Let's talk

Let's talk. I could start by saying that just as I'm hitting my stride again, I'm out of my fine arts paper, and it's a logistic exercise to get to the art supply store.  Meanwhile, I have to do something.

In an ideal world, I'd like to paint the human figure -- people in their home environments, for example -- but I'm the kind of artist who needs a model. For this reason, like my early virtual mentor Harriet Shorr, I turned to still lifes. So right now in a less than ideal world, I consulted my figure sketches (made from memory, from people observed on the street from the car or bus) and my file of "study photos" to do some figurative mini-paintings from imagination.

I have lots of sketches of people in the act of just sitting around -- at bus stops, in coffee shops, in parks. I decided to use some of these for a brief series of seated figures called, "Conversations," working on 10"x14" paper from a pad of samples.

In "Conversations - 1", I simply started splashing -- no preliminary planning, just an impulsive plunking down of paint where I thought faces and arms might fit or coffee mug shapes be saved in the base yellow.

That same week, I actually spotted the entire scene of "Conversations - 2" and tried to recapture it from memory:

As I was painting this second one -- again, with no preliminary colour plan, just working step by step -- I was reminded of the observation of another cherished virtual mentor, Mary Beth McKenzie.  Writing about her interest in the artist Pieter Bruegel the Elder, she talked about how he used small spots of the colour red to move the eye around and through his complicated crowd scenes.

Time to get out of the coffee shop! This time, I worked from some "bus stop" sketches and rather consciously thought about the placement of colours. As I'd done with the male figure in "Conversations - 2", I started by pencilling in the figures and caught myself in the act of committing one of my bad habits:-- getting too precise.

The resulting "Conversation - 3" was a pale imitation of a Vancouver bus stop -- and of a successful painting, for that matter. (Overall, I think the impulsive "Conversations - 1" is the best of the lot).

In my final splash of this mini-series, I decided I'd use vibrant colours against a grey background. The artist and teacher Jeanne Dobie calls this "mouse power," referring to the oomph that grey gives to adjacent colours. Again, I couldn't resist pencilling in the figures at the beginning.

As I worked through "Conversations - 4", I carefully considered where I'd repeat colours, where I might add pattern, where I would leave some white paper untouched. As I filled outlined spaces with carefully chosen colours, I began to think that working this way, without a preliminary plan, was quite a profound and meaningful exercise.

And it was so much fun! ...and it was the fun and the satisfaction I had in looking at the four completed "Conversations" that brought home the truth:-- Whether or not this was a deeply meaningful exercise, its origins were my pleasure in working absorbedly in my colouring books 60 and more years ago!

I am not kidding

For about 25 years, I've subscribed to a well-known magazine for artists and wannabes. Over the years, its look and editorial focus changed periodically, usually for the better. I was always excited when an issue arrived in the mailbox, and I'd spread the pleasure of reading it over a week or more, finding something to learn from almost every article.

All this changed in 2010, when a new editor took the helm and what I could only assume was a hidden cabal proclaimed that the publication intended to be "the voice of the New American Realism" -- versus a rag for mere hobbyists. Gradually, the style of the new regime emerged in critiques like this one, of the October 2012 cover painting pictured above:

"Consider Harvest, which depicts a polar bear in a poppy field, with a
downed helicopter in the background. The image offers a potent
critique of global warming, drug trafficking, and the failure of
international security forces to defeat organized criminal interests.
The blooming poppy field, veiled in toxic yellow air, provides the
ideal setting for the polar bear, whose bee-stung paws indicate that
the beast has had his hand in the honey jar -- implying that his
presence in this contested turf is not entirely benign."

I am not kidding.

Obviously a clique was running the show, and their kind of stuff was not at all my kind of stuff. (For the record, I'm no fan of the demented eyes of Bo Bartlett's figures, the pouty provocative adolescents of Nelson Shanks, or the oddities of non-realist non-American Odd Nerdstrom. Don't expect me to link to their websites).

Along with the bombast were subtle suggestions that the magazine's resources were increasingly limited: most articles were written by the two senior editors, the advertising "supplements" sometimes usurped a third of an issue, and there were more historical articles (requiring only a few hours at the library?) than the usual insightful interviews with working contemporary artists.

