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Turning Toward

From the novel A Window Across the River by Brian Morton:

Writing was … the best way 

she had ever found

to express her fascination with life,

her quarrels with life, her questions.

She sometimes thought that even if

what she wrote every day

was doomed to disappear 

during the night,

she would keep writing stories,

just to make a daily pilgrimage

to the realm 

of mystery and reverence and play.

She didn’t always reach that realm

when she was writing stories,

but merely to turn toward it

was a kind of nourishment

unlike any other.

---

I lightened and loosened my work in progress, with pale pale blue oil pastel and splatters of glossy high-flow acrylic. 

Then got stuck again, stymied by this work in progress. Does it still need something? It might not. And, if it does, what? 

Even not knowing, I'm filled to the brim. 

Because, oh, that turning toward. 

That realm of mystery and reverence and play.

nourishing work in progress

One Thought, Another Thought

One thought: Why am I even working on this painting? 

There was some smidgen of intent when I started, a smidgen since forgotten, with disappointing results. Last week, hankering for some neurographic stress relief, I figured maybe this ignominious start could serve as backdrop.

Well, maybe. But it was no slam dunk, I'll tell you that much. The neurographia relaxed me, but the painting, as a painting, then elicited a whole bunch of fussing and striving that only enhanced the visual language up to a point. A point falling short of satisfaction.

Hence the thought: Why am I even working on this painting?

Then, yesterday morning unfolded with a laugh-out-loud text exchange with Meg, some eye-catching energizing splashes of color on Instagram, and a heart-opening conversation with artist MaryAnn.

Another thought: You have permission to wreck this painting!

Alrighty then.

Here's the up-to-a-point work in progress:

work in progress
~7 x 7"; acrylic, ink, and oil pastel on sketchbook page

Permission Slips

I think it's in Brené Brown's Dare to Lead that she introduces the concept and practice of writing herself permission slips—literal permissions written on paper. She tucks them into the pockets of her clothing. 

I remember her talking about permission slips she wrote before appearing with Oprah Winfrey on television. 

You have permission to feel excited. You have permission to giggle. You have permission to ask for a photo of yourself with Oprah.

The overarching permission is to not have to act 'cool,' but you'll notice how specific Brené gets.

About a week ago, a light popped on: I need to write me some permission slips!

Since then, when I catch myself up against internal negative energy, I pause to take stock, to identify my resistance through the act of writing myself a permission slip. I do not skip the writing part. I am as specific as I can be. And I am learning. A lot.

You have permission to take a day off from 'closing the circle' on your exercise app tomorrow if it's raining.

You have permission to ask Helene for help with the table in the Cash Flow Worksheet document she sent whose formatting keeps bedeviling you.

Yikes—the stories I tell myself. I can't take a day off? I have to figure everything out myself?

Ouch.

I feel relief each time I write a permission. I feel a welcome uptick in vulnerability and wholeheartedness. I am lighter of heart in general. 

I am grateful.

---

About the art: In a sketchbook where I dabble periodically I rediscover a start from sometime back. Don't like it. Don't know where to take it. Decide to offload and transform some uncomfortable internal dialogue using writing as mark-making. Round all the intersections of lines and relax into the therapy of neurographic artplay. Ugly duckling to swan in short order!

No Repercussions If You Fail to Deliver
6.5 x 10"; acrylic, watercolor pencils, and marker
on sketchbook paper
neurographica
2023

The Go-Aheadness of It All

Here is another thing I like

about a good friendship,

the go-aheadness of it all.

You don’t have to knock

to come in the door.

You don’t have to ask

to look in the refrigerator.

You want coffee?

Pour some.

    —Elizabeth Berg, 

       Range of Motion

Two weeks ago, we headed to downeast Maine to hang out with can't-find-better friends John and Mary for a weekend of non-stop talk, lotsa laugh-out-loud, and lively long walks hither and yon. Sunday morning, early hours, I pulled out my sketchbook and got rolling with a mostly blind-contour drawing of a reading sofa and cushioned wicker chair in our guest accommodations. Blind contour is so deliciously wonky and satisfying.

early hours sketch

Want Coffee? Pour Some
7.5 x 8.5"; ink and watercolor pencils on paper
blind contour drawing
2023

Collage Collection

Early stages:

All developed but in original orientation:

On parade, one by one:

 

The Only Thing That Matters

When I studied with [D], 

he’d offer close critiques of what I’d written 

and then put my story aside and say, 

“But I might be wrong. 

And it really doesn’t matter. 

The only thing that matters 

is that you write your ass off.”

—Brian Morton, Tasha: A Son’s Memoir

And so it is with any creative pursuit, I think.

Even having come to understand that learning to paint happens by painting, and that the more I paint the more I learn, I can never get enough reminders and encouragement to just paint 'my ass off.'

Blue Skies for Days
3 x 3"; acrylic and collage on watercolor paper
abstract design
2023

Now You See It, Now You Don't

On my nightstand:

Cape Cod is a place

where buried things

surface and disappear again:

wooden lobster pots,

the vertebrae of humpback whales,

chunks of frosted sea glass.

One day there’s nothing; the next

the cyclical forces of nature—

erosion, wind, and tide—

unearth something 

that has been there all along.

A day later, it’s gone.

—Adrienne Brodeur, Wild Game

On my easel:

What has been there all along?

What is gone?

Where's the ebb?

The flow?

