Cirquel in the Sky

Cirquel in the Sky

18" X 24"

Acrylic on Canvas

This is the canvas that was so wonderful to paint on that I fell in love with it.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010: I was one big ball of nerves; spaghetti stomach with worms. I was only a day away from the biggest undertaking in my life, hiking to the top of Mt. Whitney.

What if I trip and fall and break something? What if I get sick? What if something happens to one of the guys? My Clint? My imagination played out dozens of horrific scenarios on the theatre screen in my head. There was scary crescendo music like the kind you hear right before something terrible happens (yes, my life has an ongoing soundtrack that only I can hear).

At some point, my brain and body became exhausted from all the worrying. I tilted, like an old pinball machine that's been jiggled just a little too vigorously. My lights went out and the flipper bars went dead. I could no longer snap the ball of worry up for another go round, bouncing, ringing, spinning. It would be what it would be.

The next day, we picked up our permit and WAG bags (that's another story) for the next day’s journey. Then we headed out for a hike up the trail to Little Meysan Lake. The plan was to get out and stretch our legs and lungs, with the goal of climbing to 10,000 feet. It was one last conditioning exercise to expose us to “up” and “elevation” (the great equalizer).

We were all a bit sluggish as we started out on the steep and messy trail. Eroded from heavy use from the quarter-mile hikers, it was difficult to get into any kind of hiking rhythm. The worry ball shot up and bounced around a few times. If I felt like this now, how was I going to feel tomorrow for The Big Hike? I focused on my breathing, keeping it in time with my steps. It didn't take long before I started to feel better. We passed the beat-up section of the trail and moved on into the reward. My breathing evened out, I warmed up, and the steady climb didn't feel so bad. Everyone had loosened up and the joking began...

It was a beautiful day! Puffy clouds dotted a cobalt sky. The light was soft, intensifying the colors of the landscape. A hawk soared above us. A light breeze was blowing. The trail rapidly zigzagged up a steep slope giving us a wonderful view out over what seemed like a bottomless canyon. The near vertical granite wall across the gap was painted with every color of lichen imaginable.

Before long, the view ahead opened up and we could see the distinctive bowl of rock that marked the outer edge of the cirque holding Little Meysan Lake. Of all the cirques we would see in the next few days, this was the most defined and dramatic. Oddly, the clouds seemed to almost echo the roundness, forming a concentric shape inside the bowl.

The clouds continued to build as we climbed. It got grayer and grayer. This didn't dampen our mood nor lessen the beauty of the surroundings. In fact, the colors grew deeper in intensity. Now our vantage point revealed a waterfall tumbling off the edge of the cirque, nearly fluorescent against the black stained granite. Alongside the trail were several large flat rocks. It was the perfect spot to have lunch and enjoy the view.

The breeze kicked up a notch and we suddenly went from hot and sweaty, to cold. Jackets came out along with our lunches, and big, fat, wide-spread raindrops began to fall. It wasn't enough to get us wet, just enough to make it fun.

The consensus was that we would head back down after our break. The temperature had dropped and the clouds were heavy and purple above us. We’d nearly reached the 10,000-foot mark and we had regained our hiking legs and confidence, no need to push our luck and climb higher where we were likely to encounter snow. It was just what we needed to warm us up for the next day's adventure.

The Joy of Blank

“Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” 

 
So true. Although it’s not like that when it comes to making art. A blank sheet on the art table stirs a thrill in me akin to that moment of free fall on a roller coaster. Whether it is a fresh, bouncy canvas or a crisp sheet of watercolor paper, there is something exhilarating about starting a new piece.

That beautiful blank surface urges me on. I think about the brush dragging across the surface, the paint pooling, the smell of sizing as it’s released by water.

The excitement is killing me. But I don’t give in to the temptation. First, I visualize the subject on the surface and consider placement. Do I want to push the focal point to one side or the other? Higher or lower? What is the mood I want to project? Am I feeling soothing green or high-energy orange? How will the surface texture affect my painting?

