thoughts on art and creative living

I took a process-painting workshop this past weekend called “Breakthroughs in Intuitive Painting”, facilitated by Carolyn Winkler (spiritmaskjourneys.com).

The idea of the workshop is to give up one’s habitual modes of painting, instead giving oneself over to a completely intuitive process. We paint with liquid tempera on paper, simulating the experience of painting as a child. From the very beginning, I’m thinking “Yippee! I get to paint like a child!… I don’t have to please anyone but myself!”… Yet, I must admit that there’s another part of me that’s thinking, “I can’t waste a whole weekend on this. I’ve got to create paintings for my upcoming shows. Yes, I want my work to be freer… but I also want to create a product I can sell!”

That dilemma was my shadow throughout the workshop. It really did interfere with my goals of completely letting go and giving myself over to the process. But eventually, the process won out, and I did experience a breakthrough in my work.

Here’s a synopsis of my progress:

I began by painting on a single sheet of paper, 18×24, taped vertically onto a foam support. Red, umber, and blues were the dominant color scheme.  The shape of a woman takes form almost immediately.

I soon realized that I wanted to expand beyond the rectangular edge of the paper, so I started tearing sheets, then adding them to each side, creating an irregular shape. Trees start to frame the woman, piercing a swirling sky.

After lunch, I decided the imagery came too quickly, so I painted over her.

I sorta liked this state, where she was half there, and half erased. I wasn’t completely satisfied, though, so I painted over her face completely.

Another woman appeared in her place.

At the end of the day, I looked at my piece and felt disappointed. She feels contrived… and the composition is stiff. I went home feeling a little annoyed. I asked myself, “Why is it so difficult to make a shift?” I realized that I had too many expectations of an immediate breakthrough. I wanted to paint, but felt too despondent. I read through my book, “Painting from the Source”, by Aviva Gold. I went to bed early, exhausted but hopeful.

The next day, I knew I had to completely obliterate the woman. I turned my paper upside down and taped it to the wall again. I added extensions of more torn paper.

Something definitely shifted within the painting (and myself) once I painted over the woman and started painting more freely.

Swirls of color start to flow from my brush. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m okay with that. I don’t need to have a plan, or to know where it’s going. I’m using more paint than I normally do because it’s cheap, so I’m not constrained by thoughts of cost. I do realize that I’m starting to get attached to these swirls now, though. So, after lunch, I turn the painting over again.

Once I turned it over, I immediately saw the shape of a bird’s head, formed from the swirls. I ask myself, “Is this image from the mind or from the heart?” I’m not certain, but it feels like the right thing to do, so I give myself to this idea… painting a wild bird’s head with a huge, glaring eye. I work further on the swirls of the sky, and as a last touch, green blades of grass against the red earth. Time is up, and I feel satisfied.

I am in a blissful state this evening because I’ve finally surpassed my creative impasse. I knew it was only a matter of time. This has happened before. I know I’m not the only one to occasionally wonder if the juices will ever flow again. Once the creative pump is primed fully, I wonder how it ever slows to a trickle. Truly, there are so many ideas flowing through me now that I wonder if I’ll be able to catch up with my brain.

I’ve been playing with these surfaces for the past week or so. I go back and forth between layering colors on 6 small paintings and a few larger ones. It’s been fun, but now and then I stop and question myself, “what will ever come of this?”. It feels like total chaos to me, and I long to settle on an image so that I know what direction the work is taking. I hush myself. If I want to paint the same way I’ve been painting for 20 years, that’s fine… nothing wrong with it… but then why is this discontent bubbling up within me? I know that to change requires courage. It requires sticking with the process even when I have no idea where I am going or if I am heading the right direction. I decide it doesn’t matter if I end up throwing all of these paintings away. I give myself permission to make a mess. I keep painting. Layering. Dripping. Rolling textures. Smearing. Stop. Start another painting. Repeat the process of simply following whatever impulse guides me. The next day, return to the studio and play again. Then a day comes when I am afraid to face it. Too much uncertainty. Delve into it anyway. Forget that I am the creator. There is no room for ME here, just the simple play of colors and textures. I get out of the way. At some point, I stop and realize something magical has happened

In a way, some of these new paintings have taken years to make. I created the textures of the painting above by making a collograph in school many years ago. A collograph is basically a collage-plate which is printed onto paper. I glued crinkled paper, string, and dried glue doodles to a mat board, sealed it with varnish, inked it up, and ran it through a roller. 15 years later, I dig it out of my collage bin, cut it up, glue it to a board and paint it. The flying swan pendant belonged to my mother. I took it off of my altar the other day because I thought I might draw it. I saw it sitting next to my unfinished collage and decided they might belong together. An interesting note: I was thinking the shapes in the piece symbolized a “mother” figure… a sort of nurturing, protective form. The flying bird symbolizes freedom for me. I can make my own personal allegory: perhaps it’s my mother’s soul, which is now free from this world. Or maybe it is a more universal idea of “mother spirit” which nurtures until her young are free to fly.

More experiments (all of these images enlarge when you click them):

None of the paintings in this post are finished yet. I am just documenting my own progress.

A friend of mine recently remarked that she’s horrified when she sees artists posting their unfinished works on the web. For her, she needs to work through the many layers and incarnations of a painting before she can feel safe about revealing it. I probably used to feel the same. But I don’t feel that these paintings really belong to me yet. They are still coming through me and I am simply curious about my own process, especially since this way of working is still new to me.

While I was on my walk today, I found a clipped yellow rose on the pavement. I was in a business district and could find no yellow rose-bushes nearby, so someone must have cut it, walked with it, and dropped it. I immediately picked it up as if it was a present left for me. It’s scent was fragrant and the bloom was still fresh. I brought it home and decided that it was what I was meant to paint for the evening. Again, for some reason it reminded me of my mother, so I decided to paint it as a dedication to her. I picked up one of my panels which I decided would be a good back-drop. With the contrasting blues and accenting yellows, it seemed a perfect match. I got my oil palette set up and went to town. I realized that part of me was missing the “rendering” aspect of my painting. I was having fun with layering acrylics, but creating a “portrait of a flower” put me in a meditative state. I’ve decided that I like this combination of painting with wild abandon, then painting with serene focus. A perfect balance of Order and Chaos (just like my mind).