Internet Art Studio

"Whisper My Words"

2010-02-22T18:49:00.001-08:00

"Whisper My Words"

28" x 21"

Acrylic on Canvas

All was quiet in the studio, and then the jeweler arrived. The painting season officially opened upon her arrival. There had been many telephone conversations about her coming. She was coming; she was not. One day she arrived at the studio. She had flown the day before, and had again aggravated the hip injury she had sustained on the tundra in Mongolia. The artist was concerned about the injury. The jeweler laughed it off and said the pony got the worst end of the experience when it threw her and kicked her. The owner of the pony was harsh as he apologized to the jeweler for the ponies’ lack of hospitality to his guest.

“Why were you in Mongolia this time?” asked the artist.

“I was eagle hunting.”

There were rumors that the jeweler had travelled the world looking for exotic experiences, but she always adventured alone so there was no certainty to the whispers by her friends. The artist studied her face directly and the jeweler presumed the artist was passing judgment against her and so she decided to explain her actions. The jeweler was not a person to apologize. She had given up apologizing when she gave up conventional living; it was always her preference to explore rather than explain.

“It’s not what you’re thinking. We used the eagles to hunt with. It’s like falconry, but instead of falcons golden eagles are used.”

The artist relaxed and engaged and began to draw the jeweler. “Tell me about it.”

“It was a hunt. Amazing experience really. I got to hold one on my arm for quite awhile. It had a hood on its head or it would have torn me to shreds.”

“We got up early in the morning. The eagles were brought out. We traveled on ponies across the open plain. When we saw signs of wolves the birds were released and the wolves were hunted from the air and killed. The birds and wolves were retrieved and the hunter’s family continues to live.”

“What did you gain from the experience aside from just having the experience?”

“I learned the art of concealed conversation.”

“’The art of concealed conversation’, what does that mean?”

“I learned to whisper my words by speaking into my hand.”

“The point being?”

“The point being, I learned to communicate more directly with my eyes than I ever have with words.”

“May I capture your eyes?”

The eagle hunting jeweler thought, raised her hand to her mouth and looked at the artist and consented to the artist’s request through her eyes.

Self Portrait

2010-01-19T17:46:00.001-08:00

Self Portrait

"Dancing With the Shadow of Francis Bacon"

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

The studio was a song, a stench, an unfinished feeling fog-high above wooden floors with rags and paint stains, canvas and paper; an orchestra of clutter and debris and poetry and wind.

What he had to do was paint. He did not care how it all turned out anymore. He no longer took his life seriously, everyone else’s life, yes, but not his own. They all wanted something he did not want or care to want but would get without wanting it whether he agreed with it or not. It was no longer of him but was him and from this place he created. All he wanted to do was get back to painting in his studio. He had only left for a short time, but after he left and had been away from it awhile, he was always drawn back to it, homesick for his studio and the work, always the work ahead. And when he returned he smelled of sweet grass and alder smoke, pine pitch and cedar, linseed and turpentine and the modern plasticized odor of acrylic paint.

His studio was where battles were fought, skirmishes won and wars lost to an overpowering greatness that he could never fathom and only sometimes touch. And when he was alone in his studio he was never lonely, but breathing again, as if, for the first time. And then it was time for a fresh battle.

He had built it and stretched it and whitened it with the chalk of a million ancient seashells and now he faced it honestly until he felt the resistance. And when he felt the taught resistance from the surface of the canvas and saw the brightness of a million white and ancient seashells reflecting back at him, he entered the quiet place; the place inside you shoot from when you have your enemy sited. The artist now put his weight on his left foot which was a bit ahead of his right, leaned forward and inhaled, and the artist felt himself gently squeezing an internal trigger as he slowly exhaled, and this time red splashed out and onto the canvas spilling onto the easel in front of him. He was always relieved when red splashed first and not yellow. “Never yellow first,” he thought.

“I might as well throw away the whole fucking thing if yellow comes out first. For me, it has to be red or black and of those I prefer red to shoot out first.”

Because red came out first this time, his defenses lowered and he pushed straight ahead into the battle, dueling as much against destiny as design. Scars from explosions of color showed where the battle had been and the canvas and wood battleground eventually became a work of art.

When the inevitable truce came the artist rested and as he rested he thought, and what he thought never disturbed him but disturbed many of those he told it to. “Art is not for the terribly sensitive, but only for those who can survive it. Art is as creative as war is destructive. The powers of art or war can tear even the strongest person apart; war from the outside in and art from the inside out.” And when he was done thinking these thoughts he knew it was time to leave the studio and return later for the hardest part of it, the falling in love again.

When he returned to the studio again he fell in love with the work he had done battle with and that had tried to kill him from the inside out. And again it was like the first time he’d been in love with a woman that he really loved well and fully and she was empty and he was empty and together they wanted more and there was more because they were both in love. And he wished only to possess her and she only wished to possess him again, and they tried their best to make time stand still, but always, he must leave or she must leave. And that was the end of it.

He knew from experience he would love others and some would be better and some would be lesser loves, and some would be great works of art and others would be a waste of time and effort, eventually discarded or covered over and used again. He also knew he would always want her back, but he had sold her and she belonged to another and he could not have her back now or ever. And that was the end of it.

A Ghost Story

2009-12-26T14:24:00.001-08:00

"The Ghost"
28" x 22"
Acrylic on Canvas

When she walked into his studio she was wearing two coats and two shirts and two pairs of pants. The artist had never seen a ghost in the flesh before, but there she was.

“When you called you said you had a story that was unusual but all too usual. What did you mean by that?” asked the artist.

She was too pale to blanch at his directness. Her blonde hair was barely legible against her face and in front of the white walls of the studio she blended into the background except for her clothes which made the lump of her shape bulbous. Except for the thinness of her face the artist would have guessed her a large woman, but his guess would have been wrong.

“Before I tell you my story, I want to make sure we’re clear that you are only to paint my face, not my body.”

“That’s fine, but may I include your hair?”

“Yes, if you choose. Just not my body.”

“Let’s start there. Why do you only want your portrait? I understand why some people want just their portrait, but I feel your reason may be different. You’re so adamant.”

“I want to show them that I’m a person; that I can hold my head up. That I’m not just an object.”

“May I ask who you’re referring to when you say ‘them’?” asked the artist.

The ghost of a woman paused and thought for a moment. She looked at the artist and then her thoughts and the attention of her eyes drifted to the window and then back to the artist. She looked into the artist’s eyes with a way of looking that made the artist wonder if she saw out of her own eyes. She continued to look at him and through him and in him and too him without any kind of determination of fact. Her eyes performed pure observation from a safe distance even as she sat in the same room. The artist wondered who the observer was and who was the observed.

“I am referring to my father and my uncle,” she said. “They sexually abused me since I was a baby in the crib. My father recently passed away, but my uncle is still alive.”

“Do you still have contact with your uncle?”

Her response and tone and words were slow and came one syllable at a time from a place inside herself where she spent much time but never invited guests. “Yes. I live with my Uncle… as his wife.”

The artist watched as her attention drifted around his studio, bumping into walls and furniture and paintings and lights and he no longer wondered if there were lost souls in the world.

“Why do you stay with him?”

“I stay with him because he would abuse others if I didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“They both told me they would and they told me who and I don’t want that.”

“You know you’re his prisoner, don’t you?”

“Yes. And this is how I can fight back. I can deny him the others he craves.”

“Have you ever tried to get help?”

“Of course. When I was a teenager I went to the state to report them. A friend went with me. The person taking the report said I must be wrong. She then propositioned my friend and I. After that I realized there was no point in complaining and that this was to be my life. That’s when I knew I could make something of my life by protecting others from them.”

The artist realized she had given him all he needed to draw her. To ask for more would be an invasion. “Would you like anything before I begin to draw you?” asked the artist.

“No. But, there is something I don’t want.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t want you to pity me.”

The artist drew and then painted the head and the hair of the ghost. And when he drew her and painted her he drew her and painted her without pity.

No Sale

2009-12-13T18:23:00.000-08:00

They were already seated when he arrived. The man did not stand when the artist introduced himself. Their handshake was almost accidental. The woman did not look up from the sample books on the oak table in front of her. The artist said nothing. The couple said nothing. The waiter arrived to take their drink order. The artist asked the waiter which single malt scotches the bar stocked and he decided on the Glenrothes. Out of courtesy, the artist let the waiter tell him about the whiskey, but the artist already knew about the whiskey and ordered a double with ice. The couple already had several drinks and did not order another. The waiter returned with the whiskey and asked if anyone wanted to order dinner. The male of the couple waived him away dismissively. It was a warm and open restaurant with a gracious staff that had not yet been abused beyond usefulness.