Before long, I almost dreaded the arrival of each new issue. Oh, man, what will they inflict on me this month? Why not just pull the plug on my subscription, see if I can get my money back, and by golly, I'll subscribe to the competition's art mag!

....and so it came to pass, courtesy of the gods of the marketplace. Just a few weeks ago, I found in the mailbox the very magazine I had in mind as Plan B, with a message advising that my original subscription had been transferred to this new outfit. A little internet research revealed that the parent company of my old faithful magazine had been bought out, and the magazine had "ceased publication."

I was a little miffed that I'd had to dig for this explanation. Couldn't they have informed me by postcard? But then I learned that after 75 years as a print publication, they'd announced their imminent demise with a one-liner on their Facebook page.

I am not kidding.

Eight months without a paintbrush

When it became clear in December 2011 that we'd have to leave our old house, I resolved to immediately start gleaning and packing my studio.  My customary pre-dawn working hours turned into an industrious though reflective time of assessing old paintings and drawings, scrutinizing old sketchbooks, weeding out reference material, packing fragile artifacts, and planning how to transport painted papers and panels. I hadn't chosen this interruption in my painting life, but I decided to view it positively so I made notes along the way of themes and threads I wanted to pick up when life became normal again in a new location.

Finding and moving to a new home worked out pretty well for us, all things considered. My new studio is small but workable. Its low ceiling will just accommodate my table-top easel with mounting board that holds my frequent choice of 20" x 26" paper in a vertical orientation, with about 1/2" to spare!

When I'd organized my new studio, I set one goal: To get back to work as of September 1st and be able to say about every new painting, "This is my best yet" -- to equal or exceed what I still think is my personal best, "A Brown Study at 65" shown here:

My first new-studio effort was "The Green Pear" -- not at all my best yet although I'm rather fond of the pear itself, even in its earliest stage. Maybe it's "my best part-of-a-painting yet" (which sounds like one of those very low-level Academy Awards).

And so: Back to the drawing board. I gathered up some of the objects I'd cherished in my old studio, glad that I'd resisted any urge to "declutter" the large basket, the metal gears, the pine cones, the oyster shells...and no way would I have decluttered my grandmother's little sewing basket! I also decided to take up the challenge I'd encountered years ago as a suggested exercise:-- to produce a "poster" for one's own (imaginary) exhibit.

So here's the outcome:  New Studio Painting #2 -- "Wheels Within" -- which can be viewed revolving itself into existence here. Visualize it as a poster, and see if you think it's My Best Yet.

"Things in Themselves"

The Still Life Paintings of Kelly Mo

On exhibit at The Yellow House Gallery

From now until the next time

Six Degrees of Separation

When I was young, my father told me a story that seemed straight out of a folk tale. It concerned The Sugar Refinery (as our family called it) on the Hudson River waterfront, where he was Chief Engineer through the World War II years.

When I was just two, my family moved north to  paper mill country so I had no memory of this place, but the memory of his story is golden -- or copper. As he explained, the refinery process depended on copper vats, in which the raw cane syrup was boiled down.

Wearing thin from the constant intense heat,the vats had to be routinely inspected and almost annually patched and reenforced. And the people best equipped to do this painstaking specialized repair were a father and son team of gypsies -- authentic Rom -- who travelled the country and reliably reported in at The Sugar Refinery every spring.

At that time, gypsies were figures of great fascination to me, thanks to the operetta that was always performed at the YWCA camp I attended for three summer sessions. (Surely this operetta would now be deemed politically incorrect, but the libretto is still going strong on Amazon.com)

The father and son at work in The Sugar Refinery were just as described (it seemed to me) in the opening chorus of "Little Gypsy Gay":

Mending tins and mending pots,
busy all day long.
While the brazier's burning hot,
sing this happy song!

But I wasn't able to verify this. I was born too late. I had just missed seeing real gypsies in action!

But lately, I discovered a currently more meaningful link, via The Sugar Refinery, that I have with one of my favourite artists, Degas.

