These weeks have flown by. I can't account for the time.
There are things one can't write, even if they are raw, stark truths.
I swam in ocean waters to clear my mind, to breathe deeply, to taste salt on my lips, to understand the scale of my being.
I got lost. I tried to understand what it would mean to others if I was lost.
Last weekend, I danced.
Night swimming
I learned to swim properly five years ago. Prior to this, every entry into a body of water more than two feet deep was accompanied by sheer terror and a pep talk. "You will not die. Relax." Snorkeling with a friend in Hawaii resulted in me clinging to a craggy, volcanic rock as waves "violently" lapped around me.
Now that I am a swimmer, I can appreciate the unique moving meditation that swimming offers. For me, much of this is due to the physics of sound under water. Everything is muffled except for the movement of air, bubbles escaping the echo chamber of my lungs and exploding. Often, when I swim laps, I close my eyes and allow my body to guide me. I think of night swimming.
My swimming instructors would remind us that the human body was not built for swimming. As we evolved, our bodies evolved to be land dwellers, upright walkers and runners. Thus, we needed to relearn a skill using a body unoptimized for it. This was shared to encourage us.
In our modern, evolved lives, have we also deselected for long attention spans, proclivities to silence? I might enjoy an evening ritual in which darkness reigns and quietness abounds.
Now that I am a swimmer, I can appreciate the unique moving meditation that swimming offers. For me, much of this is due to the physics of sound under water. Everything is muffled except for the movement of air, bubbles escaping the echo chamber of my lungs and exploding. Often, when I swim laps, I close my eyes and allow my body to guide me. I think of night swimming.
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| Exploring Hawaii, 2012 |
In our modern, evolved lives, have we also deselected for long attention spans, proclivities to silence? I might enjoy an evening ritual in which darkness reigns and quietness abounds.
Roused to capture
I usually don’t mind getting up in the mornings, and often sense the
time to arise. But when my alarm chirped this morning, I was surprised
by how early it felt. I thought for a second that I set the clock wrong
the night before. Or that maybe an imp meddled as I was deeply dreaming
in slumber. Like usual, I ran late, bolted from the house and
hurry-jogged to catch my bus.
On my commute, I just sat. No reading, no games, no thoughts. I kept my eyes unfocused. I tried to just be, come into the morning. The gray sky made this easy. Stopped at a red light, I noticed a young construction worker raised in a basket lift at a construction site, the metal of his temporary prison painted orange-red. On the sidewalk, the engine of the lift was demarcated with orange traffic cones, with streams of caution tape stretched between each one. The worker donned a bright orange hoodie, not his uniform, but his fashion choice for the day. An old, abandoned brick building stood behind the new construction. On what would have been its windows, black-and-white photographs of performers were installed, a dozen or so people blown up and suspended in their art. As the lift moved the worker down to the earth, he moved between the black-and-white artists, frozen in their performances, as if greeting them or joining them in a quick duet. With the perspective I had, the worker and the artists were the same size, interacting. Bright orange life juxtaposed against flat monochromes.
These are days I wish I were a photographer, to capture these serendipitous images that do not translate in paint, cannot be adequately described in words.
On my commute, I just sat. No reading, no games, no thoughts. I kept my eyes unfocused. I tried to just be, come into the morning. The gray sky made this easy. Stopped at a red light, I noticed a young construction worker raised in a basket lift at a construction site, the metal of his temporary prison painted orange-red. On the sidewalk, the engine of the lift was demarcated with orange traffic cones, with streams of caution tape stretched between each one. The worker donned a bright orange hoodie, not his uniform, but his fashion choice for the day. An old, abandoned brick building stood behind the new construction. On what would have been its windows, black-and-white photographs of performers were installed, a dozen or so people blown up and suspended in their art. As the lift moved the worker down to the earth, he moved between the black-and-white artists, frozen in their performances, as if greeting them or joining them in a quick duet. With the perspective I had, the worker and the artists were the same size, interacting. Bright orange life juxtaposed against flat monochromes.
