It's a new year, and for me, it's time to update my art record book for 2020. I admit to being a little compulsive about recording every painting I complete in an official looking Record Book. Yes, the old fashioned ledger type book purchased from a "stationery" store has always been my  favorite way to keep track of my paintings. You can see from the image on the left that I cover over the word "RECORD" on the front of the book, and write the Volume number on the front. After 40 years of record keeping, I've just started in on Volume 5.

It all started in college when I was painting big abstract paintings in my Painting class. Somehow I'd gotten hold of a ledger book and began recording the titles, sizes, and dates of all the paintings I completed (maybe 40 or so the year I graduated). For whatever reason, I hung on to that book over the years, and when I resumed painting again at age 30, I continued recording my paintings in that old grey book.

Over the years, I've filled several of these books (each book is 150 pages, so I combine 4 years into one book, separating each year with a post-it note tab). I love the feeling of writing the title of each finished painting, one by one, into a lined notebook.

Each painting is logged in order of completion; I use a red marker to record the painting number (1 is the first painting of the year, etc.), and I write the date, size, medium, and any other notes I want to make about the painting (especially if it immediately sold).

Needless to say, I take a high resolution photo (on my iphone) of every one of my paintings (sometimes while in progress, but especially when I've signed and completed the painting). I put those images into folders on my PC labeled DigitalArt/[year], and I rename each file with the title of the painting--I shun nondescript file names like DSC0700! It is much easier to search for images using words from the title. From my PC, I am able to print out images of my work, or upload an image to a website when I enter a show online, for example.

While I do have a software program (MS Access) that I enter painting titles into when I need to make labels for a show, this hard-copy book allows me to paste things into the pages--such as my favorite paintings of the year. (I print a "contact sheet" so that the images are 1 x 3"). I cut out each small image and glue stick it onto the pages of the book--I sometimes arranged images by technique or theme.

In addition to recording each painting, I do one more important thing. At the end of each year, I assess my artistic progress and I write about:

• Workshops and classes I've taken (and what I learned from each instructor)
• New methods/materials I’ve tried
• Art/artists who have influenced me or showed me how to solve a problem
• A “top ten” list of my own best works—and why they are important
• Shows I’ve entered (accepted or not) and awards received

I haven't included any photos of the pages described in these bullet points because they are almost like a diary--too personal to share online. But they mean the world to me, because they inform my work and I hold myself to the task of writing them each year. Writing about my art in this book is a labor of love, and it shows me where I've been and (maybe) where I'm headed artistically.

Sometimes, we artists say things like "I just got lucky" upon successful completion of a painting. We should give ourselves more credit for the work it took to whip that painting into shape! Is it mere luck when we see an opportunity and seize on it?

My painting "In the Bubble #1" started one way, and finished another--because I saw its potential and refused to give up on it. In one afternoon, I transformed this piece from "potential junk pile fodder" to finished painting.

If you click on each image in the gallery below, you'll see a step by step explanation of my process. Step 5 is the final image of the painting. "In the Bubble #1" is acrylic marbling on paper, 11 x 15".

It's a good art day when I go from thinking “this is not working” to “I think I’ve fixed this!”.

 It is Election Day here in the U.S., and what better time to talk about the importance of art?

Since 2008, I've made a point to buy a piece of original artwork on or close to the November presidential election date. Call it a good luck charm or a declaration of hope and happiness, but I believe in the power of art (not to mention supporting the work of fellow artists). Artwork I purchase prior to a presidential election becomes (for me) a personally meaningful symbol of that election.

My best art picks were in 2008, when I bought several small paintings by Trish Grantham, and again in 2012 when I bought a painting by Carla O'Connor. Obama won both elections, and these paintings are extra special to me for that reason.

Alas, I had high hopes that Ms. Clinton would be elected president in 2016 but we know how *that* turned out. Still, in October  2016, I purchased a painting done by Savannah, GA artist "Panhandle Slim" (real name: Scott Stanton) depicting singer Helen Reddy and quoting her "I Am Woman" song lyrics. Scott misspelled "invincible" but that's part of the charm of this piece. This huge 36 x 24" painting on plywood hung in a prominent place in our house for a year---but then we moved to a smaller house in 2017 and had no big wall on which to hang it. Sadly, I hung it in the garage so I could at least see it when I went in there, but I had to figure out a better way to enjoy my Helen Reddy painting. Looking out my kitchen window, I wondered if I could hang it outside on my back fence so I could see it every day?

