Postcard Quilt Squares

I took pleasure in riffling through accumulated exercises and paintings done on paper (yet again) to select a piece to which I could give new life as a postcard, a postcard that will, in fact, travel farther from the four walls of the drawer in which it has lived for several years than I will have traveled from the four walls in which I live in the past ten weeks!

Mind you, this is a piece that took somewhat of a wild ride in my studio before it ever paused to land softly in a drawer in the company of other such voyagers; see the backstory that runs from 8/12/16 to 8/21/16.

Grateful to give it wings, to release it into a larger world.

A Perfect Breeze of Innocent Confusion
4 x 5" postcard; graphite, acrylic, pencil, and pastels
on canvas paper mounted on magazine paper and card stock
abstract
2020

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (14)

On my nightstand

When I was first learning to meditate,
[the] idea of beginning again
was revelatory.
It still is.

So liberating,
this idea that we can start over
at any time.

We feel our way through darkness,
pause,
consider,
breathe in,
breathe out,
begin again.

And again,
and again.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

detail, beginning again!
work in progress, 33 days in, 5/21/20
24 x 48" canvas

detail, beginning again
work in progress, 33 days in, 5/21/20
24 x 48" canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (13)

On my nightstand

Become willing to press 
against the bruise—
it's there anyway—
and see what it yields.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

hahaha!—pressing against the bruise!
work in regress, 32 days in, 5/20/20
24 x 48" canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (12)

On my nightstand

To allow ourselves
to spend afternoons
watching dancers rehearse,
or sit on a stone wall
and watch the sunset,
or spend the whole weekend
rereading Chekhov stories—
to know that we are doing
what we're supposed to be doing—
is the deepest form
of permission
in our creative lives.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

work in progress, 31 days in, 5/19/20
24 x 48" canvas

On My Nightstand, On my Easel (11)

On my nightstand

I always think I should know more.
But really, I need to remind myself
that this not-knowing 
is at the heart
of the creative endeavor …  [is]
what often creates the energy,
portent, and momentum
in the piece of work itself.

It requires faith in the process.

The imagination has its own coherence.
There's always time for thinking
and shaping and restructuring later,
after we've allowed something
previously hidden
to emerge on the page.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

detail, with birthday card envelope collage
work in progress, 28 days in, 5/16/20
24 x 48" on canvas

detail, with birthday card envelope collage
work in progress, 28 days in, 5/16/20
24 x 48" on canvas

detail, with birthday card envelope collage
work in progress, 28 days in, 5/16/20
24 x 48" on canvas

Postcard Art

The word consolation came to my notice recently and found a resting place in me.

Consolation.

Alleviation of misery or distress of mind, mitigation of grief or anxiety; from Old French consolacion: solace, comfort, delight, pleasure.

All of the above! Turning my full focus to developing this 4 x 6" bit of real estate—a lovely rectangle of high caliber card stock—alleviated all that which needed alleviating, replaced all distress of mind with delight and pleasure.

I started this postcard while in a place of angst and melancholy, and I experienced some discord and disappointment at points during the early stages.

However, working small, which might seem to imply fussy or finicky or confined, proved to be heart-opening, expansive, and infinite—consoling beyond measure. A welcome happenstance!

Open to Whatever the Heavens Have on Offer
4 x 6" postcard on card stock;
acrylic, fabric ink, pencil, acrylic skin, print collage, and tissue paper collage
abstract
2020

Can you see the eensy weensy print collage pieces enlarged here?
Even magnified, none of the words may be readable,
 and if you look back at the piece as a whole
(top photo, unmagnified)
you may not even be able to tell that you're looking at typeface,
but those six little snippets of print collage
so delight me!

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (10)

On my nightstand

I've learned to be wary 
of those times
when I think I know 
what I'm doing.
I've discovered 
that my best work
comes from 
the uncomfortable
but fruitful
feeling of not having a clue—
of being worried,
secretly afraid,
even convinced
that I'm on the wrong
track.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

detail
work in progress, 20 days in, 5/8/20
24 x 48" on canvas

detail
work in progress, 20 days in, 5/8/20
24 x 48" on canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (9)

On my nightstand

Be willing to stand
at the base of a new mountain
and, with humility and grace,
bow to it.
Allow yourself to understand
that it's bigger than you,
or anything you can possibly imagine.
You're not sure of the path.
You're not even sure where 
the next step will take you.
When you begin,
whisper to yourself:
I don't know.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

work in progress, 20 days in, 5/8/20
24 x 48" canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (8)