Degas' route to fame in North America had been through the early and abundant purchases of his work by New York multi-millionaire Henry O. Havemeyer, urged by his wife Louisine, as advised by her best friend, the artist Mary Cassatt, a close friend and colleague of Degas. The eventual outcome was Havemeyer's stunning 1920s bequest of Degas' and other Impressionists' paintings to NYC's Metropolitan Museum of Art.

All this I knew, but only recently I happened on the fact that Havemeyer's fortune derived from his vast sugar empire, centred on The American Sugar Refinery. SUGAR REFINERY?!?!!  I went straight to Google maps, and there was The American Sugar Refinery, on the banks of the Hudson in "our" New York City suburb. The Sugar Refinery.

It's true that by the time my father came along, a Havemeyer son was running the business -- but it was a classic Six Degrees of Separation.

1) Degas
2) Mary Cassatt
3) H.O. and Louisine Havemeyer
4) Havemeyer Son -- the one who might have walked the plant in my father's day
5) My father
6) Me

I was pretty excited -- until, tracking down these old pictures, I found reference to Havemeyer's American Sugar Refinery in Brooklyn. Wrong suburb! A little fact-checking revealed the casualties of industry in the 20th century United States. My father's sugar refinery had actually survived and snagged the American Sugar name, after buying out Havemeyer's and many other refineries.

So I'm no more connected to Degas than to the father-son gypsies -- nor they to each other. But I still count Degas as one of my favorite artists, I still know more politically incorrect lyrics from "Little Gypsy Gay" than I'd ever sing out loud, and The Sugar Refinery still prevails on the Yonkers NY waterfront.

"Saw a green pear; thought of you"

Saw a green pear; thought of you. Flashback to a year and a half ago: Green pears had just arrived in IGA's produce department (where I get some of my best ideas), and they made me think of my last-ever boss, whose funky foot-high wooden green pear presided over the meeting table in her office. I almost sent her an email with this title and then thought better of it. But all this time, two thoughts have stayed with me.

The first thought, of course, was to make a painting with a green pear at centre stage. I've just completed it, as The First Painting in the New Studio.

You can view the evolution of "The Green Pear" here. It's an exciting drama in which a stone wrapped in green tissue paper stands in for an actual pear until midway through the process. Then a carefully chosen real pear, painstakingly selected by the artist to match the shape of the pseudo-pear, comes on-stage for the finale and applause. Here's the outcome:

The second enduring thought is that ordinary objects and daily encounters often suggest happy associations with friends near and far.  (Of course, in other cases, there could be unhappy associations, but why go there?) Imagine this phenomenon as a kind of game: "When I see...(example: a green pear), I think of...(my last-ever boss L)." Here's just part of my personal list of things that happily recall friends and (sometimes) their foibles:

"When I see/see reference to.......I think of..........."

Anne of Green Gables
Australia
Big Leaf Maple
Blue, the shade between navy and cobalt
Boxing
Bread Baking
Calligraphy
Cats
Cellos
Cocker Spaniels
Dubrovnik
Eggs being cracked
Family histories
Female solo explorers
Firemen shopping for groceries
Frog motifs
Girl Scouts
"Gluten-free"
Green, any shade
Horseback riding
Ireland
Italian weddings
Joggers
Jugglers
Laundry hung in the sun
Lemon meringue pie
Metronome
Nova Scotia
Paper mills
Papillon dogs
Paris
Penpals
Penske rental trucks
Photographers
Quilting
Raccoons
Rainbow trout
Red wine
Redheads
Roses
San Francisco
Saskatchewan
Schiperke dogs
SPCA
"Sustainability"
Teapots
Tennis
Turks-cap roof ventilator
Ukelele
Winnipeg
Wisconsin

As I made a light-hearted colour study for an upcoming painting, I realized the game works both ways -- and that some day a friend might send me an email with the title, "Saw a hazelnut coffee; thought of you."

Played on the original period instruments

Is there a visual equivalent to music "played on the original period instruments"? Maybe: What about paintings or drawings created with media handmade by the artist rather than purchased? Some artists still roll their own -- grind their own pigments, make their own paper, for example.

