Show Time!

Believe it or not; it’s that time again.
I’ve started preparing for my show and have actually set a date. 

So, get out those calendars and pen in 
(no pencils—this is a firm commitment):

Saturday, November 3, 2012 

Invitations won’t go out until the end of the month, however I like to let my loyal blog followers know as far ahead as possible, in case you aren’t on the mailing list and would like to be added (hint: email me! skearns@linkline.com).

From now until then I’ll be matting, framing, printing, and prepping pieces while still trying to squeeze in art and hiking and camping—plus the day job and freelance projects. Funny, I just had a conversation with Clint about how I try to cram in too much stuff in too little time…

The image at the top is a first run of new greeting cards that I’ll be offering. I will also have smaller archival prints of selected pieces. Early in the year, I had plans to set up an online portal for my prints and cards, but that hasn’t come to fruition yet—some day in the future it will happen.

 OK, this guy got a little wild, but I think his box 'o fruit juice might have fermented.

If you haven’t been to one of my shows, well, you don’t know what you are missing. It’s the social event of the year and you are guaranteed to have a good time. We like to think of it as a big ole party where there’s art. Don’t worry, no one swings from the chandeliers or anything. You’ll meet interesting people and experience our beautiful mountains while you nosh on some nummies, and sip tea or champagne.

The Reveal

I almost hate to tell you the title of this piece because I loved the different interpretations so much! Thank you for sharing them. That’s what I love about non-objective art; it means something different to each person.

My student Morgan continues to explore making non-objective art. This genre has freed her to play with color, value, texture, and composition without worrying about making something look like something. The result? She completed a piece during her lesson this past week that was stunning. I wish I’d taken a photograph of it to share with you. She is a natural. I’m so very proud of her.

Returning to the title of the piece from my last post…as I worked on this monotype, the idea that came to me was “Swimming Upstream”; because that’s what life feels like some days. Some days I'm a fingerling swimming like hell against the current, dodging the flotsam swirling my way.

Waxing Non-Objectively

"To Be Revealed"

9" X 12"

Monotype

As I brought the photograph of this image up onto the computer screen, Clint said, “Uh oh”. 

You see, for me non-objective or abstract* pieces are an expression of extreme emotion. Often, they express negative emotions: anger, fear, betrayal, loss. There were a few years there where I was doing a lot of abstract pieces—and I mean a lot. I've told Clint about those years, so this put up a red flag for him.

“Not to worry, my love,” I told him, ”You know I’ve been working with Morgan (my student) on abstract and non-objective expression and I wanted to show her an example of her next assignment.”

I had to come clean, “…well, and all the other stuff that’s been going on lately.” Yes, there’s been a bit of stress in our lives, but nothing that we can’t deal with.

What is so interesting about this piece is that when I showed it to Morgan and then Clint, they found completely different imagery within the print. Now, I did not intentionally incorporate any recognizable image. I was strictly working with shape and texture and value. That’s the wonderful thing about an abstract drawing or painting. Everyone finds something different. Sometimes there is nothing to find—yet so many people look for “something”. Often, there is nothing there other than an expression of color, texture, mood, or it’s simply an arrangement beautiful shapes.

When I finished this monotype, a title came to mind; yet my intent was very different than their interpretation. 

So…what do you see? Tell me and I’ll tell you the title and the feeling behind it.

*FYI: Abstract means the piece is derived from reality. There is something recognizable there. Non-objective—meaning there are no objects that are recognizable.

Adding and Subtracting

"Still Partners"

10" X 12"

Monoprint 

Fear not. We shall not trudge down the math path any further than my telling you the dimensions of these pieces. Instead, the title refers to the monoprint process I've been playing around with lately—adding and subtracting ink.

I've had this tube of sepia ink and some luscious creamy paper I've been aching to try out, so it was time to return to the plate, so to speak, and experiment once again with printmaking. I love making monoprints—not only the immediate result, but also the unpredictable nature of the process. Remember, each print is unique, there is only one (thus the name). (See more here, and here.)

