At last!

Summer's Queen (Portrait of Shannon O). Oilbar and graphite on canvas. 18X24. 2014.

Finally finished this commissioned portrait that I've been working on all summer. As it was a gift (and a surprise) for the subject's husband, I couldn't post any updates about this anywhere until after I'd sold it and left a few days for the gift to be given. So, here it is! As there won't be any prints made of this commissioned portrait, I don't have professional photos, just this one above - snapped rather late in the day, as you can tell by the shadows - and the one below, which is slightly better, but a bit gray (owing to being taken on a dark October morning before I sold the painting to my patron). Still, I think this queen of summer shines: 

a mass painting update

 I'm really not sure how I forgot to share my paintings all summer (with the exception of some in-process shots of Herb). Okay, here we go. There are prints of most of these available on my Society6 page; please click here if you are interested in purchasing one of them.

Okay, here we go! Above: Study. 16"X20". Oilbar on linen. 2013.

This was never actually meant to be a serious painting. I tore a page I liked out of a magazine, and used it as a practice-work (a study!) to get used to painting again after the two-year hiatus of dissertation-land. I thought this would be a good exercise in loosening up; there was no way my clumsy, chunky oilbars could reproduce the intricate details of the patterns in this kimono-style dress. Well, that exercise didn't exactly work out; instead of loosening up, my type-A obsession with details took over and I didn't exactly produce the impressionistic patter I was hoping for. Oh well. It's still pretty. My husband loves it. =) No prints on this one, sorry; I don't have the rights to this image - as I said, it was never meant to be a serious painting, just a practice. I had no idea it would be so popular.

The Immortal. 24"X30". Oilbar on canvas. 2013.

Norah. 24"X24". Oilbar on canvas. 2013.

A couple of years ago ... wait...seven years ago ... no ... EIGHT YEARS AGO (how on earth does that happen? Where does the time go?), I painted a portrait of our friends' eldest daughter as a birthday present before we left for California. By the time we got back, they had another daughter, and a third came soon after. I'm not quite caught up yet, but I'm one step closer! No prints on this one; this is just for old friends.

The Poetess (Diaries of a Hedgehog Feminist #1). 24"X30". Oilbar on linen. 2014.

This is the first piece in a series of paintings (there's another below) that I'm making as part of a collaborative project with my friend Amal (who appears above, as the titular Hedgehog Feminist). Amal is a truly gifted poet; her words are by turns graceful, generous, gently teasing, and sharply sardonic. There's a kind of deceptively soft quality in her writing; she can turn a phrase around suddenly and it has TEETH! Or, perhaps, I should say, spikes. By way of introduction to Amal and the project, I included two excerpts from Diaries of a Hedgehog Feminist along with this portrait at my current (until Saturday!) show in Ballard. Wouldn't you like to read them, too? Here, meet my amazing friend, via her words:

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Someone asked me: “Why do you write in English? “For practical reasons,” I replied. “My Arabic has the grammar of hip-hop and the syntax of short compositions. My Hebrew is academic and aggressive— perfect for filling tax-forms and answering security questions. I save my Spanish for reading love poems and revolutionary manifestos. And my rusty Italian has enough vocabulary to order an espresso and compliment a man.”

Monday, January 21, 2013

When I was 4 I asked my father: “How come there are no women prophets?” He explained: “Being a prophet is a tough job, because a prophet has to travel and deal with very difficult hardships, including the tough mission of convincing people and changing their hearts and minds.” For years to come my father would refer to this question to remind me that this was when he realized that I was a smart girl. For me that question marked the birth of my feminist consciousness. My realization that women were absent or excluded from certain domains happened before I was able to read books. And after a PhD that kid is still asking: “How come there are no women in….?” 

Nea And Hellebores. 24"x36". Oilbar on canvas. 2013.

Sarah Ryhanen is a virtuoso florist, founder of Saipua, and a new farmer, based in New York. You can check out her blog, with her humorous and thoughtful musings and insanely beautiful photos (of her equally insanely gorgeous floral arrangements), by clicking here. Sarah was kind enough to give me permission to paint her dog, Nea, a year or two ago - I only just finally got around to doing it. I love Nea's scruffy, motley dogginess. She reminds me of Golden, my childhood dog.

Last but not least, The Muse (Diaries of a Hedgehog Feminist #2). 30"X30". Oilbar on canvas. 2014.

