Cucurbits 2011 - A creative convergence

"Mysteriosa reptans" is the (pseudo) botanical name I gave to the mysterious vining plants that emerged spontaneously in our garden in July, no doubt volunteered from our home-brewed compost. By September, the four plants had produced two small pumpkins, two small acorn squashes, and three striped squashes of the "Heart of Gold" variety.

If you read my previous post, you'll know about my seasonal fascination with the Cucurbit family (squash, pumpkin, melon) as the basis for a painting. This year, there was a remarkable convergence on this theme. As I set myself the challenge of painting our garden cucurbits, another garden was spontaneously generating in Manhattan.

First, my painting:-- I set myself the challenge to create an interesting composition with seven objects very similar in shape and size (one usually chooses more variation). The outcome is "September Stripes," copyright 2011. (You can watch those stripes develop here.

Meanwhile, on the East Coast, my lifelong friend A was manipulating her long vines of knitting yarn to create some witty cucurbits and Indian corn (I must try that next year!) for No.1 Grandson's Halloween and for her own Thanksgiving table.

On close inspection, these are no ordinary veggies -- they're clearly heritage varieties!

There are many smiles for me in this convergence -- a smile as I brought my painting together, smiles when I received A's stories and photos, and then...as the season progressed, a big smile as I put our garden squashes to their final use (saving their seeds for next year). As I pulled the first batch out of the oven, a line came back to me from Dylan Thomas' A Child's Christmas in Wales (relating to little boys pretending to smoke and then polishing off their candy cigarettes): "Then, with a smirk, we et them."

Cucurbits Fascination: A retrospective exhibit

The elderly Chinese couple down the street always grows mysterious vining plants on makeshift trellises in their front garden. I watch for the fruits, which look like a cross between a small green pear and a spiny chestnut. When I asked its name, the man gently cupped his hands and said, "We call it egg-in-hand." (Maybe it's white and soft beneath those spines?) Coincidentally, I later saw some of these "eggs" for sale as decorative objects, with a sign labelling them "cucurbits."

Now I've learned that there's a whole botanical family Cucurbitaceae, which includes, in addition to melons and cucumbers, the squashes and gourds that draw me like a magnet every autumn. While I planned by Fall 2011 painting, I hauled out all the cucurbit paintings I've done over the years. Here we go:

Starting with four small paintings in 2003, you'd think I'd have overdosed. I bought an amazing squash and a whole mass of beautiful gourds and did first a small study:

Next, a blue/green painting with what was then an enthralling theme to me -- the shapes of cardboard packing inserts - "Harvest - Three Gourds."

Then a Serious Painting -- "Melon Jug and Carnival Squash" -- playing the colour and texture of the squash against my mother's old ceramic pitcher.

Still unable to let go of the cucurbits, I placed three gourds under strong light and captured the shadows in a small study.

On to 2004, when a single plain gourd played a modest role in "Packing Form and Candlestick."

But I wasn't finished with that year's bounty and, getting out my coloured pencils, I constructed "Harvest Quilt."

In 2004, another of my family keepsakes -- my grandmother's cookie jar -- found unlikely cucurbit companions in "Echoes - Cookie Jar Tapestry."

How is it possible that I didn't succumb in the years 2005-2006? My next cucurbit painting, "Autumn Glow," was started in fall 2007, finished in winter 2008.

Similarly, in early winter 2009, I finished two paintings that were conceived in fall 2008. "The Wishful Bird" featured a thrift store find that kept me company -- wishfully -- while I waited for JT to come home from the hospital.

Then, a marvelous turban squash took centre stage in "That Time of Year" documented in one of my early blog posts.

Finally, in my 65th autumn, I did what's still (I think) my best-yet painting, "A Brown Study at 65."

The 2011 cucurbit? Just finished last week, to be unveiled with the next posting. It's mouthwatering.