These are days I wish I were a photographer, to capture these serendipitous images that do not translate in paint, cannot be adequately described in words.
Saudade
When we were kids, my sister and I would memorize our favorite quotes–from movies, from books, from television shows–and pull them out in context to whatever was being discussed. At our best, we’d have conversations in near-complete allusion. This morning in the shower, one of these sprung to mind, from Field of Dreams: “There comes a time when all the cosmic tumblers click into place and the universe opens itself up for a few seconds to show you what’s possible.”
I’ve been feeling restless. I’ve been missing my sister. Coincidentally, she sent me a text last week, a one-liner from a bad soap opera that has cracked us up for over 25 years. I’ve been thinking about sports we played as kids, in the cul-de-sac of Cabrillo Ave. I’ve been wondering what I will do this year, from fun excursions to big-picture goals.
I am reading Patti Smith’s Just Kids, her account of life with Robert Mapplethorpe. By page 20, she tells of her commitment to becoming an artist, at age 19. I can’t say I had that kind of clarity when I was that age, even though I had taken formal classes and won art scholarships. I can’t say I have that kind of clarity, even now.
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| "Work like a slave ... create like a god." -Brancusi, whose The Kiss is shown above. (It reminds me of falling in love in Paris in 1998.) |
Art lessons
Painting is TOUGH. I experience so many critical moments that end in "F*CK!"—total frustration. But at those rare moments of complete flow—when the work works and everything seems to click and move in unity—my heart sings.
It is managing these arbitrary events that makes a painter an artist. When does one push ahead? When does one stop? When does one take distance? It's curious how our minds trick us. Some days, I'll look at a painting and wonder why I stopped there. I can't see the harmony in it that once was evident to me. Similarly, I think to how I have assigned inspiration to something that was purely coincidental, or worse, mistaken or misinterpreted.
What exactly is inspiration?
At the end of a long painting session, my back hurts and my brain is exhausted. I want nothing but to lie in a hot bath and stare at the tiles. When I paint, I am reminded how stupid I can be, how much can be wrong, how chance can be more instrumental than skill or intention, how insignificant or life-changing a tiny mark can be, how beauty can be captured in the smallest things.
In short, when I paint, I feel humbled.
It is managing these arbitrary events that makes a painter an artist. When does one push ahead? When does one stop? When does one take distance? It's curious how our minds trick us. Some days, I'll look at a painting and wonder why I stopped there. I can't see the harmony in it that once was evident to me. Similarly, I think to how I have assigned inspiration to something that was purely coincidental, or worse, mistaken or misinterpreted.
What exactly is inspiration?
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| Image by Louise Sturges, shown in Group Show 38 of the Humble Arts Foundation. |
At the end of a long painting session, my back hurts and my brain is exhausted. I want nothing but to lie in a hot bath and stare at the tiles. When I paint, I am reminded how stupid I can be, how much can be wrong, how chance can be more instrumental than skill or intention, how insignificant or life-changing a tiny mark can be, how beauty can be captured in the smallest things.
In short, when I paint, I feel humbled.
Shouts & whispers
During a long weekend in Los Angeles, I spent an afternoon at the Getty. As I walked the galleries to see my usual favorites, I discovered the incredible work of American photographer Ray Metzker. The placards alongside the pieces described his lifelong exploration of the medium, in form and in technique.
In his "Composites" series, he assembles dozens of tiny serial images to produce one work, some fairly abstract and graphic. Only when you stick your face a few inches from the print do you discover that they are tiny, tiny photographs, each holding its own wonder and mystery. Of these, I'd want to steal Parking Pavilion (1967).
The works that most enchanted me were from his "City Whispers" series. He captures the lonely, meditative expanse of urban living. The lightness and the darkness. The misery and the delight. (Shown above is Philadelphia, from 1980.)