“We need a painting. We need it right away. You’ll do the work, but we don’t like your price,” said the woman.

The artist looked at her and took a sip of his whiskey. He felt the warmth of the liquor and put the glass down.

The man looked at his watch and then looked up.

“Well? You don’t appear terribly grateful,” said the man.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do. You didn’t send back any of the information I sent you and I haven’t quoted you a price,” said the artist.

“We thought all your information was a waste of time and we know what you charge and it’s too much and we know what we want,” said the woman.

The artist pushed his drink aside. He had lost the taste for it.

“And what is it that you want?” asked the artist.

“Our decorator has picked out these colors and she says a landscape would be perfect if painted like a Monet or Manet or one of those artists whose name starts with an M,” the woman said.

“It’s Monet,” said the man.

“Whatever. I don’t care what his name is as long as it flows with the architecture and the furniture. It all has to blend.”

The artist adjusted his position on the chair. “Perhaps you don’t understand what it is that I do exactly.”

“You’re an artist; you paint pictures for people who hang them on a wall. What’s to understand? My decorator said just call an artist, they’re all hungry in this economy, you can get a good one cheap and he’ll do whatever you want, if he has half a brain. So, you claim to be an artist, do you have half a brain?”

The artist looked at the whiskey in the glass on the table and looked at how near the woman’s face had traveled. “Your decorator is an ass.”

“I don’t care if she’s an ass or the Buddha; she’s doing a fabulous job. Do you want the job or not?”

“No. I do not.”

“You’re an idiot then.”

“Perhaps, but I’m still not interested in working for you.”

“Why is he saying no to me? You know how I hate it when people say no to Me.” the woman said to the man.

“He’s just negotiating, dear. Alright, how much do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I just want to leave.”

“No, really, how much do you want to paint a painting for my wife?”

“I am unaffordable.”

“What the hell does that mean? Are you suggesting I don’t have enough money to buy you and your art?”

“ I’m sure you have a great deal of money. That’s not my point at all. I can’t afford you.”

“What does that mean? I don’t understand you artists,” said the woman.

“What I mean is very simple.”

“Then quit wasting our time and tell us!” said the woman

“As I said, it’s simple; you don’t deserve to own a work of art. You won’t appreciate it, won’t respect it and you relegate your aesthetic decisions to your ass of a designer because you’re too ignorant or lazy to develop any taste of your own. As for what I want… I want to leave and improve the quality of my evening.”

The artist stood and walked into the bar. The waiter looked at him.

“How much for the drink?” asked the artist.

The waiter smiled. “Your drink is on the house, sir.”

The artist put on his coat.

The waiter stepped toward the artist and spoke in a quiet tone. “You painted a picture for a friend of mine when he was sick and you gave it to him. Do you remember?”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Robert M_______.”

“Yes, of course, he was a wonderful subject; interesting life story. I painted him about three years ago as I recall. How is he?”

“He passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a nice man.”

“He loved your painting. His mother let me keep it.”

“I’m glad he appreciated it and I hope you do as well.”

“I do.”

“Thank you again for the drink.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Dancing on Water

2009-11-29T21:50:00.000-08:00

"Dancing on Water"

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

The artist and the model met at a coffee shop in the center of the city in the mid-afternoon. The model had a secret; the artist, a pencil and paper to draw on. It was early October and it was cold and it had rained and the sidewalks were wet and slippery and the few remaining tourists carried umbrellas from store to store. The artist and the model sat facing each other at a wooden table with wooden chairs that had ventilated rattan backs painted black like nail polish with chips along the rounded tops. They sat in the farthest corner from the front window. The cracked plaster of the yellowed walls smelled of stale coffee beans. In the shadows in the corner of the coffee shop they sat and drank and spoke quietly when they spoke at all, but mostly they sat in silence. She kept her eyes focused on the table top and would not look up; she was fearful and embarrassed, but mostly fearful as they sat and drank and waited for her to decide. Argentine Tango music played softly in the background and for a moment the artist thought of a club in Buenos Aires he had once been to.

The energy between them was intense but guarded. The artist waited as he had done the first two times they’d met when she had walked out without saying a word. This was not the first time a model had a secret so personal that it couldn’t be shared; or wouldn’t be; and this attracted her to him. The artist knew anything he drew now would be useless unless she reached a point of expression; until she shared her story there was nothing for him to capture. The artist waited and asked a few casual questions while the model waited for the artist to make a mistake; to push too hard; to overplay his hand. But, the artist didn’t overplay his hand, he didn’t make a mistake and she knew that this could be her only chance to tell someone her story; to relieve herself of the burden of her story.

Her hands shook while she placed the empty cup back on the table. She exhaled, adjusted herself and looked up at the artist.

“I won’t take my clothes off if I model for you,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” said the artist. He adjusted himself and placed the pencil tip onto the paper. He knew from experience the drawing was about to happen. The only thing he didn’t know was how long she would let him continue.

“I used to do that.”

“You were an artist’s model?”

“No. I used to work in a bar and take my clothes off. I did it when I was younger, right after I left my parent’s house. That’s my secret; well, one of them anyway.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And why is it a secret you keep?” asked the artist.

“Because if I tell that secret then I’ll have to tell the others.”

“You’ve told me. Are you thinking of telling me the rest?”

The model’s eyes returned to the table top. Her awareness had retreated inside herself again. The artist removed his pencil from the paper and waited. She stood and walked to the front counter of the coffee shop and returned to the table, and the artist, with her cup filled with coffee.

“It all started because I liked to dance. When I was a kid growing up, my grandfather taught me to dance. We’d spend hours dancing in his living room. I was fifteen when he died and I thought my world had come to an end.”

The artist began to draw again.

“When I moved out on my own, I needed money, so I applied for a job as a dancer in a bar. At first I didn’t strip, it was more like a club. We wore sexy, exotic costumes and danced around to get the customers to stay longer and buy more drinks. When the place was sold, the new management turned it into a strip club. At first I figured I’d just get another job somewhere else, but I couldn’t find one; then I talked to some of the girls who had stripped at other places and they told me about the money they made.”

The artist watched her. She looked as if she had gone into a trance. Her voice had changed and her posture had relaxed. She was calm and focused on her thoughts.

“Life hadn’t been too good at home, except for my Grandpa. After he died, things with my parents got pretty rough. My dad drank more and he got violent and beat my mom. After he hit me for the first time I decided to leave. I was seventeen then, so I bought a fake I.D. and started to dance. I was so afraid I might have to return to my folks when the bar sold and I couldn’t find another job.”

The artist remained silent and drew as the model spoke.

“The first time wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined it would be. Nothing much happened really. I guess I was expecting the cops to burst in or to be hit by lightning or something. But, all I did was start to dance and take my clothes off to the beat of the music. It was o.k. really. After I finished, a few guys whistled and a few clapped, but mostly no one even paid attention. A couple of weeks later was when I got invited to my first party and that’s when things changed.”

She stopped, stood up and walked to the Women’s restroom. The artist stood and walked to the front counter and returned to the table with some fresh chai tea just before she got back and sat down.

“I don’t even know why I went to that party except they said I’d make a lot of money. They said all the girls eventually worked parties and that it was no big deal. Easy money. Well, it wasn’t easy money. There were eight men and just two of us girls. Alcohol was passed around first; then I’m pretty sure someone put drugs in our drinks. The next thing I knew the two of us were naked and one man after another was on top of me. To this day I can’t remember how it felt, but I’ll never forget how each of them smelled and the others laughing and cheering each other on. They were old and they were fat and they smelled of booze and sweat and they were ugly. It was the most degrading experience of my life.”

She drank some of her coffee.

“After that I had nothing to lose; my spirit was broken. I did whatever was asked of me and they were right, the money was easy and good. But, I had become easy and not so good. I used drugs to keep from feeling things and to pay for them I worked as a prostitute. For five and a half years I was a drug addicted prostitute. And I would have died there if my sister hadn’t found me. She died of cancer last year, but you must have known that. You knew her.”

The artist paused and put his pencil gently on the table. With his right hand he reached for the tea and drank. “Yes, I knew your sister for a few years before she died. You’re a bit taller and thinner, but you have the same lion’s mane of dark red hair. She talked about you often, but never this. She kept your secret.” He put the cup down and waited for her to continue her story.

