranting to myself about how they treat my container garden like a playground. But since I didn't actually witness what mischief broke the tomato plant, I had to stop my train of thought and just accept the fact that it is damaged.

It's funny how I can get all worked up over something that either is or could be a misperception. My fear, anger or even sadness can take me away on a swift ride down a river of negativity. My goal is to recognize when that happens so I can change my mind chatter into more peaceful thoughts.

What I don't understand is why I never seem to catch myself thinking "positive thoughts" by mistake, or raving about how terrific my paintings are!

weather

2009-06-19T07:55:00.004-04:00

There's been a lot of rain in Massachusetts according to my friends and family. Too much rain, with garden devastation and leaky roofs. And in the Carolinas we have had a lot of rain this spring, including a few deluges with high wind. It's hard to complain since we've been in extreme drought for a few years, but it does get tiresome.

I'm interested in how we view the rain. It "dampens" our spirits and "puts a damper on" outside activities. Yet without the dark, rainy days, or even the passing storms, perhaps we wouldn't appreciate the sun. Trite but true. It's also easier to have a "sunnier" outlook when the weather pleases us. We can be living barometers, setting our mood to the seasons and showers.

I think we all just want some balance in life. We can suffer setbacks as long as we also make progress. We tolerate loss by gaining perspective on what is important to us. Weather is just an outward sign that can trigger conversation about how we feel. Today, in Landrum South Carolina, the sky was filled with stars and a waning crescent moon as I walked this morning. When the sun rose and paled the indigo sky to baby blue, I knew this would be a good start to my day. Yesterday's storm passed and I'm ready for some clear sailing.

motion and stillness

2009-06-17T07:31:00.006-04:00

I began my day just after 5:00 a.m., arising to walk in the still cool darkness, when mostly it's just me, Danny and the sound of birds. I enjoy the rhythm of walking, the feeling of blood pulsing through my body, my deepened breathing, my cells tingling with oxygen.

Two miles later, and breakfast under my belt, I sit at the dining room table, my pen and notebook replacing my cereal bowl and mug of tea. Sitting quietly, I am mesmerized by the ceiling fan's reflection in the glass on a painting, the sporadic splash of tires on the rain-washed street, a damp, peachy smell of pre-airconditioned summer and the sensation of itching from an insect bite on the inside of my arm. When I am still, the details of being alive at this place, in this time, reward me with rich abundance.

In my studio I employ this same balance of motion and stillness. The act of painting is often as natural as walking. I find a rhythm and let my subconcious mind breath and pulse life into my creation. Then I sit still, observing my work in progress, the way my colors combine, forms and lines intersect, and what needs to be changed. When the work is complete, I am overcome with pleasure, an oxygenated fullness of being, grateful to be alive.

life and death

2009-06-16T08:14:00.003-04:00

Today is my oldest granddaughter's 14th birthday. Mackenzie is a beautiful, intelligent young woman on the exploratory path of life. She's a flower bud, petals unfolding, drawing strength from the soil of family and the sun of her faith. Rains come and go, nurturing her growth as she expands into her future.

I also learned today that a friend's Dad died, the second friend in a week who has recently witnessed her father depart this earth. Both women acknowledged that "it was time," and expressed acceptance of the inevitable, but their rite of passage brought memories of my own loss, now more than 14 years old.

Fourteen years ago I celebrated the birth of Bethan's first child, a momentous and thrilling event, just a few months after mourning Daddy's last breath. Like every soul, he sprouted from the beginning of time, grew towards the sun, endured unpredictable weather, and made his path a poetic journey.

We gather as family on these occasions, supporting each other and celebrating the existence of a singular being. If I were to paint a canvas representing my thoughts right now, it would have patterns like winding roads and branching trees, diverging and intersecting and sustaining each other. Overlaying all these lines would be circles, cycles of life and death and life again, every one unique.

Unavoidable Joy

2009-06-15T10:38:00.002-04:00

This morning, in a "daily good" email newsletter I receive, I read a 2005 report written for Inside Bay Area by Jill Tucker, titled "Little by Little." It was an account of how an 11 year old student in El Cerrito, California decided to forego birthday presents by asking her friends' families to donate money that would help children in a small impoverished village in Tanzania to improve their lives. The article touched my heart, and a few of Tucker's words struck a lovely note that resounded in my mind. She wrote, "But alongside the poverty, there is unavoidable joy..."

