forever.

Forever -- is composed of Nows --


Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
(read the rest here)

le.petit.monstre

the little monster.
i do actually listen in church. this helps me focus.

le.petit.oiseau.

"Little bird, little bird, little bird, what do you hear?
What do you hear?
The clink of morning cheers
Orange juice concentrate
Crossword puzzles start to grade
One across
Four letter word, it's just not sitting"

(Imogen Heap, English singer and songwriter, b. 1977)
listen here

captivated.

vintage is divine
---

(drew barrymore, Grey Gardens premiere)

les girafes sont oranges et brunes?

Here's an interesting site on which someone is attempting to collect one million created giraffes, simply to prove his friend Jørgen wrong, or something like that. It's fun to browse the artwork and see creativity from all over the world.

The girls that I nanny adored the entire concept, so they quickly created an entire herd of giraffes. It was a charming project to enjoy on a grey, rainy day. Too cute!


Julia, age 10
---

Kate, age 6 (with a little help :)
---

saddest poem (?)

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda
(Chilean poet, 1904-1973)

Qu'est.ce.que.c'est?

unexpected order.

Perhaps this is odd...

Today I was struck by the discovery of water droplets on the counter, arranged in a near-perfect pattern.
The water fell through the holes of an airbake pizza pan.
Dotted swiss on the countertop, how quaint.

too much caffeine & swirly stuff.

On the back of a Starbuck's receipt.

If I kept all of my receipts from that place, I could likely wallpaper a room in just a short time. This must be a bad thing.

the edge of nothing.

This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.

I love Ogden Nash.

(American humorist and poet, 1902-1971)

the secret is out...

Recently I memorized this poem by W.H. Auden. Originally I was going to post only the text, but the three paintings do add to the meaning... and I simply cannot compete with Tom O'Bedlam's voice. I hope my voice sounds like that when I'm old.

whoa.

it's been about 3 months since i last posted.
so i contemplated deleting everything
and starting fresh.
life needs that sometimes.

however
life is also messy and disorganized. this blog is a small glimpse of my life, so i'm leaving everything. in following this messy//raw trend, i'll probably post more process work than finished pieces. i can't seem to finish much lately anyway.


to close -- a napkin sketch i recently rediscovered
(sketches by me, text added by J.)

fine.here.

stay.really.

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love, put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sara Teasdale, American Lyrical Poet (1884-1933)

oh.myheart.

More Beethoven, if you'd like -- two sonatas I've enjoyed sightreading (maybe not quite at tempo...)

Sonata No. 27, Op. 90,
I. Mit Lebhaftigkeit und durchaus mit Empfindung und Ausdruck (With liveliness and with feeling and expression throughout)

Sonata No. 32, Op. 111,
I. Maestoso

sigh.

I am free of love as a bird flying south in the autumn,
Swift and intent, asking no joy from another,
Glad to forget all of the passion of April
Ere it was love-free.

I am free of love, and I listen to music lightly,
But if he returned, if he should look at me deeply,
I should awake, I should awake and remember
I am my lover’s.

Sara Teasdale, American Lyrical Poet (1884-1933)

just.goaway.

This set is an updated continuation of seventy.eight-.nine.

suffering

Currently reading Walking on Water by Madeleine L'Engle. This section regarding suffering particularly spoke to me this week:

"We are tempted to try to avoid not only our own suffering but also that of our fellow human beings, the suffering of the world, which is part of our own suffering. ...The artist cannot hold back; it is impossible, because writing, or any other discipline of art, involves participation in suffering, in the ills and the occasional stabbing joys that come from being part of the human drama. We are hurt; we are lonely; and we turn to music or words, and as compensation beyond all price we are given glimpses of the world on the other side of time and space."

Suffering brings depth... affliction gives us a different perspective on life and provides a glimpse into another world, if we choose to allow it. I've been drawn to much of Beethoven's music lately. There is an artist who fully understood suffering -- Beethoven battled with painful inexplicable illness, alienation from normal relationships, a devastating loss of hearing... Yet all of that terrible suffering greatly deepened his compositions. One only needs to compare an early piano sonata (any from Opus 2, for example) with a late piano sonata (Opus 111) to hear the difference. His late piano sonatas are profound and other-worldly. The fifth movement from Beethoven's String Quartet 13 (in B-flat, Opus 130 - Cavatina: Adagio molto espressivo) is an intimate glimpse into Beethoven's personl suffering. Beethoven had been almost completely deaf for 10 years before he wrote Opus 130. He said of this particular movement: "When I think of the Cavatina, it still brings a tear to my eye." Almost 200 years later, Beethoven's composition still brings a tear to my eye - Beethoven addressed universal human suffering when he wrote Cavatina and thus provided a passage into another world.