“My sister was the only person in the family who knew. Even my husband doesn’t know about my past. He thinks I went to college and was a good girl and had only been on a few dates before we met. He told me once, as far as he’s concerned, I walk on water. I told him, I only walk on water when it’s frozen.” She smiled for the first time when she said it.

“And that’s my biggest fear. He’s very religious and we have two children and if he ever found out, he’d leave me and take my babies with him.”

“If he’s as religious as you say, wouldn’t he forgive you?”

“I’ve been going to church with him since we met. He’s a fundamentalist Christian and I don’t know if you know much about them or not, but they talk a lot about forgiveness, but I’ve never seen them give any except to themselves. It’s like it’s alright for them to sin and do whatever they want as long as they cry a bit and ask for forgiveness, they get it. But, if someone does something they don’t like or doesn’t fit into how they view the world… forget it… all bets are off… that person is evil to them. I even pointed out to my husband once Jesus spent time with the lowest of the low including prostitutes. All he said was, he wasn’t Jesus and prostitutes and gays were too low for forgiveness. He even told me if one of his children became a prostitute or was gay he’d disown that child and hope they would die instead of bring further shame on his good family name. He said those were two lifestyle choices he couldn’t abide. Sometimes I think I’ve traded one controlling pimp for another; only this one keeps me in the kitchen instead of the street.”

“Why do you stay with him?” asked the artist.

“Because I’d die if I had to go back to the street life. Being a prostitute is all I know how to do besides being a wife and mother.”

“You sound so unhappy.”

“In some ways I am. But really, I’m resigned to things as they are; at least I’m alive. I realize it’s not likely he’ll ever find out about my past; I lived in a different city and state then, but he could. And I have my beautiful little girls.”

Her thoughts drifted for a moment. “Do you want to know what the strangest part is?”

“What’s the strangest part?” asked the artist.

“This may sound stupid, but I miss dancing. Not taking my clothes off, but dancing. I wish he’d take me dancing, but he won’t. He says God doesn’t approve of dancing. Even after all the bad times, I still think of how safe I felt dancing with my grandfather. And I’d just like to feel safe for awhile. Is that too much to ask?”

“No. I don’t think that’s too much to ask,” said the artist as he put his pencil onto the table. Argentine Tango music continued to play softly in the background as he stood and extended his empty right hand to her. She looked at his hand and then at him.

“I can’t. Not here. I can’t. No way.”

“Why not?” asked the artist. “Just pretend I’m your grandfather and this is his living room.”

She looked into the artist’s eyes and found only reassurance and confidence and she stood and took his hand and he slowly pulled her into his arms. His lead was direct and firm as he guided around the tables and danced a slow tango in the shadows in the far corner of the coffee shop far away from the front window. It rained on the sidewalks outside as she leaned into him and for a few quiet, gentle minutes she felt safe and warm and loved again.

Old Man Woman

2009-11-09T15:22:00.000-08:00

" Old Man Dreaming He Lived To Be A Young Woman"

37.5" X 60"

Acrylic on Canvas

Inside the studio it was warm and light. There were no paintings showing, all had been turned to face the wall. With an edge of each painting on the floor they leaned against the freshly painted whitewashed wall. It looked like a museum of backward paintings. There were two well worn and paint-stained overstuffed leather chairs in one corner and a small model’s stand in another corner next to the brick fireplace. There were several spotlights mounted from a large beam that supported the center of the ceiling and ran the length of the room. The fire and the lights warmed the models when they were there to pose for a painting. Outside the wall of windows it was raining.

The artist had asked him several questions early on in the drawing session; it wasn’t until almost an hour had passed the old man spoke.

“It’s difficult to outlive your friends and family. It’s even more difficult to outlive the fact that none of them knew the truth about me.”

“What is the truth about you?” asked the artist.

“I am an old man who will never live the life I should have lived.”

“Why?”

“Because I was born a woman in a man’s body; for as long as I can remember I’ve known it. I only wish I could have lived as a woman instead of a man, even if it was just for one day. To feel myself inside the skin of a woman as a woman is all I’ve ever wanted and now I’m too old. I used to play with dolls when I was a child; I knew then. When I looked at a beautiful woman I didn’t want to seduce her, I wanted to be her and seduced by handsome men, one right after the other.”

“Why didn’t you change your sex?”

“When I was younger the procedure didn’t exist. Even more to the point, I could never tell my family. My parents and my brothers never knew. Being gay was considered a perversion for most of my life. It used to be a shameful thing to be homosexual. I know it’s still difficult now, but nothing like what it used to be. Now my friends and family are all dead and when I look back on my life, I realize I’ve never lived. I’m eighty-four years old and I’ve never lived. ”

The artist continued to draw the old man. These were the moments he looked for in the faces of his models.

“I was actually married once, to a woman who was a lesbian. She was the only person who knew my secret and I was the only one she’d told her secret to except for the lovers she had for the years we were married. She drank herself to death. She was a fearful person like me. Would you like to see a picture of her? She’s the only friend I think I’ve ever had. I always wanted to have a body just like her’s.”

With palsied hands, the old man removed an old photo from his wallet. It was a picture of a naked woman lying on her side facing the camera. The picture was in almost perfect condition even though it had spent years in his wallet.

“May I make a copy of her picture?” asked the artist.

“Why?”

“I have an idea for a painting I’d like to try, if you’ll let me.”

“If you like.”

The artist went to his office and made a color copy of the old photograph of the old man’s naked lesbian wife and returned to the studio and handed the picture back to the old man. The rest of the drawing session was finished without conversation from either of them.

It was a month and a few days after the old man’s visit when the artist called him and asked him to return to the painting studio. When the old man entered the studio the artist turned the oak easel and revealed the painting on it. For almost a minute the old man’s expression didn’t change.

“You made me her,” the old man said quietly.

“I tried,” replied the artist.

“You did. Thank you,” the old man whispered. “It’s like a dream I once had. I am she and she is me.”

The old man cried and looked at the painting and cried and looked at the painting until eventually he left the artist’s studio. The old man never returned.

Death is...

2009-10-30T16:00:00.001-07:00

"Death is a Wrinkled, Old, Blind Woman Standing by the Side of the Road"

From the "Faces and Places of Death" Series

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

When he first stopped at the side of the road there was nothing but the hard, bright, steady sunshine, the heat and flash light of the August afternoon, and the voices of dogs converging somewhere in the distance. The front left tire was flat as his truck eased onto the yellow dusty clay alongside the road. The yellow of the sky matched the yellow of the clay hills that surrounded him. The only break in the color was the bands of grey sage that lay in strips along the landscape.

He got out of his truck and surveyed the flat tire and removed the tools from the truck he needed to make the simple repair. The air was still and smelled of hot dusty spice. The road was empty and he was glad he hadn’t had serious truck problems because it was obvious there was little traffic on this side road. The young man loosened the lugs on the tire and when he was done he looked around, felt the bellows blast of the summer wind and looked down and positioned the jack under the truck to lift the tire off the ground.

She did not come into his sight directly; she was just there, looking not quite like a ghost but as if all of nature’s energy was condensed inside her and she were the source of it, not only moving in it, but disseminating it, moving without sound, seen first in the corner of the eye, in that split second it takes to realize a presence is near, moving toward him having come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. He lifted the jack handle and stood and prepared himself for the attack that never came.

The old wrinkled woman that stood beside the road was blind and he was sure she was death incarnate. He had traveled a long way to meet her, his death; it wasn’t what he’d expected but he couldn’t imagine a better way to leave this world either. She looked like an ancient sculpture of a Navajo and he didn’t think she would speak English until she approached and said, “Stop being so afraid; you don’t know what day you’ll die. But, you would give your soul to know the day and time and how it will happen. Your soul is worth more than that. I’m still waiting for death and so are you. Stop being afraid; death is the only true visitor you know will someday come.” And then she stepped into the sage and disappeared as quickly and silently as she had arrived.

When he awoke he was sitting on the ground next to his truck and the sun had begun to go down and the air had cooled some. He stood and looked for her, his death, but saw no sign of her. There were no footprints in the dust. He opened the truck door and reached for his water bottle and drank until it was almost empty. He looked at his tire and it was repaired, the tools waited to be put back in the truck. Had he dreamt her? Had he gotten too much sun and hallucinated all of it? He had owned this mystery for many years now and when he thought of her, he wondered when and where and how… and he thought about just how much his soul was worth.