I started with a piece of Plexiglas that I inked using a brayer (like a mini paint roller). I roughed out my drawing and began scraping away the ink with the chiseled end of a brush. The process was mind-numbingly slow. And, because I'd added oil to make the ink a bit more fluid, I found I was taking one step forward and two back as the ink kept seeping back into the places where I'd scraped it away.

I used a cloth to remove some of the ink, but this left large bare patches with little transition between light and dark. Finally, I loosely outlined the subject and used a bristle brush to remove the ink. Eureka! I loved the texture left behind by the brush. Even in the barest places, it left a soft haze of color. The result was much softer than the scrape-away method I've used in the past. The experimentation will continue as I work to establish a wider range of values using this technique.

"Still Partners II"

10" X 12"

Monoprint

After I made the first print, I thought I'd try a different approach. I had the ghost of the image left on the plate, so I applied ink with a brush to re-establish the forms. You can see the ink didn't come out evenly; there are blobs here and there where it was applied too thickly. However, I was able to quickly make another print. I think I like the first one better. How about you?

These images came from a photo taken on our trip to Domeland last fall. It seemed odd that these two trees grew so close and so tall side-by-side and there is nothing else around them. Like an old married couple standing there, they look out over the meadow, the sun warming their backs in the mornings, the sunsets saying goodnight.

Excuse Me While I Whip This Out

Front Door Freedom
12" X 9"
Acrylic on Canvas

So, earlier in the week I was whining about how the last painting had grown cold and how difficult it was to finish because I wasn't in love with it anymore—blah blah, blah—the usual artist angst. Well, this new painting flew together like an instant cake mix. I started it one evening and finished it the next. Whoosh! 

It happened so fast that I'm still in love with it and adoring every loose, lively, and colorful brush stroke on the canvas. Every time I walk past it, I smile because I held the mood I wanted through completion. Sometimes the fast ones are the most satisfying.

I think my success was partially due to the thrill of starting something new after the last piece dragged itself wheezing to a finish. It was as though I'd finally chewed through a tether, breaking free into a new adventure of light and color. Another reason this painting was only 12" X 9", so there was less ground to cover, so to speak.

When we drove through New Mexico, we made a side trip out to a trading post. Yes, a real trading post. It was something out of an old western: dusty and jammed with an odd assortment of old and new. An ancient wood burning stove greeting us at the door, sullenly smoking. Around the perimeter, shelves lined with cans of spam, soup, beans, a couple bags of potatoes. A small freezer held a meager assortment of meat.

A side room held huge piles of intricate rugs in every size and color, woven by local Navaho women. Although intriguing, it felt like a very sad place to me. I wasn’t there long enough to know the intricacies of life there, but it oozed conflict; like two fists pounding against each other every day, each unhappy and sore from the impact.

Outside, looking out over the vibrant landscape, it didn't feel that way. It felt open and vast and free.

A Slow Finish

Wet Beaver Creek

Acrylic on Canvas

24" X 18"

I started out going gangbusters on this painting; but then life got a little hectic and I couldn’t get back to it while the coals of excitement still glowed. In fact, the coals cooled completely on this baby. I think I’ve shared this type of experience before: if I don’t finish a piece while I’m still in love with the subject, completion can be prolonged and painful.

Minutes after I signed my last piece, I broke out a new canvas—eager to set sail on a new journey. It was getting late in the evening, so I quickly blocked out the basic composition, dreaming of that cool fall day next to the stream. Luckily, I was able to come back to the beginnings of the piece the next night, and a few days later spent a long delightful afternoon working, taking it near to completion. I placed the painting in the viewing area to study and determine the finishing touches.

