Meditation on Somatic Memory (title later changed to "The World Split Open" when this became number 1 in a series--no longer in inventory)
36"x24" Acrylic on canvas

I've been living with this painting for a few weeks now. I've deemed it finished. I don't see any light or dark places that stop my movement within the painting. And all of the forms that I see change. A couple of days ago, I saw Captain Kangaroo in there. I told myself, "If he's still there tomorrow, he will have to go." But I couldn't find him again.

The process was to lay down a think layer of gesso, not particularly even throughout the canvas, and then to stamp into the gesso. So I used a spiral shaped plastic piece I have, the fax cover that I've used in charcoal drawings and another painting in the past--that's responsible for the marks in the bottom section of the painting. And I used a rectangular tool with the idea to make more architectural representations, buildings maybe. In the end, I put three skewers in my hand, spread unevenly, and dragged them squiggly through random parts of the composition. When I left the painting to let the gesso dry, I could see some of the marks softening into each other. I had mixed feelings about that. And then, after the gesso had dried, there were lots of popped air-bubble holes, and in general, there seemed like a lot of busy-ness at the bottom of the composition. To create that had been my original intention--I wanted a lot to be happening down there--but seeing it? I had mixed feelings.

But I moved forward, confident at this point that I'd resolve any of those issues by working it more. Moving forward meant moving the dark into the low-lying places. I sprayed the painting with my water bottle, getting it really wet, and floated in the perfect grey (black made from the primaries). I was unhappy with splotches of paint that didn't float, but if I tried moving them, that changed what was happening in other unsatisfactory ways. So I walked away to let it dry.

When I came back to the dry painting, I could see where I needed to add more dark and more light and tried working with splotches and air holes. I could see places where some of the red, violet, and very subtle blue-green had pulled out of the perfect grey I had mixed. I made the decision then to have that be my "only" color.

When I started adding more dark in, using my fake chamois, I could see how the paint moved on the gessoed areas and loved the forms that were emerging. That there are human forms for me, quirky animals, creatures from "Labyrinth," the form that changes from elephant head to scary profile to haunch and body of a fearsome cat, ladders to who knows where, collapsing structures, and the occasional Captain Kangaroo make this more meaningful for me. It seems dreamlike and as if I were glimpsing into a lifetime of things experienced, observed, and fancied. It seemed as if the outer wall were carved away or destroyed so that what is revealed is the inner-scape.

Two things then happened to help me understand the painting and make peace with my media. My daughter and I were having a conversation about cellular memory (she said this has nothing to do with your cell phone plan). We were talking about babies and what they recall. Events may not be in their conscious memory but stored in cellular memory--it's our somatic memory. I thought about how I'd been thinking about the bottom part of the painting as cells and veiny kinds of structures. And how some of the forms had made me think about the creatures that live under your bed so that you don't dare stick your foot out of the covers as you sleep--no matter that you live in Phoenix, it's 112 degrees, and you only have evap cooling, you still have to sleep covered up. All that's in the painting. It holds somatic memory. There's places of birthing and of languishing, there are guides and demons, efforts to reach new heights and places of respite from the climb, and the screaming being will forever be a part of this, as will the form that holds their hand out in offering. That's somatic memory. From that came the title.

But I was still cranky about the air holes in the white and the mottled of some of the dark. I went over some air holes with more gesso. But decided that leaving some added to an erosion kind of effect. I evened out some of the mottled grey in the low places. But I still wasn't sure about that effect. Then a friend who was traveling in Ireland posted some pictures of some of the rock formations at Burren National Park. I gasped when seeing her images. She said she had thought of me when she posted the pictures. The aged stones, the grass growing between them, reminded us both of my work. But in the detail of that, what I noticed finally, the rocks were mottled grey! Peace made.

I feel as though everything I've been doing as an artist has led to this painting. I'm excited and, yes, a little scared about what comes next...

Pathscape (24 in x 12 in)

(no longer in inventory)

I had been looking at Asian Landscape Paintings when I came to the studio and started working this canvas. Lately, I seem to be in love with making paintings with fewer colors. This canvas is textured with the gel medium/lightweight vinyl spackling mixture I often use. Just used a spackling tool for application. Once dry, I added perfect grey and spritzed it with water. The red floated out of the grey. I applied a gold paste over the faux lettering in the lower left. I'm pretty sure that holds the key to an efficient use of the pathscape--although, the way seems pretty clear--just a bit ragged in places...Travel well

When Mark and Helmi Came to Visit (12 in x 36 in)

(no longer in inventory)

Part I: I have loved Mark Tobey's white writing since I first saw a photograph of one if his paintings with this element. Before my friend, Margo, moved from Seattle, we went to SAM to see an exhibit of the Northwest Mystical Artists. I studied and studied his work, but left, appropriately, mystified. I so wanted to be able to create using white writing.