When I start to twitch then it is time to draw the subject onto the surface. With watercolor paper, you must have a fairy-light touch so you don't spoil the pristine white of the paper. You have to KNOW your subject before you make a mark, for this surface is unforgiving. Get carried away and go too dark with your pencil—or misjudge your position—and it’s all over. You’ve destroyed a beautiful, innocent, expensive piece of virgin paper. (I love paper, by the way. In case you haven’t noticed, I kind of have a paper fetish.)

With canvases, it’s a little less critical with the drawing because acrylic paint covers better. Although it still requires a light touch to avoid muddying the first layers of color with smears of graphite.

Then, the moment I’ve been waiting for arrives. The first layer of paint goes on. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. There is nothing like that first disturbance, breaking the surface tension and sizing with just the right mix of pigment and water. I lay in transparent color to create the under painting, the texture and light of the white surface beaming through the pigment in these first moments is exhilarating. The best, most exciting thing in the world is if some of these initial layers are left to shine through the final painting. It’s magic.

What is all this gushing about surfaces? I must confess I am in love with a new canvas. I haven’t been this excited about a surface in a while (well, there was that fling with gelatin plates, for which I still long). This new canvas is beautiful and supple and bouncy; perfectly stretched over wood strips that aren't warped or splintery, not a pucker to be found. Most of the canvases I’ve bought in recent years are dry and scratchy like an old cracker—though crackers tend to be more square rather than parallelogram shaped.

On my new love, the paint flows on the surface, the rhythmic texture of the canvas enhances without overpowering. It takes the colors softly, allowing me to build gentle layers of subtlety. It’s heavenly painting on this surface. Pure heaven!

And it’s all because we decided to go back to a place that I wasn't even sure still existed.

Last weekend, in desperation to find good frames, we drove out to a shop where I used to have most of my work framed. I hadn’t been there in 10 years and I can’t believe I ever stopped going there. Aside from the great selection of frames, awesome service, and reasonable prices (can you tell my day job is writing marketing propaganda?), I’d forgotten about the beautiful stretched canvases he makes—excellent, supple, inspiring canvases. 

I can’t even begin to express how the surface stimulated me. Yes, I know that sounds wacky, but working on this surface is so…arousing!

I hope to finish this painting over the weekend. It’s 18" X 24", so it's taking a bit longer. I’m truly enjoying the journey with this delightful canvas.

For those of you wondering about this shop, I want to give them a plug: Leon Picture Framing in Anaheim, California. The owner is a great guy who believes in quality and giving his customers great service. I’m so glad he is still around and doing what he does so well. See Tim and tell him Susan sent you.

I can’t wait to go back and get more canvases. Oh and, while we were there, we picked out a couple frames too. The pieces look great. I can’t wait until you see them!

Before & After

I know that when I post paintings here, odds are you like some better than others. I know there will be paintings that won’t float your boat—and that’s all right—after all, if everyone liked the same paintings, we’d have fistfights at my show. Although there was that one time, when Nancy bought the painting Loretta liked...

I’ve noticed something rather interesting, though. Frequently, paintings that get very little attention when unframed become celebrities after framing. It’s My Fair Lady, only without the accent. The most unassuming piece with bad manners—after framing—comes into its own, exuding elegance, with pinky daintily extended.

Remember “Wild Iris” from a few weeks ago? Although it doesn’t fall into the Eliza Doolittle category, look at how the nicely the frame enhances the piece. The soft sage mat pushes the purples and pinks to be more prominent, yet brings out the warm greens in the background; the dark, rustic frame pumps up the contrast.

Last year, just before I started framing pieces for the show, a friend of ours came over and asked if I had any new paintings to share. I brought out my work and as he looked through the pieces, he was very quiet. He kind of hmmm'ed—and that was it—not even a polite, “oh that’s nice” (what a wonderful little hobby you have, dear). Even the painting I thought he would love was handed back to me without a comment. Now I don’t let that kind of reaction get to me (not too much, anyway), because I know that when I frame a piece, it changes everything.