The Narcissist

2009-10-14T21:28:00.001-07:00

"The Narcissist"

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

The way it began with the narcissist was normal enough. A client had asked to introduce me to this most “unusual” woman. She said this woman was a complete narcissist like no one else she’d ever met. My client found great humor in introducing me to this other woman as she knew it was my hobby to meet and to collect eccentric individuals as friends and models. There is not much future in being friends with a narcissist although it can be interesting for a short period of time before it gets worse or one becomes drawn into their world entirely, and there is entirely no future if your intentions are romantic. The narcissist makes the perfect model.

She was punctual for our appointment to my studio. She sat in a paint stained overstuffed leather chair and drank chardonnay and ignored the paint stains on the leather with her eyes, but picked at a patch of thick blood red paint with her fingernails. She said it was a good chardonnay. I said it had been a gift from a friend who didn’t know chardonnay wasn’t something I drank very often. I confessed I didn’t know if it was good or bad. She said it was a very good chardonnay; probably expensive. Even without the wine she would have been very relaxed at conversation. Some people find it difficult to speak about personal things, but this woman spoke of very personal things like we’d been friends for many years. Everything was personal that she spoke about as she told me about herself during her ever more revealing conversation that day while the topic remained the same; her. She was one of the easiest clients to understand. As I sat and listened to her describe her inner life my mind filled with images of her as a series of finished paintings. The more she spoke, the grander became the depths of her personal interest. I must have gotten so focused on the images in my head I lost track of what she’d said until I heard something that astounded me and I wondered if I had dreamed or heard accurately. I asked her to repeat herself which she was more than pleased to do.

“I said, I can’t help that I’m so attracted to myself. I don’t even care what other people think I look like; it makes absolutely no difference to me. I’m perfect for me. I wish I could marry myself.”

I asked her if that was her most daring dream; to marry herself.

“That’s one of my dreams, but the one that excites me the most, the dream I really wish could come true more than any other; I dream of French-kissing myself. I often wake up completely aroused in the middle of the night with the same dream and in it I’m kissing myself and I mean really kissing myself like I was my own lover. And now it’s become an obsession with me. I wish I really could kiss myself long and hard and with passion on the mouth. But I don’t suppose I ever will.”

Six weeks later, when she returned to the studio and I showed her the finished painting the narcissist collapsed into the paint stained leather chair she had occupied and drank chardonnay in on her previous visit. She didn’t remember telling me anything about her desire to kiss herself. She honestly thought I did most of the talking during our initial conversation and thought our conversation was mostly about me and very dull.

“I never imagined I would meet someone who would ever understand me, but you do. You understand me better than anyone,” she said.

“Or perhaps, I merely took the time to look.” I said.

She still does not remember what she said in our first conversation and thinks I can read minds. I find her an interesting and eccentric personality to paint.

The Spaniard's Wife

2009-10-08T17:34:00.000-07:00

" The Spanish Gentleman's Foul-mouthed Wife"

20" x 16"

Acrylic on Canvas

It turned out to be a rather interesting meeting that led to a rather more interesting turn of events. At the table across from me, the Spanish gentleman drank his brandy as I finished a coffee. The conversation had been cordial and indirect so far… diplomatic. He finished the drink and placed the bulbous snifter on the table in front of him and began to explain the problem as he saw it. The time for diplomacy had suddenly passed; discreet directness was now appropriate.
“My wife”, he said. “Is the most beautiful of women. You may consider this exaggeration on my part, but I assure you it is the truth.”
I looked at him and without saying anything I encouraged him to continue.
“I don’t wish to offend you, but since I met her I have not slept for fear of her being unfaithful.”
“How does that concern me? We’ve only just met and I have yet to meet your wife.”
He continued, “As I said, it is not my wish to offend you, but if you consent to paint her portrait I must insist upon three things.”
“And those are…?”
“First, you must paint her as beautiful as she is. Second, she must have a chaperone with her at all times. Third, we must agree contractually that you will not make any inappropriate advances toward her or you will be financially responsible.”
“On the first point”, I said. “No. I will paint her as I perceive her. If she is as beautiful as you say, that will show through, but I will do nothing to augment her attractiveness if she is not.”
He paused and thought for what appeared to be the first time that someone else might not view his wife as he did. He nodded his consent, “Yes, of course, paint her as you see her.”
“On the second and third points, I agree to both the chaperone and the non-seduction clause on the condition that we both provide chaperones. She will be accompanied by two witnesses, one for each of our concerns.”
He nodded in agreement and smiled, “You are a wise and most excellent business adversary. I did not expect this from an artist. But, you are very fair. Thank you.”
We stood and shook hands. I told him he would receive the contract in a few days from my attorney.
“I noticed you didn’t try to reassure me that you would not attempt to seduce my wife,” he said as he moved toward the door.
“There is nothing I can say that would reassure you. Besides, that’s her responsibility, not mine.”
He turned, looked directly in my eyes, nodded, smiled slightly and left the room.
In a few weeks the contract had been signed around, chaperones secured and a date to meet the Spaniard’s wife had been set. His explanation of her beauty had my imagination wondering what the most beautiful woman in the world would look like. Was beauty a tangible thing that everyone can agree to or is it subjective and if it is subjective what causes one person to see something or someone as beautiful when another sees the opposite? Or, can beauty be judged by degrees?
The Spaniard’s wife arrived at my studio a few minutes early on the agreed to date. Her chaperone entered first, introduced herself as Marta and explained that her employer spoke very little English and that she, the chaperone, would act as translator. I shared that I spoke only rudimentary Spanish and thanked her for her service in advance. I then introduced my attorney’s paralegal, who would be the chaperone for my side of the transaction. And now it was time to meet the most beautiful woman in the world.
She walked in the door and I was stunned. The first thought that came to mind was a quote by Gelett Burgess, “It was Matisse who took the first step into the undiscovered land of the ugly.” I realized at that moment I was about to take the second step. My next thought was that the Spaniard was playing a joke on me, so I looked past this woman to see if there was anyone following her. There was not. This was she. I collected my thoughts momentarily and politely shook her hand. Though she was not beautiful to me, she obviously was to her husband and it was my job to treat her as such.
That day, the true irony became clear when the subject tried to speak English. The only words she knew were curse words. So as I drew her, she swore at me. The dream of spending a day with the most beautiful woman in the world had shifted to spending the day with an unattractive foul-mouthed wife of a Spanish gentleman.
Postscript: Upon receipt of the painting, the Spaniard called to congratulate me… that I had not only captured her likeness, but also her beauty. My conclusion: Beauty is definitely subjective and illusionary.

OMG, OMG, OMG

2009-09-10T20:53:00.001-07:00

Oh, My God; Oh, My God; Oh, My God

Each Panel: 24" x 18"

Acrylic on Canvas

They came to me as a trio of devoted lovers and asked that I paint them at their most intimate moment together. Each woman was reaching a climax as I captured their expression… each unique and profound in their enjoyment and release and devotion to the others.

The challenges of a triptych are many, especially when compounded by three unique faces and personalities. For most artists it is enough of a problem to capture three impressions of one person, but when one makes an attempt at this type of project, one soon finds it is exponentially more difficult to capture the emotions, personalities, colors, anatomy and expressions of three distinctly different individuals and integrate them as a cohesive group image.

At first they were a couple. When they met the “third” at a party neither of the first two imagined that their partner was as attracted to the “third” as she was. Over several weeks the tension between the couple grew as neither one knew how to communicate to the other their desire to expand their relationship to include another person… the “third”. One drunken evening they each confessed to the other their desire for the “third” to join them. A rambling non-confident phone call was made that extended an invitation for dinner. The offer was accepted five years ago. This painting was made for their anniversary.

To integrate the flow of the compositional line is perhaps the most formidable challenge when designing a triptych of portraits. To not just have three separate paintings hanging together but to have one linear motion that integrates each of the images so they relate well with the other two is critical. To have used a landscape in the background is the “classic” solution to the problem. But in order to be true to their personalities and relationships and their group dynamic, I had do accept that there was nothing “classic” about these women… they live contemporary lives together… and that’s what needed to be captured.

Seeing is an Art

2009-09-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

Seeing is an art. The majority of us view the world through filters of personal prejudice. Usually, we are looking for solutions to our problems, or we are simply not aware of our prejudices which prevent us from seeing what really lies before us, or we just aren’t interested or focused enough to see at all. To see truthfully is to look without striving, without analyzing, without the exertion of recognizing; it is to see something new with a sense of fresh discovery.

When you are enjoying a painting or a sculpture, and the colors, the shapes, the lines, the negative spaces slip in and enter your perceptions without attempting to understand it; you are seeing. But, how is it possible to see without making an effort to look, without accepting or rejecting; view without being defensive or trying to comprehend what is before us? One must simply be in order to see.

