Notes From The Elves On Finding A New Space

It's official. My studio space is finished, except for the wood stove and a bit of furniture. Even the neighbours' sheep wandered over for a look-see today. I have no excuses (if I ever did). If you asked me why my work sucked I'd now have to fess up and admit to being a lazy, mindless lout full of doubt and misgivings.

But wait, the confession booth is closed for now so I will have to choose another exit. When you get a new space small elves and helping spirits always leave barely legible instructions written in invisible ink on how to use said space. You knew this, right? You need to squint just so and adjust the curl of your mouth to read them but it's definitely worth the effort.

I'm sure they won't mind if I share my special note with you. The ones you've received or will receive could be a little different, based on the nature of your elves and your personal mishigas (Yiddish for craziness) You can always share your elvefull comments below.

1. Come to this space everyday. Let it's essence sink into your bones. Let your essence permeate the walls. It's all about energy exchange. That's how it works best.

2. Trust. Trust that you will know what to do here. Trust the whispers that burbble up from nowhere. If what you hear sounds anything like whinging and doubting, know that these messages were not meant for you. They are just passing through. Start singing very loudly, preferably something inspiring or silly or both.

3. Be still and quiet, especially when you first arrive. That way you can hear what's meant for you. Silence opens up the space in the same way you would pull back the curtains in a dark room, making the invisible available to you.

4. Make an offering each time before you start. It doesn't need to be fancy or elaborate. Offerings show your willingness and appreciation. It could be a whisper, a sigh or a speck of dust. Who you make that offering to (the muse, the spirits of the land, to everything that brought you to this point), those you call upon will grow and expand as you do. You will never run out of muses and beings and spirits to invoke, that way you will fill your space with the welcoming support of a thousand invisible hands.

5. Set an intention. Be clear. It may not be where you end up but it's always good to have a starting point for your creative wanderings.

6. Repeat as needed

I will let you know if they add to the list when they find me in need of fine tuning.  I am looking forward to getting to know my space and work in new ways. I hope my space feels the same way about me (says she to her space in the dimming light) .  I am looking forward to the light and space of  new possibilities.  This is the journey. May we all travel safely, wherever we are heading.

What's Your Relationship With Your Work?

Tracking 8"x 8" cold wax on panel

On my last post someone made the comment that they were interested in their relationship with their work.  Hmmm, I had never really thought about it. My relationship with my work? Did we need therapy or counseling, my work and I? Hmmm, I frequently think about my relationships with the people around me. I try to listen, I attempt compassion and understanding. I remind myself that I am not the centre of the universe.  I know, I know, that surprises you too, right?  But my paintings, that I spend so many hours with, do I ever think about these canvases and panels covered in paint in this relational kind of way??  Even this was telling, to relegate my work to the lot of "inanimate objects".  Do my paintings have a soul, do they have feelings and needs? It was a bit shocking to see my own insensitivity, up close and personal (well, I mean again :)  And perhaps you are a better painter and are tssking at me as you read, sucking air between your teeth and shaking your head.  I apologize for disturbing you in this way, really I do. I hope I have not caused any small capillaries to implode or your toe nails to fall off.

Crossing The Earth At Dusk 16"x20" 

And yet in this modern world of ours we frequently divide the world in this way, the animate, the inanimate, sentient beings and other, TV dinners and real food.  It is a type of unawareness I think. People who live(d) closer to the natural world perhaps are more aware of how the world is filled with energy and spirit that do not identify as sentient beings. Everything is alive in it's own way, don't you think?

In slight horror, I began to investigate my relationship with my work. It was a humbling experience to see that I am not a good listener.  In fact I am quite deaf to what my paintings might be saying to me most of the time.  If you were my painting, you wouldn't give me the time of day. I realized I am bossy, often beginning work without any enquiry as to what might be needed, to what the painting might want, suggest, be asking for.  You'd probably give me a smack upside the head if we worked in the same office.

I certainly am not at all good company for my work.  I rarely just hang out with it, sit and appreciate. I think I don't really know how to be a good companion to my work.  I watched a documentary a while back on Leonardo da Vinci and when he was painting The Last Supper he would visit the painting for days on end and just look at it, never lifting a brush. Now that's companionship, that's listening.