I’ve even had my sweet, supportive husband hem and haw over a piece and proclaim, “That's not one of my favorites.” I remember getting this response with a particular painting a couple of years ago. I really liked the painting. I believed in that painting. I knew it would shine if it went into the right frame. However, it was close to the show and we were running out of money for mats and frames, so I decided not to frame it. Then, in a lucky moment, I found I had a frame and an extra mat that worked perfectly with the piece. When I showed it to him again, not only did he love it, it became one of his favorite pieces. He didn't even realize it was same painting.

I spend a lot of time choosing mats and frames for pieces. The right framing can completely change the character of a piece. It may bring out one color or another, or emphasize temperature or texture; it can make a painting sing, or make it soft and quiet.

Frames and mats should be chosen to enhance the art, not based on the latest decorating trend. And, although good art doesn't have to match your sofa, there is something to be said about the compatibility of artwork and decor. However, be wary of changing the framing on a to match your furniture or carpet, because you may find it changes what attracted you to the painting in the first place.

When you come to my studio show, think back on some of the pieces you saw here that you might have thought were so-so and let me know if your opinion has changed after framing. I’d love your feedback.

The Blue Ridge Trail

The Blue Ridge Trail

Watercolor

11" X 14"

Most call the crest to the south of town Blue Ridge. I've always loved that name. Maybe people call it that because from a distance it appears blue, but I believe it comes from the way it looks in late afternoon when the ridge and valley tumble into shadow; casting cool, calm, blue shadows that whisk the heat out of even the hottest day. I've studied that shade of blue for many years now, calling it Wrightwood Shadow—which if you've seen it—you know that blue. If not, you must see it some day. The dark blue-gray trim on our house is that color, or used to be, before the sun beat on it for a few years.

One of my favorite short walks is the trail that starts at Big Pines and moseys its way upward snaking in and out a deep canyon that creases Blue Ridge. Secret lush folds filled with greens of every shade. In the fall, it is especially beautiful as the oak leaves shift to golds and russet reds; the poison oak turns scarlet, and the currant bushes become school bus yellow, dotted with shriveled fruit overlooked by the birds.

The trail begins with a couple of whoop-dee-doos and curves around to drop you into a drainage where a stout, but short wood bridge crosses a little stream. I mean really little. Most folks would call it a dribble, except for those rare periods after one of our torrential downpours. That’s why the bridge is stout, to withstand the storms that transform our dry and serene mountain to a beast that spews mud and rock—and raging rivers into every low spot that might hint at being a gully.

After the bridge the trail climbs steadily, winding in and out of the ridge folds until it opens up to a broad view of the valley to the east. After one last steep stretch, the trees shade the trail once again. So it’s always a surprise when you pop out onto the shoulder of the ridge, suddenly in a shady campground next to a site usually occupied by a family munching breakfast around the campfire. You get the wide-eyed look as they wonder where you came from and if they are about to be robbed (city folk—all strangers are scary until proven otherwise).

We like to cross the campground and sit on the south side of the ridge where you can see Mt. Baden Powell and the basin, often covered in an ocean of clouds. It’s a nice place to sit and cool down while enjoying a hand full of gorp before heading back down the trail—always as pretty going down as it is going up.

This painting is the view from one of my favorite places on the trail, where you look up into a fisheye bowl of green topped with pines that tower over you. It’s difficult to grasp the scale of this spot unless you are there in person. The trees are huge, the canyon vast and steep; you are a mere spec, dwarfed by the landscape on this simple trail.

My Studio Show!

Pre-show helpers/party animals who hadn't gotten dressed for company yet.
Please, don't get the wrong idea, we prefer that you wear pants.

I want to get the word out to all fifteen of my loyal followers that I’ve scheduled my annual show for Saturday, November 5^th, 2011. 


For those of you who have come in the past, you know it’s always a fun time. In fact, I can say I have never had anyone leave looking cranky. There’s plenty of socializing, and no end to the food and drink (people are still talking about last year’s sangria), and of course, we have my art on display and for sale all over the upper floors of the house. It’s a party—only with art.

You can't tell here, but the lighting was spectacular—especially as we moved into the evening.