In any good work of art there must be a certain balanced tension. When the balancing point is at the right tension, that work of art emotes clearly, strongly, cleanly. In contrast, if we can balance ourselves in un-prejudiced awareness, then we will see far more deeply and extensively than by merely looking at a work of art with the intent of fitting it into our personal frame of understanding. If you are truly aware, you will begin to see works of art have a different significance… they penetrate far more deeply.

To see without bias, look without prejudice.

Imagine How Different...

2009-08-18T22:32:00.001-07:00

Untitled

28" x 22"

Acrylic on Canvas

At the time, I was working in a painting studio attached to a little house with clapboard siding, north of Seattle in Washington State. She came out to the fence at the corner nearest to where she’d parked the car. Inside her a battle was being fought that she carried with her into the studio. You could see it had spread out through the limbs of her body and the tight expression on her face. You could smell it, could taste it in the air that surrounded her, and the noise of it in her head was one continuous crackle of thoughts shot like automatic rifle fire hitting me and everything else in the room as if we were all conscripts in her private internal war.

I quickly realized that if I was going to paint her portrait successfully, I would have to ask her about her raging thoughts. I elected to be as direct and still tactful as possible.

“Does your mind keep coming back to the same thoughts?” I asked her.

Her sudden calm was shocking. After a few moments of her terse, silent stare she said, with exaggerated slowness, “Yes. But, how do you know that?”

“They seem well worn by their intensity.”

“Do you really want to know what I think about? Are you that courageous of a man?”

“Yes,” I said.

After a few moments of her appraising me, she began to speak and I began to draw her. Our conversation adjusted to a comfortable collection of slow, jerking pauses between our responses to each other’s questions and statements. After I had finished several sketches, she tipped her head to the left and stood up directly in front of me with an odd expression on her face. She paused for a moment and then stepped out of her clothes. “Now that I am physically exposed to you, I have no choice but to expose my thoughts to you as well,” she said. “But you knew that already. Your eyes penetrate me. I wish I could see what you see.”

I nodded a brief acknowledgement to her comment and continued to look at her and draw her and listen to her speak until she made a statement that has challenged me for years.

“Imagine how different the world would be if Jesus had been born a woman… and I was that woman.” She then thrust out her arms as if she were hanging naked on a crucifix, opened her mouth and screamed.

Portrait of Andrej

2009-08-07T13:42:00.000-07:00

Andrej

36" x 24"

Acrylic on Canvas

Andrej is a force of nature as much as any man can be. In this painting the subject’s face strains against shallow fields of color and sketchy armatures that bind it to a picture plain filled with patch-work colors and deformed and broken shapes, some depicting the human figure in terms of a skeletal structure that supports and imprisons the subject’s face like death, waiting. This portrait acts as an unflinching witness of the hysterical reality of the subject and the fear and confusion of those in life and death, who encounter this force of nature; this jovial executioner, Andrej.

New Painting July 26, 2009

2009-07-26T23:44:00.000-07:00

Woman In A Cloned Ermine Collar

24" x 20"

Acrylic on Panel

As a contemporary artist, it is my desire to confront you, the viewer, with paintings that combine active, dynamic figures, bold brushwork and lively patterns of rich colors that dance on heavily textured surfaces—usually an abstraction of splattered, torn, and dragged acrylic—that pulls you into an open-ended, emotionally provocative narrative, forcing you to create your own version of the circumstances.

New Painting 5 July, 2009

2009-07-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

Untitled

48" x 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

To me, art is about dreaming and free association and the liquid flexibility of objects, people and shapes, seen through a half light, that slip through the looking glass of a tactile sensibility and peek out, transformed, on the other side. I strive for these transformed images to vibrate optically with contrasting under-colors exposed through the amorphous and rectangular shapes which co-mingle with the directness of the drawn line. In this way, my paintings are both abstract and representational, and in their abstractness they appeal to the Modernist sensibility that separates art from life, and in their representational aspects, they appeal to the Postmodernist view that sees a correlation between art and life.

The World Wants to See Your Thoughts

2009-06-11T11:58:00.000-07:00

There are several reasons why you should draw every day. It can help you to organize your thoughts, it can allow you to practice your self-expression, it can even help you to take large ambiguous ideas and sift them into easy to understand visual units.
Many artists throughout history have recognized the importance of sketching their ideas. Those throughout the long evolution of thought who have been revered the most are the ones who sketched out their artistic concepts. One thing that many people don't realize is that every artist, including you, is capable of producing great and wonderful ideas.
The only thing that may be keeping your from drawing or sketching your ideas is you. If you simply make a decision to spend at least ten to twenty a minutes a day sketching your thoughts, you will unquestionably realize a powerful transformation in your artwork. The more you draw your thoughts, the more new and creative ideas you will have. And the seed of every magnificent thing that has ever been created by humankind has started with thought. When you respect your own thoughts enough to sketch or draw them out, and share them with others, wonderful things begin to happen. You transform from a consumer of ideas to a producer of ideas. And in that is incredible power that is known about by few, and really experienced by even fewer.
Of course, the decision is always yours. You can choose to begin a new adventure into your mind by drawing or sketching your ideas down, consistently, every day, and sharing them with others. You can draw your thoughts and experience a wonderful transformation. Your thoughts are wonderful, mysterious sources of even more fascination. The world wants to see your thoughts.

The Action of Art

2009-06-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

Art is action, is it not? The actions of thoughts and the action of creation are two of the fundamental realities of art production. Action, in this case art, though, only has meaning when it is in relationship. The understanding of relationship and art is a key to meaning in the arts. Without understanding relationship, confusion and miscommunication are inevitable.
Relationship means contact, communion, and communication. The action of art exists when there is a direct relationship between concept (thought) and perceiver/creator. If the perceiver/creator (artist) then chooses to manufacture a byproduct of this relationship in plastic form (painting, sculpture, music, dance, etc.), a relationship is created between the manufactured work of art and the viewer (artist or other) of that work . The control of this secondary relationship is both a challenge to and for the artist. How can one express a thought through art without also creating confusion? How can one express artistically, directly with a viewer? Is this even possible? Or does the fact that the work created is a by-product of thought, and therefore one step removed from the conceptual experience, prevent a direct relationship between the concept and the viewer? Beyond the initial concept held by the artist, can art ever be a direct experience?

Dare to Step Outside the Box

2009-06-02T12:05:00.000-07:00

I found this article at http://www.artcalendar.com/ It is quite comprehensive and encouraging. Thanks ArtCalendar and thanks Renee Phillips for writing it.

Dare to Step Outside the Box
By Renee Phillips, The Artrepreneur Coach
Are you sick and tired of working hard as an artist and still feeling invisible? Are all of your exhibitions predictable? Do you play it safe, follow protocol, and then wonder why you haven’t garnered the attention you deserve? Do you secretly fantasize about stepping out of your comfort zone, perhaps even doing something a bit outrageous and controversial?

