Dividing Our Sorrows

We lost our Birl today. 

He was a cat that was more like a person than some people I know. Left behind by someone, as a stray, he chose us to be his new family. Well, first me, but then Clint, whom he believed to be another, larger cat. He and Clint were true buddies. My boys. We'd have group hugs almost every morning. It was a ritual as we had our coffee and he his breakfast.

Birl followed Clint around like a devoted puppy. He always hugged back when we held him and we're pretty sure Birl understood every word we said to him.

I can't accept our Birl is gone. He was the best cat in the world. He was our constant companion, garden guardian, most excellent snuggler, lover of ear kisses, and so much a part of our daily lives he leaves a hole the size of Texas in our hearts.

I've never known a cat so social, loving, dignified, handsome, and fun. Like Clint and I, Birl loved "outside" best. He and I spent many hours in the yard, both of us covered in dirt. He loved to roll in the dirt. Outside won't be the same without him.

Often he'd come into our office covered in dust and plant matter. He'd jump up on one of our desks, leaving dirty paw prints in his wake and purr as if to say, "Come on outside, it's an awesome day!" He was so happy when summer finally came after long winters spent dreaming of chipmunks and lizards.

Birl loved hard, played hard, and fought hard. But it was a big-ass coyote that caught him off guard before dawn this morning and he took our Birl away from us.

What will we do without our Birl? Who will snuggle up to the other side of Clint to keep him warm on cold nights? Who will lay in our laps with a healing purr when we are sick or sad? Oh my, we miss you so much Birly. May your spirit come home to us soon.

The Last Impressions

Remembering Fall
Monoprint, 11" X 14"

As my first gelatin plate was starting to disintegrate, I decided to try a print using natural materials. One of the interesting (and fun!) aspects of gelatin printmaking is that it lends itself to the use of all kinds of materials (the flatter, the better) to incorporate shapes and textures into pieces. The fluidity of the paint and the soft surface of the gelatin allow the capture of a thrilling amount of detail (yes, my world is small).

First, I painted the plate and laid the leaves and sprigs of lavender on top. The resulting print left open silhouettes where the materials blocked the transfer of the paint. I removed the leaves and reprinted. The impression the objects left in the paint during the first round was then transferred to the paper. Although I missed my registration, I liked the texture and detail it added.

Next, I overprinted the darker colors. I used a brayer to spread an even coat of color onto the plate. This method creates a different texture than when the paint is brushed onto the plate.

For the last print, I tried a small bundle of lavender, which in its bulkiness completed the destruction of the plate. I wouldn't exactly call it a success, but it's definitely a contribution to the learning process.

And, I’ve learned a lot. The second gelatin plate tore in to pieces after only two prints. Large dry areas on the plate tend to stick to the receiving paper (whoops). I have also discovered my gelatin to water ratio was incorrect. Math. Grrrr.

However, I am not discouraged. Sweet husband is going to cut me another piece of Plexiglas so I can set up two plates at a time to extend the creative frenzy (oh goody!). I can’t wait.

Adventures in Gelatin

I'm trying something new: gelatin monoprints. Yep, prints made from a plate of gelatin—as in J-E-L-L-O—only using the unflavored type of gelatin. I've had a book on this technique for a while, but it requires some preparation before you begin the art part. Warning: If you are considering trying this, you should know there will be yucky, boogery globules of gelatin everywhere.

First, it calls for a piece of Plexiglas that serves as the surface for the gelatin plate. Next, you create a frame out of modeling clay. The frame holds the gelatin, which is dissolved in warm water and then poured onto the plate. You must be sure there is a good seal so you don’t have gelatin leaking out from underneath the clay (speaking from experience).

The surface must be level, which in this house, is a challenge. When someone says, "Please pass the salt", we turn it on its side and let it roll to them.

Here you can see where I've created my dam and leveled the surface using an assortment of shims and paper. One thing important to remember is to remove the level from the Plexiglas before you pour the gelatin onto the plate. I was so excited when I got to this point I almost forgot. I would have been in big trouble with the Toolmaster.

The gelatin is poured and must sit overnight to set up. Then, the clay is removed, leaving jagged edges on the gelatin plate, which is part of the charm.