While bouncing around the floor to my exercise video, I figured out what needed to happen next. Some people read while they are on the treadmill, I do aerobics and look at my paintings. However, even though I knew where I wanted to go next with this piece, it took a couple of weeks to get back to it. My weekend afternoons were absorbed by chores or hiking (the latter an acceptable excuse). My evenings busy with other obligations. By the time I returned to the painting again, it was cold, cold, cold. I had to burst through the wall of resistance and boredom to complete it. That’s what I call it—the wall. If I just keep beating my head against it (in other words, keep painting), I break through and the flow begins again.

We camped beside Wet Beaver Creek on one of the last nights of our honeymoon in November. I wish we could have stayed longer; it was such a pretty spot. On the far side of the creek, the banks were choked with vegetation. An array of bright greens and yellows and golds stood out against a dark wall of lichen-covered rocks that defined the gully where the creek traveled. A cobble of water-smoothed stones made a beach on the near side, bordered with slender sycamores wearing glowing leaves of bronze and amber.

It was a peaceful place to camp, although some might have been put off by the waddling skunks that joined us that night, rubbing against our ankles while looking for bits of dropped food under our table. We stayed very still, speaking in soft voices, trying to calmly continue our game of Scrabble. We could smell them before we could see them. Once there were no scraps of food found (or left), they moved on to the next campsite, where a boisterous bunch of boy scouts stomped and hollered, chasing the skunks back into the brush for the night.

I started a new piece last night—again, moments after finished this one—and I'm very excited about my progress so far. It’s another image from the same trip. The color is intense and I plan to keep it that way—a landscape filled with the rich glow of late afternoon.

I have a busy week ahead of me, with company coming for the weekend. Keeping the flow going on this next piece may also be a challenge. Wish me luck!

The Backstory

Looks like a bunch of paint blobs, huh. 

That's because I was being painterly.

I was admonished by one of my loyal readers for not sharing the art story behind the Silverton painting (click here to see it). There’s always a story behind each piece, because each one is an adventure in art.

You might remember I was a little nervous about this painting because the subject matter was outside my usual repertoire. I wasn’t worried about the background; it was the rail car that concerned me. However, from the beginning, I had decided to approach the subject in a loose and painterly manner. I didn’t want the extreme detail that would make it look like a photo.

See how bumpy the canvas is? 

Added to that, I started with a recycled canvas. I painted over an old piece that sat in the “maybe” pile for years. It had a lot of paint on it, the subject being a band of exuberant street musicians, so there was a great deal of texture on the surface, which added to the approach.

There are plenty of artists who paint trains that are perfect—right down to the number of rivets. That’s not me and it never will be. As one of my professors in college said, "If you want it to look like a photo, why not just take a photo?" The point being that your interpretation and the natural imperfections of the art process that go into a painting are what make it uniquely your own—and make the art more interesting too.

Here's an early version of the piece.

        

But my worries were unfounded. The rail car nearly painted itself. I mean, I painted it, but it was not on a conscious level. Often when I paint, it’s akin to meditation. I’m there, but I’m not there. I’m making color and value and brushstroke decisions, but it’s more on an unconscious or instinctive level. It’s shapes and color and texture that are pictured in my head. No words, no solid thoughts that I could verbalize.

When I am finished painting for the evening, I rinse my brushes and leave the studio. I rarely take the time to evaluate my progress. I wait until I return to the studio. Upon my return, it’s always a little bit of a surprise—"Wow, how’d I do that?" That thought might be positive—or negative. Then, I determine my next step and dive back into my painting meditation.

The painting of the rail car was much like that—completed while in a richly satisfying and relaxing meditative art state. It was actually the background where I struggled to find the right value and shade of blue for the deep winter shadows. No color dreaming my way through that part of the piece. It required focused trial and error until I stumbled upon just the right color mix and transparency.

Just barely started. 

I'm hoping to make some headway on this tonight.

In my new piece, I return to one of my favorite subjects, water. Specifically, a beautiful stretch of Wet Beaver Creek. Yes, those early settlers were a randy bunch, weren’t they?