Cuboctahedron, Rhombic Dodecahedron, Octahedron II, Tetrahedron, Octahedron, from the Tetranet Series, top view, by John A. Hiigli. Transparent oil on canvas, 56" x 64".
As an artist career consultant for more than 28 years, I have heard many artists lament about success being a matter of luck, being in the right place at the right time or having the right person “discover” you. It may often appear this way, but in my experience, luck is the result of knowing what you want and actively pursuing your dreams with determination and self-assurance. Like the Roman philosopher Seneca said, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”
It also means having the boldness and conviction to turn left when everyone else is going right, which is synonymous with the artist’s inimitable persona. Nineteenth century German writer John Wolfgang von Goethe might have been speaking to the creative spirit when he said, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative, there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: That the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too … Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”
Current conditions require brave actions for change, so step outside the box, color outside the lines, and join the growing number of pioneering creative spirits.
Forge your own path.The media loves artists who take risks. In the ’80s, artist Keith Haring created his own brand of graffiti in the subways and on the New York City streets. The anonymous Guerilla Girls continue to make headlines with their aggressive battles against discrimination in the art world. After five arrests, a long legal battle and tons of press, photographer Spencer Tunick finally got the right to photograph a mass of nude bodies evoking a hilly landscape on a New York City street. And I know of one artist who, in the ’80s, sent his slides to a curator at the Whitney Museum after packing them inside a sandwich. This tasty idea caught the curator’s interest because his clever submission stood out from the piles of very ordinary slide packages.
You don’t need to do something obscene or illegal to be creative, clever and innovative. Sometimes you just need to remember the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”
For example, New York artist, educator and inventor John A. Hiigli (http://www.johnahiigli.com/ ) is a pioneer in education. He and his wife founded the French-American preschool Le Jardin à l’Ouest in 1971 and the gallery Jardin Galerie (http://www.jardingalerie.org/ ) in 2000. The school and the gallery rest on the principle that “Art is important in child development, communication and education.” Hiigli proclaims, “We recognize the fundamental role of art in a child’s curriculum and are dedicated to serve children from various backgrounds and cultures.” Four times a year, Hiigli holds exhibitions of art by children from local schools and arts organizations in a virtual gallery and in the physical gallery on Manhattan’s Upper Westside. He also encourages input from children all over the world regarding the show’s themes.
Allow necessity to be the mother of invention.While many artists pursue the laborious task of applying for grants to fund their projects, Angela Manno (http://www.angelamanno.com/ ) takes a more proactive path. She created her own “Community Supported Art Program,” in which she offers her avid collectors the opportunity to purchase a painting in advance of her painting travels around the world. This idea gets her buyers excited with anticipation about what she will produce. From their pre-painting purchases, she funds her travels to Greece, France, Italy and other locales. Manno believes the success behind this program is “a reflection of our need for community, especially in these times of economic uncertainty. People are drawn to each other for support, comfort and joy.”
Never accept “no” for a final answer.Boldness comes from having the confidence and certainty to take chances even when others disagree or disapprove. In fact, “No, you can’t” may be the most powerful motivation to prove “Yes, I can!”
Nancy Reyner (http://www.nancyreyner.com/ ) is an artist from New Mexico with a career spanning more than 30 years. She exhibits, lectures and teaches internationally, and is the author of the bestselling book Acrylic Revolution. Reyner loved teaching art while living in Phoenix, and had built up a substantial following of students. When she moved to Santa Fe, she was excited to start teaching again. Immediately, she was told by two well-known local teachers that it was impossible to get enough students, as there were too many teachers and no one wanted to pay for classes. Reyner recalls, “After a brief disappointment, I asked myself if I would take a class from those teachers. The answer was ‘no.’ So, I continued with my plan and attracted a ton of students.”
In another instance, Reyner was encouraged by Barbara Golden, owner of Golden Artist Colors, Inc., to join their team of artist teachers. When Reyner called the program director, Patti Brady, to apply, Brady told Reyner that, at the time, the company was only interested in training those artists who lived in big cities. After half an hour of enthusiastic discussion, Reyner convinced Brady to consider Santa Fe as a major artist hub, and Brady agreed to bring Rayner into the program.
Try something new.

Provençal Village with Lavender and Wheat Field by Angela Manno. Pastel on paper, 9" x 12". http://angelamanno.com/
Bren Sibilsky (http://www.brensculpture.com/ ), a sculptor from Wisconsin, watched as the painters at the Linden Gallery were doing all the portrait demos and wanted to join in on the action. She started doing quick sculpting portrait demonstrations that lasted from 80 minutes to two hours. Sibilsky says, “I wanted to create interest in sculpture.” Others thought it would be impossible to do quick demonstrations in this medium, but that didn’t stop her. “People loved it,” she says. “Many had never seen a sculptor at work, and they were surprised at the speed and likeness. I have done this five times and sold three of the portraits to the model or their family members.”
Be an incurable optimist.Joanne Turney (http://www.manhattanarts.com/Gallery/%20JoanneTurney.htm ) refuses to follow popular opinion. This 80-year-young artist, who lives in Washington, DC, and New York City, was determined to create a book titled The Art of Joyful Aging. She asked dozens of people to provide positive quotes about aging to accompany each of her paintings in the book. Many people flatly refused, exclaiming, “How could aging be joyful?” But Turney followed her vision, and the book will be published later this year, featuring her art and many positive quotes (including one from yours truly).
Speak up.Liz Hager (http://www.lizhager.com/ ) is an artist from San Francisco, California, who left corporate America in 2005 to pursue a lifelong dream of becoming a full-time artist. Last summer, an independent curator told her that an artist had dropped out of the show the curator was organizing. The show was going to feature many well-known artists, and Hager recognized the opportunity. She says, “The theme was meaty, and I knew it would inspire a great piece and potentially introduce my work to a wider audience. So I asked her if I could step in. She was happy to oblige, although I’m not sure she expected much. This challenged me to produce a piece very different from my usual work — one that was rigorous and up to the standards of the other artists. The show got a fair amount of press, and my piece was featured in at least one article. I was lucky to know the curator, lucky that someone dropped out, lucky that she said ‘yes.’ But this is just a reminder to take the initiative and ask, because otherwise the answer is always ‘no.’”
Take charge, and be persistent.Amy Marx (http://www.amymarx.com/ ), a painter from Maryland, has literally taken hold of the steering wheel to achieve success. Several years ago, she decided to rent a truck, load it up with her paintings, and travel hundreds of miles in search of gallery representation. In one trip, she procured two galleries immediately. And, after much perseverance and years of courting the prestigious O.K. Harris Gallery in New York City, she finally landed an exhibition there in 2008. The gallery’s reason for exhibiting her work was that Marx chose an unlikely and even frightening subject to paint — storms and tornadoes — which also led to interviews on the weather channel and national TV news. Most recently, her work was featured in The Artist’s Magazine.
Do something unpredictable.Exhibiting your art is an opportunity to be as innovative as the art itself, so make it memorable. In cold and dreary December 2008, Manhattan Arts International organized an Art and Healing event (www.manhattanarts.com/Gallery/Healing2008/index.htm ) in the studio of New York City artist Nadiya Jinnah, (http://www.njinnah.com/). The artist totally transformed her studio into a garden oasis by installing natural grass carpet on the floor for her guests to sit and relax in front of her art. We invited several healing practitioners to offer guests free massages and other healing treatments as they were rejuvenated by Nadiya’s beautiful paintings and healing music.
Become a visionary.As a young art writer in New York City in the ’80s, I was assigned to review a new gallery on Madison Avenue. I was immediately intrigued by the way the gallery director painted each wall a different color, and changed the colors with each exhibition. No other gallery I knew of was doing this at the time. Most galleries were boring, pristine white boxes. This gallery owner was unfairly ridiculed by many fellow members of the art press. Yet, Bernice Steinbaum (http://www.bernicesteinbaumgallery.com/ ) persevered and soon thereafter became one of the leading and respected art dealers of our time.
Stepping outside the proverbial box can be liberating, adventurous, and even catapult you to fame and fortune. You may not know exactly where to begin, but the solution is simple: Begin by creating great art. Then consider promoting it in an innovative manner, such as posting it on YouTube or hosting an art event. And, if your new path conjures any fears or trepidations, take comfort in the inspiring words of Helen Keller: “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable.” ACRenée Phillips is the Director of Manhattan Arts International at http://www.manhattanarts.com/ . Known as “The Artrepreneur Coach,” she counsels artists worldwide. She is the author of Presentation Power Tools For Fine Artists, Success Now! For Artists: A Motivational Guide For The Artrepreneur and The Complete Guide to New York Art Galleries. She is a member of the International Association of Art Critics (AICA). Read more of her articles at http://www.manhattanarts.com/readingroom/ezine/CareerBusiness/ , http://www.renee-phillips.com%20or%20http//reneephillips.blogspot.com .

Art Was Art Is

2009-05-31T21:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I painted as I painted eons ago,
Third eye on the wind brush violent with color.

As before I judged my distance and jumped,
Gravity plunged me forward into the right lobe of art.

Again I was caught unaware and liquefied,
This was not my first encounter with immaterial worlds.

What mattered was the savage weight of paint,
I grabbed it as it clawed at me and we were both made viscous.

We became a primal choreography fighting for control,
It was a dance filled with coarseness and harshness and red.