When I recently liberated some bedraggled bamboo in our new back yard, I was reminded of JT's and my experiments in creating Original Period Media. My experiment, which the bamboo recalled, was modest and unsuccessful:-- cutting quill pens from goose feathers. Despite an art book's simple and explicit instructions for slicing a small curved niche, then adding a tiny line and hole to collect the ink, the quills produced a sloppy line. No one would want to sign the Declaration of Independence with these babies!

JT's experiments were much more successful, and I still have the results. One summer years ago, working from the same art book instructions, he made me a lifetime supply of drawing charcoal.


The process involves cutting twigs to fit inside nested and ventilated tin cans, then positioning them in an open fire where they'll get enough heat to carbonize but not so much that they burn up. I was pleased with the first batch so he made several more, sampling six different kinds of plants and trees at our cabin. Here's my boxed stash:--


Setting up my new studio this summer, I had fun reacquainting myself with how each of these handled. Willow seems most congenial -- although "cooking time" as much as raw material is an important variable in producing a stick that's soft but not too soft. However messy charcoal can be, I still love to plunge into a charcoal drawing now and then, as I did the year he made the big supply, drawing the evocative lights and shadows on the road at the gate to our cabin.


Another of his experiments, ideally suited to cabin life, was producing a few small jars of bistre -- the brown-toned ink familiar to Renaissance artists. It's like a tea boiled down from the carbon that collects inside a wood stove. My art book advised mixing the finished product with gum arabic as a binder/thickener, something that's done with commercial watercolor paints. I think I'll give bistre drawings a try again, too -- another adventure in my new studio quarters.


Based on my failed quill pens, I won't waste time trying to cut a bamboo pen -- despite the inspirational model of Van Gogh's reed pen drawings. What's more, I know I could never match the ingenious version -- definitely an original instrument -- readily available in Vancouver's Chinatown.

The Empty Room

Well, it was almost empty at this point -- my old studio, close to being packed up for the big move:-- cleared bulletin board, one remaining shelf with some moving supplies; on the floor, the dissassembled units of my cherished "chest of drawers" for oversized art paper and finished paintings (JT-made) and the hand-me-down cactus plants that took on new life this spring, just as they're leaving the south-facing window.

I'll miss this room. It was the largest studio I'm likely to have, with plenty of room for promising artifacts that have travelled with me to our new place. I can't help but feel sentimental about the view I had, down into our garden, out onto the street -- so many times of day, so many seasons of the year, when I'd open the door, look out the window, take a deep breath and begin to work.

I learned so much here, about painting -- and there is so much more to learn.

My new studio is smaller and, right now, still a gridlock of packed boxes. But I like it already. It's a room that's full...of promise and future things to learn and do.

courAGE!

With my birthday this week, I'm halfway between 65 and 70 -- an interesting time to recall my reactions when, in my early thirties, I discovered the magnificent drawings of 20th century artist/activist Kathe Kollwitz.

In addition to her powerful works on behalf of the dispossessed, she drew self-portraits throughout her life. The early ones show a frank fresh-faced girl with deep intense eyes. The later ones, like the one above, show -- well, the inevitable sagging chin line and wrinkles. I can remember (so long ago!) thinking, "Wow. That took a lot of courage."

I haven't as consistent a personal record to look back on, but inevitably I've made many self-portraits in my time. (After all, one reason artists do self-portraits is to make use of a convenient model who's not likely to complain, "But you made my nose too long."). In learning to draw, I made this one in my early thirties.

Another surviving self-portrait recalls my early forties:

And this one, also from my forties, was intended as the study for a painting that never materialized:

Surely I must have done a self-portrait some time in my fifties, but nothing surfaced in my studio clean-up.  In my sixties, though, I've painted two self-portraits. This one, "At 60 in Favorite Shirt" has been described by a friend as "a bit grim."

And so the next year, I painted one that's a bit more mellow, in which I reflect on and reflect my own "Gemini Split."

