Rejoicing in Spring

 

Desert Mallow

9" X 12"

Watercolor

When in Vegas, some people gamble, see shows, or do things they can't talk about after they leave. Me? I paint. I leave the gaudy strip of decadence behind and head out to Red Rock Canyon. It is a peaceful place with hiking trails, a fabulous visitor’s center, and plenty of places to stop and take in the scenery. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the hottest spot in Vegas.

This trip, I only had about three hours of free time, so I passed on visiting one of my favorite places along the way, Cactus Joe’s (a story in itself), in favor of getting in as much painting time as possible. I stopped at a picnic area near the park entrance, tromped off the asphalt, and found a reasonably flat rock, where I set up my gear for painting.

It was one of those perfect spring days: the first of the spring flowers were blooming and the crisp blue sky’s fluffy clouds cast dramatic shadows across the rusty monoliths that frame the canyon. The changing light was stunning, making my tummy tingle with joy. I was so wrapped up in watching the shadows change I forgot to take photos.

For my subject, I settled on a nearby Desert Mallow erupting with small, but brilliant orange blossoms. Most of the year, you wouldn’t give Mallow a second glance. The tightly crinkled dusty leaves, designed to hold on to every bit of moisture, aren’t much to look at. However, in early spring, while there is still moisture left in the ground from winter, they unfurl and soften—just a little—complementing the blooms that bob in the breeze. The flowers are an airy and delicate contrast to the sparse stems and leaves.

Spring is slow to come to Wrightwood. Though the apple trees are blooming and the daffodils are about done, Mother Nature can throw us a snowstorm without warning just to humble us. In early spring, I crave blossoms and budding sprouts of lime green.

This heavenly day was cut shorter than anticipated, yet I still had enough time to complete this watercolor. The next day, we were heading to Flagstaff and on to Durango, where I was inspired by a well-known local artist that has me pondering my next painting…

Roadside Canvas

 Roadside Canvas

12" X 9"

Mixed Media

This is a departure from my usual subject matter. Though I love old, broken down buildings, I do not draw or paint them very often. 

Once, when I was in visiting my grandparents in Pennsylvania, I took dozens of photos of dilapidated barns and farmhouses. My grandpa finally said to me, "You know I could take you by some nice barns that aren't all worn out if you want some good photos."

"No, Papa. That's OK. I like the old ones."

This piece is a mix of watercolor, acrylic, and colored pencil—and yes, I used opaque white. It's a small piece, so I needed the pencil to help capture the detail and the white paint for contrast against the warm weathered brick and stone.

It is an old Standard Oil gas station on Highway 160 at Cow Springs on the Navaho Nation. I tried to find out more about it, but all I found were a bajillion photos of the ruins taken over the years by people on their way somewhere else. 

Some day I'd like to stop and look around rather than frantically snapping photos while whizzing by at 65 mph. We too, were on our way to Colorado, racing against the daylight, so there was no stopping for photos.

Like this old station, I'm at a crossroads once again, not sure where I want to go next with my art. We were planning a camping trip where I hoped to get some plein air* painting in, but we had to cancel it. Sigh. I get some of my greatest inspiration on our trips to the wide-open spaces.

However, I have plenty of images for inspiration right here at home. And some lovely creamy printmaking paper that is begging me to take another run at monoprinting. I’m thinking about what I might do with some sepia ink and that yummy paper…if only I could go up to the studio right now. 

* We do have a road trip planned in the near future where I hope to spend time sitting in the dirt with my watercolors.

An Echo and Musings on White

Church Rock Echo

10" X 8"

Acrylic on Paper

If repetition is good for the soul, as they say, then I'm doing some good soul building. These days I have the urge to explore the same subject in multiple ways. I wonder why? Is there is more to learn? Is it that I can't let go of the subject until I've painted it out of my system? So it is with Church Rock. It's stuck in my head like a bad commercial jingle; only I’m content to let it stay there a while.

My second run at the rock resulted in an acrylic painting on watercolor paper. It is much smaller than the first piece, only 10" X 8" as opposed to 24" X 18". I think it packs a punch in its own diminutive way.

Acrylic on paper is a lot of fun. You can get rich, dark tones without tedium of building it up in layers of watercolor, which always tends to dry lighter than expected. Acrylic affords the delight of transparent colors and glazes, yet you don't have to worry about lifting color or overworking the paper. And, one of my favorite things, you can break the art rules by adding white back into a piece—something strictly verboten in watercolor. Oh, you can do it. But there are risks.

I knew a guy the art police put away for years for that—using opaque white in a watercolor piece. But then, he was an illustrator and they just can't help themselves. Illustrators use whatever it takes to achieve an effect: coffee, ashes, onion skins, gauche, carbon dust—wildly combining media and whatever is at hand. I trained as an illustrator, so I can say these things. I've combined all kinds of odds and ends to render something just right.

The White Thing was big around the art department when I was in college. On the fine art side of the fence they rallied for the purity of the materials. There was no integration of transparent and opaque paint. There were a few rule-breakers, but the purists ruled the land in those days.

On the other side of the debate, the devil-may-care illustration gang—always looking for new ways to combine materials that broke “the rules”.

My studies stuck me between the two camps. I felt vaguely guilty when working on my illustration projects—the fine art police at the back of my mind. Yet, illustration gave me the freedom that fine art forbade. I lived in two worlds.