Using water-based paint (watercolors, temperas, inks, etc.), you paint right on the surface of the gelatin. It's a little tricky because if the surface gets too wet, the plate dissolves. A sheet of paper is placed over the painted surface. Gently, but firmly, you rub the back of the paper to transfer the paint.

On the first print, I discovered I had not used enough paint. I painted the plate again and transferred it to the same sheet. It's easy to register the plate to the paper, so you can overprint images multiple times to experiment with layering the colors. Well, that was so much fun, I over did it, therefore, there are no successes to share of this image that started out so promising. Part of art is knowing when to stop.

I found myself caught up in the color results and obsessed with unusual texture created by the brush strokes and the plate. (BTW, if you look close you can see the globs of gelatin that came off the plate edges and on to the paper.) I tried three different kinds of paper and varying amounts of paint and water—that gelatin plate was rode hard and scraped away wet when I was finished with it.

It's going to take some time to get a good piece with this technique. For now, I'm just trying to figure it all out and see if it's going to work for me. I was thinking about this...why would an artist try something that is just going to make it more difficult to create art? I'm using paint I rarely use (semi-opaque tempera) on an unpredictable surface that reacts differently than anything I've ever worked with in the past.

When I showed Clint the results, the same thing must have been going through his head. He said, "Why are you doing this? What's the point?" Good question. Because it's a new technique that adds a new dimension to my work. Uh...because it adds surprises (good and bad) and a loose and spontaneous feel to my work…because it's fun. He wasn't convinced. He picked a chunk of gelatin out of my hair.

I think this technique may lend itself to work that is more abstracted in nature. A wilder, looser version of what you may have seen from me in the past. The next plate is curing…stay tuned.

Close to the Mountain

Whitney Afternoon

6" X 9", Watercolor

On our last trip, we were the closest to Mt. Whitney we had been since our hike last fall. Whitney towered over our campsite, seeming close enough to touch. Saturday, we got even closer when we drove up to Whitney Portal to have lunch. Seeing the trailhead again brought back a rush of memories: this place marked the beginning and the end of the trip—this was the place where I was filled with fear, anxiety, elation, pride, and love.

I was overwhelmed with emotion.

(Bob: “Sioux, are you crying again?”)

When I am close to Whitney, I feel the mountain’s presence strong within my soul. And all of us that were there, we have a kinship. We have shared sweat and tears. Whitney gave us leave to climb onto its shoulder and look out over the world. It did not break us; it nurtured us and made us stronger. I will always have a bond with the mountain and with the dear ones who were there with me (and got me there in the first place!).

Saturday afternoon as the sun worked its way to the west, Whitney was lit through gaps in the clouds that had gathered over the ridge. The light kept changing as the clouds shifted. We contently sat in camp and watched the show above us. The sun was warm and intense, the breeze cool. We quietly drank in the surroundings; you could feel the collective peace.

I broke out my watercolors and predictably; the wind kicked up, tossing most of my gear off the table. I set up once again, with my palettes tucked under a tie-down strap. This was a "flow" painting. It was quick and effortless. The spirit of the mountain was with me.

Alongside an Old Friend

Creekside

11" X 14", Watercolor

This weekend we went back to Tuttle Creek, our favorite campground outside of Lone Pine, and discovered it closed for renovation. Renovation? Oh no! We liked it the way it was—quiet and rustic, appealing to hardcore campers and fisher folk.

And here's why—aside from its charming creek, there is no potable water there. You have to bring your own. This discourages many people (good!). 

Then there are the pit toilets—fragrant, but charming. The wind whips through there like a bullet train, so the camp hosts have placed rocks on top of the rolls of TP. I imagine this began after a high wind combined with an open door or two caused the mother of all toilet-papering, launching streamers that could be seen from the top of Mt. Whitney.

So, we settled on another campground nearby that is known to be busier, with closely spaced sites. On the plus side, it offers a spectacular view of Mt. Whitney and the especially-inviting Lone Pine Creek.

Lone Pine Creek was our companion on much of the hike up Whitney. It’s an old friend. In this stretch of its journey, the creek is picturesquely shaded by willows. The banks offer plenty of comfy spots to sit and commune with nature. It’s positively idyllic. Running down a terraced slope, the creek is stocked with colorful boulders that create frothy patches of fluorescent white water.

