Women's Work, Part I

Last spring, I was invited to participate in the 14th Annual California Landscape Painter's Exhibit at the Natsoulas Gallery, downtown Davis.  At the time of the invitation I'd only dusted off my paints once in six years for a single morning of work, so the idea of preparing several paintings for a show made my eyes spin: How could I fit that into my life as a full-time mother? What would the kids be doing while I painted? Where would I set up my easel? What easel? What would I do about the fumes? What.... what.... was I going to paint? Could ....I.... even ....paint?

So, to answer the first two questions, I gifted myself with ten days of painting in late June, early July. That means I paid a babysitter to be with the kids for four hours each day; I wasn't thinking that this was my "Lean In" battle cry. I thought of this as a treat, a little stay-cation for Mommy; my version of a Ladies' trip to Las Vegas. 

The third question was answered through a gift from something greater, through an unspoken prayer, a touch of an angel, or reverbs of good energy. However I put it, I felt like the universe was encouraging me. Just the week before I was to embark on my little lark, I came across a huge easel at the thrift store: for $15 a behemoth sort that someone had obviously banged together in their garage; probably used by some artist who was real, and committed, and known, and now had enough money to buy a real easel, the kind that adjusted with nice brass hardware. How thrilled I was to have the cast off of this successful, renown, self-fulfilled artist! It would save me from propping my work on the bedroom floor! It would hold a panel bigger than any I'd ever before attempted! For fear of breaking the magic, or like a kid being handed cake, my wide grin was plastic across my face and I didn't blink as I handed over the money, strapped it on my bike at an absurd angle, and beat feet home. I remember having the internal glee, a victory cry: I've got my cake! I'm going to eat it too! I don't know how or why, but here it is! 

I took down my desk in our bedroom, draped and taped plastic all around, strategized with the box and ceiling fan, took some photos one evening at sunset: rudimentary readying. All this was so foreign to the kids. "What are you doing, Mommy?" "What are you painting a picture of?" "Why?" I didn't really have good answers, but that was also part of my preparation for painting. What indeed was I doing?! What would be the point? Was it really just a fun trip down memory lane? Like going back to the old drive-in movie theater to see a grainy '80's movie, only to think, "I thought THIS was funny?"

Our patient babysitter had her work cut out for her as I kissed the kids on their foreheads announcing: "Mommy's going to work now. See you after lunch." I then commuted upstairs to the bedroom; in the second hour I locked the door after learning the kids thought it would definitely be a "Take your kids to work day" situation.  I also developed an appreciation for loud contemporary pop music, as I learned that being swallowed up by the youthful cries for love and longing allowed me to pretend I wasn't the middle aged woman in the house ultimately responsible for the bangs and shouts emanating up the stairs. 

This was my slippery slope into treating painting like a real job. 

On the first day of work, my dentist told me I needed a root canal. On the second day of work I received that root canal. By the third day, the novelty of our little game had worn thin with the kids. So much for "diving in", more like a novacaned slump! 

Nevertheless, when I reached the end of day 10, finding myself standing in our lawn at 9pm, twenty feet back from painting that was too big to work on in our bedroom, it sure did feel like Vegas, baby! My little lark left me wide-eyed on the slot machine stool facing the flashing lights and clanging bells of a winning slot machine. I was hooked, and there would be no "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I was going to have to make this a regular gig. 

Pool, detail. 2014. Oil on Panel. 15.75 x 30 inches. sold.

Women's Work, Part II

I completed four paintings over those ten days of work/dental visits.  I like to think the pieces sold like hot cakes. In fact, they did sell fast and generated enough interest that John Natsoulas asked what other rabbits I could pull out of my hat.  After the sale of a few more of my bunnies, he offered me a solo show. I said, "YES, I'll have me another piece of THAT there cake!" and got on the books for November 2015.  

I would have nine months to produce twenty pieces for this show, painting sometime between delivering children to their morning school programs, but staying home with them while they were sick of course, enriching their ed-jumakations with swimming and ballet and clay and soccer, providing 3 meals and 2 snacks and laundry and... and... so, sure, I was never overwhelmed by these prospects.

Just as I was getting ready to lean deeply into this, I was given a copy of Natalie Goldberg's book Living Color: Painting, Writing, and the Bones of Seeing.  I sort of snorted and snuffed my way through many of its passages; like when she waxed eloquent about how inspirational it was for her to stop to appreciate the design of the spoon she used to stir her just-right cafe, while chewing the oh-so-perfect bite of croissant, in the oo-la-la French countryside; like when she spent hours analyzing the color of blue on her palette, before even painting a drop!  I don't have TIME for this lady. 

Apparently I was patient enough to stumble into some pages where Goldberg could really speak to a few of my lingering questions: Why was I painting? What purpose was it really to serve?  What was I hoping to get out of it? How would it change my life? How would my work effect others?

Just then the phone rang. It was my friend Kate O'Neill. 

