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.
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A Greatness of Air 8 x 8"; collage, acrylic, gouache, watercolor, ink, and oil pastel on watercolor paper abstract landscape 2022 |
History:
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'completed' piece from 2016 that became a start last week for the new work above |