So. All of this to challenge myself - to not hold back, to participate fully in my own and the world's suffering, to give generously of my art, musings, and heart, to care for other's pain before my own, to just live abundantly in suffering, joy, loneliness, love, heartache, pleasure, and pain.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort."
(2 Corinthians 1:3-7)

6/6

5/6

4/6

3/6

2/6

1/6

Experimentation with translucent and thick acrylic.
The images are derived from a series of small graphite sketches I completed years ago. Actual size of each canvas = 12" x 16".

coming soon...

Finally! I started working on a series of paintings this evening. The technique is more messy // less controlling than usual, so they're coming along quickly. The six canvases are already about 90% finished. Creating something has been therapeutic in contrast to life which has been . . confusing, to say the least.

One reason I haven't painted or posted much lately is because I've been sight reading music voraciously. . . tonight the sudden, gloomy downpour created the perfect mood for a dark Rachmaninov etude -- Op. 39 No. 2, in A minor.

Tragedy, poignancy, heartbreak... the gentle theme speaks to secret pain. Triplets and displaced rhythm emphasize an ethereal, "lost in a mist" feeling... until the più vivo (devilishly difficult section). Subsequently, a shimmer of hope is heard in the brief E major section, but Rachmaninov then fully succumbs to despair, returning to the theme - rendered all the more tragic in contrast to the major section. The etude ends with a lovely dissonance - novel chords for this time. Incredible that a piece written nearly 100 years ago could still speak so intensely.

face paint: five

The last in the face paint series - graphite, eyeshadow,
and glitter eyeliner.

“The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes. If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished. But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with you all the days of your life.”

Frank Lloyd Wright (1867-1959), American architect

face paint: four

I recently had an encouraging conversation with a fellow artist - we discussed how being an artist is not so much about producing a certain number of paintings or having commissioned work, etc. . . but being an artist is more about a way of life. If he is open to it, an artist can be the work of art, creating beauty, seeing the world differently, exhibiting change, shaking people from their default mode of seeing, providing a window to another world, even sharing art through something so simple as face painting. . .
something to ponder. More on this later, perhaps.

face paint: three

One little boy asked me to give his whale "angry eyebrows". The kid was six - what sort of childhood has he had?! Oh, boys : )

This piece was created using graphite and eyeshadow - a surprisingly fun medium to work in! It seems appropriate also for this face painting//makeup theme.

face paint: two

Needs a bit more color to truly resemble face paint. The parrot I created at the fair was full color but more cartoon like // I enjoy the more graceful lines of this parrot, though it would be nearly impossible to create for a wiggly little one.

face paint: one

Last Saturday I volunteered at the Broad Ripple Art Fair at the Indy Art Center. I was assigned to the Kids' tent and ended up painting faces for 3 hours. Soo wonderful! The children were adorable and completely mesmerized by the whole process of face painting. I asked questions while painting (what color should the cat's stripes be? do you have any cats? what's your cat's name?). . . some of the kids answered cautiously so they would not move and mess up the paint - others simply wiggled the entire time, distracted by the sand art table or wonderfully excited to tell me all about Fluffy and why the cat should have pink stripes. . .

This set of pieces is inspired by some of the designs that I painted on cute chubby cheeks at the art fair : )

eighty.eight

Inspired by the poem below. Both tree pieces were created using text from the poem. Attempts to convey the certain mood that was prevalent today - mixture of grey rain, melancholy piano music, and disappointment. Is the text as an object too. . . ? Contrived?

eighty.seven

The world's love runs thin.
Human love turns evil.
Rain strips, in the yellow twilight,
the flowers from the branches.

The dawn wind will dry my tear stains.
I try to write down the trouble of my heart.
I can only speak obliquely, exhausted.
It is hard, hard.
We are each of us all alone.

Today is not yesterday.
My troubled mind sways
like the rope of a swing.
A horn sounds in the cold depth of the night.

Afraid of people's questions
I will swallow my tears
and pretend to be happy.
Deceit. Deceit. Deceit.