Nautical Nod
3 x 3"; acrylic and collage on watercolor paper
abstract design
2023

Pounding a Gavel

Seems to me my attention and my intentions are skittering all over the place of late. Time to pound a gavel and impose a smidgen of order, such as it is. To that end, I return to the series of small collages I've been creating, collages whose beginnings took place back in March with friend Bo.

Fun With Fuschia
3 x 3"; acrylic and collage on watercolor paper
abstract design
2023

Grabbing at a Potted Plant

A baby will grab at a potted plant

because it looks interesting and new.

If it topples over and spills out

they start playing with the soil,

eating it, 

feeling it,

pulling the remaining plant apart

and sitting proudly 

in the centre of their efforts.

What has been ‘created’

might seem to be a complete mess,

but it’s also an innocent 

and informative

investigation.

—Philippa Stanton, in Conscious Creativity

I pulled another plant off the shelf today.

Tailored Touch
3 x 3"; acrylic and collage on watercolor paper
abstract design
2023

Following Directions

Jane Davies has been playing with scribbles for awhile, and her blog post in January caught my eye with its multi-layered repetitive-back-and-forth scribbles. I wanted to try my hand at layers and back-and-forth.

I looked through the squares I'd cut from a 6 x 9" start I made on my first Bo's Arts afternoon, with an eye towards a background that might lend itself to just such scribbling.

I selected this square.

Then I layered and back-and-forthed with wild abandon.

Wait.

What?

Here's what came of that inspiration and my layers of intention. Hahaha!!!

I do love when I don't follow directions—who is it that issues these directions? Who is it that disregards them!

Handsome Herringbone
3 x 3"; acrylic, ink, and collage on watercolor paper
abstract floral
2023

Leapfrogging

I notice myself jumping from one thing to another of late, leapfrogging over work in progress to start something new, and not reliably bringing any one set of tasks to full completion.

Oh, well! 

Sure am having fun!

One project I leapt over was a second series of bookmarks in development from a start on my afternoon of Bo's Arts in March. The shiny object distracting me was the Collage Kickstart! class offered by Catherine Rains. What a great kickstart! I went into production, I tell ya!

Then Bo called, and we got together for Bo's Arts Afternoon II at which time I leapt back to some of my starts from our earlier afternoon, picked up one of them, leapt with it over to some of the treasures I'd assembled for my kickstart class, and fused energy from both endeavors to make a collage.

It did not escape my notice, as I reported to a friend after the fact that, in the wake of having rustled up umpteen square feet of papers in minutes, I spent well over a thoroughly contented HOUR crafting a single 3-inch square collage! Hahaha!

Tea and Toast
3 x 3"; acrylic, ink, and collage on watercolor paper
abstract design
2023

Collage Kickstart!

Thank you, Catherine Rains for your free Collage Kickstart workshop! I am now busy creating a cohesive  collection—using only two colors plus b&w for all—of handpainted collage papers. Progress to date, with papers in various stages of development:

On My Nightstand, On My Easel 4/1/23

 On my nightstand:

A human being

blessedly

is endowed with a dual capacity:

to experience our

oh-so-mortal physicality

and simultaneously to attune, 

in the stillness of the now,

to the timeless reality of which we partake.

To be incarnate

is to inhabit a body,

even as we can detect—

very nearly feel, 

in a palpable way—

a larger truth enfolding and saturating

our temporal existence.

This means than in addition 

to attuning us to the sensory world,

the body is the ‘vehicle’ 

through which we know

the timeless now.

—Jan Frazier, from a forthcoming book

On my easel:

I look at the letters appearing on the 'page' on my laptop screen as I type, little black marks that represent the Latin alphabetic writing system. They are nothing more than little black marks. Visible to my eye. Visible to yours. 

But what takes place when our very human eyes take in these codified symbols is vast beyond measure. This writing/reading thing, if you'll stop right here right now to be still enough to listen, speaks in its own way to something larger that enfolds and saturates our temporal existence. I type these letters, you read these letters, and we are given to tap into—we are given to know—more than words can ever say.

A Larger Truth
1.5 x 6" bookmark; acrylic, ink, and Stabilo pencil
on watercolor paper
abstract
2023

On My Nightstand, On My Easel 3/31/23

On my nightstand:

Somewhere, between the breeze

and the faraway sound of a train,

comes a line of birdsong, lightly

threading the heavy cloth of dream.

Joyce Sutphen, excerpted from "Soundings"

On my easel:

As I paint, the simple pleasures of homefront soundings, indoors and out, thread my work—Dave's footsteps going up and down the stairs to the basement to get carpentry tools, the banging away of a patch of sheetrock in the family room ceiling and, between those footsteps and that banging, the industry on a sparrow, pecking against the inside wall of a birdhouse as some part of the process of constructing a nest for imminent occupancy.

A Line of Birdsong
1.5 x 6" bookmark; acrylic, ink, and Stabilo pencil
on watercolor paper
abstract
2023

On My Nightstand, On My Easel 3/30/23

On my nightstand:

It is not that suffering will end. As far as I can tell, the one thing we can count on is that everything we are counting on is going to fall through under us. I will never welcome the feeling of falling through the floor. But I believe we are falling through into God or something—but not nothing.

—Polly Berrien Berends, Coming to Life

On my easel:

OMG, I am so well practiced in suffering! 

But I know the reason I paint is that painting offers me practice in finding ways to go along with this process of falling through into God.

I get considerable practice.

I need considerably more.

Not Nothing
1.5 x 6" bookmark; acrylic, ink, and Stabilo pencil
on watercolor paper
abstract
2023