Spring from a Distance

Spring from a Distance

12" x 9"

Watercolor

It was one of those days in early spring where the light is milky and the colors are softened by the moisture in the air. Mother Nature hadn't quite decided whether she was ready to let go of winter yet. Earlier that morning, it snowed on us as we tromped over muddy spots ringed with crunchy ice; the first blades of grass bravely pushing through a gooshy layer of last year's leaves. We found an old rusty lantern hanging off a fence post just before we turned around into the chilling wind and walked back to the car.

We were looking for a road we'd remembered we'd been on, but couldn't find. Clint thought it was one direction—I, another. We pulled over, and while he studied the map, I studied how collectively, all those little blades of grass actually looked very green from a distance. Instead of a few struggling blades here and there, they joined together to declare the promise of spring. The up-close view was still ruled by the earthy grays, browns, and rusts of winter. The long view, showed me spring.

With this watercolor painting, I wanted to capture that soft winter light and color. Generally I work more boldly, having long ago declared I would never paint in soft ethereal pastels—as was quite popular for a while. Some secret club mandated watercolors were to be whispery visions of roses and kittens. Thankfully that passed—along with only being able to buy rugs in mauve and baby blue.

Farewell to Shiprock

 

 Farewell, Shiprock
11" X 17"
Mixed Media

We were heading west that cool morning in early spring, a little sad because we were leaving Colorado.

At the gateway of the wide-open spaces of the Res, ahead of us were miles and miles of land dotted with the occasional trailer and dusty clouds of sheep.

The town of Shiprock was behind us and the monolith from which the town took its name--the monolith ruling that part of the world--sparkled in the day's rising moisture. A muddy excuse for a road would have taken us to the base of Shiprock, but we elected to continue on toward Teec Nos Pos and Canyon de Chelly.

A few minutes later, I turned back and took in the long shadows of the ridge, Shiprock beginning to fade to a ghost in the distance. Silently I said, farewell, knowing it might be a while before I returned. The shadows on the ridge were deep indigo and the alluvial slope at the base of spires was a lace skirt of greens woven from early spring grasses.

This is a mixed-media piece. I threw pretty much everything I had in the studio at this one. It started out as a monoprint. I did a drawing on tissue, turned it over, and recreated the image on the Plexiglas plate backwards, so the mirror image of the print on paper was oriented the right way in the final piece. It would have been sacrilegious to paint an icon like this backwards.

One of the things I love most about creating monoprints is the texture added by the transfer of the paint from the Plexiglas plate to the paper. You can still see that texture in the sky and foreground, tiny blobs of paint here and there.

After several transfers: a blue, a magenta, a yellow, then one more round of each with variations, I cast aside the plate and used colored pencil to add detail directly to the paper, the last glimmering strokes applied with a silver pencil. The result—as brilliant and beautiful as I remembered.

Note the new signature. The why for this choice will be a topic for the future.

Remembering Summer

 

Summer Cottonwoods

4" X 6"

Watercolor

Now that fall is upon us and I sit here in a sweatshirt, I think about when I started this painting. It was a sweltering summer day outside of Lone Pine, which seems so distant now, though it was not that long ago. I remember wishing for cooler weather that afternoon, as the smoke-scented wind buffeted my right ear. I captured my beer between my knees so it wouldn’t blow off the table. 

It was too windy to paint, so I did a detailed drawing of the brush and struggling cottonwoods backed by the bluing Inyo Mountains. I sat in the begrudging shade of one of the few remaining trees that somehow survived despite too many dry winters and sporadic watering by the caretakers.

I brought the drawing home, and a few weeks later, pulled it back out and painted the scene. I wish I were there now, actually. Today, the sun would feel good on my back; the creek would be a welcomed and friendly babble. It’s much more fun to paint on location than in my studio –- though in my studio I don’t have to contend with wind or bugs. 

Luckily, the memory of the day came back to me as clear as when I was there; the colors and sparkle still fresh in my mind. 

There is still something yet to finish on this piece. I haven’t signed it yet. I’m still undecided about how I will leave my mark.

Same Great Paintings with a Different Signature

Well, my adolescent desire to be different has caught up to me and it has created a pall of dis-ease.

In what I always thought of as a creative attempt to shrug off being just another Sue in a sea of Sues, Susies, and Susans, years and years ago I started spelling my name as “Sioux”. I’ve signed my paintings that way for years.

People would ask if I were Native American, and I would tell them the closest I have come to being Native American was when I was accused of running around “like a wild Indian” as a child.

I settled on Sioux, because although it sounded the same, it seemed so exotic and the letters were so much prettier—an X in my name! (I’ve loved typography since way back when.)

But, over time, as I experience more of the world outside of  Looney-fornia, particularly the time we’ve spent of late in the Southwest, I’ve become more aware of and sensitive to Native American concerns. I do not want to offend the people who will someday be my neighbors by appearing I am something that I am not. I was, and still am, a simple Irish girl with a burning desire to stand out from the crowd in some way.

In hindsight, maybe Grand Prix would have been a better choice—showier and less offensive. Though over the years I’ve grown more comfortable with the me that is me; Susan isn’t so bad after all, I guess.

So, henceforth, you’ll see a different scribble on my paintings. Long after I’m gone and my artwork is a ubiquitous fixture in thrift stores, another generation of collectors can wonder if Sioux and whatever-I-settle-on are one and the same.

Time Off for Good Behavior

As a thank you to everyone
for your support over the past years, 

you all get a reprieve from my annual art show. 

And, it’s a break for me too.

That’s right.
There’s no show this year.
This is an anti-invitation.

No worries­­—I’ll be painting, drawing, and arting
as usual in preparation for next year’s event. 

Mark your calendars for early November 2014.

As always, you can stop by or see my latest work here.

Thanks again for being an art fan
and we’ll see you next year!

Artfully Yours,
Susan

Another Echo

 The Ruins of Wide Ruin

24" X 18"

Acrylic on Canvas

Have you ever been to a place that feels like a vague memory? Maybe that's why I painted the ruins of Wide Ruin twice. I feel as though I stood in the dust of that yard…waiting for something…and finally taking refuge from the blistering sun under this Spider Woman tree casting a shadow of protection with outstretched arms.

This pattern of repeating images in my paintings is fairly recent. I never used to paint things more than once. I would become bored with a subject by the end of the painting and would never consider repeating it.

It's not due to a lack of images to work from. Sometimes I’m curious see what would happen if I used another medium or different approach. In this case, the echo of Wide Ruins is painted on a much larger canvas than the first version.

When I started this painting I was on fire—bringing it near to completion over a weekend. But then, I lost my momentum. The piece sat languishing in the "viewing area" for weeks. I ignored it and started three more paintings.

And that took some serious ignoring. Not finishing a painting bugs the hell out of me. There are very few pieces I'll give up on. I hate to admit defeat (this extends to my non-art life, too).

An example? The painting of the wonderful horse we saw running across the desert near Toadlena (toe-AHD-lenah) was one of those aggravations. It's buried in a stack of canvases in my studio so I don't have to look at it and come to terms with my unsolved problem. It's likely I'll paint over that canvas, since the horse has declared I shall not capture him.

Eventually I heeded the lament of “the unfinished one” and returned to complete The Ruins of Wide Ruin. It only took a few minutes of concentrated brushwork to repair the nagging boo-boos. It wasn’t as large a task as it had grown to be in my head.

Speaking of unsolved problems, after looking and looking and looking at it, I think I've figured out what to do with the other unfinished painting I mentioned a post or two ago. Now I just have to buckle down and fix it.

Though I might start something new first.