We all do things we later wish we could revise or adjust. I recently revisited this painting from a few years ago. I enjoy how this discipline allows the opportunity to rework things. I hate the notion something I let into the larger world isn’t as successful or beautiful as it might be. Many of my less-successful works are the result of my losing track of the dialogue that constitutes the process of working on a painting. The final result seems less vital if I’ve allowed the process to become a monologue, imposing a pre-determined vision. I appreciate how paintings offer us a record of the exchange. Seeing one with fresh eyes that isn’t working is like rereading a text sent to a friend and realizing you didn’t quite convey what you really intended. 

One reason making paintings suits me well is the “forgiving” nature of the materials. Paintings can be almost endlessly reworked; previous marks, passages, even layers can be scraped away, and new ones redrawn, built up, accents added or emphasis shifted. I do this continuously when first involved in creating a painting. One benefit to not selling things is that by having older work around, I get to discover a few that can be made better. After decades of making paintings I’m more discerning about which ones can be improved, and how, and more willing to tackle them. 

For me whether a painting sells does not measure its success. Prior to that possibility it’s about whether it has an engaging dynamic and offers a sustaining vitality to the viewer. In the arts, our work is a direct reflection of our integrity. Most of us strive to do and share our best (which may be why it’s so hard for some of us to meet deadlines or call a work done). Considering how I might improve a painting seems an ongoing part of the discipline. 

A light analogy might be to imagine preparing and sharing a dish one has invented. It’s tasty and folks enjoy it. Afterward, when time allows, you try adding new ingredients or spices, maybe change a few proportions and discover this makes it especially delicious. Rather than serve the adequate recipe, I suspect most of us would prefer to offer the more satisfying improved version to our guests.

There’s a mild risk involved—it’s possible to take a reasonably successful work and through revision, end up with a less desirable mess. Yet pushing to excel seems integral to all in the arts. I feel I’m more successful with revisions as I age, but it’s frustrating that I still can get in the way of the process during the original creative effort. Sometimes I get too excited or rigid about directing where a painting should head. Or contrarily, I may lose focus while in the creative act, and waste time going through the motions without being sensitive to the process or the whole. In either case I’ve tuned out what’s trying to emerge or come to life in the painting, preventing the inherent harmony and vitality from shining. 

It seems to me if we are genuine in our endeavors, to some degree the energy we put into our work will reflect who we are. As our tendencies are revealed in our art, correspondingly, sometimes our art can reveal habits and tendencies in our life. Sometimes we are in the flow of life beautifully. Other moments I’ve seen my desire to help or to “solve” what I see as a problem, disrupt the flow in my relations with another. As with paintings, driven by my enthusiasm, its easy for me to eagerly dive in, only afterwards realize best intentions don’t always make for the best, harmonious results. Or my ego-driven assertiveness, interwoven with my dogged persistence, can insensitively ignore the inherent beauty of the moment, or overshadow another’s opportunities to grow. It’s tricky to learn to step back and let things unfold. 

Being too near or physically close to a painting for too long while working on it obscures the overall effect. Often after intense effort, it’s only when I’ve paused and get back that I really see the dynamic at play. Similarly, sometimes in my impatience to assist someone, I realize afterward how my heavy-handedness has precluded really hearing their voice, or being sensitive to the fuller circumstances beyond my own vision. When I lose objectivity in looking at a painting, or while engaged in a friend’s concern, if I get wrapped up in my view of what ought to be, it truncates everything. When I listen more deeply and openly (to the painting or the person), taking in the view without filtering things through pre-ordained ideas, the path ahead is inevitably smoother and things move naturally toward a sustaining resolution. It’s about being actively engaged in the conversation without directing it. I’m trying to be a bit more judicious about the need to contribute, to listen attentively without adding commentary; to allow the beauty of what is, be.

