January 2021. Acrylic on canvas. 18 x 18 in.
I post this image aware that no one may perceive its charm besides myself. The painting began in the vein of Pause Point and Urchin, with an earth pigment gestured on a white-on-dark ground and the intention of following this up with Mars black. I did come back in with white, several times, to remove some areas of umber I didn’t need; you can see the ghosts of the strokes in the upper portion. But when I got to this stage, I just wouldn’t go further. This painting sat in the studio for months as I waited for permission to continue. But I never got it. I simply was satisfied with this “Genie” (the name came to me almost immediately). I debated with myself about the messiness in those upper areas, which are not clean or well-painted, frankly. But repeatedly I came to the conclusion that I didn’t want to change them. I liked the messiness, for perverse reasons. I like all the grubby ghosts in there.
This canvas is larger, 18 by 18 inches. Once again I was re-purposing an old painting, done maybe a year ago but that had never felt quite right. It was good that it kicked me into the larger format. I have several going at this size now. I like the physical impact as the format scales up. And I like the physical feel of painting it. Fits me better.
December 2020. Acrylic on canvas. 16 x 12 in.
Things have moved to a new level in the studio the last few months. A subtle graduation has occurred. I seem to have gained my footing with the acrylics. I have enough skills now that I am better able to achieve what I’m trying to do, to match the execution to the vision and the impulse. And when I encounter a challenge, I’m more likely to know a solution, or at least in which direction to turn. And because of this, I am more patient. I’m willing to set a work aside for months, if need be, and feel confident that the solution or direction will become apparent to me with time. The flailing has lessened; the Hail Mary passes are fewer. And I’m less likely to fall into an abyss of hopelessness and self-condemnation when several works in a row seem unsuccessful.
I’m also fully focused now on several series of works and have lost patience with my long-time practice of giving myself “assignments” to help me learn. There’s a growing pile of such pieces that I’ve simply lost interest in. And I’ve become better at distinguishing between works on which I’m just unsure how to proceed, and those that just actually don’t mean anything to me. This is a change from the past. The curiosity of trying to learn something or the challenge of solving them technically is not enough to carry me through to completion. I keep wandering off to the works that compel me.
This is a good thing.
The works I’m doing now may or may not be “good” – I’m not in the best position to judge – but they are what I want to be doing. I’m achieving my visions, and through the prompts of the medium and process itself I’m discovering new visions, visions that surprise me.
“Carbon 2”, above, is from a small but growing series that surprises me, and keeps pulling me forward in an unhurried way. There are four completed works now, and I know more are coming. I posted the first here (it was an “Untitled” then, but I’ve since realized it was “Carbon 1”). I’ve been working increasingly with black and white, or minor variations on B&W such as the grayed white in the Carbon paintings, or just small amounts of other hues as in Urchin and Pause Point. And, for those who are curious about such things, the black pigment in the Carbon paintings is carbon black; it is Mars black in the other two just mentioned.
2021. Acrylic on canvas. 14 x 14 in.
This work developed from a simple arch-like figure in raw umber and went through quite a bit to arrive in the final state you see here. I began it similarly to Pause Point – prepping the canvas with a darker value undercoat then overpainting with white to leave a just-off-white surface slightly varied in temperature and value but not heavily textured. The initial improvised arch figure was interesting but…not that interesting. I started building with both the raw umber and the black and, to my surprise, felt pulled to bring in the violet. I knocked certain parts back with white, but left faint shadows of some of what had already transpired.
I was quite happy with it in the end, but it wasn’t until the very end that I felt that way. Most of the time it felt pretty awkward. It helped when the title occurred to me, well into the process. I then better understood the direction I was going. Sometimes that’s just how it goes.
Conversation in Taormina
2019. Acrylic and charcoal on canvas. 18 x 18 in.
It was a lifetime ago that I was in Taormina, ancient city of the Greeks high above the Ionian Sea, in the shadow of Mt. Etna. Did I have a conversation there? I’m sure I did, as I was traveling with a companion of a lifetime with whom conversation has only ever been interrupted, never ceased. While working on this piece the title formed itself in my mind, and so it was. Conversation in Taormina.
I ruminated literally months over whether to add a sort of warm rose patch to the upper left, which I think would have been a becoming option, but in the final analysis it would not have fit this title. That rose. Too pretty. Too rococo. It would not have fit in that conversation.
So here it stopped. With the gold shapes and Ionian blue dreams recovered from antiquity and the smeary charcoal lines swinging like jazz.
I wish a happy birthday to my companion from Taormina. May the art of our conversation never be done.
2019. Acrylic on panel, 11 x 14 in.
These two paintings were completed almost exactly a year ago. They were new in style and exciting to me. I felt the hint of something I’d been looking for. A lot of work was launched from this new direction.
They both feature acrylic paint manipulated with brayer and brush, as well as china marker and ink pen. They are both fully improvisational.
2019. Acrylic on canvas, 11 x 14 in.
I suppose I might say something about titles. Titles are integral for me. If they’re wrong for the work, they just don’t stick; I will hate the painting until the title is fixed. If the painting is in some way unsuccessful or I don’t care about it, the title will be just as unsuccessful. Most often, except for untitled works, the name arises to my mind sometime during the process and is then stuck like glue – even occasionally shaping the work itself, in the end. It’s the poet in me, I guess. Words matter. Sound matters. Rhythm and melody matter.
Untitled works are usually not paintings for which I cannot find a title. They are, rather, paintings that reject further comment. I do not wish to contextualize their reception with words.
It actually means a lot to me. Can’t live with wrong titles.