Remembering Silverton

Caboose Cabin

20" X 16"

Acrylic on Canvas

It was cold that morning, maybe in the low twenties. We scraped the ice off the windshield and headed toward Silverton on Highway 550. As the broad and open road climbed out of the valley where Durango sits, it became narrower—and icier. It was a great road, but the shady spots were slick with ice; we could hear the tires crackling across the surface. The snow blowing across the pavement leftover from the storm two days earlier seemed out of place in the bright sunshine.

The road got curvier, steeper, and more shaded as wound its way up to Coal and Molas passes, both over 10,000 feet in elevation. I couldn't believe how quickly we climbed. The view was spectacular: breathtaking mountains draped in snow. Soon, we were looking over the side into a deep crevice that held the creek was beside the road just a few minutes earlier.

We rounded a slight curve and came upon several Big Horn Sheep right in the middle of the road. We slowed to look at them and I rushed to get my camera out. The driver of a big rig behind us leaned on his horn—which might have been intended more for the stupid tourists than the sheep. Either way, it prompted the sheep to scamper off the road and up slope to our right.

Soon we came to the summit, where we could see a deep valley ringed by mountains. In the center sat Silverton, a handful of colorful confetti on a blanket of snow. The surrounding ridges framed the town with deep blue shadows.

It was 18 degrees. The streets were covered in a thick layer of ice. There were no other cars or people to be seen. It was 10 am, but none of the stores appeared to be open. The town was still and quiet—it looked abandoned. Steam rose off the rooftops of the weathered buildings that looked like something out of an old Wild West movie.

We found a building with signs of life (Lights! A car!). A sign proclaimed "Market" and "Coffee". Aha! Something that was open! The market had seen better days, though it was pretty well stocked. There was a big barrel of Piñon nuts, a sampling of produce, dusty canned goods, and of course, the last of the season's souvenirs. A hand-lettered piece of cardboard leaning on the register read: "This business for sale".

We left the store with our coffee and Piñon nuts, treading carefully over the ice back to the car. We drove around the deserted streets, (too cold and icy to walk!) taking in the charming old buildings and churches that remained from the boom days when Silverton was a thriving mining town. On the outskirts we found a colorful train car transformed into a summer cabin. The weeds had grown thick around it, the occupant long gone to some place warm for the winter.

We drove up out of Silverton, looking back at the tiny, empty town. The Big Horn Sheep were back in the middle of the road again. This time, no one behind us was in a hurry; so we stopped and let them slowly meander their way back off the road.

Ah, Wilderness

Sierra Ridge

6" X 4"

Watercolor and Pencil

We hadn't been back to Lone Pine since last fall. It was like coming home: the scent of the sage, the bone-warming heat of the sun, the cool air sliding off the sparkling mountains. I felt the tension of the last few weeks melt out of me, carried away with the breeze.

We needed this trip. We needed some time crawling over rocks and bending under willows, looking deep into the creek for lolling, iridescent trout. We needed to sit on a damp bank and absorb the fragrance of the wild roses sprawled along the creek, with half-dollar blooms of glowing pink and pale sepal stars where the blooms were spent. We needed to toss our lines into the amber water and let the sound of the water sing away our tight shoulders and smooth the furrow across our brows.

After a time, we came back to our campsite, to sit in the shade and watch the ridge above us wreathed in a soft focus filter of dust and moisture. The sun had dropped behind the great granite wall, yet there was plenty of daylight left yet. The show would go on for a while.

Nearing Last Light

6" X 4"

Watercolor and Ink

The temperature dropped and the wind picked up speed. Clouds blew up from valleys between the spires and turned coral and pink as daylight ebbed away. The sky deepened to sapphire, the air grew calm, and the first star appeared. Yet on the highest points of the ridge, there were still orange and gold highlights of the setting sun—saying a last farewell before dipping below the horizon miles to the west.

Time for a campfire and star watching for a while before we would climb into the womb of our tent and snuggle into our bags for the night.

PS. The painting of the rail car is coming along well. I'm very excited about it! I think a weekend "outside" helped.

Parts Unknown

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