Things have been quiet here in my studio over the weekend. It rained basically non-stop in Boston from Wednesday to today (Sunday). Have done some additional work on the prep work for my two new pieces, but have been stalled a bit. My studio faces the southeast, so the light is tremendous here in the morning and early afternoon, when it is not raining. Like most painters I am very inspired by light, and am a bit less motivated on gray and dark days (like all of us, I suppose).
The other issue has been materials. I most often use Dick Blick for my art materials— the one in Boston is right over by Fenway Park. And, because of all the rain delays, it has been hard to gauge when it is safe to travel over near the baseball park.
All that said, I will be setting the initial line drawing down on at least one piece tonight. So, the excuses are over.
In spite of the lack of supreme progress in the visual art aspects of my studio, I have done quite a bit of writing over the past few days. I am working on a few short stories that may or may not weave together to form something else. They are far from done, and are far from polished, but in the spirit of my studio blog, I will include an excerpt here:
* * * * *
The kitchen was quiet after Roger hung up the phone. Karen pretended to stir the pasta sauce she had simmering on the back burner. Beneath the light from the overhead the bright red sauce swirled heavily beneath her wooden spoon.
Still quiet. Karen set the spoon down, moved quickly across the linoleum and opened up the refrigerator. She scanned the shelves in the door. There were no answers, only Ketchup, mustard, something in a plastic baggie— unwrapping the bag and smelling it, she tossed it on the can.
“Are you going to clean out the refrigerator now?” Roger asked. His voice, odd from inside the refrigerator.
“What,” she said, pretending not to hear him, emerging with a canister of parmesan cheese.
“Nothing,” he said, sitting down at the breakfast bar that substituted for their— his— dining room table.
Karen was actually getting somewhat sick of Roger, too. He was so demanding. Plus, she thought, as she set the parmesan down on the table— or breakfast bar rather— Roger was a slob.
Oh, he wasn’t a slob like Tim. Tim would barely wash his socks if he could turn them inside out. No, Karen thought as she picked the placemat up off the top of the fridge and set them down on the breakfast bar— no, Rodger, Rodger was a slob in a different way.
He was sitting still on one of those stupid IKEA stools he bought, watching her move around the kitchen. Refrigerator, stove— stir, silverware drawer, cabinet— get out the plates. back to the breakfast bar. It was almost a circular pattern, Roger realized. A dance. Bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, ba— bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, ba.
“Are you doing a kitchen mambo?” he asked, looking down at the stack of plates on the breakfast bar.
* * * * *
As Hemingway said, the first draft of anything is crap. which is strange, as his book “Islands in the Stream,” which was published posthumously, and is a first draft, is one of my all-time favorite books. Go figure.
Finally, my image research brought me to thinking about Narcissus this weekend— the figure from Greek mythology— who falls in love with his own reflection. While dealing with the subject matter of people staring at their reflection, it seemed appropriate to think about the history of the treatment of this figure.
In honesty, it was one of my strangest searches yet. Apparently, the figure of Narcissus has become iconic in male erotica. So, my search brought up everything from great paintings, to flowers (paper white narcissus which I used for a science fair project in 7th grade), to borderline pornographic works of muscular men looking at their reflections.
Be it Alice in Wonderland, or Narcissus, it is so interesting to me how cultures adapt these myths and let them evolve to bring different meanings to a wide-range of scenarios.
The above image is attributed to Caravaggio (although there is some debate on that); titled Narcissus c. 1598, (image here from the web gallery of art http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/c/caravagg/03/21narcis.html).
The other issue has been materials. I most often use Dick Blick for my art materials— the one in Boston is right over by Fenway Park. And, because of all the rain delays, it has been hard to gauge when it is safe to travel over near the baseball park.
All that said, I will be setting the initial line drawing down on at least one piece tonight. So, the excuses are over.
In spite of the lack of supreme progress in the visual art aspects of my studio, I have done quite a bit of writing over the past few days. I am working on a few short stories that may or may not weave together to form something else. They are far from done, and are far from polished, but in the spirit of my studio blog, I will include an excerpt here:
* * * * *
The kitchen was quiet after Roger hung up the phone. Karen pretended to stir the pasta sauce she had simmering on the back burner. Beneath the light from the overhead the bright red sauce swirled heavily beneath her wooden spoon.
Still quiet. Karen set the spoon down, moved quickly across the linoleum and opened up the refrigerator. She scanned the shelves in the door. There were no answers, only Ketchup, mustard, something in a plastic baggie— unwrapping the bag and smelling it, she tossed it on the can.
“Are you going to clean out the refrigerator now?” Roger asked. His voice, odd from inside the refrigerator.
“What,” she said, pretending not to hear him, emerging with a canister of parmesan cheese.
“Nothing,” he said, sitting down at the breakfast bar that substituted for their— his— dining room table.
Karen was actually getting somewhat sick of Roger, too. He was so demanding. Plus, she thought, as she set the parmesan down on the table— or breakfast bar rather— Roger was a slob.
Oh, he wasn’t a slob like Tim. Tim would barely wash his socks if he could turn them inside out. No, Karen thought as she picked the placemat up off the top of the fridge and set them down on the breakfast bar— no, Rodger, Rodger was a slob in a different way.
He was sitting still on one of those stupid IKEA stools he bought, watching her move around the kitchen. Refrigerator, stove— stir, silverware drawer, cabinet— get out the plates. back to the breakfast bar. It was almost a circular pattern, Roger realized. A dance. Bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, ba— bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, ba.
“Are you doing a kitchen mambo?” he asked, looking down at the stack of plates on the breakfast bar.
* * * * *
As Hemingway said, the first draft of anything is crap. which is strange, as his book “Islands in the Stream,” which was published posthumously, and is a first draft, is one of my all-time favorite books. Go figure.
Finally, my image research brought me to thinking about Narcissus this weekend— the figure from Greek mythology— who falls in love with his own reflection. While dealing with the subject matter of people staring at their reflection, it seemed appropriate to think about the history of the treatment of this figure.
In honesty, it was one of my strangest searches yet. Apparently, the figure of Narcissus has become iconic in male erotica. So, my search brought up everything from great paintings, to flowers (paper white narcissus which I used for a science fair project in 7th grade), to borderline pornographic works of muscular men looking at their reflections.
Be it Alice in Wonderland, or Narcissus, it is so interesting to me how cultures adapt these myths and let them evolve to bring different meanings to a wide-range of scenarios.
The above image is attributed to Caravaggio (although there is some debate on that); titled Narcissus c. 1598, (image here from the web gallery of art http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/c/caravagg/03/21narcis.html).
Kind of interesting for me to land on Caravaggio, as he was one of the first artists who I stumbled across years and years ago whose use of contrast I found to be so dramatic and powerful. He is the master of incorporating opposite ends of the color spectrum to emotional effect on a canvas. As I am using such complementary colors and striving for vivid and intense images, his example is worth considering deeply once again.
I guess the last “reflection” idea I had in the past few days was the famous Zen koan that deals with the monkey and the moon.
The monkey is reachingFor the moon in the water.Until death overtakes himHe'll never give up.If he'd let go the branch andDisappear in the deep pool,The whole world would shineWith dazzling pureness.
I guess the last “reflection” idea I had in the past few days was the famous Zen koan that deals with the monkey and the moon.
The monkey is reachingFor the moon in the water.Until death overtakes himHe'll never give up.If he'd let go the branch andDisappear in the deep pool,The whole world would shineWith dazzling pureness.
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