Last year, my Lighting Director and Show Presentation Master (Clint) really cranked things up a notch with the addition of awesome lighting –– which he designed, engineered, and installed. This made a huge difference! People noticed paintings they had overlooked for years.

Clint came up with the idea to use large antique saws as hanging devices. It was an inventive way to present the paintings, adding a rustic element that complemented the artwork.

When you come to the show, be sure to check out our outdoor gallery space on the back deck; a favorite spot for many. People stay there for hours, enjoying the mountain air and beautiful view of the ridge. As the day moves on, we light the outdoor fireplace to ward off the chill. It makes for a cozy setting when you are gathered ‘round a fire with old and new friends.


Although you’ve previewed several of the pieces that will be on display here, just wait until you see my work all dressed up for the show. Framing and lit—it’s an extreme makeover—only for paintings.

This is my talented student, Morgan Owen. She also displayed some of her artwork.

So, be sure to save the date: Saturday, November 5^th, 2011. We haven’t set the time yet, but it will probably be late morning until into the early evening. Get it on your calendar right away. I know you will have fun.


If you have not come in the past, or want to be added to my invitation list, be sure to send me an email at skearns@linkline.com.

Dawn Moon

Dawn Moon
11" X 14"
Watercolor

One of the many amazing things about our Whitney trip was that it occurred as the moon waxed full. Although Clint planned it that way, for me it was a magical surprise when the moon—golden from the smoke of fires further north—slowly rose over the edge of the cirque at Trail Camp.

As it climbed, it became bigger and brighter, and whiter, throwing so much light into the clear, indigo evening, it created an eerie, almost daylight effect. I've never experienced a moon so bright. I had to sleep on my stomach so the light wouldn't keep me awake.

When we awoke, just before dawn, there was our moon, gently hanging over the ridge to the west. A big pearl casting a soft glow over the cup of earth where we sipped our tea, and thought about the day ahead.

The next night, the moon was fully revealed, looming even larger and brighter than the night before. It had been a big day—summit day. We were tired, turning in well before the moon had traveled far from the horizon.

But I couldn’t sleep. I was restless—hot and cold at the same time. I dozed a little off and on, and although I tried to ignore the urge, finally got up to empty my bladder. When I crawled out of the tent, I was astounded by the brightness of the porcelain ridges lit by the moon. The sharp, surreal black and white landscape absolutely took my breath away.

Again, I was struck by the eerie not-daylight—but not night—kind of light. It was stark and beautiful. And the stars! Even with the fluorescent moon, a bazillion diamond pinpoints crowded the sky. The unmistakable swath of the Milky Way hung over me in all its glory. I felt very small and insignificant, but honored.

I crawled back into the tent and finally slept until nearly dawn. We enjoyed that last delicious daybreak, the iridescent moon against the ridge surface that moved from cool blues and grays with a blush of pink, to coral-orange, then fading as the sun peeked over the Inyos. There are many people who will never see a sunrise as amazing as this. How lucky we were.

With this painting, I wanted to keep the feeling loose and wild. I wanted to capture the colossal and luminous moon in those last moments before dawn. That magical light and magical nights I will never forget.

The 99 Switchbacks Reward

From Trail Crest

Acrylic on Canvas

18" X 24"

This is one of the “wow” spots on the Mt. Whitney trail; an OMG trail reward as mentioned in my last post; stick it out and you get this gift. However, this one occurs deeper into the journey—nearly 10 miles in, after the world-famous 99 switchbacks.

The 99 switchbacks lie between Trail Camp (named for the obvious reason) and Trail Crest. When we arrived at Trail Camp, set up our tents, and the guys pointed out where we were headed the next day, I couldn’t believe there was actually a trail on the near-vertical slope rising out of Trail Camp.

As night fell, we watched the headlamps—distant stars of light bobbing along the invisible trail as hikers made their way down. When it was daylight, I searched the spots where I’d seen the lights, looking for some sign of a trail. Eventually, I could pick out a few gnat-sized hikers, working their way back and forth. Only then was I able to pick out the barest wisp of a trail scribed upon the surface.