I told you there was another! Here's the entry for this one:

After a decade of reading and studying critical theory and literature, I often ponder the difference between the critic and the artist. Like a professional critic, my questions arise from the ways that academia taught me to ask. I repeat all the necessary prefixes and suffixes. I insert context as needed. Sometimes, I pass. Sometimes, I impress. Sometimes, I get bored! And on some days art happens. Without heavy lingo and notes in hand, the muse knocks on my shower door. “Kill the academic and keep your towel on,” she whispers, “We have work to do!”


Okay. So now we're all caught up. Sorry about that; I won't let it happen again. I'm currently nearly done with Hedgehog Feminist #3, so that should be done within a week or two, and I'll snap a photo and post it for you. If you don't see it by mid-April, remind me of my promise!

homage

I've been so busy making things that I haven't been posting! I have a backlog of scarves, a finished painting, a cake recipe (that is three recipes in one, really), and more to post here. And instead, I'm sharing a picture of an unfinished project.

It's Herb.

Obviously.

Or maybe not so obviously, if you don't know him.

This is how I think of him: eyes fixed, with that absolute certainty, that hard crystalline intensity, on the vision, the idea, that thing (the thing itself!), mouth open as he enunciates, elucidates. The consummate teacher, he would listen and hear you. But it wouldn't be Herb if he didn't have something to say.

I realized I wanted to paint him at the end of the school year. I hesitated.

I don't, as a rule, paint people I know. I find that knowing people, having an emotional connection to them, disrupts the process of observation necessary to make a painting. I have a tendency to paint the person whom I think I KNOW, rather than to really look and discover.

But this itch, it kept gnawing at me. In early July,  I asked Cassidy about painting Herb. He thought it was a good idea and encouraged me to do it. I worried that I would be too emotional, that the canvas would get swamped by maudlin emotion. He said it wouldn't.

The first day I started painting, I remembered a dream I had five days after Herb passed. I dreamed of him so many nights, in so many permutations of anxiety, worry, loss and aching. This was the only happy one. We sat together at the long wood table in the seminar room in the Simpson Center on the UW campus, discussing and debating the best words, phrases, quotations to use to craft a proper farewell. We never said whose farewell, but I knew. It was my farewell.

And we couldn't settle on something. Eliot, Woolf, Donne, Moore - my brain raided that metaphysical poetry seminar like nobody's business. But we couldn't find the words.

As I painted I realized, ah, yes. Because my goodbye needed to be an image, not words.

A friend of mine, one of my "sisters" devoted to Herb, has asked me how I manage to do it without weeping. Today I realized the answer is: this is an act of devotion, like laying flowers at the feet of a holy idol. This is an offering. Small wonder I feel he's there while I work on this; this is me working with him (his memory, his image) to make an offering to that essence.

I already knew what the title would be before I began

The Immortal. Because it wasn't until Herb died that I realized that, yes, in some inexplicable way, I do actually believe he will live forever, just as he always joked he would.

a good day.

happiness is finally getting things done. Nearly completed this canvas on spring break. Then got a few glazing coats in during a crazy spring quarter, but didn't get the final coat on until today.

Olivia Bee is my hero. She's simply amazing, so talented.

sanctuary. oilbar and acrylic on linen canvas. 24x24. 2009.

and after I finished this, I ate one of these, with butter and honey. And a whole pot of Harney and Sons' Bangkok tea. With cream and sugar. (yum) :

lemon cream scones (see beth hensberger's the bread bible). flour, sugar, lemon zest, baking powder, cream, eggs, cinnamon.

first canvas of 2009

breath. oilbar on canvas. 22 X 28. 2009.

darker patches are still wet. I tend to put these up on the wall to dry; they're out of the way and likely safer. Better pictures in a couple weeks, when I take it in to be photographed.

Olivia Bee is my hero. I'd love to do another, if she'd let me.

it feels like I never get anything done

quiet. oilbar on (recycled) canvas. 12X15 (ish). 2008.

which, I suppose, is why it's so important to post here - I probably need the record/proof more than any of you care to see what I've been up to. As I type, my sunburnt back is nestled against a large pile of clean laundry that needs folding. The kitchen and bath have NOT been cleaned today (there's still time! there's still time!) and clutter is everywhere (we seriously need to find that entryway table, stat).

So I finished the canvas above and got started on the next, which is a landscape. I also got to a really important home task:

Now, that probably doesn't look like much. But trust me when I say it's about 5' deep. I spent Sunday moving the herbs that had been in the flower bed, then cutting into the turf and deepening the bed (hello, backbreaking labor - and sunburn). Monday I sifted out and removed any remaining plant matter, then worked 6 cubic feet of compost into the bed (hello compound sunburn - my lower back has one of those nasty red "smiles"). It had pretty good soil in most of it, so I figure this should be fine for this season; I'll mulch in late fall and turn and probably mulch again before I lay in another crop in spring.