I realized the plywood painting would not be able to withstand repeated exposure to the elements (rain, wind, etc). So I went online and found websites that will print high resolution .jpgs on outdoor metal signs. I took a fairly good digital picture of the painting, and uploaded it to a website that offered heavy galvanized steel signs (with pre-drilled holes in the corners) MEANT to hang outside! The whole thing cost under $140 and they even paid for shipping. When the big box arrived, and I opened it, it was PERFECT. Today, I had my handyman come and attach the metal sign to the fence using weatherproof bolts. (I've included the image at the end of this post). The original painting is still in my garage.

We won't know the outcome of the 2020 election until tonight (if then) but, for the record, I did buy an original painting by CA artist Debra Abshear in October. In these uncertain times, keeping up certain traditions are more important to me than ever.

For those of us lucky enough to be "retired" from full-time paid employment (and still have enough to live on), the COVID pandemic has had a weird benefit: the gift of time and solitude. As an artist, this means fewer interruptions and more time to delve into my ongoing conversation with art. I call it that because I do more than JUST paint. I am thinking about and responding to what is on the canvas or paper---each stroke of paint I decide to put down is part of my "conversation" with that painting.

Late last year, I had a creative awakening that started when I placed a black swath of acrylic paint on white paper, which I quickly developed into a figure with auburn hair. I called this piece "Upon Closer Inspection" and it led me to create several other paintings in this series. As an artist friend said when she viewed the painting, "it's about what ISN'T there--the space around the figure is just as important as the figure itself." That's it exactly. It is easy to embellish and add more paint to a painting until we deem it finished, but it is much harder to show restraint from the get-go and let the sparseness of the neutral colors do the work for us. Less is definitely more in the case of these recent paintings (including my "Dispossessed" series, and my more recent "Keep Your Cool" series). In each of these paintings, I use a limited palette of neutral grey/black/white/sepia colors and I let the white of the paper show through (a rarity in most of my other paintings).

Something unexpected and exciting happened to me in September--my painting "Upon Closer Inspection #1" won First Place in the Rocky Mountain Watermedia Exhibit in Evergreen, CO. The juror, Linda Daly Baker, announced the awards in a live ZOOM meeting. I was floored that this simple, elegant painting stood out among the 65 colorful, skillfully executed paintings by nationally recognized artists. Maybe less really is more.

Four months (and counting) in to a worldwide pandemic, we've had some time to ponder what's important to us and why. Our connections feel tenuous, and many interactions are now virtual/online instead of in person. It's hard not to feel lonely and isolated, and I fight those feelings by talking to friends and family on the phone more than I used to do, taking walks, reading books, and listening to NPR (especially their non-news shows, where I learn about things I never knew!).

As an artist, I still paint nearly every day---it feeds my soul and gives me a sense of purpose and order. It is both a discipline and a time to play and innovate, and I post my finished works on my facebook page, where I get lots of welcome feedback from art friends. I participate in 3 ZOOM critique meetings per month, and that gives me accountability and a chance to see what my fellow artists are working on. These are my people, my community, and I'm grateful to have them in my life.

As much as I love to paint, I admit that there are times when I ask myself (as all artists do) "why even DO art?". Apparently, I'm not the only one who's pondered this question. A friend just shared a wonderful blog post by artist Danny Gregory: https://dannygregorysblog.com/2016/01/27/why-art-matters/

Incidentally, Gregory wrote this in 2016, but it's as relevant now as it was then. My favorite part of his post "Why Art Matters" is this:

I don’t go to church, mosque or synagogue. I don’t read Plato or the Tao. But art teaches me the things that matter. Explore the values that endure. Remind me of the legends that have passed down through time. These are crucial truths to guide me as I travel through my ordinary life, riding the subway, sipping my tea. Vital lessons that never go out of style like: Nature is to be revered. Humble pleasures are the sweetest. Everyone is significant. We are all connected. Hope is eternal. Bad things happen. The road bends. Life should be enjoyed.