Horizontally challenged

My words to JT signalled that summer was over, and I was relishing the start of fall painting season: "If you notice there's just one mandarin orange on the grocery bill, it's because I need a small orange object."

All summer, I'd been mentally planning my kick-off painting. It started when a clean-up project unearthed a very old cherished patterned skirt. On this background, I imagined various objects of the same colours as the skirt -- with the trick being to play off flat patterns with 3-D objects.

As the last two years' work will show, I most commonly choose a vertical set-up for my still lifes. To tone down the busyness of the many coloured shapes, I decided on a horizontal layout since horizontals tend towards calmness and stability.

Almost as soon as I assembled things, a small bell sounded in my consciousness. The summer camp dinner bell? No...a little reminder of the lesson I learned recently in attempting a light-hearted trompe l'oeil . The kind of precision required to bring off my pattern/object plan would just not be my thing. Nonetheless, I decided to press on with the fabric and objects -- and found that my first study loudly said, "BORING."

Resolving to work a little more loosely, I rearranged the fabric and shifted my viewpoint.

A quick line study confirmed something a little more lively.




The outcome is "Reaching Out" (copyright 2011) -- with many shapes and angles reaching out beyond my original concept. (I know, I know: I give the impression of being calm and stable myself, but in truth, I like to see a little more action). The final version is below, and you can view its evolution here.


Acknowledgments: The lovely little pottery bowl in the foreground was created by my friend D, who is in no way responsible for how it looks here!

Last postcard from summer camp

One advantage of attending stay-at-home summer camp was the ease of pursuing adventures just around the corner. On my customary two-block walk to the bus stop, I pass almost a dozen examples of old east-side houses -- modest and less than lovingly cared for, in many cases -- and I'm fascinated by their architectural oddities. I've counted about half a dozen styles of old roofing material, and I constantly wonder about the odd little square windows placed randomly, it seems, where access to the view outside appears unlikely. They can't all be on staircase landings (like the one in our house).

For months, I've been taken with a shabby house down the hill from the bus stop, its roof and part of one side just visible in the space between two closer buildings. Something struck me about the proportions of the dormer roof to the main roof, the funny placement of the dormer windows, and the rather perfect little chimney. I made some sketches from memory and wondered what would happen if I tried painting this slice-of-house in a very simple style. I spent my last session at summer camp giving it a try:

Well, Grandma Moses would be proud. (Or maybe she wouldn't.) I admit it looks verrrry Summer Camp. Still, I think something more engaging might be done with the simple geometries and funky details of these old houses.

There's a bittersweet footnote to my adventure. I arrived at the bus stop one day to see with astonishment....no, the house hadn't become a "tear-down" (in Vancouver parlance). It's being renovated!! Spiffy grey horizontal roofing tiles have replaced the weather-worn diamond pattern -- the latter "one of the best roofing systems ever made," according to the man who repaired the raccoon excavation in our own old roof. New windows have been installed and the framing repainted (though there's not much they can do with the odd way the window frame goes right to the edge of the dormer). Surely an all-over paint job is coming next. The old house that captured my eye is no more -- in its present rejuvenated state, it would never have attracted my interest.

To fool the eye

Who cannot be fascinated by trompe l'oeil? (And who can actually pronounce it? In our family, it's only JT). I've seen pictures of restaurant murals that appear to be real French doors, opening onto a Provence patio with lavender fields beyond -- and known that the kind of precision needed to produce this exactitude is not my thing.

But recently I've made an overdue acquaintance with Zeuxis, the ancient Greek artist whose painting of grapes was so realistic that birds zoomed in for a taste. And because summer camp is all about doing things spontaneously, I decided to fool around.

I planned to imaginatively insert a window above my studio door and place some empty glassware on its sill. I made some preliminary drawings to plan the size and to get an idea of the reflections.

I knew that for realism's sake, I'd need to make templates next, with
each object carefully structured on a vertical midline.

By the time I started placing shapes in the "window" I had solidly reaffirmed my belief that trompe l'oeil is not my thing. Way too much fiddliness is required to square things up.