Today I planted: laid in golden sage (far edges) and silver posy thyme (adjacent), the parsleys (center) and then, from the left edge of the bed just to the parsleys, I put in chard and beets. Tomorrow, I'm going to put radishes behind the parsley (and they should come up just in time to put in one quick fall pea crop) and do carrots, spinach, and kale on the right-hand side. It's rather late in the year to be starting, even for fall harvests, so this is a bit of an experiment and we'll just have to see what comes up.

just for kicks, here's the entrance to my studio. I paint with the french doors open in the afternoons - but not today. My back's too sore, my hand aching from blisters that were bleeding before I noticed them yesterday. It's a bit of a mess out there (my homebase for these gardening projects), but you might be able to make out the light-green leaves on the rose plants - one on either side of the building. They're called "blaze of glory," supposedly a pretty searing orange. The next step will be to put a trellis just over the doors and start training these fellas up and over. I really hope it works - can you even imagine how lovely that would be? To paint with the french doors open and the scent of roses wafting in in the afternoon? I really hope I manage....I've never grown roses before.

and finally, my other fun bit of ... well, fun (for today). My shoes came! I got these with graduation clothes-shopping-spree funds (ah, my parents are lovely people who encourage me to actually enjoy such vices). These shoes (by Remix, no less) were on a neat sale, knocked down to $95 or $99 or somesuch from over $200. I was worried they'd be too wide - and they are a little wide, at the heels (odd), but I'll deal with it. They're darling and I really need more colour on my feet! If you like them, there are only two sizes left: 9 and 10, so hurry along!

truly, are they not fab?

a painting break

It's past midnight, but since this is the second time I've been asked this regarding a single painting (and not the first one that has garnered this question), I thought I'd pop in to provide my thoughts on this most fascinating (to me, anyhow) question.

I don't do self-portraits, and I think I have three reasons for this that I can identify right now.

1.) as if my ego needed that kind of self-stroking.

2.) The closer to home, the more difficult the painting. I don't paint family. I do paint friends, but if they are very close friends, they are from photos from the past, or people I haven't seen in a while. There is something elusive about the self, do you know? The closer I get to myself - that is to say, in old friendships, in family and love relationships, the harder it is/would be to paint these people. There is something about what I think I know about them that completely overrides the surrender to observation that I find paint requires of me. I just can't paint them. It actually makes me sad...here I am painting strangers, and not those who mean the most to me. But that's just how it is, I can't.

3.) And the last, and possibly most interesting answer, one I'm still working out: I don't do self portraits because every painting is a self portrait. This is how I see it: despite this very real surrender of control to inspiration (and perhaps muscle memory or muscle knowledge, if you'll let me say so), every painting is the work of my hands. Therefore, however little control I feel I have over the work (which is very little. I always feel like I am the medium when I paint, and that the work asserts itself, merely using my hands to manifest. Is this crazy? I can't really explain it in any way that sounds rational, and I've given up trying. It's not a rational experience.), it must be expressing some part of myself. Or even if it's not tapping myself, but tapping something greater than myself, there is a manipulation through my body, which surely must leave its trace on the final work?

So in that way, every painting is an expression somehow of myself. I express myself through what I see in other people.

And then there's this curious issue of similar features. It still surprises me, and I think is incredibly flattering - the women I paint are generally strangers or near-strangers captured in a moment that I find strikingly beautiful, something that moves me. Either I am naturally drawn to women who resemble myself (entirely possible, and I'd bet that psychology has some strong findings to back this up, perhaps something about the familiarity of the structural elements of face that I am instinctively recognizing?), or I am grafting myself onto these faces. Either way, I never see it. Nope. But I have been receiving this question ("Is this a self portrait?") with increasing frequency - and each time, I see my painting with new eyes afterward - oh! she has my nose, or look, my mouth is there. Why is it flattering? Because I paint women that I find beautiful, and to suddenly have others pick me out of that beauty is an incredible compliment. As a woman with some body dysmorphia issues (which, I suspect, is more common than not), this is an incredibly affirming experience, too.

In a way, then, I don't do self-portraits but every painting is a self-portrait, at least a little.