I blurted out to her, "Tell me, why is it women artists are still unknown? Why have women writers gone so far ahead of them in the world?" She was working on her doctoral dissertation in feminist psychology.

There was a long pause. "Well, I called to see if you want to go to the movies. There's finally a good one playing in Taos." She paused again. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," I said. 

And she reeled this off: 1. More women are writers because it is something you can do in secret or private. It is much more threatening to create visual art because there is much more exposure; a painting or sculpture is out for anyone to see right from the beginning, and women haven't had much public support. 2. Anyone can afford paper and pencil, but to paint you need money and you have to take up physical space. 3. Many renowned women painters had a man behind them. O' Keefe had Stieglitz, Frida Kahlo had Diego Rivera, Elaine de Kooning was with Willem de Kooning. [Note 1] 4. Women can support women writers. A book is affordable. Paintings often aren't. Men, usually the holders of money, buy male artists' work. [Note 2]

Excerpt from Natalie Goldberg, Natalie. "Writer Meets Painter." Living Color: Painting, Writing, and the Bones of Seeing. New York: Abrams, 2014. 113-115. Print.

Note 1:  I am financed by Terry Smiley!

Note 2:  If she wasn't too worried about getting to that movie on time, I like to think that Kate would've stayed on the line to expand on her point 4: men's purchases of art is only a part of a vicious cycle. If men have more resources to make artwork than women, then more art by men will be available to promote and more of it to purchase, by the other men who have the purchasing power.   

Blue Ridge Mountains. 2014. Oil on panel. 24 x 48 inches. sold.

Women's Work, Part III

..... Her analysis was so deliberate. The idea that stunned me the most was the one about taking up space. I'd made a religion of writing in cafes- not having my own studio, making it egalitarian, nothing special, everyone can do it. I lugged my work from restaurant to library to coffee shop. Was I afraid of occupying my own dimensions, of actually pushing out walls for myself?

.... I was impressed that Barbara had built her own big studio, that she wasn't trying to paint in her kitchen between the dishwasher and cutting board or in the back room she used as guest quarters. [Note 3]

"You know what else about that list?" Barbara went on. "Painting is technical. There's all kinds of things to learn that aren't taught in public school. Everyone, at least in this country, has the opportunity to learn to read and write. The technical skills for a writer are built in from first grade." [Note 4]

"Well, where'd you learn the technical stuff for painting?"

"I studied art at a university and although I was recognized for my talent, there was an unspoken snag: I was female and was 'probably just going to get married.'" [Note 5]

When this passage and my own crossed, I took a deep breath. I realized why my questions felt so big.  How could I fit painting into my life as a full-time mother? What would the kids be doing while I painted? Where would I set up my easel? What easel? What would I do about the fumes? What.... what.... was I going to paint? Could ....I.... even ....paint?

My questions were all about taking up more space in, particularly space within my family, than I'd previously claimed. This "space" included not only square footage in our house, but time and proximity to my children. As with most new adventures, there was an element of fear in this change, but with the added wondering of "to be a 'good painter' will I become a 'bad mother'?" 

Of I stared hard at that phrase, the possibility of it:  "to be a good painter", looking at all the assumptions it prompted:  would I have become an art teacher/gotten married in the first place if I really had artistic talent/what it takes to be a real artist?; what about the skills I lacked and all the goof-ups and lousy painting I was going to have to suffer through, make public before hitting one or two that were right?; was I willing to let my mistakes and learning also take up space in my life? 

Here I am, with a solid year of doing this work under my belt.  Most of the questions linger, answers forming over a lifetime, but there are some preliminary results: painting fits in!

There are costs for us as a family, for our home, some great, some small. There's not enough space; I've gotten paint places it shouldn't be (like on this computer); I swear at the lack of lighting/fresh air/distance a lot in my "studio spaces". There's never enough time, but what needs to be done can be balanced through a day/week/season by paying out here, saving there, splurging now, pinching then. This looks like me not progressing on pieces because the kids are sick or on vacation, or me not scrubbing a dirty toilet or not having a fresh piece of fruit for our lunches because I didn't make it to the grocery store, just for a few more moments to paint. So there is a cost to everyone in the family. But the painting is just one currency. I realize that if it wasn't with panels and oils, then I would be paying some other way for life. 

Excerpt from Natalie Goldberg, Natalie. "Writer Meets Painter." Living Color: Painting, Writing, and the Bones of Seeing. New York: Abrams, 2014. 113-115. Print

Note 3: I was trying to paint in the garage, between the water heaters and the cat litter box.

Note 4: I was lucky enough to start gaining technical skills in the 13th grade.

Note 5: This was certainly the culture at my undergraduate school.  There was an understanding that some of my peers were there to earn their MRS degrees. Equally clear to everyone there, I wasn't obtaining that one any time soon. And by the time I did, I had plenty of other excuses for why my talent would never be enough reason for me to really make art as a profession. 

