To continue my thoughts on space and place:
I have been working on textiles, which means 10% design and 90% execution.
Execution always gives me lots of time to think. So I am pondering, still, on my own art making — what I make, and why it’s not necessarily what I generally like in art. And how I can improve what I make, something can’t be done by analyzing what I am attracted to.
What I “like”¬† often is graphic, tidy, clean, spare. It’s¬† how I attempt to arrange my domestic space (when I’m not in the midst of a painting or sewing frenzy). It’s¬† Modern.¬† It’s calm. It’s decorative (although Rothko, Newman, and company just rolled over in their graves to hear me say this.) What I like is often serene — or at least not jittery. It’s rooted in some of the abstract expressionists’ work and continued by more graphic designs:
Mark Rothko, White Center
Helen Frankenthaler, Contentment
Terry Grant, Rice Bowl and Bird
However, in my own work, it turns out that I like to make “messy,” “wonky,” tangled images and processes:
This piece of hand-painted, raw batting topped with a commercial fabric,¬† cut through and overlaid with a sheer was too regular for my taste; I had to muck things up further:
JOU,¬† Red 1, 2 (working title) Details.¬† Hand-dyed and painted raw batting, commercial and hand-dyed fabric, sheer overlays
My love of dealing with unorthodox (or unquilterly, in the traditional sense) stems partly from my lack of methodical training in orthodox sewing methods. It’s easier to work with stuff that shouldn’t work if you don’t know it shouldn’t work. But it also speaks to my artistic desire (which differs from my desire to live with a certain kind of environment) to find that spot somewhere between the comfort of well-known paths, like smoothly pieced¬† and calming quilted blocks¬† and the chaotic mystery of¬† heaps of undifferentiated fabrics.
With my painting, and my painted, stitched textiles,¬† I’m drawn to making work which has little or no focus, which goes¬† over the entire fabric or board and doesn’t rely on color or texture to convey meaning. I’m always thinking about meaning, but one which is complex and goes beyond the framing of the frame.
Of course, color, line, shape, light and texture are important elements of my art — any painter/quilting artist has to deal with these. But they aren’t the reason I make art. I am not essentially interested in light — certainly not as the Impressionists were, nor as the Neo-Impressionists still are.¬† I find the shapes on canvases of others¬† fascinating, and am involved with a crit group whose work is heavily dependent upon a sophisticated searching out of shape. But as is obvious above, shape isn’t my strength. The same is true of line and texture and color. These artistic issues don’t drive what I see; they are ways to depict meaning, not ways of meaning in themselves.
Please note that I am not saying that all art should work toward some inchoate sense of meaning in the way I do, nor that those whose primary interest is in shapes on canvas aren’t making great art. This is about my artistic journey, not a manifesto on what an art journey should involve.
I make art to make sense out of what I see, and what I see seems to be complex, unfocused, unscenic in some ways. Some wag said (about California) that there was too much landscape and no scenery (or was it the reverse?) At any rate, I don’t see “landscape;” I scarcely see “scenery” or, heaven forfend, I can’t depict “scenic viewpoints.” I see too much to give what I see that kind of nomination.¬† For me, the “scenic viewpoint” includes the graffitied sign discussing why this “view” is scenic.¬† I want to include in my recordings of that scenic viewpoint the geology of the rocks and old cars that jut so unpicturesquely at an awkward spot in the landscape. I don’t delete as much from my view as most people unconsciously edit out; I tend to think in multiple viewpoints rather than the singular one of the camera; and I have a desire to encompass more rather than less when I “record” (paint or piece) the landscape.
I can trace some of my art preferences from my personal history, tramping around second and third growth, brushy forests, with roads that meandered without clear direction, living in a tiny community with all the complexities that a somewhat isolated group of humans can present. As a child I had an eager roving eye that had a visual, historical and narrative greed. I wanted to take in everything¬† — visual, historical, personal– that the scene involved. I knew my home landscape: Pine Mountain, Pine Station, Pine Run, Pine Creek, Mrs. Piney, pine trees, as well as tea berries, birch trees, skunk cabbage, shacks, outhouses,¬† barns,¬† Susquehanna River muck, and the inhabitants’ names and most of the interiors of the frame houses in the hamlet of 67 people in which I lived. I always wanted more of that place.¬† And so I learned early on to look in an encompassing manner, to find pleasure in an immersion in space and place, everywhere I’ve resided, worked,¬† and made art.
But that immersion comes at the cost of clarity, of focus. It doesn’t result in spareness that concentrates on simple clean imagery.
JOU Cool Landscape, Sample. approx. 12 x 16 Oil on board, 2010
I think what I seek is to portray depth, but depth that isn’t linear; I seek a depth of material space that is visual and emotional and cerebral. The material can be dendritic and rhythmic but seldom repetitious. The illusion of space can’t be, for me, the expected illusions, the monocular perspective, the retreating road into the “Z” shape with traditional illusionistic softening of hues in the distance. I have done these kinds of illusions in paintings, but I always want to do something else with them, to push them into something different and more. It’s my greediness that makes me want to record the complex visual that drives me.
So, my concern encompasses space and place, and the point in-between, where space nudges place and all kinds of complex interactions occur — something like a riparian zone where¬† eco-systems interact, where histories bump into each other, where geography becomes geology.
The problem I find myself coming back to in my art processes is to find examples of other visual artists intent upon the pursuit of the complex, yet representational. I need to know more about how others pursued similar courses (I almost wrote “curses.”)¬† Right now, my search has honed in to Thomas Hart Benton, and Jackson Pollock.¬† About whom I will undoubtedly meander as well as maunder, soon.