On my nightstand

Think of a ballet dancer
at the barre.
Plié, 
elevé, 
battement tendu.
She is practicing,
because she knows
that there is no difference
between practice and art.
The practice
is
the art.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

detail with dictionary collage
work in progress, 18 days in, 5/6/20
24 x 48" canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (7)

On my nightstand

Straining to know the whole of the story before you set out 
is a bit like imagining great-grandchildren on a first date. 
But you can start with the smallest detail. 
Give us the gravel scattering along the highway 
as the pickup truck roars past. 
The crumb of food the wife wipes from her husband's beard. 
The ripped bottom of a girl's faded jeans. 
Anchor yourself somewhere—
anywhere—
on the page. 
You are committing, yes—
but the commitment is to this tiny corner. 
One word. 
One image. 
One detail. 
Go ahead. 
Then see what happens.

Dani Shapiro, Still Writing


On my easel

detail
work in progress, 16 days in, 5/4/20
24 x 48" canvas

Postcard Piecework

I am endlessly fascinated by the way creative energy puzzles things out and pieces things together.

Went to my studio over a week ago with an intention and a time limit.

Intention: make a postcard for my dad.

Time limit: have it ready to take to the post office in less than an hour to allow for its arrival in Maine on time for our mutual birthday four days later.

Here's what I picked up and worked with:

• a greeting card printed by moo.com from a photo of a piece of art I made in the early days of grieving my mom's October 2015 death;
• my trusty decades-old paper trimmer;
• a Marvy LePen marker (has no rivals with its unique micro-fine point and sleek, elegant, lightweight barrel design) recommended, I think, by Sheila Delgado in a blog post some time back;
• my box of print matter, torn from magazines and culled from all manner of postal deliveries;
• blunt scissors from my kids' early days art supplies;
• matte medium;
• a spray can of Krylon Triple-Thick Clear Glaze; and
• my travel-size hair drier.

Cut the greeting card to become a postcard and rotated it from portrait to landscape orientation. Used LePen to 'tie strings' to the 'balloons.' Combed through my print matter for options that fit my color palette and featured words that might suit the occasion and recipient. Tore, glued, glazed, dried, wrote message, added address, affixed postage stamp.

Made it to the p.o. on time!

Energy Puzzles
4 x 6" postcard; collage and ink on printed image on cardstock
abstract
2020 upgrade of a 2015 piece

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (6)

On my nightstand

When we were growing up, 
being sick was an occasion. 
Mother brought us meals on a pink wicker bed tray. 
Our family even had a separate set of dishes for illness—
blue and white with a dewy rosebud painted in the center. 
The plates were smaller than regular dinner plates. 
"You just don't have an appetite when you're sick. 
There's nothing less appealing 
than a big plate of food!" Mother would say. 
I can still see her shaking down the thermometer,
that whit-whit-whit.

Judy Goldman, Losing My Sister


On my easel

detail—tissue paper collage
work in progress, 16 days in, 5/4/20
24 x 48" on canvas

detail—tissue paper collage
work in progress, 16 days in, 5/4/20
24 x 48" on canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (5)

On my nightstand

The walls were still not painted, he saw, 

the floor was still not refinished or sanded, 

and the window had yet to be replaced. 

But where the camp bed had sufficed 

for her to sleep inside her sleeping bag, 

a real and blessedly normal bed stood. 

A floor lamp stood next to it, 

and a box served as a temporary bedside table 

with a clock and a glass of water upon it. 

But the only point was the bed itself, 

and it was large, 

not king-sized 

but more than enough 

for two people to sleep quite comfortably in it. 

Together.

Elizabeth George, A Banquet of Consequences

On my easel

detail
work in progress, 12 days in, 4/30/20
24 x 48" canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (4)

On my nightstand

                              Breathe
until you stop needing 
anything to be different                             

Julia Fehrenbacher, "The Cure for It All"



On my easel

work in progress, 11 days in, 4/29/20
24 x 48" on canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (3)

On my nightstand

We spend hours in our backyard playhouse. 
We play house,
we play store,
we play movie stars.
We play and play,
humming with summer.

Judy Goldman, Losing My Sister: A Memoir


On my easel

detail
work in progress, 11 days in, 4/29/20
24 x 48" canvas

Postcard Play

Outdoor-gear magazine story.

