I Like This

I've been doing more writing lately (not on my blog!), and paintings seem to be coming faster and easier concurrently, which is something I never foresaw. This is Lemonade Sky, 40 x 30". I resisted the notion that it was done for over a month, during which I turned my attention to lots of other projects. Today I signed it.

I wonder why creative work seems to benefit from the cross-pollination of disciplines? Can't answer the question, but the results make me happy!

Out In The Yard

This is my student, John's, painting of the view from my front yard on a recent almost- rainy afternoon.

"I've decided to make the road into a river," he informed me as we painted.

Given the weather, it was a natural decision!

Here's my more prosaic interpretation of the same scene.

Learning From Students

This past Monday my homeschooled student, John, came over for his art lesson. I use the word "lesson" loosely in this context; what John and I generally do in Studio Time is work on projects while yakking about art. If, at the same time, a few technical pointers are absorbed, so much the better.

Monday was a chilly, misty day. I was getting ready to teach basic facial proportions to my evening class, and thought John and I might experiment with self-portraits, but when I told him I'd recently bought some new slow-drying acrylics for plein-aire painting, he surprised me with his response.

"It isn't exactly raining right now," he said.

And he was right. A mad dash to the side yard ensued, and we spent the following hour painting views near the house.

I feel so blessed to benefit from the wisdom of children. And so glad I know John.

A Manifesto

There's a pervasive mindset in our culture, that if you're an artist, and you make enough money to live on, you're selling out, prostituting your muse. As though it weren't a legitimate calling to produce art and feed oneself at the same time - or that the artist must choose a single option: to value their art either materially or spiritually; never both.

This is a rationale I've come to reject only by staring it very hard in the face. I can now see the holes in the fright mask. Behind them is a false humility that's actually rooted in hubris: the belief that art and artists are somehow special; not of this world; above other trades. Oh really?? Want to argue that when you need a plumber? A firefighter? People provide valuable services and create good things every day. And they make a living at it, as they deserve to do. If your toilet backed up, you probably wouldn't want to call an artist to fix it. But when you need an uplifting vision, the discount store won't do. The person you should get in touch with then is an artist.

To that end, I'm sending my Holiday Card promotion to my email list, and creating fun, affordable art to fit within real people's shopping budgets. I'm advocating for people to think about giving art for the Holidays this year. Remember that even if an original painting is not within your means, a signed print of that painting may well be. It's simple, it's real, it's local, it's unique, and it will keep you out of the craziness at the mall. It's even affordable, whatever your budget. But the best reason to give art to your loved ones - or yourself - is because it is uplifting and intrinsically valuable.

So, please visit my website, www.mainebrook.com/art , and think about how you would feel about giving someone you care about a gift that is beautiful and may be a cherished part of their life forever.

That's it. Commercial over. Wishing you and your loved ones a blessed and happy Holiday season.

Crow #3. 5x5" on canvas. 2010

The Basics

I've been reading the book Musicophilia, by Oliver Sacks, a neurologist. It's a fascinating book about the various ways the human brain perceives and processes music, and how profoundly music can change us.

Perception is one of my favorite things to think about as I go about my day. The information our eyes perceive, and what our brain tells us based on this information, is so very different - and yet again both must be so different from the reality - as we're given to understand it - of atoms awash in tides of energy, with far more space between than solid material.

Am I the only person in the world who is nuts enough to think about things like that while driving from the post office to the grocery store?

Anyway, back to Musicophilia. Sacks writes that Mozart created music by repeating and enlarging on patterns, while Beethoven started with a grand theme and illustrated it. (If Sacks ever stumbles across my blog I hope he'll forgive me for interpreting his opinion!) Reading what he wrote made me think about my painting. I'm definitely more in the Mozart camp, myself. In fact, one of my favorite modern composers is Philip Glass, whose work is decidedly all about pattern and texture. I often listen to his recordings in my studio. I've been a realist in the past - and realism will tend to creep into my paintings if I allow it - but rather than the scene itself, I am so much more interested in painting the patterns and textures I find within the scene.