The 99 switchbacks is an awesome section of trail. It zigzags upward quickly, presenting an expansive view of the cirque where Trail Camp resides. Bodies of water dot the landscape: the small golden pool next to the camp, the startling blue water of Consultation Lake, and copper penny puddles of snowmelt lying in the low spots.

Soon, the tents left behind, patiently waiting for the hikers to return from the summit, become tiny specs of brilliant color in the putty landscape. The higher you go, the more spectacular the view as you near the shoulder of the ridge where the named and unnamed spires jut upward, towering over the trail. The terrain is rugged, rough, and red—shattered by wind and ice.

Trail Crest sits at about 13,000 feet above sea level. As we hiked around that last nose of ridge (the 99^th switchback), we reaped the reward of the breath-stealing view that makes you feel as though you are looking down at the earth from a window seat high in the air. All of a sudden, you are on the knife-edge spine of a massive ridge that separates east from west. The Owens Valley to the East and Sequoia to the West. And it's a long way down on either side.

In the bottom of the valley to the west sits Hitchcock Lake, brilliant blue and green, mirroring the deep ridges of Mt. Hitchcock rising to the south. There is an unreal contrast to the barren, rocky terrain interrupted by this jewel serenely cradled in the low folds of the valley. Does anything live in a lake that high above tree line? Some day I must go there and find out.

I've been working with this image for a while now. I don't know that any rendering could communicate the scale of this view. It’s too vast. But I was determined to capture it some how.

I started with a small acrylic painting, moved on to a sketch, which I turned into a gelatin print. Then, I took that sketch and created a watercolor. None of them worked out very well. Eventually my persistence paid off though, and here you have it.

On to the next adventure in art. I’ve been thinking about the magical full moon over Trail Camp…

Celebrating Our Independence

Wild Iris

11" X 14"

Watercolor

We went on the most wonderful hike on July 4th. It had been a while since we’d really gotten out and stretched our legs, and boy-oh-boy did it feel good. To celebrate our independence, we went out to the San Gorgonio Wilderness near Jenks Lake and hiked out an undulating trail to a beautiful lush creek near an area known as Johns Meadows.

As with darn near every trail we’ve hiked, it starts out going UP. I like to think of this first, ovary-busting section of the trail as “the proving ground”. It’s usually hot, dusty, and rutted from heavy traffic. It is the section tackled by women in cute sandals, men who rarely leave their easy chairs, and Game-Boy-athlete children (thumbs of steel!) who huff and puff their way about two-thirds of the way up that first big hill. Thinking they have traveled many miles deep into the wilderness, they begin to worry about bears—and realizing they have no water left, and they are kind of hungry—give up, turn around, and slog the half mile back to the trailhead—later bragging about the killer hike they tackled over the weekend.

What they don’t know about this testing part of the trail is that once they crest that first big ole hill, they are rewarded with a path that gentles, coming alive with wildflowers and plant life. They are gifted with the trees' earthy, piney, cedar-y scents that soothe the soul, generously shade the trail, and welcome you to the wilderness.

I believe this is your reward for sticking it out—for having the gumption to get up that hill and the determination to continue on to your destination, while, of course, savoring every step of the journey. Ah, Wilderness!

Our first reward was this breathtaking wild iris that I’d never seen before—we almost overlooked it. We were nearing the end of the winnowing part of the trail. Our breath had fallen into an even rhythm and as we curved around to a fork, we found the delicate lavender flowers with dark purple veins, bobbing in the light breeze, displaying the most beautiful and perfect shape. It was a photo moment, that’s for sure. We snapped away and I knew it would make a great painting.

The Mountain

The Mountain
11" X 14"
Monotype, Ink and Tempera

There was a point when I didn’t think I was going to make it. I had just stumbled over the scariest half mile of trail—that seemed like ten—in my life, with only fleeting glances away from the narrow path that jellied my legs and set the cloud of butterflies whirling in my stomach. Beautiful, but terrifying, each step carefully placed on the loose jumble of rocks they called a trail. Talk about mindfulness, I was nowhere else but right there, focused on one step in front of the other.

