Otherwise

Elizabeth sat outside, 

working in the garden 

in the late afternoon sun. 

There was a lot to do, 

a lot of cutting back and weeding, 

cutting off dead heads in the rose bushes. 

You need a garden you can fuss with, she thought. 

Otherwise, what is the point 

of having a garden?

    —Anne Lamott, Crooked Little Heart

Well, I found me a garden to fuss with. It was my intention to go in and get out in mere minutes with this creative venture but that is not what took place when I gave my inner self paper, pens, and paint to play with. 

I need a painting to fuss with, I guess.

Otherwise, what is the point of painting!

The Freedom That Was There Right Along
8.5 x 11"; ink, watercolor, gouache, and oil pastel on drawing paper
bottlescape
2022

Amblyopic-Neurographic Playtime

Following Emmy's lead of last week, I have in mind to create a blind contour drawing, so I carry that intention along with a sheet of drawing paper and an ink pen to a still-life bottlescape I've arranged in my studio. 

My eye, however, seems to move of its own accord which, I learn, is a symptom of a condition called amblyopia. I suspect, though, that instead of having a physiologically-based medically-diagnosable 'lazy' eye, I have a willful mind that wants to sneak an occasional peek at my drawing paper. The nonmedical term for this condition: cheating!

In any case, I am the boss of my own creative explorations, and this one combines a partially blind contour drawing and the neurographic smoothing of corners. I'm thinking of my sketch, at this stage, as amblyopic-neurographic.

dry-run warm-up exercise,
pencil on the back of used copy paper

detail, partially blind contour drawing,
ink on drawing paper

detail, amblyopic neurographic exploration,
work in progress

Exploring, 3

I've read Cynthia Voigt's A Solitary Blue more than once—in fact, four times since 1989. I was reading it yet again, this time as an audiobook, when the following passage—a passage I've quoted more than once in this blog—filled my ears last week while I vacationed in downeast Maine. 

This had been the pattern

of his days 

on the back creek:

he would move the boat out

until he felt more frightened

than he had the courage to match;

then he would anchor

and wait.

—Cynthia Voigt, A Solitary Blue

The words offer such a fitting metaphor for my typical way of painting. The moving-anchoring-waiting-gathering-courage-moving-again pattern is exactly what was playing out when Voigt's words came my way as I was painting last week. 

The piece I was working on already had a considerable history of moving-anchoring-waiting when I'd set it aside as a finished (or so I thought) painting in 2016. 

After a six-year(!) wait period, I'd pulled anchor and included this piece in what I packed for vacation, thinking I might use it as the backdrop for a new neurographic exploration. 

Use it I did. I added neurographic linework and, for good measure, also threw in a semi-blind contour drawing of trees seen out my cottage window.

I totally lost myself in the joy of process—created messes, anchored, waited, let my courage and investigative energy recover, ventured forth again, resolved one mess and inevitably created a new one, anchored again, waited again, gathered courage again, moved forward to resolution again, created yet another puzzle, and so on. 

Loved every moment.

A Greatness of Air
8 x 8"; collage, acrylic, gouache, watercolor, ink, and
oil pastel on watercolor paper
abstract landscape
2022

History:

'completed' piece from 2016
that became a start last week
for the new work above