Part II: Last summer, when my friends Mary Jane and Grace came to visit, we went to an exhibit at the Lightcatcher of Helmi Juvonan's work. She had been completely in love with Mark Tobey, who she knew, to the point of creating a story about that love. She, too used a white mark-making technique in compositions surrounding in dark. I was still mystified as to technique.

Part III: Answer the question: which comes first, the dark or the light? How does the artist maintain the white marks while moving in the darkness? I did the only thing that, at the time, I could think to do--I called in Mark and Helmi. Then I started playing with a technique I remembered that I knew how to do--I could make the light marks rise above the dark. So I used a thick coat of gesso, mixed in the teeniest bit of perfect grey to grey the gesso down a bit. Then I used stamping tools. I had recently acquired the plastic button cover of a fax machine and loved the shapes it made. I used the spiral and serpentine arm band Christina had given me, and parts of parts to other equipment that had come my way. I am always intrigued by and, therefore, examining ancient texts and writing of other languages. I like it when letters from those languages appear in the painting--I do not want to copy them, however, mostly because I am interested in connecting with the human need to write, to communicate, and to connect to that need more intuitively. Once the foundation layer was dry, I floated in dark grey. a little violet, a little blue green. I did a little sand-paper scratching and then patina-ed it with azo gold quinacridone nickel. I look forward to many more visits from Mark and Helmi.

Note: This painting is one that hangs well in the horizontal or vertical orientation.

Garden Mythologies (each 8 in x 8 in)

(one of these no longer in inventory)

This was me playing with a heavy layer of gesso, mark-making tools, and a sanding to bring the light back in and for texturing. It was great fun to discover the effects that sanding the painted surface had on the painting--particularly for restoring the light around the edges--that area that threatened to get too dark for meaning-making. Always the challenge for me when working in a series of three is what color to have predominant and complimentary. I have quit being so thoughtful about it when I begin and have just started diving in and seeing what emerges. Both methods have their issues. So, of course, do I.

More about the dark...

I also don't think of the light as fertile. The dark is rich with fertility. The light is dry, is fire, but it is needed to bring the fertility to life. Afterall, complete darkness is not a necessarily enriching place to be. Okay, so maybe I'm talking the Yin/Yang aspect of light and dark. And it's all good in balance and moderation.

The Dark and the Light

I've been thinking about the dark and the light and working on the balance and dynamics between the two in my art for many years now. But it seems to be a more intense focus now. Friends wish me light quite often in closing correspondence. And I appreciate that because I understand the spirit of the intention. And I know about blessing into enlightenment and what that means toward spiritual growth. But I have to say that I love the dark. I love the dark.

Not dark alleys, mind you, but the dark places we go to lick wounds, to really explore emotion, to examine events of the past until we experience little deaths and rebirths through that examination. I think of the dark as the positive experience of the womb. It's a nurturing environment. And that's often what I am seeking to depict in my art. What is being nurtured in the dark, moist place we came from? At one time, at the beginning of our being, it was the physical self being nurtured there, but now, at this time of my life, it is the spiritual self that is gestating. And that is where my painting "Still Point: Descending" came from.

Some refer to the dark metaphorically as a place of fear and depression, but for me, it is a comforting place to face my fears. The light can be blinding, can obscure details, as when a person is standing, facing you, but is back-lit so that you cannot discern their facial features, read their demeanor. It hurts, on some level, to look at that person for any amount of time. So don't we really need a balance of the light and of the dark to see what is real and true?

In my paintings, I often surround the forms I am working on with dark. Since I work with textures, I have to make the decision of whether the dark is on top of the texture and the light at the back, or the other way around. And usually, there is a point in the painting where I reverse the main motif because I think of light as swirling around, in and out, and through the environment. But recently, I have been exploring that place where the dark and the light meet. I think of it as a "push/pull" of light and dark. It's been challenging and fun. But the bottom line is that I love the dark, and I'm not giving it up. I'm living to balance it with the light.