Paint Brushes

2009-05-04T14:30:00.000-07:00

Paint Brushes. How many artists think about what their brushes are made of these days? It seems that price may be the first consideration when it comes to choosing a brush over the quality. Hopefully, this guide may help you with the choices you make in the future.
These are some of the most common brush hairs, but certainly you can make your own brushes with any combination of these or any other hairs, feathers, plant fibers, synthetics that serve your art making purpose.
Hog Bristle - Hog bristle comes from hogs with the most sought after coming from China. Hog Bristle forms a V-shaped split at the tip and tends to have a natural curve. A brush with "interlocked" bristles, with the curves formed inward to the ferrule, has a natural resistance to fraying and spreads medium to thick paints smoothly and evenly. It is also a less expensive alternative to many more expensive choices.
Ox Hair - The best quality ox hair comes from the ears of oxen or cattle. It has a very strong body with silken texture. It is also very resilient and has good snap. However, it does lack a fine tip. The hair is most useful in flat shaped or medium-grade wash brushes. Ox hair is often blended with different natural hair to increase its resiliency.
Synthetic Hair - Synthetic hair is of course man-made from nylon or polyester. The hairs can be tipped, tapered, flagged, abraded or etched to increase its paint carrying ability. The filaments are often dyed and baked to make them softer and more absorbent.
Red Sable - Red sable is obtained from a red haired weasel and not from sable. Quality and characteristics can vary greatly. A good quality pure red sable brush is a good alternative to the more expensive Kolinsky sable brush, with similar performance and durability. Note that weasel hair is often blended with ox hair to make a more economical brush, but, in the process, the fine point is sacrificed.
Mongoose Hair - Mongoose hair is strong and resilient. It combines the strength of a bristle with the control of sable and makes a long-wearing, medium-to- high quality brush.
Badger Hair - Badger hair brushes are used for blending and have a long tradition. The hair can be found in many parts of the world but varies greatly in quality. It is thickest at the point and quite thin at the root and has therefore a distinctive "bushy" appearance.
Kolinsky Sable - Kolinsky sable does not come from a sable but from the tail of a mink species found in Siberia and North-East China. In these regions, hair from the winter tails of males grows long and strong because of the extreme weather conditions. It is the best material for oil brushes because of its unusual strength, spring and snap (i.e., its ability to retain its shape). A Kolinsky sable brush can hold a very fine point or edge and a professional grade of hair. If properly taken care of, Kolinsky sable brushes will last for many years.

Mistakes To Avoid When Making An Acrylic Painting

2009-05-03T23:42:00.000-07:00

Here's a pretty good article I found about some frequently overlooked basics of acrylic painting. A lot of this will also apply to any materials you might be using.

Mistakes To Avoid When Making An Acrylic Paintings
When you are just starting out with acrylic painting, you will most certainly make your share of mistakes. This is the natural process of painting and we all learn and grow from our mistakes. This article introduces some of the more common mistakes beginner acrylic painters make.Mistake #1 to avoid: Not using enough variety in your painting. An interesting painting has variety. It creates curiosity and interest, and the viewer wants to return again to observe it. So how do you create an interesting painting? Use a variety of different brushstrokes, techniques and values in your paintings. Change the direction of your brushstrokes or mix different techniques in the same painting.Mistake #2 to avoid: Being too technical or copying. In order to truly paint a subject, and when I say "truly", I am not saying you should copy the subject exactly as you see it. I am referring to connecting to the painter inside and truly painting your own impression of what you see. This is how your inner creativity shines on the canvas. It is what set painters like Vincent van Gogh and Claude Monet apart from the rest. They each injected their own style and heart into their work.I believe your own unique creativity comes to the surface the moment you stop relying on the technicalities and theories associated with painting. I am not saying one shouldn't study techniques and theory, but at some point we have to put that stuff on the back burner and let our creativity do some of the thinking. Whatever you do, don't copy other artists. There is nothing wrong with allowing other artists to influence you, just make sure you allow your own unique style to come through.Mistake #3 to avoid: Not observing your subjects. Do you spend time observing the subjects you feel inspired to paint? If you are a portrait artist, have you done any studying of the human anatomy? If you paint landscapes, do you spend enough time outdoors in that environment? If you aren't spending enough time observing the subjects that you wish to paint, then you won't know have enough knowledge to paint them.Mistake #4: Not using quality art supplies. Are you using quality acrylic painting supplies? A really experienced and talented artist could probably create an entire painting using a toothpick, but who really wants to work that hard? When it comes to fine art supplies, you usually do get what you pay for. If you paint with a 50cent paintbrush, it will probably paint just like a 50cent paintbrush. The ferrule will more than likely become loose and the hairs will probably shed. If you are using really cheap paint, you will more than likely get really cheap results. The colors will not have the same brilliance or the right consistency. So invest in quality art supplies and take great care of them as well.Mistake #5 to avoid: Not using enough paint. Learn how to apply paint to your canvas. Many beginners don't reload their brushes often enough. I made this same mistake when I first began painting. I would squeeze out a little glob of paint and try to cover as much area as possible. In my case, I was just lazy, but many beginners are fearful of wasting paint. This is a reasonable concern considering the cost of supplies. The truth however, is that your paintings will be more interesting if you lay down the brush stroke, leave it alone, and then reload your brush. Don't try and scrub the paint into the canvas, otherwise you are just staining, and not painting.Mistake #6 To Avoid: Over Thinking. Don't overly criticize or judge your own work while you are painting. This only creates discouragement and forces many beginners to become frustrated and quit. Just relax and let go. Trust yourself and your abilities.I hope this article on acrylic painting has been helpful. Never get discouraged if you are making mistakes or not happy with your work. Mistakes are learning tools. Learn and move on. The most important aspect of painting is the enjoyment we receive from it anyway. Frustration and discouragement should never dominate the painting experience. Happy painting!
About the Author: Author Johnny Modal is the manager of a niche arts article directory online, which is a human edited, categorized and search engine optimized article directory where you would find very useful arts and crafts resources and articles online. Visit now for free articles for your blog or to submit your articles for website promotion.

Filled With Memories of Art

2009-03-04T21:50:00.000-08:00

It was early afternoon and the sun had traveled around the building so that the marble steps he sat upon were warm. He sat gazing at the trees in the park. Before him a steady stream of people walked past him or climbed the steps around him to enter between the great columns of the museum that was at his back. It was one of those extraordinary days that seemed to resonate with everyone who enjoyed the first fresh weather of the year. From a bandstand in the distance, classical music played.
As he continued to gaze at the young leaves on the trees and as he listened to the music, his mind began to focus. He became acutely aware of his surroundings and then his thoughts. Soon his outer observations began to blend with his inner observations and from somewhere deep inside of him, images began to appear in his mind. Though these pictures had no resemblance to what he was seeing around him, there was a relationship between what he was visualizing and what was before him. His awareness of the outside events surrounding him, through intense awareness of his internal presence, had awakened a deep level of concentrated creativity. The images in his mind, he knew, were all works of art that he could easily paint if he chose to. He was also acutely aware that to paint these pictures would only be to describe this experience and these images; that the picture was not the thing. Instead, he simply stayed aware of his thoughts and the images and the environment, with all of its sights and smells and sounds and enjoyed the experience of living both inside and outside himself simultaneously and with great focus and clarity. His experience was that of a sense of non-judgmental timelessness.
The sun was dropping lower behind the trees and the people were beginning to leave the museum, walking down the steps and around him now; the musicians has finished their concert some time earlier and packed their instruments and departed. As his awareness shifted back to his daily thoughts, he knew that if he chose to remember the images that he’d been experiencing that afternoon, he too, would be like the museum behind him… filled with memories of art.

What Do You Seek?

2009-03-03T18:51:00.000-08:00

I wonder why so many of us want to become artists. Presumably we are all seeking something. But what are we seeking? What are you seeking? The challenge is that what each of us seeks, searches for, is a constantly moving target; always changing, so how can you definitely say what you seek. Unfortunately you have established a habit of going from one idea to another, from one system of creativity to another, and you call this “the search for truth”. In this you are trying to understand life and where you fit, where your personal ego fits, and how to gain some control over life and the lives of others around you. It is very narcotic to see the effect on other people when you convince them that your “artistic ideas” are superior to their ideas. But there is no difference between your ideas and their ideas really. You are both still chasing the unknown and trying to make sense of it while finding a way of fitting in. It is quite a struggle to be sure.
Is it possible to awaken creativity naturally in a way that the mind can be liberated from the things we believe are truths, but are only our personal limitations? As an artist, one tries to immortalize one’s emotional or intellectual response to your environment in as monumental a fashion as possible. But are you not immortalizing your fears, prejudices and desires? After all, these are the things that make us who we are… the product of our internal and external environments. What you continually view as an “artistic” struggle is in truth the struggle of the personality, the ego trying to immortalize itself through the materials of the arts.
We, who call ourselves artists, are simply wearing the mask that best serves our ego in the competitive circle we’ve chosen to enter and spend our lives.