Blue Line. 9x9 on masonite. 2010

Gratitude

I am unspeakably grateful for the support of fellow artists. Artists almost always work alone, but the creative impulse doesn't reach its full potential in complete isolation from other artistic minds. When artists get together and share their stories, joys and frustrations over a simple meal, each individual enriches and energizes the group and all other individuals. I'm particularly touched and honored when an artist chooses to purchase one of my paintings for their home, as my artist friend Mary did yesterday. (The image above is actually half of a dyptich entitled Red Line - but for some reason I only photographed one panel! I'll try to update the post at some point after I get around to photographing the other half - Mary, can I come over with my camera sometime??)

I would encourage any artist to join a community - or a few communities - to foster creative and emotional support. Much is made of us being "a breed apart" in more mainstream society. When we connect with each other in the present, just as when we learn about artists of the past, we also connect with our own roots.

Red Line. One of two 12x12" on canvas. 2009

Juried out!

Well, Scarborough Marsh won't be exhibited in the juried show at the Harlow Gallery this month, because it didn't make the cut - and I'm fine with that.

No, really. I'm not saying I'm fine with my painting being juried out of a show because I want to save face or save my friends from feeling that they need to call me up and say something cheery - I really am fine with the jurors' decision. It's theirs, and I respect it as I do my own decisions.

Two years ago, On Calm Reflection was juried out of the same show. A short time later (well, a year seems like a short time to me, so I won't attempt to count the weeks), I was exhibiting it in another gallery, and the owner bought it. (Sandie, I hope the match will always be happy!) Which only goes to show you never can tell.

There are a good number of reasons for being juried out of a show. When more work is submitted than can fit in the gallery, a high percentage of it has to be culled. This gives the jurors a chance to develop a thematic approach to the show, choosing works that harmonize in color, texture or theme. So, one reason art can get rejected is because it doesn't flow with the theme that's developing.

Or, because of technical weaknesses. Or unoriginality. Or, maybe the jurors just don't care for it. Which is also ok. And which I find quite liberating - because the statement also applies to me: my opinions are valid, too. I'm going to share some with you, but don't mistake them for a lecture - I'm anybody, and your opinions are as much yours as mine are mine.

As a twenty-something student, I visited the museums in New York, Paris, London, Madrid, always in awe of the groundbreaking, historic work I saw in these places. Some of it thrilled me. Some of it I didn't understand. I knew I would learn more and hopefully come to understand it later. The deficit was always mine. I didn't think of giving myself permission to simply dislike something, or disagree with the curator as to its significance.

Friday night John and my fifty-something self went to the Portland Museum of Art. I wanted to see the Frederick Lynch exhibit - which we both loved, as it turned out. Google him. His art incorporates fractal geometry and handmade texture in sublime balance.

While we were there, we also browsed some of the other exhibits. There were some Mapplethorpe photographs, beautiful black and white studies, technically superb. Of course I was reminded of his controversial stuff - the photograph of the cross suspended upside down in urine was my introduction to his work. When was that - back in the 80s? At the time I was young enough to discount my personal feelings, which included revulsion - I'd learn to understand it if I studied hard enough.

My opinion today is that his beautiful work is not particularly memorable - it's just too beautiful to really be extraordinary. His cross-in-urine photograph may be his strongest image - it forces a visceral reaction (from all but the most self-effacing ascetics - they never appreciate art - LOL!) - but I don't like it. Because it's icky, and disrepectful, and when I think of it my nose wrinkles up and I remember the atmosphere in too many unsavory train stations. I don't feel the need to have that particular reaction forced.

We also saw a Matisse seascape that I thought was rather bad. Part of a great body of work, assuredly, because it was a Matisse, but it was half-assed. I imagine Matisse admired economy of expression: I do, too. To me a good smear is a much more realistic representation of a tree than a trunk and a bunch of leaves and branches - just as a concise metaphor is so much better than a long dissertation... oh, what am I doing blogging??

I can see that when I am slightly older and grumpier I'll need to be on guard against making pithy pronouncements without enough forethought. OK, I could start watching out for that now. I think it happened to Uncle Henri the day he painted that seascape. I also imagine the breeze was pretty brisk up on the bluff where he was, and his eyes got dry and squinty, and his fingers ached and a drink at the pub sounded like an excellent idea - and that's what may have become of this particular painting.

Just my opinion, for what it's worth.

On Calm Reflection. 20x20" on panel. 2007