And with that, I must get back to painting! The walls, that is - after two days of cleaning, we left our little apt. sparkling and perfect for the next tenant. We arrived in Seattle to a dirty apt with walls resembling swiss cheese, so riddled were they with the large holes of mollies that had been removed but not filled. It's terribly disappointing, I have to say, but we are plugging away at it, and it is going to be quite the little place in another week or two.

a good stopping place

quiet (unfinished). pencil and oilbar on recycled (hence the rough gesso job) canvas. 18X24

one thing I really appreciate about my mother's childrearing beliefs is that, even though we were taught to be repectful and obedient, she in turn respected us, our needs, our opinions. I can still remember being awakened as a small child and saying on some (ok, probably MANY) days, "I just need to wake up slow." This request always granted one another 5 to 10 minutes. In fact, I think Mom cleverly woke us up early just to allow these last few minutes of lingering dreams.

Likewise, she always encouraged and allowed us to "come to a stopping point" in games, books, projects, etc. when it was time to shift gears and clean up or start dinner, etc. So, here I am, following Mom's advice (always a good policy): this is my stopping place.

I worked on this yesterday. When I picked it up today, expecting to be able to lay colour over yesterday's work (it's so hot, surely it would have dried enough, yes?), I was surprised when I realized I was mixing the colours, not layering. Uf! That, and my limited quantity of turpenoid (cleaner - the new bottle is packed) forced a decision: come to a stopping point, so that this unfinished project doesn't eat at me for the next few weeks, then let it dry for a week, pack it, and finish in Seattle.

So. There's still work to be done, certainly, but I'm satisfied with how it's coming along.

spring break

finishline. oilbar and white charcoal on natural linen canvas. 24" X 36". 2008

I didn't get much done over spring break. I awoke the day after my students' final exam with a sore throat. It was the day of my big dinner, which I didn't want to cancel. So I didn't. That probably didn't help things any. Last Wednesday I finally went to the doctor where I was diagnosed with pink eye (I know this disease really freaks some people out. It doesn't really freak me out. It's also rampant in the population right now, and seeing as it's highly contagious, I'm not really surprised.) AND a cold. I was a bit bummed about the last part. I was hoping that the terrible cold was being caused by the pink eye and that everything would thus go away with some antibiotics - however, I was pleasantly surprised that my cold improved very much in the first 24 hours on antibiotics, which leads me to think that some of it, at least, was The Pink Eye's fault.

Anyhow. I was also prescribed bedrest, doctor's orders. I wasn't even supposed to paint or sew or read (the above clearly demonstrates that I did not adhere to this policy 100%). So, it was a dull break, and a bit depressing. I got myself all worked up with worry about my thesis, silly worries that were dispelled this morning as I sat on a sunny bench with my coffee and my notebook in downtown SB and finished writing my Cripple of Inishmann section (by hand) in the cool air. I wish I'd just worked on it throughout spring break; I feel at least 3 times happier today than I have for the last few days.

I did work on a dress, which I may abandon once it's done (it's rather fluffy and was more an experiment in the "what happens if I ..." vein than a serious undertaking). Anyhow. I will try to finish it this week and post soon!

there now.

(click for larger image)

El Caballero y Su Sombra. (The Knight and his Shadow, created as Artist-in-Residence for Lope de Vega's "El Caballero de Olmedo.") Oilbar and charcoal on canvas. 48" x 60". 2008.

Just got everything back from the photo lab today. Finally, finally back! This 4-by-5-foot monster basically represents the product of five weeks' worth of labour - long afternoons and evenings for the first half of this quarter. With Irwin gone and Ashley in and out, I'm alone in THTR 3, my thesis is suffering, and this may well be the only real thing I have to show for this quarter. I suppose that makes it doubly satisfying.

For at night they killed

That noble soul

The jewel of Medina,

The flower of Olmedo ...

A Shadow warned

He should not go,

And it advised

He should not go,

The jewel of Medina

The flower of Olmedo.

- the Peasant's song, Lope de Vega, El Caballero de Olmedo

Miss Beautiful Wonderful

Miss Beautiful Wonderful. Oilbar on canvas. 30 X 40. 2007.

Well, that certainly took longer than I'd expected. Foolish me, I thought at first that animals would be less work than people. With all that fur? I know, funny, right? What on earth made me so presumptuous? Maybe it's this lovely head-butting/nuzzling type thing that Zaha is doing to my arm right now - it inspires confidence in the best way. Poor darling, I had a bad day and she hasn't had nearly enough snuggle time as a result. So this is how I finished my summer. Having put this up on the wall, I feel justified and satisfied with the work I did, which is a pleasant and new feeling.