I've been considering those two words with some amount of wonder, not only for their placement in the chronicle I read, but because they inspired me to contemplate where they might apply in my own life. I realized that I'm not really intimate with the word joy. I've thought of it as a word meant to convey only the most profound sense of gladness. But when I looked it up in my dictionary of synonyms, I was really surprised to read that it means delight, glee and pleasure, words that have less gravity in my mind. It appears that I have been laboring under the false impression that joy was only for the most heart-felt occasions!

Now I understand why pairing the word "unavoidable" with "joy" was not the challenging concept I imagined it to be. In fact I'm delighted and quite gleeful, actually, to realize that joy is very much a part of my daily existence, not only unavoidable, but inevitable. I am very fortunate.

Mockingbird

2009-06-14T06:32:00.003-04:00

I awoke this morning a little after 5 a.m. and thought I would drift back to sleep in the darkness, the cool night air seeping through the open window. But a persistant mockingbird had different plans for me. My first thought was to roll over and block out his voice by reaching for a nearby pillow to cover my ear. But the varied bursts of lilts and trills captivated my reluctantly waking brain until I realized that more sleep just wasn't a possibility. I suppose if my "alarm clock" was the sound of raucous blue jays or cackling crows I would have risen disgruntled. But this mockingbird reported dawn so sweetly, I took its siren song to heart and smiled as my feet found my slippers.

On reflection, I can learn from this morning's observation. The sound of a voice, its tone and character, can make a difference in how we react to it. I interpreted the mockingbird's notes to be full of joy and felt pleasure from the song. When I use my voice today, I want to convey the same sort of felicity and gladness I arose to.

Strawberries

2009-06-10T14:14:00.002-04:00

I bought a gallon container of fresh strawberries a few days ago because I knew it was the end of the local season. We ate a lot of them out of hand, enjoying their sweet juiciness, like red sunshine. Today I took the remaining berries out of the refrigerator and realized they were fading. I cut them up to sugar for shortcake and had to make a decision about several that were on the mushy side. Oh, how my frugal self hates to throw away a berry! But I knew that if I put the "iffy" ones in along with the still firm ones, the whole bowl would suffer from that choice.

It is the same with my painting. I really have a hard time "throwing out" a portion of a painting that has some attractive qualities. I often argue with myself for leaving it in. But I have learned to recognize when my eye keeps going back to that same place and isn't comfortable with what I'm seeing, it is best to eliminate it. Those decisions can improve the "flavor" of the whole painting.

yellow and black buggy

2009-06-09T07:10:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, while driving to the bank, a very bright, half orangy-yellow, half black car/truck passed me going the other way. I immediately thought, "wow, is that an ugly combination." But then I had a conversation with my inner judge, who often gets full rein of my brain for long stretches, without any protest from the real me.

So I said to her, "who appointed YOU taste-master? I'm sure the automotive industry wouldn't be producing a vehicle that nobody would like, so obviously there are lots of people who find that combination of car and truck, black and yellow, appealing enough to pay a lot of money for it." This thought led me to ponder just how many of those car/trucks in that color combination had been produced, and whether a lot of them are languishing on car lots or if the demand exceeded the production.

From there I drifted into a comparison of the automotive industry and the art world. Having worked in galleries for over 15 years, I've listened to lots of opinions from art buyers. I've witnessed how most people respond to the familiar subjects they can identify and feel comfortable with. But there are viewers who slow down and observe the more unusual pieces of art, the viewers that challenge themselves to think "why am I responding to this painting or sculpture?" I admire those "out of the box" thinkers, because my artwork doesn't have immediate subject recognition. My paintings abstract ideas and conveys metaphorical concepts, and I like knowing that there are some people who are drawn to them.