We stopped at the outside of a spire where there was a blessedly wide spot to rest. While we recharged, a couple passed us; the man was lifting his wife down the fractured rock steps of the narrow trail. In only two steps, the tops of their heads disappeared down the steep path.

Off to the north, was the mountain. It was impossibly distant, the summit hut barely visible from where we sat. There was an urgent whisper inside me:

I can't do it. I’m scared. I don't want to climb over scary rocks on the edge of a cliff anymore. What if I break an ankle? What if I fall, making a coyote cloud in the bottom of the canyon? That would sure ruin the trip.

I caught myself and immediately shut down the thoughts. Can’t think about it. Gotta just do it. Can’t be the reason we stop after getting so far. Pride—overruling fear and fatigue. We shouldered our packs and kept on moving.

I will remember that moment sitting there and looking at the summit of Whitney the rest of my life. Overcoming the fear and moving on was a powerful moment in my life. The image of the ridge is burned into the movie screen in my head. Sometimes it appears without my summoning it. Like with this painting.

This is a monotype. Starting out as a gelatin print, I don't think I had anything specific in mind when I was putting ink and tempera on the plate—or maybe I did—I don’t remember. What I do recall is that I was either out of time or out of patience when I tossed the print onto the table.

Over the weekend, I decided I needed some studio time or my head was going to explode. Climbing the stairs, I found the wind had blown my pile of sketches, half-finished watercolors, and various rejects all over the studio. I picked up the discarded gelatin print and saw the ghost of the mountain in it. The image was backwards and not exactly the shape of the ridge, but it was reminiscent of the image tattooed on my brain. I added a little more color and teased the shape into existence, bringing it back to life out of the hint of what was there.

Coming Around Again

In the Woods

18" X 24" 

From an especially prolific period last year.

I know it has been a while since you’ve heard from me, but fear not, my art will go on. You see I’ve had a bit of a dry spell and current events in our life have kept me from the studio. The time and the desire to create have not intersected lately. But that’s OK. Over the years, I’ve learned to take this in stride and not panic when I’m at the lull in an art cycle.

As in all things, creativity is cyclical too. It’s much like the seasonal transition of a year, only more compressed. Green buds of ideas swell as in spring, unfolding to a luscious summer of expression, then the creative flow mellows and slows, then withdraws into a winter-like dormancy.

I find it is best to relax and not stress when I have these dry spells. Being an over achiever, this lack of productivity makes me twitch a little, however I've learned to recognize that when I start to struggle with my art, if I let it rest, I'm rewarded with a juicy burst of creative flow when the spell is over.

How do I know the dry spell is nearing an end? What tells me I'm ready to make art again? I begin to notice my perception is heightened and the way I look at everything changes. It’s a little bit magical and sensual too.

I start seeing the world around me as though it were a subject for a painting. I get lost in detail; find myself deeply studying the shape of objects—the shadows and the highlights. I mentally mix colors to match the pasta sauce I'm cooking, the towel I'm folding.

I compare color temperature, the warms against the cools. I pull on a sock and ponder how I would render the texture of it. Would I use a dry brush? The blankets on the beds are mountains covered in soft grass; dappled sunlight comes alive as shattered layers of transparent color.

Saturated; the feeling becomes liquid inside me. The urge to create begins as a wind ripple on the water, growing into a wave that pushes into peak curling in upon itself, building power and energy. I return to the studio and the wave of create releases and spreads across the chosen surface as though it were a long white shore, casting off a mist in its urgency, and leaving behind a million bubbles as the energy is released.

I know, it sounds a little sexual. In a way it is. When it happens, it’s not just one wave. It’s a series of waves as the flow of creativity continues and grows. The art flows easy and often.

Really, it’s more like the tide coming in. There is a flurry of activity as two or four, or sometimes more paintings are created before the tide begins to ebb. Then the art making begins to wane. The sand dries and waits patiently for the next wave that signals the return of the tide.

I have a canvas on the easel with the next painting already drawn, quietly awaiting my return. It’s a long weekend and a good time to let the tide come in.