Visual art’s helpful that way — the trail of the process in a painting can document a physical record of emotions in the making. It’s another way to look at art that goes within and beyond the subject matter depicted. Though some artists put down each stroke just as they wish, because I encourage letting things happen, I’m generally less precise. So I tend to bring paintings  to fruition through “trial and redo.” I can put down color after color until the tone is just so, or collage a section and move it in a whole new direction. Regrettably, our exchanges in life, person to person don’t always allow for do-overs. 

So in terms of disciplines, it’s good I’m not an aircraft pilot or surgeon — I am more suited to the pursuit of learning through the malleable tableau of discovery that’s my way of painting. In terms of disciplining my self, the arts offer a helpful, endless training ground for refining life habits. I’m certain I’ll still make some paintings muddy through my impatience, or might lose track of an unforced harmony by nudging things in a narrow direction. Just as I’ll also doubtless still have occasional interactions where my insensitivity intrudes on another’s sweet song. I suppose at times it may even seem I’m unconsciously expecting my friends to be as forgiving as my paintings — which is of course very selfish of me and unfair to them. All I know to do is keep aiming to be aware in the moment, and hopefully through attentive witnessing, allow paintings, and others to blossom. 

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“Crucible” mixed media/panel, 24” x 24”

​It seems to me that as I age, everyone is given the opportunity to face personal challenges. These come in all forms. Some seem to strike us from out of the blue yonder. Others may be the result of risks we knowingly took. Some reveal in retrospect that we set the stage to have to confront them down the road. 

It seems also these challenges mostly relate to love. The loss of someone we love, or the “threat” of that loss; the loss of our former capacity to do something we loved; the expectations we envisioned connected to a love.

There’s the old adage: we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone. At my age, among my peers, the challenges are often health related. Our bodies wear, and the physical aspects of our abilities changes. Our hearts also keep yearning, consciously or not, to love and be loved. We live in a culture that promotes overlooking the “now” in favor of reminiscing about the past or “greener grass” to come. So much of this seem a misunderstanding what’s real and permanent and forever within us. 

We all are immersed for some amount of time in the crucibles of life. Much seems determined by how we respond to the inevitable moments in these uncharted (and usually unwanted) waters. Being able to consider it doesn’t make me immune—I’m sure I resist changes as much as anyone. At times I feel very fortunate; I have friends who seem to have been given far heavier loads. But I’m hesitant to compare my challenges to others. We never really know the unspoken, unseen challenges with which others may be dealing. Nor the degree to which our lives affect and impact others. Everything is in the context of all else happening in one’s life. How can we begin to quantify another’s challenges, especially if we are all interconnected? It seems a waste of energy. 

Still, I’m capable of pettiness—getting frustrated when the person in the car at the light in front of me seems unaware the red has changed to green. Many of us have been near someone pouring out energy over a sports team’s loss, or a neighbor’s dog barking while another in the very same group has a loved one with a terminal illness. I struggle to cultivate, retain and sustain an aware, objective perspective. 

Some of my friends have been tossed into the transformative crucible of life again and again. I’m unsure how I would handle what they have, much less endure it. Yet, they do. As I type this several come to mind. Nearly always their lives have been changed, sometimes in ways that may tug at our heart. The incredible thing is, they haven’t just survived. 

Each of them is more resilient, and further, shines. It’s almost as if, consciously or not, their passage through the crucible has burnt away the lesser things. They seem less troubled by many of the distractions our culture is so keen to emphasize, in a way their being has been refocused. One can sense it in the tone of their voice, in how they listen more fully, and speak about and attend to others. 

Ironically, while there’s an undeniable toughness in getting through hell, it also can create a certain tenderness, a deeper understanding of what’s significant. Despite the heaviness of what they’ve been through they now embody a lightness. There’s often a soft but vital glow in their eyes that only lightly veils a deep understanding. The transforming crucible of life seems similar to and interwoven with grief. Both require unasked for changes, yet offer us an opportunity to become more acutely sensitive to others, to live with a deeper sense of compassion, and to appreciate the preciousness of now.