Beware Self-Expression

2009-02-26T19:30:00.000-08:00

Beware the person who claims creativity is based on “self-expression”. Self-expression is merely a form of therapy and why would one care about another person’s therapy unless there was an already established level of intimacy between them? If a person does not know another person; why should they care about their personal therapy? There is no recognition of a relationship, no bond between them. Should it be assumed that the byproduct of a person’s therapy, if it is called “art”, should be significant or interesting? To me there is something living, which cannot be described, in all true art. Art and creativity must be experienced directly, and viewers of art can never directly experience an artist’s therapy or “self-expression”. The inner conflicts of an artist are distractions from true creativity.
To limit one’s potential for creativity merely to the description of one’s personal experience either internally or externally is to deny the viewer the opportunity to engage concentrated creativity directly. Only when the mind is free of divisiveness can a true act of creativity occur. When an act of concentrated creativity is born of wholeness the action is free and harmonious. To create from one’s personal experience is not to create at all, but to limit the act to an individual interpretation of experience, which negates the universal force which is in all true art. This act must begin with a full comprehension of the completeness of action and for this to occur, the mind must be free from division. To say that this expression is self-expression is to create a division between the artist and the viewer; a conflict. As long as there is self-interest by the artist then the goal must be to aggrandize the artist and put down the viewer. This is where the conflict lies and in this conflict true concentrated creativity and universal expression cannot exist.

Creativity as a Living Discovery

2009-02-25T23:12:00.000-08:00

I want to make creativity a living discovery, not one inspired by the description of others; be it through words or pictures or any other means of imparting second hand knowledge, but I am in search of a direct knowledge of creativity. If someone had told you about the most beautiful painting they had ever seen, and if you are interested in paintings, you would travel to see it with your mind prepared to view it as it had been described to you. You will either be more impressed by the painting or less impressed by the painting, but you will never see that work of art as it was described to you. The description is never the thing. In order to truly appreciate a work of art you must experience it directly, see it, feel the nature of it; not the description of it.
Most people who think they are experiencing a work of art have already prepared their minds by studying descriptions of what they think they should be seeing. They have predetermined what is good and what is bad about a piece of art even before they have experienced it. Their tastes have been narrowed by their education and the criticisms of other people. It is the uninitiated who truly experience a work of art. When a person decides to gain an education in any subject they are interested in, it is usually the time when true learning ceases and rote and repetition begin because that person now will accept as truth the shared beliefs of the instructor. The student has surrendered their ability to think freely to a figure of authority. This is also when a viewer loses their ability to see. With this type of education, the mind is seeking only descriptions and wishes only to compare a work of art with what has been told to them.
When you hold in your mind an ideal that you are trying to compare your experiences to, you can never face an experience directly; you are protecting your own self image with an ideal. But, that ideal is only a description and not a direct experience.

Cultivating a Sensitivity of Feeling

2009-02-24T17:21:00.000-08:00

Art is not simply the control of the materials being used and the eye to hand coordination required to apply those materials to canvas or stone or metal or any desired medium. The physical body must be quiet and healthy, first cultivating a sensitivity of feeling that is both sharpened and sustained. The mind must first be silent with no predetermined goal or desire to create any object. It is not the physical body that an artist must first begin to gain discipline over, but it is the mind and all of its pre-judgments and desires and self-focus that must be dealt with. If one cannot get past this then one cannot create art and will be doomed to a life of mediocrity and self-absorption. When the mind is alive and healthy with a vitality that is unhindered by thought, then feeling will be heightened and sensitized. It is then that one’s natural intelligence which has the power of creativity will function as it should without restraint.
So if one is to become an artist, a creator, one must begin with the mind not with the body. The body will always be limited by the world around it and by one’s thoughts, memories and pre-conceived actions. To limit one’s mental activity to mere concentration makes thought narrow and limited. Concentrated creativity comes naturally when there is an awareness of the ways of thought without indulging in them. This concentrated creativity does not come from the artist who chooses and discards; designs. This creativity is without choice and is internal and external; producing and at rest simultaneously. To think that one is creative; to think that one is an artist is to deny that one’s thoughts are preventing one from the true adventure of creativity because thought destroys feeling. Thought can only offer pleasure or pain, which is the same thing really, while it pushes creativity aside. The pleasure of believing oneself to possess a creative personality has its roots in thought, and to indulge in such a belief drives one away from concentrated creativity and destroys what meaning there could be in a true creative act by producing only various forms of compulsion and conflict.

Art is the Movement of Love

2008-08-02T20:08:00.000-07:00

Inspired creativity is one of the most extraordinary experiences in life. If you don’t know what it is like then you are like a bride on her wedding day when her beloved does not appear for the ceremony; incomplete and wanting. Inspired creativity is not about the intellect, but about when the heart enters the mind. When this happens the mind becomes limitless, not only in its ability to think, but also in its ability to live in an expanded way that explores the relationship of all things to all things in vast universal space. Art is the motion of love. It isn’t romantic love that we’re talking about with its transient and finite qualities, but rather it is the bread that anyone can eat that is inexhaustible in its supply. And an odd thing occurs when the movement of art occurs; it is as if the mind has entered itself; unfolding itself until there is nothing left to unfold, and time and meaning and the restriction of dimension have ceased to exist. In this state there is peace without contentment. This is the peace of beauty and intensity that has a universal order, not a peace that is generated through gratification. It can break like the most delicate and fragile glass, and yet because of its fragility it is universal in its strength. Art cannot be learned from another person. You must step into it without motivation and with complete innocence. The true beauty of art through inspired creativity is that you never know where you are, where you are going or where you will end.

The Universality of Art

2008-07-30T20:45:00.000-07:00

When you observe the human figure or a landscape or a still life your eyes see the object you’re engaging within the space in which it physically exists. But this space is always limited where the vertical lines which define the space in a certain direction meet the horizontal lines which define the space in another direction. This is all the space which the mind perceives. The space in the mind, though, is so very, very small and this is where all of our activities take place: the struggles of daily life, the joys and sorrows of existing. In this limited space the mind seeks freedom through many means including art, but art is the ending of this limited space. Why then do we try and bring order and control into this space with active thought and searching when there is another activity which is neither inside nor outside this space that occurs when the mind has lost the awareness of its limited space? Art is the action that comes into the silence which pervades after the loss of awareness of the mind’s space. The mind can never be silent within its own space; it can only be silent within the context of the universal infinite space which thought cannot fathom. Out of the infinite depth of this universal silence there is an action which is not thought. Art is this silent universal activity.

True Creative Inspiration

2008-07-29T21:05:00.000-07:00

True creative inspiration without verbal interpretation is one of the most powerful experiences a person can have. It is then the inspiration is much more intense and acute, not only in a visual way, but with all the senses. This type of inspiration is neither a re-interpretation of nature nor an emotional response from the memory of the artist. Creative inspiration without the interpretive filter of the perceiver is to join with the depth and height of the universal all. This creative inspiration is completely different from seeing an object and reacting to that object in such a way that you desire to capture an interpretation of its shape and texture or color in a rendering. True creative inspiration can, however, occur with the eyes open and viewing an object of any kind. But the subject of your observation has no importance at all. One may see the object, but there is no recognition of relationship or direct experience of it.
What meaning does this type of creative inspiration have? There is none. There is no practical or pragmatic meaning for this utility. But in this experience of true creative inspiration there is a movement that touches the universal which is not to be confused with pleasure. It is this universal quality which is registered by the viewer of the inspired creation that registers with the senses, the brain, the quality of universal infinity. Without true creative inspiration life is a routine and boring affair without meaning. So, true creative inspiration is of tremendous importance as it opens our perceptions to the universal, unlimited; that without measure.

Art In The Space Around Me

2008-07-28T21:31:00.000-07:00

In the space which we each create around ourselves with our thoughts there is created a buffer from the direct experience with the world. This space divides man from man and man from his true self, and in this space is the battle of life, the fear and the toil and the agony and discontent. The emergence of art is the ending of this space, the ending of the “me”. When that occurs, relationship has quite a different meaning, for in that space which is inhabited by art, the other does not exist because you do not exist. Art then is not the pursuit of some vision; rather it is that which exists in the endless space where thought cannot enter. To us, the space which we make by our thoughts around us, is the “me” and is extremely important to how we see and relate to the world, it is all the mind really knows by identifying itself with all that enters that space. This is where the fear of not being is born and exists. But, in art, when this is understood, the mind can enter into a dimension of space where action becomes inactive; where theory becomes real and what the mind perceives as real is theorized. We cannot define what art is, for in the space made by our thoughts art is in conflict with the real “me” and the theoretical “me”. This conflict is not art. Thought is the very denial of art, and it cannot enter into the space where the “me” exists only as theory. In that space is the relationship which man seeks and cannot find between his real self and his theoretical self as they both stand in relationship to art. Man seeks art within the frontiers of thought, and thought destroys the ecstasy and direct experience of art.