Real-estate advertising.

Found wisdom.

Because This Old Planet Still Has a Few Tricks
4 x 6" postard; acrylic, ink, and collage on drawing paper,
mounted on card stock
abstract
2020 upgrade of a 2016 piece

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (2)

On my nightstand

Life-learning embedded in camp songs,* first sung decades ago in the 1960s, meets twenty-first-century neuroscience in Alex Korb's The Upward Spiral: Using Neuroscience to Reverse the Course of Depression, One Small Change at a Time:

Your smile is a powerful tool. Most people think that we smile because we feel happy, but it can go the other way as well: we feel happy because we smile. Smiling increases positive feelings. It's simple and improves your mood. [And,] when you smile, you're more likely to perceive positive emotions in other people, which can have a big influence on your mood.

A confident posture modulates your brain's response to your thoughts, so if you want to be more confident, think positive thoughts while sticking your chest out and keeping your chin up.

*camp song:

When anything goes wrong, keep smiling,

When anything goes wrong, just grin!

Throw back your shoulders, stick out your chin,

As long as you are smiling you are bound to win!

When anything goes wrong, keep smiling,

Never let your troubles get you down down down,

Everything will be all right

And the whole world will look bright

If you smile, smile, smile!

On my easel

work in progress, day 2, 4/19/20
24 x 48" canvas

On My Nightstand, on My Easel (1)

As I work on my current painting, in each post I plan to share a snippet from that day of whatever I'm reading and whatever I've painted.

On my nightstand

I wish I could go to the store myself, 
but nothing is walking distance from here 
except a church at the end of the block. 
It's Catholic. 
It has a very quiet smell of incense all the time, 
which is nice, 
and it has very pretty windows, 
the stained-glass kind where the red looks like wine 
and the blue is so deep and beautiful 
you wish you could put in your pocket and take it home with you. 
I like to sit in that church when no one is there, 
although I do sit in the back row since we're not members. 
The cushions are a dark-red velvet 
that turns lighter if you rub it the wrong way. 
Sometimes I kneel there, 
not to pray, 
just to make my head that kind of empty still 
that has a person feel more comfortable than they thought they were. 
The priest there is named Father Compton. 
He doesn't mind my being there. 
He calls you "child" like he's in the movies. 
He's old and has whole tufts of white hair 
growing out of his nose 
and he walks bent over, 
but his eyes are clear and smart 
and they notice the right things. 
When he's looking at you, 
you can tell he's thinking kind thoughts, 
but he doesn't embarrass you by saying them out loud. 
You don't have to do anything back.

—Elizabeth Berg, Joy School


On my easel

work in progress, day 1, evening, 4/18/20
24 x 48" canvas

24x48, Day 1

May my lived experience with Finding God boost my courage as I start fresh with a new piece. If nothing else, I've begun in the same impulsive impatient manner, by activating the canvas before fully pulling off the plastic wrap!

painting start, day 1, afternoon, 4/18/20
24 x 48" canvas

day1, detail

Absence Makes the Heart

Finding God was on my easel for about 60 days, having been painted in little fits and starts. Once I completed it, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe with my attention scattered all over the place, I thought, juggle one less ball?

However, after two days of being confronted by a lifeless skeleton instead of having the visual and emotional companionship of a painting in progress, decision: Gotta do something.

The Other Half of Another Then and Now

Again, I play with an old piece from nearly four years ago, a piece whose other half recently became a birthday card while this half becomes a postcard to send to my dad. Alone in my studio, I get completely lost in the textured richness of creating a tiny world on a few square inches of paper. I confess I will feel a little tug of loss when I place it in my mailbox to begin its journey away from me to Maine. Away though it will go, I will cherish and hold onto the little gift of gain that comes from becoming aware of how much making I have done in the past four years—I am delighted by the ways in which the get-messy exploration of those years infuses itself into this revised piece.

A Sequestered Saturday Morning
4 x 6"; acrylic, oil pastel, and collage on drawing paper,
mounted on card stock
abstract
2020 upgrade of a 2016 piece

Finding God 7

Final day of Finding God, up close and personal:

Finding God in a Tangle of Meadow
detail

detail

Finding God 6

Ongoing tour of Finding God, up close and personal:

Finding God in a Tangle of Meadow
detail

detail