The Trees Are Calling Your Name 12"x12"

This whole relationship can of worms has prompted me to work in different ways, though I must say listening comes hard.  I see how the mind wants to get started when it  has just the tiniest idea, how it thinks it knows so much when it has considered so little. I have realized this promotes what I refer to as "mucking".  I have noticed that when I consciously generate feelings of warmth and appreciation for the parts of the work I like (instead of complaining about what I don't like) that the state generated is more conducive to good work.  It's all about process, right?

I notice a feeling of tenderness toward these little entities, these brave, new, embryos of paintings.  I can remember my Zen teacher used to say in relation to our practice and all the goofy things we do, "the eternal can wait forever, how long can you wait?"  I get the same feeling about the paintings.  They are in no hurry.  They humour, they tolerate and they wait.  They wait for me to learn, they wait for me to see, they wait for me to listen.  They are the best teachers.  Unlike me, they are never bossy or frustrated. They never demand or criticize.  I think sometimes they smile and wink and call gently from the corner.  And then they always look so pleased when I happen to get it right.  Who could ask for more in a relationship really?

Painting, Chopping Vegetables & A Bow To The Spiritual Badger

Why I Love The Wind 16"x20"

I was chopping vege for dinner one night with my daughter, who does some meditation coaching. "How's the painting going?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know", I said.  It seems like I move paint around on the canvas and never really like anything that turns up.  It feels like I paint the same thing over and over and feel frustrated that I'm not getting anywhere." She looked at me and said, "hmm, that sounds like the same thing you said two years ago."

"That does sound about right," I said, appreciating the honesty and her willingness to share even though I had a knife in my hand.

"So you're not getting anything you like when you paint? Do you know what you like?" she asked

"I like something light. I like some scratching and texture. I like greens and blues and neutrals, greys, soft transitions from one colour to another.  But I rarely seem to get something that pleases me."

16"x 16" Coming In For A Landing

"I wonder if you're seeing a painting as problem that you want solved and out of the way?" She pondered

"Hmm, that's true, I think.  I want a satisfying outcome without too much trouble.  And it feels like I've been at this for a long time without much reward.  It's interesting, because this conversation makes me think of my friend Jeane Myers over at Art It.  I love the way she thinks!  She really perks up when she has a creative problem to solve in a painting.  That's juicy to her and she rises to the challenge. It really makes her curious and interested."  (I also added inappropriately that I wanted her brain.)

"I also love that she says she learns from her paintings," I added.  It seems I'm not the best student and my paintings have given up on me.

"So," said the coachy daughter, "what if you focused more on being curious about the process when you go to paint, rather than the actual painting.

11"x14" How To Get From Here To There

So I made some notes so I could share with you (and with me) and the next time I went to paint I tried to remember to:

-If you are used to thinking of your creative work as a problem or fraught with problems, sense how this feels and try to adopt a different stance.
-Be curious about how you work, watching what you do and how it makes you feel (miraculously I am a whole lot neater when I paint after doing this.  Before I seemed to rush and a mess of brushes and paper grew around me. That made me feel unsettled as the chaos grew)
-Be curious about what emerges on the canvas.  Take time to stand back a lot more than usual.  Jeane talks about having a conversation with the painting.  I think a lot of the time I don't give the painting enough space to say anything. I am like the friend that blathers on. Poor painting never gets a word in edgewise.
-Notice how you feel inside. When I felt agitated and tight, I found it was time to stop and refocus, otherwise I went on to mucking (which could go on for a very long time and feel very unsatisfying.)  Sometimes it's just time to go for coffee, have a walk, take a break.
-Importantly, trust that you can solve any "creative situation" you find in front of you. (In other words, believe you are up to the task.)  This, I found creates a very powerful, positive feeling.
-Contemplate situations in life where you are successful and try to transfer that attitude to painting. Do you write with ease, cook confidently? How do you feel inside when you trust that things are going to work out?  Sometimes it's all about attitude.  Maybe it's always, all about attitude?
-Sometimes just do the opposite of what you might normally do to shake things up.  Do you always paint in a certain palette?  Do the opposite. Stand up. Sit down. Use paper. Listen to music, or different music. Try silence or spoken word.