I found a soft spot just inches from the water where I could enjoy the view upstream a stair step or two. It was peaceful and inspiring. I was a bit nervous about someone or something (a bear!) sneaking up on me, because the roar of the water rushing over the rocks combined with the rustling of the leaves overhead erased all other sound. It was the perfect white noise, erasing all but pleasant thoughts.

Water is challenging to capture with paint. It can be darn near every color of the rainbow, from the palest green, to deep moss and amber; glints of turquoise and blue dancing in the foam. The shadows were moist earthy browns darkening to indigo; the rocks bright reds and golds in the sun, curving into velvety darkness under the veil of water pouring over them.

It was heavenly.

Hello to Spring and Eye Stoppers

Signs of Spring

Acrylic and Watercolor on Paper

9" X 12"

Spring makes me want to paint flowers. The urge actually starts in late winter, when I think spring will never come. Especially when I go off the mountain and down into the LA Basin, where it is green, green, green. Will we live in a world of grays and browns up here forever? Winter without snow has its own soft, subtle, and soothing palette, but after a while, I crave green.

Our first hint that spring is coming is the sprouting of our daffodils. Then, after the buds unfold, a spring snow predictably smothers them. Yet, the strongest plants refuse to be subdued—though they might lay limp for a few days, reeling from the shock, they rise once again to bob in the breeze. I think there is a lesson there.

This painting sat in the viewing area for about 30 seconds when Clint spied a “eye stopper” shape. Although unnoticed by me, once he pointed it out, it was all I could see. It became the parsley in a model’s smile, a dignitary’s unzipped fly. I couldn’t wait to get back up to the studio to fix it.

There are a number of “eye stoppers” that can sneak in and potentially ruin a painting: a weird juxtaposition of lines or shapes that confuse the eye, or rendering that is too regular, too symmetrical, or too similar to something else in size, shape or color (Is that a penis next to that mountain?).

It’s an element that sticks out like a sore thumb to you or someone else viewing the painting—especially the “someone else”—because they haven’t been looking at the darn thing for hours and hours. For the artist, this is akin to a typo in the front-page headline; the obvious error missed by the proofreader and caught by the pressman who can’t spell his way out of a paper bag.

Sometimes you can fix it, sometimes you can’t. I lucked out.

That’s why it’s always a good idea to have someone else look at your work. Someone that is honest with you and observant (thanks, my dear).

Farewell to Winter

Sunflower

6" X 6"

Acrylic on canvas

A week or so ago, the birds declared it was spring. We got up one morning, and for the first time since last fall, it was warm enough to enjoy our coffee out on the back deck. When I opened the door, the welcoming confetti of cheeps, peeps, and songs filled me with joy.

There were birds everywhere. It was like being in a crowded auditorium where everyone is talking at once, an unintelligible burble that is a bouquet of voices. Only this was much more pleasant. Added to that, it smelled like spring—green—the warmth of the sun coaxing the scent out of everything.

Once the weather warms and we say farewell to winter, I want to be outside. Three-year-old Gabby said it best when she told Clint last spring, “I like outside”. Me too.

I went outside and trimmed back the skeleton stalks of the sunflowers and hollyhocks. They are the winter guardians, hunching over the garden withstanding rain, snow, and wind that will send seat cushions into the next county. I especially love the remains of the sunflowers, which I cut and keep around the house.

I cheated a little with this post. Sunflower is a painting I did last year and sold at my show in November. I thought I’d share it this week in honor of the trimming I did while I continue my work on the next new new painting (sorry, I was outside). Here’s a hint of what’s to come: daffodils.

Returning to Lone Pine Creek

Creek Crossing

9" X 12", Watercolor and Sepia Ink

A few of you have asked me about my painting of the creek. It's still sitting in my studio. In fact, I propped it up next to my drawing table so it can get a good look at me while it simmers. In the meantime, I took a stab at another version of the same scene, only this time using watercolor.

Lone Pine Creek is akin to a hiking companion on the trail up to Whitney. It meanders across the trail and travels along one side or the other in many places along the journey. It’s a cheerful constant, whether foaming white with a rainbow mist halo as it tumbles over cirque edges, gurgling gold where it lazily spreads out in the sun, or above tree line where it blackly murmurs over sun burnt rocks fringed with brilliant spikes of green—the only green you’ll see for a while.

