where we go from here

Two semesters of school swallowed me up. Only 4 classes, and they weren't even that hard. I think this is why they leave college to the young and childless.

I came up for air twice... once around Thanksgiving and once briefly during spring break (not really a break). Some days going to classes felt like a relief from all the overthinking that goes into my painting (and my parenting, too, for that matter), and other days it felt like a yawning drag to sit still for two hours at a stretch and take notes and write essays in bluebooks. I enjoyed it for the most part, though, and got along famously with my professors. Probably because I am closer in age to them than to my fellow students. 

I don't know how to tally up yet another random year in the patchwork medley that is my higher education; but while the outcome of getting an art degree remains somewhat undefined, there are two things I know I got from taking classes this year:

1. permission to make mistakes

2. I'm so glad I'm not 19

Both invaluably valuable, those.

So, things got intensely local for a while there... there was energy in the hive and for the hive, but anything outside of a 10 mile radius, I did not know about or have the time to find out. Or that could just be what happens when you live in Rhode Island. 

But here's a kid with some long-term vision, or, as he puts it, "I'm a distance-seer."

And when distance calls, you get dressed...

And you learn to speak the language...

And then you take apart the furniture...

... and put everything in boxes and get ready to go.

So, yes, distance...

Japan!

How could we say no?

Even as hard as it is to pull up our nascent roots here, to maintain the momentum that gathers no moss, it is also unspeakably good to imagine navigating again the enchanted city of Kyoto, whose moss is composed, cultured, cultivated. We shall borrow hers, then.

Countdown to leave Providence has begun, and we have a lovely summer in Michigan ahead before we go abroad, so of course I am a jumble of sadness and nerves and utter giddy delight. How can it be true, this life?

It's less like stacking cards -- carefully, one on top of the last -- and more like flinging the deck and jumping on whatever lands face up. We keep moving: I keep making amazing friends and I keep taking classes and I figure that it amounts to something, somehow, but how do I hold it all? How do I assemble it and make it useful? Maybe it's less important where we go, and more important how we go from here.

*

if you're willing

This painting used to look a lot different. I think I started it when Auden was a baby, five years ago. (Wait, what? Rumination on time's passing, etc, etc) The last time I worked on it was a year and a half ago.

Mostly I'm of the mind to stop messing with a piece after a while, because IT'S DEAD ALREADY GAH move on. But this step was not so much about resucitation as it was about completely starting over in the spirit of total experimental abandonment. So for that it was okay to use a canvas that was already worked on and overworked on. In fact, it was sort of perfect for what I've been trying to accomplish, which is, of course, layers upon layers:

"If You're Willing," oil and mixed media on canvas, 12 x 12"

I blotted out most of what was there before, which was extremely satisfying, but I like how you can still faintly see through to what's underneath. I collaged in those ink-drawn hands -- which I made in Japan years and years ago -- because they seemed to fit & give a little focus to the piece. And probably because the original had hands in it, too. I like them hovering near the periphery though; I've been wanting to explore with compostions that are a little off-kilter, with objects framing negative space in the middle instead of the other way around.

I feel pretty excited about the new directions I'm going in, so even if this piece & the others don't ever get resolved, it's been really fun to keep pushing them. If I am willing, indeed.

*

more generations

I painted this portrait of my step-grandma, age 93, as a present for my step-mom on her birthday.

I thought and thought about how to write that out -- isn't there a less clunky way to say that? Less distancing terms for these women who are not my biological family, but whom I love and cherish with my whole heart?

I was always reluctant to use the word step-mom, at first because I was just a punk kid too caught up in my own drama to appreciate my dad's new marriage, and more importantly, the actual person who was his new wife. But later, after mellowing out (some), it still strikes me as an awkward way to describe a relationship. 

Doing this portrait made me appreciate them all the more, the people that they are. Families who come together after divorce or death have to do double the work sometimes, and my stop-mom and step-grandma have always been gracious, generous, and kind. As I painted this portrait, I was struck again and again by how beautiful she is -- how our lives accumulate within us over time and intersect with others... how we create meaning, and meaningful bonds.

It was an honor to paint her; and it's funny that I made it as a birthday present, because I received such an amazing gift in doing it.

*

generations

I always joke that Jason and I both got a mini-me... Auden looks just like him, and Isla looks just like me. But then I looked at these pictures of Jason's paternal grandmother, and the resemblance took my breath away.

             

She's Danely all the way. Thank you, Grandma Lois, for passing on these lovely genes.

*

as promised, pink

A long time ago, I promised I would paint in pink.

My palette has been so murky for so long, it was positively shocking to use pigment straight from the tube.

I've been diluting the paint with turpenoid to do these block-y color washes. No canvas is being spared.

With the paint so thin, they dry quickly and I've been able to do lots of layers one right after the other.They're all evolving dramatically, good practice in not staying too attached to any one layer. Except this one... I'm too attached. 

It's terrible -- the ones I like too much, I unintentionally stifle by protecting them.

But it's good, too, to see that. To work in batches, and evaluate which ones are successful and why. Often it's the ones I don't like that change the most and pull ahead in the end. Not that I have any idea where the end is.

To the process! To color!

*

heave, ho

Move your limbs. Open your ribs like blinds.

Reach, keep reaching. Accept that you will never get there.

THERE is an ego destination.

Do not think too much about blogging. Blaaahhhhhggging. It is quicksand.

Let the words fall out; quit with the editing and sorting. There isn't much in there, it seems, but sometimes you miss things during the first round. Go, look again. It could just be that you're tired. Or forgetful!

*

Everything feels like I'm holding back, like a wide space that I can't quite enter. Thoughts are jostling, constant, but none among them has any substance. The real words, the real painting, the real expression, is just beyond the periphery. I'm distracted, insisting on diction when the real meaning is in the melody.

Ten days ago the blizzard Nemo sculpted fantastic drifts in our back lot, and we went out with shovels to build. The snow was pristine, elegantly scooped out under trees, rising in smooth waves along garage walls, arriving at perfect ridges. Something about those shapes was so compelling, so inviting: I took Isla's hand and we charged in, needing to be part of it. But of course, as soon as I entered that space, I changed it. My wanting it, ever at odds with my having it.

So it is with painting.

I worked on a new portrait the other day, and I could tell that it wasn't going to flow. So, some days it does not flow. Do I push through, clunking? Or do I clean my brushes for the day, and sew instead?

I pushed, I fussed, I made some kind of progress. Is that progress, the fussing? Is it only progress when I like what I've done? It's hard to let it be unfinished.

The cure for self-conscious markings: more markings. I can't untrample that snow, but oh, how perfect that drift was, and how it pulled me.

*

brother, sister

I painted this brother & sister pair in December, commissioned as a Christmas gift for their mom:

I love doing these as gifts, they're such a unique and meaningful surprise.

And dad got amazing-gift-giver status of all time.

*