I have found it so helpful to consider the deeper aspects of what I was doing and how I was approaching it. I learned first hand how doing the same thing over and over is the definition of insanity (or at least frustration).  I learned that focusing on the process, strangely creates a better outcome than focusing on the painting (or specific work at hand).

And I will end with a story that my coach/daughter told me about a yoga teacher that her friend called the "spiritual badger".  As they stood holding a really difficult pose, he said, "and how you do this, is how you do everything in life." With many bows to the spiritual badger.

The Value of the Open Road

reworked piece from last post 24"x24"

There is something about road trips. You are in this compartment like thing, hurtling down a concrete path, the world continually coming at you.  It's kind of like a mini version of life in a strange way.  Here we are, travelers just passing through, why not enjoy the ride?  For some reason as the big prairie sky flattened our strip of highway that analogy parked itself in my brain.

We covered a lot of ground in 10 days for island dwellers. We camped in the mountains, played a Tibetan drum by a green lake, ate out with friends at a place called The High Level Diner, drank strong, dark coffee in Nelson, wandered the only desert in Canada and popped cherries into our mouths straight from the tree.

Life is surprising if you let it be.  Often when I return home I feel a little lost, like "what do I do here again?"  Sometimes I feel like a period at the end of a sentence that wants to keep on going.  But this time was different. I noticed how quiet my piece of earth is; no sounds of air brakes or trains or the hum of refrigeration units.  There was the joy of garden and paint, the air warm like a tepid bath, a deer browsing the weeds in the lawn, a tiny bunny feeding, the quail having a dust bath in the flower bed.

reworked 12"x24"

I must say that at least once while looking at wonderful art on my trip I asked myself "why do I paint?" And I asked this not in the nicest of ways. You know how we can be to ourselves, like the meanest of sisters.  But once I got home an art conversation with a dear friend welcomed me and there was an air of excitement in getting to work.

Our conversation was about simplicity and complexity and how I love work that is simple and spare  but that isn't what comes out of me when I paint.  I realized that I spit out the word "complexity" as if it is an insult.  I don't seek complexity in my work but it finds me.  Her wise comment was something like, "isn't that neat how the painting is so honest?"  News flash: it's not about what I want but it's about something less defined, more ethereal, it's about what's in me that wants to be said.  It's not about someone else's painting I love with my name on it. The painting process bypasses the thinking mind which can be maddening to control freaks who think they know what they want.  You can argue with the canvas and paint if you like.  But be prepared to be frustrated. I speak from experience (the frustrated part, I mean).  So it was freeing to finally be open to what came out on to the canvas without wanting it to be some particular way, to embrace complexity even.  There was an energy to that openness that doesn't come from wanting something in particular.

So the value of hurtling down the highway, heading always towards home in a round about way, is that if you are lucky home will look completely different than you imagined when you get there.  If you're lucky you will have a friend waiting there with some wise words.

Oh yeah and that's the thing that we love about the open road.  It's open.

Preparing The Inner Canvas

8"x8" mixed media on panel (at ArtCraft)

I have been struggling a lot with my art process lately.  It's my koan. I feel like a living example of Ira Glass' quote.

But truly I've been doing this for a long time in one form or another.  Just somehow with some of the reflection on  my mental habits and the energy of my sitting practice, it's become more clear.  Sometimes that makes it more painful.  (Koan # 109 Is shit shittier if you see it more clearly??) But in some ways it feels like something that is becoming larger until it explodes and turns to dust (and or debris) and disappears. Am I just trying to put a good spin on it, all dressed up like Pollyanna with nowhere to go?  Or am I responding to the inherent emptiness in all our thrashings?

Some days the experience of frustration is so intense that I'm thinking, "why am I doing this? I am terrible at it. Why don't I just give up?"  And then I see Mara's shadow and I catch on.  Yes I could throw out all the paint brushes (I had a friend who threw his golf clubs into a lake) but where would I be then. I am chasing something and some days it feels like it's just around the corner.  And some days it's on another planet.