I've added this to my wish list.
Scraping down
Scraping down my palette is the less terrifying practice of beginning again. It offers the freedom to be any kind of painter I want, for that day alone. I can be blue one day, and oranges the next. I can be thin as a wash or thick as paste.
I wonder what rituals other artists have, and whether they derive as much pleasure as I do with these practices.
Patience, grasshopper
I am not a patient person. If the bus GPS tells me that my ride is scheduled to arrive in 6 minutes, I wonder if I have time to get a cup of coffee.
Paradoxically, I have an inordinate amount of patience for art. I can spend hours slowly gently meticulously dabbing tiny bits of paint in a 2-inch area of canvas. I find stringing seed beads and kneading bread dough completely soothing.
Along the same vein, my favorite artists create works that unfold over time, "reward" me for sticking it out. Bill Viola is one such artist; his Passage into Night (2005, still shown above, courtesy of James Cohan Gallery, New York) is one such piece. It is melodic and mesmerizing. It also runs over 50 minutes. When I heard him speak at the Whitney in NYC, he talked a fair bit about his Buddhist practice. Even though I had been admiring him for years, and love the meditative (yet jarring) power of his installations, I had not even considered that he had a spiritual practice that directly informs his work. (I can be a little dense sometimes.)
Of course, powerful art comes from personal, passionate places.
It also arrives from patience, with the work, with oneself. I am writing this as a reminder note to myself, as anxiety builds because I've been away from my studio for almost 3 weeks.
Paradoxically, I have an inordinate amount of patience for art. I can spend hours slowly gently meticulously dabbing tiny bits of paint in a 2-inch area of canvas. I find stringing seed beads and kneading bread dough completely soothing.
Along the same vein, my favorite artists create works that unfold over time, "reward" me for sticking it out. Bill Viola is one such artist; his Passage into Night (2005, still shown above, courtesy of James Cohan Gallery, New York) is one such piece. It is melodic and mesmerizing. It also runs over 50 minutes. When I heard him speak at the Whitney in NYC, he talked a fair bit about his Buddhist practice. Even though I had been admiring him for years, and love the meditative (yet jarring) power of his installations, I had not even considered that he had a spiritual practice that directly informs his work. (I can be a little dense sometimes.)
Of course, powerful art comes from personal, passionate places.
It also arrives from patience, with the work, with oneself. I am writing this as a reminder note to myself, as anxiety builds because I've been away from my studio for almost 3 weeks.
Sunshine
"So they beat him down to nothing but sparks but each little spark had a shine and a song."
-Zora Neale Hurston, from Their Eyes Were Watching God
-Zora Neale Hurston, from Their Eyes Were Watching God
An open letter to my Muse
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| Henri Matisse. Dance (I). (1909) Oil on canvas, 12' x 8'. Image from MoMA. |
Painting feels difficult today. I've spent too many hours in this small space with little ventilation. This might be a metaphor, but it's also literal. I've reworked a canvas in a new direction but it feels far from complete. It is getting there ... but I still see many problems. I need a break so I can approach it fairly, not just by the legacy frustration I feel now. Some paintings come so easily. Others take weeks of toiling, repainting, scraping down, covering, reworking, refocusing.
I want you. Here. Now. I've had a taste of what you bring and I want more. I want to talk and share and laugh and disagree. I want to understand how you came to be, where you've been, and where you want to go. I want to understand where I fit in, what you think of our interaction.
I'm painting a lot, so I know you are here somehow. I have a lot of good days but also many bad hours of struggling. Some days, like today, I cannot get the colors mixed. I made seafoam when instead I wanted pale, pale cerulean, almost the color of a translucent sky behind dissipating fog.
I understand your reluctance to be here completely. Are you looking from afar? What do you see? Would it match what you already know?
The idea of you sustains me, pushes me forward to express and create. For that alone, I am grateful.
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