Here's the finished piece, which is not going to fool anyone, birds or humans.
My sidewalk superintendant observes that the effect might be somewhat more convincing if the window were placed...well, where a window might actually be. Another plausibility factor, I'd say, is that the surrounding wall needs to be much darker than the light of the "sky." I'm not about to repaint the studio...though it might do wonders for the plaster wall of our 95-year-old house.

Happy NABIS DAY!

I saw a tattered handbill on a lightpost and it took me back to a hot day last July. On this very pole, from the same bus, I'd spotted it (in a more intact version) and its announcement of NABIS DAY. I was so excited! I have little enough in common with the young local artists of SoMa (the South Main area), but evidently they shared my enthusiasm for the early 20th century artists called The Nabis (said to mean "prophets" in Hebrew).

In our long-gone travelling days, JT and I saw a marvelous exhibit of les Nabis at the Grand Palais in Paris. I'm so glad he insisted that we splurge on the exhibit publication (adding another 10 pounds to our take-home luggage of French books and art supplies).


These artists resonate strongly with me -- particularly Bonnard for his gorgeous colours and Vuillard for the feel of his interiors and his use of patterns. One of my all-time favorite paintings is the latter's "Garden at Vaucresson" -- which stands seven feet high!

Some time after our trip, I couldn't resist playing with a much smaller version of garden tangle, with our cabin in the background and what we call "JT's Red Weed" in the starring role. Here's "Garden at Cloudburst," circa 2000.


Recently a simpatico friend, knowing my newfound enthusiasm for The Group of Seven, sent me a card with J.E.H. MacDonald's "Tangled Garden." Obviously, this is a deep-rooted (!) theme for me -- and not just because this year's wet weather has limited my weeding time and the yard is now a jungle. Maybe before summer's end, I'll make something more of all this, both in the garden and in the studio.

Oh, and meanwhile, back at NABIS DAY. That July morning last year when I hopped off the bus, I scooted back to check out the details. It turned out that the poster's corner had been torn off and what I hadn't been able to see from a distance was that it advertised a summer event sponsored by the Legalize Marijuana movement: CANNABIS DAY.

Eyes on the Northwest

An ad for UBC's Museum of Anthropology recalled an old fascination and suggested my next summer camp project. As a child, I was given a small book titled (before the days of political correctness) Indian Children of North America that showed the lifestyles of "Indians" of the plains, the woods, the swamps, the deserts, and -- my favorite -- the Northwest coast. I loved the intricate carvings on the huge canoes and the zoomorphic artifacts, like a huge bear-shaped ceremonial bowl. When we came to Vancouver in the late 1970s, I was already predisposed to love the environment and the characteristic First Nations art.

For many years, we hiked or kayaked every weekend all year round, and every trip was an opportunity to indulge our shared weakness (or strength) for randomly collecting the stones, shells, and pieces of wood that captured our eyes. It didn't take many small bits of cedar, weathered or waterworn, for me to develop a personal theory about the origins of art like the Edenshaws'. Maybe it's very obvious, but I've never seen my theory referred to elsewhere. Take a look at these wood pieces of mine:

Get my drift? The rhythms, the concentric ovals, the eyes... Is there any doubt that these (and probably the swirl of oyster shells) inspired coastal First Nations art?

Here at summer camp, where the intent is to do a lot of splashing around, I decided to assemble some of my pieces in a long band -- like a silver bracelet perhaps?

I decided to work very loosely with a larger than usual brush on top of an old painting.

The final outcome -- "Eyes on the Northwest" -- was a personal amble into the past, recalling hiking trails and beach walks.


It was also an invitation to recall one of my all-time favorite works of art, a treasure at the MOA: Bill Reid's Raven and the First Men. Check out his exquisite piece (which stands about 10 feet high, as I remember) and see if you don't agree that its origin could be found in a morning's walk, gathering tidbits from the high tide line of a coastal beach.