11"x14" mixed media on panel

The judgmental mind causes a lot of grief when we don't see it for what it is.  It's true that critical reasoning can offer helpful information but when thoughts kickstart the destructive emotions into gear and pedal out a long line of unhelpful thoughts and feelings, critical thought is a bitch.

I looked at some lovely photos from a family friend this morning that oozed beauty and serenity.  And as I sat I was reminded of a comment a monk made to me when I asked him about my frustration with my painting process. He said something to the effect that "if you want to paint peace, you need to be peace." And while that makes a lot of sense to me I often end up on the short end of the peace stick.

Visitor at our back door (outside!)

As I sat with all this I was infused with a lovely feeling of tenderness and I thought that's what I want to come out on to the canvas.  I could see in my minds eye how that tenderness would look on the easel.

And so it is the unwinding of this habitual way of being in the world that is our real work, not the painting, not the writing, not whatever it is that we do.  When we can in fact "be" what it is we wish to share with the world, then it will come through us.  Until then we're just preparing the canvas.  And that's good honest work too.

Our Real Work

Forest Buddha 14"x18"

It is raining again. I am always amazed at how much the human mood is tied to the weather. Go into town on a sunny day and everyone is all smiles and chat. Today there is a dark calm, an even light that the white sky casts over the landscape. Every shade of Spring green is available to the eye.  There is a calm, contemplative feel to the day. Still my little self calls out for sunshine. The energy inspired by bright sun waits somewhere out of sight. The hum of the heater reminds me of how cool the air is outside. A sagging pine branch just outside the window dangles in the breeze. Even the hummingbirds zing about with less ferocity.

I have spent the last few days getting ready for the summer art show here on Salt Spring. I count myself in with the slackers and stragglers who will submit their inventories at the very last minute of the call, today at 3pm. I have my excuses. We all do. And reason tells me they are true. My heart tells me they are not important.

I have been painting in a new way so not really producing much finished work; lots of thrashing about and the occasional piece that escapes the gesso wand of thick white goo, marking it for repaint.  I am frustrated when I produce a painting I like and then go for days before another hits the mark. Yesterday I joined the "Painting Rescue  Society" in the effort to safe a few old pieces. I implore you not to join their ranks if they come knocking at your door, with their tatty little membership forms. This I learned is pretty much a waste of time but it took me a good part of yesterday to realize my efforts to rework old pieces were not panning out. I learned that the brew mixed up by hope and delusion is rather bitter and best poured down the sink.

In the end I always stand back and ask if I would be happy with my name on a piece. It is about some internal integrity that gets stronger the more I work. It's like the dharma, isn't it: the clearer we get, the less we feel okay settling for the lazy, "good enough" effort?  We get to know the tricksters that haunt our craniums. There is so much to learn standing in front of a canvas. I might have said standing in front of a "blank" canvas, but in this case the learning comes from standing in front of an old canvas.

Painting, I was going to say, is like practice but actually it would be more accurate to say it is practice. I have learned a lot by my thrashing about this last 6 months, by venturing out into new paint ground. I work with a new eye, new faith in the process and a sense of "it's all okay". That's been a big lesson for me, to work for days, months and have little to show for it. It's sobering and honest making. You get to see what you're all about. In looking at what I accept as presentable work this weekend, I can see that there has been some movement, there has been something going on underground.

I also learned that I don't work well under pressure, actually I know that, but the weekend was a sturdy reminder. As much as I told myself I would not go into the studio with grim determination to "produce", the old habit became my shadow. It hovered and lurked, sucking all the fun from a painting afternoon. I learned that the process for me is a mysterious one, sometime a painting emerges and sometimes there are just paint rags on the floor and a whole mess of dirty brushes. I learned that I have become better at leaving the failures behind when I leave the studio, not to come into the kitchen filled with the glumness of an empty hand.

And so that was my weekend, one new painting and lots of inner etchings.

I will end with this quote I found on tumblr that speaks eloquently to where I am now:
"It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings."
—Wendell Berry