To the Tune of a Phoenix Hairpin
T'ang Wan, 12th century

eighty.six

The pen and the paint don't interact enough in this piece. I don't really care for it.

eighty.five

I should be studying for finals, but painting came as a welcome and extended break. Exploration with words derived from a few poems that I've recently discovered.
I like the poem but not my painting (they're not really meant to be consumed in conjunction)

patterns.
you see a shoddy quilt
buried under the wooden rocking horse
and the doll who’s missing an eye
75 cent quilt
each bland square sewn together
by strings of deceit
isolated
like your godforsaken life
machine made and artificial
each stitch contrived
false
lower the price
50 cents is all you’re worth now
yet still you wait
under the Cyclops doll
(the horse sold for 7 dollars)
colors faded
drab and unfeeling
emotions standardized
habitual
conforming to a boring pattern
neatly partitioned into squares
25 cents in your friendless corner
even the deformed doll
was worth 3 dollars
you're
composed of cheap cotton
endless squares of regret
patterns of futility
15 cents
moth-eaten
5 cents
forgotten

eighty.four

Earlier I said I would possibly include some of my ramblings that inspire my works, so here's a start. This time I have made the words apart of, or actually made them the main part of the piece.

eighty.three

One of my favorites of the set. The cardboard box was printed "Bainbridge Art Supplies", so I turned it upside down and painted around inb and t to highlight those letters. I then wrote the same letters freehand below, flipping the t to form quit. Lastly, I painted my letters red to match the red of the printed letters. My letters obviously aren't perfect, but for not having a stencil they aren't bad : )... I enjoy the hand-written look in contrast to the printed letters anyway.

eighty.two

This is long but stick with it... wow. I have much to think about now.
"There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell. I believe that the most lawless and inordinate loves are less contrary to God’s will than a self-invited and self-protective lovelessness…We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as a way in which they should break, so be it. What I know about love and believe about love and giving ones heart began in this."

The Four Loves
C.S. Lewis, Irish novelist, essayist, theologian, etc.. (1898-1963)

eighty.one

Painting is the only thing that's made sense lately. Even though I could barely find appropriate painting supplies tonight, I desperately needed to create something - anything. For this I simply wrote words and then used paint to highlight or obscure certain ones.
I believe my artwork is most often driven by my experiences and my feelings regarding them. As a result, sometimes I simply must create. . . other times I have to force myself to come up with anything. I think consistency would be helpful in this matter - making myself paint each day, regardless outward circumstances or inner feelings. What do you do to motivate yourself on a day when painting seems like more of a burden than anything?

eighty

Home for Easter. This series was a study in limitations - all my paints are at school, so I was limited to a random tube of Cadmium Red acrylic that I found hiding, some cheap paintbrushes, and two miniature tubes of black and white gouache. I painted on cardboard that was formerly a Bainbridge art supplies box. The limited palette was challenging yet freeing at the same time. I hate making decisions, so having only 1 color to choose from made the color selection process much easier. The green splotch on the S was already on the cardboard box.

seventy.eight - .nine

No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed;
Lay that on your heart,
My young angry dear;
This truth, this hard and precious stone,
Lay it on your hot cheek,
Let it hide your tear.
Hold it like a crystal
When you are alone
And gaze in the depths of the icy stone.
Long, look long and you will be blessed:
No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed.

Sarah Teasdale, American lyrical poet (1884-1933)


I love how words can enhance art... music sometimes explains words... art informs music. I don't know if this particular poem effectively goes with these images or not; I had not originally put them together. The images were inspired by who-knows-what, and the poem simply spoke to me deeply... however, the pairing interests me.
In future posts, I'd like to couple more poetry with art and even music in an effort to explore the interconnected relationships. Usually when I'm painting or drawing, I think first in words (not necessarily sentences) and then transfer that to image, whether it is abstract or realistic. I should include some of that random poetry/rambling in future posts as well, I suppose, if it's not too intimate. The trick with incorporating words in art, I think, is to avoid being too obvious. I don't think the words should completely explain the picture (or vice versa). The viewer should be compelled to think and to make his or her own connections between the words and images.

Mail Art

This was the lovely surprise waiting for me when I arrived home for Easter... mail art from Lydia. I love the way that she layered colors and the way that she provided variation with soft edges vs. hard edges. The cream colored splatter at the bottom middle is especially compelling to me. At first the white sticker from the post office was disappointing, but now I think it adds a point of interest - an unexpected, stark white geometric shape in contrast to Lydia's organic, free-form shapes. Here's the other half of our correspondence.

seventy.seven

Blind Insomnia 4
This one puzzled me the most when I opened my eyes to see what it looked like. I wrote "eyes" with obvious intent, scratching through the word since I had no eyes when I drew the piece. I then proceeded to draw eyes, but I didn't think they would actually end up being recognizable forms. The placement of each eye leads across the entire page and turned out nicely too. It's weird that this piece is so cohesive yet had almost no specific intention and certainly no guidance.