Sometime after college, I decided it was worth the risk to use white in a watercolor piece, which led me to experiment with acrylic on paper. My first piece was waterfall in a deeply shaded canyon. It was the perfect subject for acrylic on paper. The rocks were painted loosely and transparently. The shadows moved from transparent layers to deep opacity. And then, I gleefully painted the waterfall in opaque whites tempered by transparent blues. It was wonderfully brilliant against the background, with all the drama an illustration can muster, yet appropriately fine artly executed.

I grew more confident. Sure, I had some terrible failures, but I learned how to judiciously use opaque white in my works on paper. I then realized it was not the art police that I needed to fear. The anti-white edict was for our own protection. It was to make us better artists, to grow our skills with transparent media. To teach us joy in the purity of the white of the paper, to appreciate the texture, luminance, and interplay of light. It taught us to mix the perfect value and apply the paint mindfully.

And so, while thinking on the path of white/no white, I started a new watercolor. I knew going in I would need to mix media to create the right texture, because the subject takes me into new ground: a decrepit building scrawled with graffiti. The basic painting is there. The question now is what media will I introduce to get where I want to go without creating something I’ll have to toss into the trash…

Otherwise Engaged

Desert Cathedral
24" X 18
Acrylic on Canvas

Long overdue, I bring you the completed painting of "Desert Cathedral", a sideways view of the iconic Church Rock that lives on the Navaho reservation along Highway 160.

I finished this piece a few weeks ago, but hadn't taken the time to share it with you. If you remember waaaaay back to my last post, I was inspired by paintings that began with a coat of rusty red that still shone through in the final paintings. You have to look hard to see any of that color in this piece, but it certainly was a fun way to begin a painting.

Working on this took me back to that broad expanse of dramatic desert, tinted gold and orange by the late fall sun. It's a magical place and although the ride across the Res is long, it is rich with beauty and mystery, and it awakens something spiritual inside me.

I started another painting of the same subject on paper, only starting with a deep-toned blend of purple and brown as my base. With this piece, I am painting the light back into the scene--a very different approach than starting with a mid-tone. This is still early on in its development, so we'll see how it comes out.

It's been an odd start to the year. After two years of record-breaking painting productivity, I've hit a chasm of inactivity. Familial obligations and drama have occupied most of my free time and emotional energy. I look forward to not providing the same to any of my remaining relatives as I creep into old age. Sometime well into my 90s, I plan to keel over with a brush in one hand and a glass of wine in the other—while plein air painting, of course—because I love "outside." The coyotes will eat me and what's left will return to the earth, while my soul quietly exits to the next plane of existence. At least that's the plan... 

But there is light at the end of the tunnel (figuratively) and I'm finding my way back to the studio by way of my sewing machine. Not quite ready to paint, I became focused on finishing a quilted cover for a down comforter I started last year during a long stretch of snow. In a frenzy, I finished it, and it has kept us nice and warm since.

The kitties like the new quilt too. At night they nestle in between
and around us on top of the warm down.

A few days ago, I started another quilt. I'd been thinking about this one for a while. I'm making it from my grandmother's fabric stash—just the red fabrics—because her birthday was on February 14th and it seemed so right to do this now. It may take me a while—and it's quite likely I'll return to painting before I complete this new project. But for now, the smell of the old fabrics and the rhythm of the sewing machine provide comfort and creativity.

As you can see by this post, I've returned to tell you about my art, so I know that returning to the studio is not far behind.

Germination

Just a snippet of what I've started. I didn't want to give it all away.
As you can see, I chose to start my canvas with a rusty underpainting of burnt sienna.

For a while, it seemed as though I’d gone fallow. I thought the blanket of winter had covered me over. I began to worry whether I would ever paint again. But then I realized I just needed to rest and absorb; and when I was ready, I would make art.

Over the past few months, I've been exposed to paintings and places that keep resurfacing in my head. It started when I wandered into two galleries a thousand miles and a couple of months apart. In one gallery, I was drawn to paintings where the artist first covered the canvas with a rusty red. At the other gallery, the artist used a rich black underpainting. In both cases, the color of the underpaintings shone through, creating exciting affects I couldn’t stop thinking about.

The painters’ styles were as different as can be. One offered rich painterly landscapes lush with textured paint and detail, while the other created vast canvases with broad, glimmering fields of color—landscapes that touched me like a fading memory of somewhere I'd been before.

Added to that were the memories of our trip to the southwest. Driving, driving, driving across the California desert into Arizona, then on to the Navaho reservation where the vast openness and layers of mesas and hills march off to pastel dreams of the old ones.

I couldn't stop looking at the shapes and changing colors, the low winter sun of the late afternoon drenching the land in warmth, the distant ridges cool and soft, melting into the sky.

Then, we drove on to the mountains of Colorado, where fall was well entrenched: the ridges patchworked with grays, browns, rusts, and taupe against grasses dried to shiny straw. The colors of a falling-down house, a sweat-worn saddle, torn curtains faded to a whisper.

Finally, this soup of inspiration has come together in the form of a new painting I started over the weekend. For the first time in many weeks, I had a few spare hours and my studio called to me—much louder than the laundry. So there I went, falling back into the meditation of shape and color that I love so well.