Those of you who read one of my all-time favorite blogs (and daily dose of cheer) will recognize this image, and will know how the events of this summer changed my feelings about it. I had this long personal thing written out, but somehow it felt thoughtless, like I was making this all about me. Suffice to say, the reactions I get to Miss Beautiful Wonderful are surprising, if only because they are exactly what my reaction was when this shot was first posted on Posie. In some respects, I feel like I failed to capture my sadness in painting this, but in other ways, I feel that to impose my sadness on this would have been a crime. So I like that it has a life and meaning of its own - because I won't always look at this and feel sad, and so I wouldn't want it to be sad forever - and I like that it conveys its own unique life independent of my tumultuous emotions at the other end of the oilbar.

This was painted entirely to Sarah McLachlan's I Will Remember You for the obvious overtones of goodbyes, but also for the gentle reminder that all things must grow, change, leave - and though partings are painful, we ought not to weep forever for what is lost, but eventually to recall with joy the times we passed together.

the poet

the poet. oilbar and pencil on canvas. 30x40". 2007.

Isn't it amazing what a bit of raw umber will do? final photo. I like to let them dry on the wall - that way, I can finally put the easel away and reclaim some floor space.

an afternoon

Okay, I had some black/blue/white background laid in - and brief pencil outlines - but at 2:30 today I started in on this. About 5 or 6 hours later, done. Nice little digression from the big piece I'm working on. I made it from a still taken from a production (8 Life Lessons from Mort and Mindy) that a friend of mine directed this spring in a new play festival. It had some positively beautiful staging elements, including this scene at the end - where Mindy and Death are both dead in a white pool of salt, with a deep blue light surrounding them. My friend had asked me if I would consider painting a scene from her play as she had so many really poignant shots, and I really liked this one - but I didn't tell her anything about it. Instead, I managed to get HER to run the errand to get the board (tee hee) that I worked on, then worked in secret. I demanded she come over and play games tonight and wasn't she surprised to learn we'd really invited her so that I could give it to her? I nailed a hanger on the back of the board, so it's all set.

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"Mort and Mindy" (for lack of a better title), Oilbar, pencil, and acrylic on unfinished board, 12X15 (I think? I forgot to check.)

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cheers!

whew!

Genesis. 30 x 30. Oilbar and pencil on canvas. 2007.

after skipping a free trip to Knott's Berry Farm (as a chaperone) in order to read and paint yesterday, and getting up and painting all morning, I have accomplished the dubious: finishing this today. I honestly didn't think that I would, and I'm really pleased both that I finished, and with how it turned out. I think I learned a lot during this. I wish I could go back and do some parts over, only ... I don't want to touch it. My fingers are pretty stiff and I need a shower, as I didn't get one this morning, owing to the need to finish. I'm behind on my reading goal for the week, but oh well, can't win 'em all, can you? And seeing as it will be 10-14 days before this is ready to travel and be photographed, I have plenty of time to read while it cures.

in the light of day

fever dream. oilbar and pencil on canvas. 30 X 40. 2007

Finally! It's daylight. And although daylight is doing some horrid washing-out of the lovely pinks and purples of her lovely profile, at least there is a picture. She's done. It sounds weird and conceited, but I am so so in love with this painting, particularly the shadows of her sweater. I don't really know how it happened, but it looks good! She's hanging over Cassidy's table, and her hair is just the same colour of the warm mahogany. She sings. Welcome, welcome.

sold

haunted. oilbar and pencil on canvas. 30" X 40." 2006.

after much worry, and not a few tears when I thought they might have disappeared, Haunted (above) and The Messenger (a bit further below) arrived safely at their new home. This marks the first time that I've sold work outside my family, and also the first time that my paintings have contributed to providing me the lifestyle I dream about: the funds they brought in, paired with the loans I've squirreled away throughout the year, comprise just enough for me to live a lean, but job-free summer. I've been unemployed before, so I know how to live - even thrive - simply. The gift of time is amazing, I'm still having trouble believing it's really going to happen.

So that's it. Goodbye, little ones, and thank you. I will miss you. But you're in good hands, you are loved already.

work in progress

working in adverse conditions (extreme exhaustion, stress, in a program that has no knowledge of my secret hobby) seems to be doing me good. fever dream. work in progress. 30 X 40. Sorry about the tungsten lighting, throws the whole thing a little warmer, some of the subtle shading is lost. oh well. better pics after she's done. For now, there's a lot more work that needs to go into that hair.

the living room wall

the messenger. oilbar and pencil on canvas. 30 X 40. 2007.

spring break is good. If only there were more time...