I see lots and lots of white and silver and black cars, and lots and lots of white and black and silver trucks. People are comfortable with familiar choices. But maybe the ones who want something that stands out in the crowd, are just like the gallery goers I admire who are willing to look at something "different." My quick vote against that odd vehicle and subsequent conversation with myself has pointed out that I can be guilty of boxed in thinking, just like anyone else. I may never want to own a yellow car, but I have a new appreciation for those people who do.

fruit

2009-06-08T09:13:00.000-04:00

This morning I commented to a friend on facebook about how exciting it is for me to have a vegetable garden, see a plant grow from seed and eventually bear fruit. This is a really juicy metaphor! Just as the work of planting and tending a garden provides edible, useful results, my labors in my studio are followed by the consequence of my actions. Unlike a tomato seed which possesses everything a tomato knows, I am never really certain what my outcome will be. But I can emulate my garden in my act of creation.

First I need to find a "sunny location" by shedding light on what I want my art to convey. I have to "prepare the soil" by loosening it, digging around in my thoughts for inspiration. I need to "water and feed" my concept with quality materials, taking the time to learn the best ways to use them. And I have to be diligent getting rid of "weeds" that can choke the growth I am nurturing in paint. Just like a seed gradually emerges from the soil, grows toward illumination, and becomes all that it can be, my ideas flourish when I give them the space and the opportunity to exist.

Right now I'm working on a compost pile to amend my garden. Isn't THAT a fertile metaphor!

privet begone!

2009-06-07T11:57:00.000-04:00

I spent a long time with the loppers this morning, cutting down scrub sumac and baby oak trees. In trying to get under an unwieldy privet, I got poked in the eye. Sometimes it takes a poke to make a necessary change. I took the loppers to the privet, then called in the reinforcements! Danny and his chain saw! Now the yard looks so much better.

Sometimes I have to poke myself when I'm in my studio. Complacence leads to mediocrity. Taking chances leads to a fuller sense of engagement with my work, and hopefully a painting that looks a lot better, just like the yard.

pleasure

2009-06-06T10:06:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure if I have a switch in my brain which allows me to shift into mindfulness, but I feel as though I experience a great deal more pleasure from life when I am paying attention to where I am and what I am observing. The mind chatter recedes and I am aware of how fortunate I am to be alive, healthy, and near my dear family. I also consider myself to be extremely lucky to be an artist. My art allows me to express what I think about and what I love in color and texture, form and line...

Even though I have to go to my paying job today and won't be painting, I walked into my studio and felt a little jolt of pleasure, observing a portion of a current painting that I had just resolved to my satisfaction. Painting is my metaphor for paying attention.

rain

2009-06-05T08:51:00.000-04:00

It's been raining. Yesterday afternoon when he got home from work, Danny disconnected the end pipe into our rain barrel and held huge plastic jugs up to the gutter spout from our large barn. He collected over 35 gallons in just minutes. It was a thrill to watch. After the drought of the last few years that rain feels like money from heaven. Maybe that is why I was restless last night and didn't sleep well. I kept hearing all that money going down the drain!

observations

2009-06-04T10:28:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite activities is to spend a few minutes looking out a window and observing my front yard. The huge water oak tree harbors all kinds of wild life, from gray squirrels and a variety of birds to the occasional black snake. I know about the snake because it was inadvertently trapped in some netting at the base of the tree which was protecting some "visiting" bonsai plants while their owner was on vacation. Sadly, the snake died. Although I'm really not fond of snakes, I appreciate their appetite for mice and possibly chipmunks, those vermin in cute clothing that dig up my plants.

Today is overcast. The very gentle drizzle has stopped for the moment, but I'm hoping it will return and water my gardens for me. The squirrels, little more than teenagers, are out in force, foraging for the tiny acorns my tree produces. I tried raking and removing them earlier this year, but their small size and sheer mulitude made that almost impossible. So, in addition to the mounds from ant hills, we have the opposite appearance of little holes, dug by industrious squirrels. For me, this observation leads to thoughts about my paintings. When I make marks, each one must have some effect on the other. A "mound" deserves a "hole," so to speak, so the surface makes me reflect on the what nature has to teach me. Time to go into my studio and paint!

Day One!

2009-06-03T15:00:00.000-04:00

This is the birth of my brand new blog. I'm excited about sharing my artwork and my thoughts.