A balancing act

Just before heading for summer camp, I finished a painting I'd been thinking about for over a year. I'd been reading about Berthe Morisot, "the female Impressionist," and came across a contemporary critic's assessment of the painting she submitted to the famous (in retrospect) 1865 Salon:

"Since it is not necessary to have had a long training in draughtsmanship in the academy in order to paint a copper pot, a candlestick, and a bunch of radishes, women succeed quite well in this type of domestic painting." (-Paul Mantz quoted in BERTHE MORISOT: THE CORRESPONDENCE, ed. Denis
Rouart)

Okay. Copper pot + candlestick + bunch of radishes = "women's work"? Very well. I can do that. I think I'll give it a try.


Some months passed as I finished my Astrological Plants series and then waited for radishes to be seasonable. Meanwhile, the idea came to me to use not just the named threesome, but three of each item and then to see how I could create a balanced, harmonious composition with the 3x3 subject matter.

Usually I play with compositional possibilities via thumbnail sketches, but once I had the June radishes before me, I saw that a quicker way would be to make small prototype objects which I could easily move around. By now, I'd realized that cast shadows could be an interesting design element and so I painted a small family of paper shapes: candlesticks, copper pots, radishes, and "shadows."

In one exciting session (which felt like a cross between playing chess and playing with paper dolls) I tried the pieces in various configurations. The prototype composition, shown here, was planned to sit against folds of background fabric which would run in diagonal opposition to the lines of the shadows.


Here's the final outcome -- which altered the 3x3 concept a bit when I split up one of the radish bunches. You can view the progression here.

The painting's title "Balancing Act" refers both to my compositional game and, with a small feminist salute, to Berthe Morisot herself -- and the immense balancing act she maintained between her role as the daughter of privileged 19th century Parisians and her compulsion, nonetheless, to be an artist.

Heading for summer camp

I have such happy memories of summer camp -- six 2-week stints at two different girls' camps in the years I was aged seven to twelve. What was so memorable, over fifty years later? Living in the woods in tents or cabins, swimming every day, hanging out in a relatively egalitarian environment, singing songs from around the world (Take it from the top: "Waltzing Matilda." I know all the verses and even the meaning of "jumbuck" and "billabong"). Maybe what was best was stepping outside the routine, doing different things just for fun.

And in this spirit, I decided it was time to go off to summer camp -- every morning, in the studio. All kinds of preliminary plans for paintings routinely drift in and out of my mind and sketchbook (I'd just finished a big one that I'll post next time), and I'm putting this mental list on hold for a while. Instead, I'm going to play, just for the fun of it. Oh, some of this will be painting, but maybe I'll try some odder ventures than usual.

My first session at camp started two weeks ago. I cracked into an unopened pack of modelling clay and summoned up the spirits of Campfires Past. By the solstice, I'd assembled a tent's (or teapot's) worth of little girl campers.

This was not without its challenges. The clay began to dry within the 45 minutes I worked on each figure and would dry further with each passing day. This meant that the first figure, securely anchored to the edge, lost its balance overnight -- and required firmer seating on a little deck chair (and a hat to hide her embarrassment).


I had to invent some odd poses to connect the figures to the teapot.


One small paddle-like hand broke off and had to be reattached with a
"towel" -- leaving this camper looking like a snake-handler.

And I admit, even for little girls, they all look quite asexual.


I thought I'd have clay enough for only four figures but saw, with some scrimping, I could manage five -- but she's pretty anorexic.


So what camp-in-a-teapot is this, anyway? I could borrow a page from the book of my friend B, tea drinker and out-of-the-box leader extraordinaire, who did a whole employee recognition riff with custom-made tea boxes with labels like sereni-tea, facili-tea, curiousi-tea, flexibili-tea. But these girls (and their counsellor) seem to occupy another dimension. In fact, they strongly resemble extraterrestrials. Maybe it's a place called Camp E-Tea. ??