Notes in a Forgotten Language, mixed media on board, 7” x 7”
Early sunsets and cool nights have me spending more time indoors. Which has me noticing all the projects I aimed to do in my living spaces in the warmer months. Several boxes of small paintings caught my attention.
Making art objects offers the opportunity to look at physical things over time and (hopefully) see one’s growth. It’s part of the appeal of the discipline. I routinely paint over what isn’t successful; occasionally I tweak paintings from years before. I try to only hang onto work that has achieved an inherent harmony.
I’m fortunate to have a substantial body of work in a couple of galleries. The paintings shown were on view at Paragon Fine Arts in Lewisburg, WV (albiet shown here without the crucial sense of scale, screens being a barely recognized distortion of direct experience—one of these paintings fits in my hand, another is as wide as the reach of my arms).
Yet even with dozens of works in galleries, paintings seem to pile up. I suspect this happens to most art makers who stay active. I was just considering what to do with the paintings accumulated in my home. These contentious and troublesome socio/political times have me wondering if making paintings is an appropriate way to apply my limited free time.
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It’s a peculiar thing, tuning inward, in a discipline driven by personal growth, but then being obliged to share with others the record of the path one takes for the cycle of creativity to flow forward.
Art making pushes me to stay aware, open, and objective. It feels important to explore and embrace all aspects of life and death. I like to consider concepts of beauty, what conveys it, and how. This has led me to challenging myself. Years ago moving from painting the view before me to imagery that has steadily let go of narrative story-telling. For decades I’ve been intrigued by the power of wordless and object-less paintings, eager to discover their emotive potential.
The rhythms, tones, textures, and harmonies of music without words move us all, especially when we stop seeking the “story” and allow ourselves to be touched in a non-intellectualized way. A walk in the woods can often be more satisfying and touch something deeper in my being when I cease cataloguing the species on the trail. I want folks to experience my paintings with the same attitude. In modern society this can be challenging due to the incessant literal-minded focus of our educational system and culture. Can we appreciate the bird’s song without trying to identify the type of bird? It’s hard to tune out a habit we barely realize we have.
I can still very much appreciate art that is narrative and tells stories through imagery. I don’t like censorship, “art police,” or placing Puritanical limitations on what can be made or shared. Everyone should be free to express themselves and enjoy our world as suits their unique experience and perspective.
Sincere experimentation is one of the hallmarks of creativity. For me a challenging work of art isn’t necessarily the same as art whose primary purpose is to shock or provoke fear. I try to recognize each has a place. And to consider that works may encompass several aims.
Some art strikes me like a billboard—one or two viewings and I no longer gain from re-visiting it. Something that catches my eye isn’t necessarily something I want to repeatedly give my attention.
We’re hardwired to notice things that are disturbing because noticing a lion mauling a companion once aided human survival. Our modern world is full of media aimed toward this end, in our “consumerist world” largely to manipulate us in some way. Plenty of art made and sold also takes advantage of this ancient instinct.
Such an approach has little attraction for me; it smacks of “Garbage in, garbage out” as Thich Nhat Hahn and others put it. I like the notion that rather than consumption, the purpose of art is Communion. Yet we live in a society where nearly every aspect is focused on the former.
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Exhibitions allow artists to share their work, but it’s momentary; at most we spend a few minutes taking in the art on view in galleries. My goal is to enable something to come into being that’s sustaining and life-affirming longterm. So I prefer my paintings are in someone’s home, where they can reward viewing slowly, over months and years.
It takes practice to learn to turn off our ingrained “what’s it supposed to be?” lenses. It took me years. So I accept that only a minority of viewers appreciate non-narrative work. Still less are able and willing to compensate one for the energy invested in the study and making of paintings that don’t instantly offer a storyline.
Hence the boxes full of paintings. When I pull them out, each in their own way is a trail-marker of sorts, along my wandering path exploring these creative woods.
Every so often a connection occurs, someone shares in the delights I was fortunate to help reveal. Then the joy of discovery and the circle of creation are fulfilled. When a patron purchases a painting, I like to think of it as a unique sort of investment, one that’s not exactly transactional.
They offer their congealed energy (money) to the myriad energies that brought the work into being. But It’s also a commitment, a support of the arts as a concept of communion, hopefully not just to me, but to the broader concept of our shared connection with all life.
It encourages me to keep at it, verifying that even in these fraught times, there’s something essential and affirming about the mysterious and connective power of beauty.
So, a belated thank you to Joshua Adamo (gallery owner) and the supportive patron who recently purchased the three paintings shown from his Paragon Fine Arts Gallery in Lewisburg, WV. I’m honored and very grateful for the chance to participate, in a small way, in our shared communion.
Reverie, 46” x 57”, mixed media on board/ panel
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