Do you still paint?

"Sieve" 2006,  Satin, silk thread, ink, paper.

  

We had family visit over the long President's Day weekend so I took a break from writing.

Just yesterday, I was asked a question that caused me to lie in bed awake at night.  And the question was, "Do you still paint?"

The answer I gave was, "Not anymore."  Which was the truth.

I have an extensive collection of brushes that have stayed dry.  Bottles and tubes of beautiful pigments that haven't been mixed for four whole years.  That's how long its been since I was first pregnant with Eden.  And I haven't held a brush since she was born.

I reasoned that its difficult to paint, well, particularly with water-based media, because the medium is so time sensitive.  A cry from the baby, a crash in the kitchen, any form of interruption can destroy a painting if you're mid-stroke or pouring a wet on wet.  

Then there's the effort to set up.  Prepping the floor, the painting surface, laying out the colors, making sure everything is at hand so that intuition can lead without inhibition.  Knowing that I will have to stop, clean up and wait till the next opportunity when I'm child-free kills that free-spirited exploration that is so critical to really good work.

This same person then asked, "Do you really like crafts?"  

Which made me stop what I was doing, look down at my work and think, "Is this what I've done?  Moved from Art to Craft?"  I used to make unique one-of-a-kind work and now I'm making pillows and onesies?  I felt a sadness in my soul.  

I crawled out of bed the next morning and looked up old images of my work

"Firebird" 2006,  Satin, silk thread, ink, paper.

I looked at the circles and strings - which I was fascinated and obsessed with for one long season in my art career.  It occurred to me that my latter work, just before I stopped, was all about printing, sewing, image transfer, and experimenting with fabric.  Granted, nothing I made was wearable, and certainly none of it was functional.  But the forms and the techniques aren't that alien to what interests me now.

I don't quite know how to end this post, except to say that I'm going to take some part of what I had, my circles and my strings and bring it back into my current life.  I'm going to keep going....

 

On old concrete floors

Never underestimate the biological instincts of an expectant mother.  Last Saturday, despite being 36 weeks pregnant, I dragged my husband and two-year old daughter to Ikea to lug home a trunk load of new shelving. Thereafter, I closeted myself in the home office and proceeded to reorganize the entire space.  I swept, wiped, vanquished dust bunnies, sorted out all my paints, and pulled out hoards of art supplies I had kept around waiting for that inspired project - salvaged pieces of wood, metal, rolls of copper, acrylic, bolts of satin etc. including a box of orange rubber bracelets stamped with "Opening Night at the De Young Museum" which I swear I will make useful one day.

At the end of 4 days of "almost overdoing it", I sat back to enjoy my newly set-up studio.  And it was wonderful to behold.  Books lined up, artwork hung on the walls, containers labeled, power cords neatly tucked away, clean desks and a gleaming hardwood floor.

So why am I now missing the rough, stained concrete floor of my old studio space in the city...? That floor had permanent paint marks that defied being removed, rings of embedded beeswax, spots of hardened resin and all the markings of thoughtless spillage occurred during my numerous artistic experiments.

Back in those days, I worked with nary a thought of cleaning up.  The floor was like a giant, silent canvas - accepting of whatever I chose to do in my various alchemical pursuits.  And the art that resulted from those days reflected that sort of kind of careless intensity.

Now, I am cautious with my studio's hardwood floor.  I wouldn't dream of leaving spilled paint on it, scratching it, hammering it, spraying water, solvents, anything that required cleaning up before my toddler gets her little fingers and toes in the gunk.  Heck, I already use ecologically sustainable, green, non-toxic cleaning supplies on every part of my house so what makes this floor space any different?

Safe to say, what I am probably missing is doing a certain kind of artwork.  The kind that can't be done when your surroundings are too precious to damage.  Does this mean I will be doing neat little paintings of koalas and giraffes for the years to come?

From the very beginning.......

Five years ago, I lived in a vibrant, art-loving city, in a tiny studio apartment up on a hill. I drove a beat-up car (which was broken into at least 3 times), and rented an art workspace in a neighborhood known for indie boutiques, aspiring hole-in-the-wall restaurants and a trusty collection of homeless vagrants.

Today, I am comfortably ensconced in Suburbia with its wide sidewalks, ample parking and the usual big-box retail. I drive a compact SUV outfitted with a toddler car-seat, and work out of my home (in my pjs if I choose to). Some days, I actually miss parallel parking on a slope.