This was one of those paintings that came together veh-rrrr-ry slowly. Usually I bang out a painting in one or two extended sessions, but this one took shape a little bit at a time over several different studio stints. I'd work on it a little and then set it aside, never fully committed to whether it was a success or not—until this past weekend when I finally opened the door that took me to the finish.

I was having one of those days when I didn't know what I wanted to work on. I had a small canvas of the view from Trail Crest out over the Hitchcock Lakes that I'd started back during the Top of the World paintings. Although it was off to a promising start, it went spiraling out of control and had to be put out of it’s misery.

And so, I went back to the creek painting. At some point in my dabbling, I added ink to the piece. That turned out to be a good decision, leading to a nice completion. It felt good to express this impression of Lone Pine Creek, particularly this crossing.

I know this is just the beginning though, as I explore the other faces of Lone Pine Creek.

Plein-Air-A-Palooza

On our recent camping trip to Lone Pine, it was a paint-a-palooza for me. For a change, we didn't run hither and yon, nor hike, we just fished and relaxed in camp.

Saturday, we awoke to a sunrise of giant fluorescent-orange doughnut clouds decorating the sky over the Inyos. It was a shot of inspiration. My juices were flowing. Once we'd teased the trout a bit (not the other way around, of course) and had breakfast, I broke out my art gear. Over the next several hours, I started and nearly completed three paintings.

For the first piece, I settled on painting a small segment of the Sierra Nevada ridge to the southwest. It was a mere bump in a series on a long ridge that stepped up to Mt. Corcoran. That is truly the challenge when you work outdoors painting landscapes. There is so much to see and choose from—narrowing your focus is not always easy.

You can see here I started with a quick pencil sketch to work out the composition, noting the prominent features and shadows. I don't like to spend a lot of time on my drawing because I want the result to be fresh, plus I’m impatient to get my brush on the paper.

Ever had a day that seemed to drag on endlessly? Try drawing or painting outdoors and you'll really notice the speed of the sun rolling across the sky and the movement of the shadows (though having fun sure makes the day fly by too). Where was that shadow again? Oh crap, it's gone now.

In this next image, you can see I've come a long way, with the vegetation in the background fairly well defined. See my rock in my makeshift water container? Cool, huh?

Lower Ridge

6" X 9", Watercolor

Here is the final image, with the foreground completed and the contrast pumped up. 

Ahh, time for lunch.

For my next painting, I turned to the north towards the creek. That piece is larger and not yet complete. Although I finish some pieces on location, often, to make the best use of my time, I'll take a piece to the point where I know what I need to do to finish it without having the subject before me. I can't tell you exactly what that point is, I just know it when I get to it. Stay tuned...

Sunset on the Inyos

Sunset on the Inyos

6" X 9", Watercolor and Sepia Ink

After a giant trout spit my hook, I went back to camp and discovered the incredible color on the Inyo Mountains across the valley. I rushed to the car to get out my painting gear; the light moves fast and I wanted to capture it before it was gone.

Unfortunately, my water cup, complements of some Holiday Inn, had sprung a leak. Frantically I looked around for something to put water in besides my coffee cup. Sweet husband came to the rescue, cutting a water bottle in half AND supplying a rock to keep the vessel from blowing away in the sundowner breeze that had kicked up.

The Inyo Mountains frame the eastern side of the Owens Valley. To the west lie the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The Yang to the Sierra’s Yin, from a distance the Inyos are unassumingly brown and dusty, old saddle shoes that gladly take what’s left of the moisture dropped by the storms that move through. Up close and personal, they are rugged and richly diverse. They are forested with piñon pines, juniper, and cactus, with a generous sprinkling of sturdy wildflowers. Further north at higher elevations, you’ll find the breathtaking Bristlecone Forest.

In the middle of the day, the Inyos appear bleached out and flat as a cardboard set for a puppet show. As the sun moves to the west, the ridge comes alive with graceful shapes that emerge once defined by lavender blue shadows. Then, as the sun drops behind the Sierra, there is an intense display of rusts and corals, and the shadows cool to a deep purple.

By the time I got my gear out, the shadows had climbed up the ridge, leaving just the tops lit by the sun. Fighting the wind, I painted wildly to capture colors I’d seen just minutes earlier. It was lovely.