Is there another self-portrait, drawn or painted, in my future? No doubt -- since the temptation is always there. But in my mid-sixties, would I really have Kollwitz's gumption? In looking at one of my best "classical realist" drawings (shown below) -- also from my thirties -- I've had the idea that maybe I'll draw this same pose again and let my forearm and hand show the changes of three decades. All it will take is a little courage.

Tree People

Most of the pleasures of the home we'll be leaving soon have had more to do with the outdoors than with the antiquated interior -- witness the ancient pear and plum trees in our backyard. From the very first sight, I've been enchanted by the interrelationship of these two trees and the particular shapes and thrusts of their branches.

Looking at old sketchbooks, I've found that I've made almost one drawing a year, trying to capture my fascination with these trees. 

They were even my models for a long-ago assignment to create an imaginary exhibition poster. (This imaginary exhibit was so enticing to my feline fans that they clawed the poster off the wall!)

At some point, the fascination was articulated for me in the writings of Renoir, who has proven to be one of my important teachers. He wrote: "When you have learned to draw a tree, you will be able to draw the human figure." Suddenly, I realized that somehow the form of these trees echoed the drawings I most love, Michelangelo's "studies for the Libyan sibyll." Notice here the curve of the spine, the movement of the arms, and the gesture of the left hand (also pictured in a unique study, just below-left of the torso):

-- compared to our plum tree:

We bought our old house in 1985, long before Teardown Mania hit Vancouver's real estate market. Even then, we were the only potential buyers who wanted to live in rather than to demolish it. The pear and the plum trees gave us years of fruit for wines and jams, along with the daily enchantment of their beauty and their attraction to birds and insects. In turn, we were able to give them a 25-year renewed lease on life -- and are perhaps still their debtors.

The greatness of mountains

In our 35 years in B.C., we've met the occasional odd native who is indifferent to the wonder of mountains (or eagles, or seals). Odd, indeed. For us, it was love at first sight when we drove west by van, and the great wall of the Rockies suddenly came into view from a hundred or more miles away.

In our first five years here, we hiked every weekend and became closely acquainted with many mountains. Inevitably, mountains were early subjects when I began to paint -- in the beginning, "imaginary" mountains evoked from the Upside-Down File, such as "Ravenstorm" (circa 1990).

Eventually, we bought a kayak and spent every weekend on the water, coming to know among other things, the drama of mountains meeting shorelines, as in "Above Furry Creek" (1991).

It happens that my mountain paintings were all done on pressed wood panels with applied texture and collage elements. JT cradled them for me, applying wood braces to the back side to prevent warping. "Above Furry Creek" was the largest panel I worked on at 5' x 5' -- and a fast-moving furry creature has been enlisted here to show its scale.

Working on this painting, I became fascinated with how the diagonals and triangles of actual mountain-scapes resemble endless variations on the  Eye of God motif.

Eventually, we found our cabin property and became immersed in the natural life of the Upper Squamish Valley, living almost half-time year-round for 20 years beneath the mountains of the Tantalus Range. "Mt. Pelion" (shown here) looked down on us from the north.

In my ongoing 2012 studio overhaul, I found among my sketchbooks many records of my Mountain Period, among them my first pencil study for "Above Furry Creek."

...then a small (5" x 5") colour study, collaged from colour chips clipped from magazines.

...then -- most worth finding again -- a quotation from Lama Anagarika Govinda's The Way of the White Clouds that seems to resonate with the Eye of God theme -- and with our own intense response to mountains.

To see the greatness of a mountain, one must keep one's distance; to
understand its form, one must move around it; to experience its moods,
one must see it at sunrise and sunset, at noon and at midnight, in sun
and in rain, in snow and in storm, in summer and in winter and in all
the other seasons. He who can see the mountain like this comes near
to the life of the mountain, a life that is as intense and varied as
that of a human being. Mountains grow and decay, they breathe and
pulsate with life. They attract and collect invisible energies from
their surroundings: the forces of air, of the water, of electricity
and magnetism; they create winds, clouds, thunderstorms, rains,
waterfalls and rivers. They fill their surroundings with active life
and give shelter and food to innumerable beings. Such is the
greatness of mighty mountains.