All My By-a-Self

I am mindful today of my younger granddaughter Emmy's former oft-used toddler expression of independence, all my by-a self!

I pop in and out of my studio between various other adventures this morning, with a clear intention of creating a highly layered, intuitive, organic, free-form painting on paper that I can cut into smaller found compositions to send as postcards. My plan is to follow the lead of artists who act as beacons to me in building layer upon layer, a process that intrinsically includes letting go, letting go, letting go as one layer lands on top of and changes another.

Here's what happens when another part of me—another part? who's the first part?—has different plans, doesn't want my help or interference, and shouts, I do it all my by-a self! 

The by-a-self part pulls out a sheet of paper. Has the idea to create some underlying texture. Riffles through a pile of thin translucent sandwich paper to collage to the substrate. Is drawn to a torn sheet previously used to catch wayward splatter. Crinkles it into a ball. Flattens it out. Glues it to the substrate. 

We—the make-layers part of me and the don't-tell-me-what-to-do part—both get fully attached to what emerges. Don't want to add more layers—not one! Can't let go of the terrifically textured wrinkles. Can't let go of the uninhibited splatters.

Hahaha!

So we're letting this afternoon's art have its fame and glory.

No layers today. 

No layers until further notice.

Everybody's happy.

work … not in progress!

Way to Go! (part 2 of a miniseries)

The way the most delicate

beech tree twigs send out little candles

of buds waiting for the sun to ignite them

so they can flame into leaves;

the way a loose strap on the outdoor grill cover

moves in the wind, beating a tattoo 

with the musical industry of a woodpecker;

the way a sparrow answers with its beak

as it furnishes the birdhouse under the eaves

of the garage—hanging art on the walls?—

even though starlings will

soon enact an eviction, 

as they never fail to do;

the way pale gray-white catkins fatten up

furry and sleek, showing off

on the pussywillow beside the back deck;

the way the internal work of winter

materializes out of hiding:

way astonishing!

A Soul in a Physical Vessel That Is Tiny but Strong
5 x 7"; acrylic, ink, pastel, and collage, mounted on mat board
abstract
 2021

The Way

The way one raindrop

acts as an image-disrupter 

of branches reflected in a puddle,

leaving the branches 

just enough time to reassemble

before another raindrop

starts a fresh shimmy;

the way, after months of winter,

birdsong suddenly 

accompanies me

on a predawn walk

in the last darkness of night;

the way the slightest of breezes

sets a desiccated oak leaf

skittering like a mouse

across the path on which I walk;

the way one thing ends

and another glorious thing begins:

astonishments one and all.

They Was a Little Breeze Stirring
4.25 x 5.5" greeting card; acrylic, ink, pastel, and collage
abstract
2021

More Open to the Possibility

Earthworms

    by Lynn Ungar

Imagine. The only thing that
God requires of them
is a persistent, wriggling, moving forward,
passing the earth through
the crinkled tube of their bodies
in a motion less like chewing
than like song.

Everything they encounter
goes through them,
as if sunsets, drug store clerks,
diesel fumes and sidewalks
were to move through our very centers
and emerge subtly different
for having fed us — looser somehow,
more open to the possibility of life.

They say the job of angels
is to sing to God in serried choirs.
Perhaps. But most jobs
aren’t so glamorous.
Mostly the world depends upon
the silent chanting underneath our feet.
To every grain that enters: “Welcome.”
To every parting mote: “Be blessed.”

We Can All Use a Little Illumination
3.5 x 5" postcard; acrylic, ink, collage, and oil pastel on paper
abstract landscape
2021

IV Infusion

Investigative 

vulnerability. 

That's the infusion that penetrates the cells in my body as I conduct my surrender experiment. I move organically and intuitively from mark to color to splatter to snip to adhesion to completion. 

I generate a rectangular tiny-art painting and then cast about my messy studio for materials with which to create finishing touches. I mount the painting on black paper just barely larger than the painting itself so as to contain the composition by outline. Then, in riffling through a bin of potential collage material, I bump into a gardening calendar page featuring up-close-and-personal, larger-than-life Gerbera daisies.

Bingo!

A frame!

Telegram From the Heart: Sit Out in the Sun
4 x 5.5" greeting card; acrylic, pencil, ink, and collage
on canvas-textured paper
abstract
2021

Surrender Experiment

Mid-afternoon, I let myself stand still. 

Fully.

Physically and mentally.

Cleared the kinks from my body, the clutter from my mind.

Decided to act on inspiration from a post written by my friend Simone.

Grabbed a tiny piece of paper canvas.

Scribbled with a mechanical pencil.

Grabbed quinacridone nickel azo gold.

Used my finger to spread some color.

Added some white gesso.

Felt great to surrender to whatever transpired.

tiny art start on paper canvas

Pausing to Paint a Postcard

In my previous blog post, I began exploring an invitation (exhortation?) from poet Mary Oliver to stand still and learn to be astonished.

Subsequent to posting, I quickly realize I need first to learn to stand still. 

To fully press pause.

My daughter once told me she carries a mental image of me in which I appear as a head moving full speed forward trailing my body and feet behind.

So, yeah. Starting point: learn to stand still.

Place
4 x 6" postcard; acrylic, ink, and collage on card stock
abstract
2021