Laurelines

Lines, colors, shapes: January

I was only able to dip my toe into the great sea that is lithography during my two-day workshop in Austin, Texas.  I would like to find a way to continue working in this medium. I really like it.

Here are two very different first steps in lithography. One is a face roughly derived from my sketch of the adoring angel below. It sort of just appeared on the plate as I drew.

The second image comes from a recent sketch done in my studio here and is a way of seeing how my normal gestures and lines behave under lithograph conditions. The plates were small, 7"x9", so it was hard to get real momentum going.

Here is the mixed media sketch of the protea mentioned above:

And finally, a little loosening-up sketch from this morning: This loosening up is necessary because I'm going to Rome next Tuesday to see my daughter Cecelia (she who never stands still) and hope to get some sketches of Rome (think fountains) done while I'm there. She, as you may remember, is an avid sketcher now, so we can enjoy this together. I'm also meeting up with Concetta Flore, lovely artist and very nice person. She lives in Rome and wants to sketch with me...I'm really looking forward to it. I'm going to prepare some loose sheets for sketching by applying acrylic washes like the one I used for the Greek/Roman head below. Then I'll use ink and crayon on site. Playing with mixed media outside of the painting studio keeps me open to new ways of doing things inside it.  I'm taking a travel sketchbook, too. Ciao, Roma!

Museum sketches, North Carolina Museum of Art

The newly-renovated North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh is a real stunner. The permanent collections are displayed in the best possible way in exquisitely designed, ethereal spaces, with lots of natural light. 

I had time on my last visit to make two brief sketches. Color added later, as per the museum's rules.. no wet media allowed, of course.

This is a heartbreakingly beautiful angel, Bavarian, 18th century, in polychrome and gilt.

And here is an antique head, Greek or Roman... I didn't note at the time, unfortunately. It looks very pristine, I'll say that.

Off to Austin, Texas tomorrow for a lithography workshop, cold-addled head and all.

Achoo!

Woman at work

Yes, in the studio, making what I call 'gateway' paintings. These will lead to other paintings and who knows where we'll end up?

In this process, I move back and forth between more and less abstracted images. When I get stuck or feel too loosey-goosey, I put something down in front of me (here, the amaryllis) and paint it. This direct painting from life, from objects, is a way to ground myself, a means and not an end. Last year, I did this for an extended period, just to get back to wielding a brush. I spent only three hours on each of those paintings and set them aside, unfinished, before moving on to the next one. It was a great exercise for me.

These are unfinished, too,  but I will work most of them to completion. And then put them aside. After a couple of months, I'll see where I am.  

These paintings are speaking to me, though I don't know yet what they are saying. For now, it doesn't matter. The imagery here comes from emotion and intuition.

I'm supported in this slow, intuitive working method by the ideas I found in the book Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind by Guy Claxton.

Here are some excerpts: 

The mind, too, works at different speeds. Some of its functions are performed at lightening speed; others take... days or even years to complete their course.

...there is another mental register that proceeds more slowly still. It is often less purposeful and clear-cut, more playful, leisurely, or dreamy. In this mode we are ruminating... .being contemplative or meditative. These leisurely, apparently aimless ways of knowing  and experiencing are just as 'intelligent' as the other, faster ones.

We need the tortoise mind as much as we need the hare brain.

 

Yes, indeed.

 

 

 

 

I'm going to Austin, Texas next week for a lithography workshop and a few days later to Rome, to visit one of my daughters. I'll share here the work, sketches and prints, from those two experiences; they'll be much more hare-brained than my studio work.

What I know

I know well now that I can't control my world and I know that I can't predict what will happen to me, my loved ones, or anyone else. In light of this realization, I won't make detailed plans, as I have done here in years past.  There are, though, some things I know:

In 2012, I will paint. There are six paintings in my studio, begun in October and November, that beg to be finished. I'm eager to get back to them and see where they will take me next.

In 2012, I will write in my journals. I start a new one tomorrow, having filled four hardbound 8 1/2" x 11" Stillman & Birn books this year. What a lifeline that journal writing is.

In 2012, I will sketch and I will travel some, too. I go to Rome the first week in February to visit my roving daughter Cecelia. I go to Italy again in midsummer for the wedding of a dear family friend. There will, I hope, be a trip back to the cold parts of the world next winter. This I don't know, but I hope for it.

In January, I go to Austin, Texas to take a lithography workshop at Flatbread Press. I realized last fall that there are some ideas and images I have that would lend themselves better to printmaking processes than painting ones. I'm very excited about this. I took an etching course at university but have never done lithography.

2012 will be what it will be. Following my courageous daughter Kate's example, I am able to look to the new year. I hope, though I do not know, that it will be a good year, a productive year, a year of blessings.

I know, too, that I'll be here, sharing what 2012 brings. Happy new year to you.

December morning

I wake early. I always do. In the dark winter, it's my favorite time of day. Against all evidence, morning gives reason to hope.

 

Thank you for your messages of condolence and support. These help more than you know.

Heartbroken

Our precious daughter Kate lost her baby the day before Thanksgiving, a week before his scheduled birth. During a routine antenatal visit, the doctor discovered he was no longer alive. After delivery, we were able to see him and hold him. He was stunningly beautiful and perfect.

In my daughter's words:

"Theodore Mulhollan died some time in the last few days from a cord accident. The surgery was easy and we are spending time with him saying goodbyes. Thanks for your kind words and prayers."

My one solace is in seeing the tremendous courage and grace with which my daughter and her husband are dealing with their sadness and their great loss.