Where else can I get these reminders? In fortune cookies and this month’s self-help bestsellers? Or in masterpieces that have endured because they embody and transmit our collective wisdom?

The history of art is the history of what’s important to us as a civilization and as a species. That’s why we erect huge buildings to house and display these old pieces of cloth daubed with paint, why they are among the first things we must visit when we come to a new city. They contain the truths that we, as a civilization and as a species, know are to be treasured.

I believe in my marrow that art is not a luxury. It has been a crucial part of humanity since we told stories around the campfire and painted the ceilings of caves. Art is not just for intellectuals. Art is not just for museums or public television or vacations in Paris. Art is here to make us feel better and be better. To remind us of our humanity and our connectedness. To unearth and share our feelings. To remind us we are not alone. Art is forever and for everyday.

I have been marbling (using watered down acrylics sprinkled into a tray filled with carrageenan) since I discovered this magical technique way back in 2006. As I transitioned from painting in watercolors to painting in acrylics (on paper or canvas), I looked through piles of my old watercolor paintings and decided to marble over them and give them a whole new look.

One of my more successful "do-overs" was a neutral toned landscape. I chose a reddish brown color to do the initial marbling, and then, as you can see in the images below, I rotated the painting to make it a vertical. Responding to what I saw on the paper, I composed a diagonal grouping of red tulips and did freehand painting using diluted washes of acrylic, making sure I varied my reds.

At the very end, I wasn't satisfied with the bright green leaf I'd painted in, so I collaged a piece of marbled paper onto that leaf shape and the piece was finished. I posted it on facebook and a client bought it right away!  "Red Tulips and Green"; acrylic marbling/collage on paper, 10 x 14".

out·burst
/ˈoutˌbərst/
 
noun
noun: outburst; plural noun: outbursts
a sudden release of strong emotion.
"“she screamed at him about it one day,” said one source who witnessed the outburst"

• a sudden outbreak of a particular activity.
  "a wild outburst of applause"
  Similar: eruption, explosion, flare-up, rush, flood, paroxysm, surge

For the past 22 years, I've enjoyed the privilege of being able to paint nearly every day. It's a habit I don't even have to think about--I just show up and get right to work. Truth be told, it feels more like "play" than work. The act of painting allows me to take thoughts, ideas, feelings, and things I've read or heard, and create a visual framework that tells a story.

Many of my painting titles are taken from songs or books, or snatches of poetry, or a phrase I heard on the radio. I'm always in a state of readiness, taking in the sights and sounds that are going on all around me. Admittedly, I have to edit and filter down all of these influences in order to focus on what I want to paint and how I want to communicate with my viewing audience--that's where the real creativity begins.

I've always built up my paintings in layers, making many changes made as I go--until I feel satisfied that there's nothing more I need to add or remove. But this process can take months from start to finish, and partially relies on input from some of my trusted fellow artists in my critique group. This process works well and has yielded some of my best works---but it takes patience and time to get to where I can call a painting truly FINISHED.

In the past few months, I've experienced what I can only call "outbursts" (artbursts?) wherein I'm doodling on my paper palette paper, rolling black acrylic paint around with a sponge roller (the kind used to paint interior house trim) and suddenly I see a painting forming right on the palette paper! I quickly seize on this, and start wiping away parts of the black paint to form a figure, and I use the remaining paint on the foam roller to create an arm, a hip, etc. Within minutes, I've got a simple figure painting with great light and dark values and minimal color (black/white/grey). I stand back and realize there's nothing else I need to do to finish this--it's done. (The most recent example of this process is "Dispossessed", acrylic on paper, 12 x 18".)

It's a breathtaking and oh-so-brief experience that makes me feel I've discovered some hidden secret to the (painting) universe. It does no good to ask myself how it happened--I'm just grateful I recognized this different way of seeing/painting and made it part of my repertoire. It's a reminder that I need to continuously sharpen my skills of observation; like a chemist in a lab, I am experimenting with my materials to discover what happens next!