County Road. 2014, Oil on Panel, 48 x 72 inches. sold.

Dear Dad

This one goes out to Dad (Dad, are you reading?): 

Dad, you primed my life by being such a wonderful father. I'll never be board of you. With love, your daughter

A Light in the Attic

I painted here in the garage of my childhood home all of July 2015. Glorious sunshine and coastline spread before me, but the real reason I could work was that my children were cared for so greatly below by my parents.

Case in point:

Doting grandmother; mellow dog; personalized play forts (one built for each kid!); huge back yard. Put me into this situation a few times: http://www.thecomicstrips.com/store/add.php?iid=130702 

Where it all Starts

First I invaded a corner of the bedroom, then took over half the garage, then leapt over to a ranch porch for a few weeks, then to an expansive attic for a month. But all the paintings initiate in the backyard. 

Cages v. Lines

When I first conceived of this series, the title that hung in my mind was "Sky Cages". The more I painted however, the less I felt contained. "SkyLines" became my compromise, a nod to my more accepting relationship with the landscape before me.  Beauty can be seen, joy found around the interruptions and intrusions. The road we're on, on both emotional and physical planes, can be safely navigated.

A Winter's Still

This poem was written on the heels of finishing "Hwy 20, Fall Orchard", sometime when words finally came for this particular work:

A Winter Still

It is a winter still

the glare, the white of grief

caught in a shuddering squint.

Everyday the tight words                           are the same

punctuated loneliness. 

a terseness bracketed by

lifted bare branches, 

silent watchers at our wake.

No movement 

unless you count the merry-go-round

revolving the solitary figure,

his steam ringing above.

Like a toy train

going, coming, going;

if coming is bookended by going                there is no coming,

just a cycle of leaving

and a haloing breath.

A quiet tick

a distant station clock

a tock

indicating the unmentionable.

Hope, that's all it will take

a slight shifting wind and

the ring will break

down, dawning in blossoms

the petals

drifting here and there                                   in spirited wind

and green will roar 

smearing all across

and oh, the words, so many words will tumble forth

as unstoppable as the weeds and the vines and grasses in a year of rain.

No pattern

unless you can trace the recklessness of 

our careening, our inhalations coming raggedly

and sharp with the joy

of spring's arrival

and this winter will be still. 

Adam's Ranch

In late winter, early spring, I had the honor of hours at this spot. I am so truly thankful to have been welcomed, to have been present for so many sounds (thundering hooves down the field, acorns trickling down tin roofs, mail truck swerving slowly down a long county road from one side to another in its delivery route), the aromas of citrus blossoms and fresh cut grasses, the brilliance of canola blossoms and the flash of a Western Bluebird.  

Creative Movement

The kids caught the joy I had in starting the "Hwy20, Fall Orchard" piece, coming into the space and immediately mimicking with their own arms the movements of the trees' swishy-swashy limbs. No other pairing of the things I love could please me more! 

Chorus Line

When photographing this line of transmission towers my immediate impression was of looming, bestial giants, actually glowering over the ranches, as if the homes were domesticated animals cowering at their feet.  But the fullness of the towers' threat was mitigated by the softness of twilight. Furthermore, as I did the drawing for this piece, I was charmed by how the towers’ lines were connected, as if the giants were all too human, reaching out with wearied arms. The pattern of the lines' swooping is metronomic but graceful, a little too soft to be combative, but more like a dance.

In particular, I thought of a chorus line: a disciplined choreography of arms and legs, precise rhythms, geometric repetition, but all that graced by swinging skirts or arching plumes, colors of attraction.  I thought of how people pay to see such a show; even at great prices, they sit at the performers’ feet to be overwhelmed and provoked.

On these lands a reverse process is happening: one generation of the ranches' owners were paid to be the audience. How must the current residents feel? Buzzed and used, like coming away from a Vegas bender?  And how do the dancers themselves feel at the end of this day? Are they rubbing their feet and wishing for a few minutes of rest, even if in some seedy apartment?

Just Starting Out

The unofficial title of this piece is “Just Starting Out”. It was one of the first pieces I made for the SkyLine series in October 2014.  When I had went out on my image-scouting session for this work earlier in the summer, the sun was setting just as the kids went to bed. I remember tucking them in and dashing out the door, cameras in hand.  This type of leaving is still novel to me… the not being there at home when the kids are asleep. It’s a new part of the drama when I experience the sunset and sunrise; after nearly 7 years of mothering I realize just how many I’ve not fully seen, willingly trading them for lullabies and dreamy, waking snuggles, or catching just snippets around the distractions of dinner-making and hand-holding.  Yet immersing myself in the exactness of the start and end of a day is a powerful set of experiences for which my soul hungers.  

This is when the return to painting has allowed/required a return to my larger self. This painting will always serve as a reminder of when I was... just starting out... on that return to the painter-, day-watching parts of who I am.