Art, Meaning, Green Living & Health
Art, Meaning, Green Living and Health
(see "TOPICS", below)
4/18/2012 2:16:22 PM
A few weeks before she passed away in 2009, when it became apparent that the end was near, my mother and I took some time to talk about life's mysteries, and what may lay beyond the veil of death. Just a few months before, both she and my father had announced over a holiday dinner that they had lived long enough. They had had a good life but they were ready to go.
On their last visit to my studio they chose three paintings they liked for their home. All were, in my intent, symbolic of life after death. "Light Unfolding," for example, represents the tunnel of light reported in near death experiences. It was my mother's favorite.
Within a couple of months my father fell acutely ill and passed away peacefully in a hospice. He was not a religious or spiritually oriented person and these were subjects we just never really discussed in our family. Yet, his last day at the hospital, he had sat up in bed, reaching out in wonder and awe as though trying to take someone's hand. Later, he told my mother he'd seen his mother. And in our last ride together in an ambulance heading for the hospice facility, I held his hand and told him, hoping he'd hear me past his almost comatose state, that we were leaving the hospital to go to a better place.
"And after that," I added, "I think you will be going to a much better place!"
"I've already been there," he whispered, the first words he had been able to say for the last day or two. "Several times...!"
Moments like this come rarely, a moment that touches the heart so deeply it is as though one has stepped behind the veil of time to go backstage behind the appearances and roles we all play.
"Thank you for being my father in this life," I said, knowing that these were indeed roles we were all playing.
And then as though I saw behind all the roles he'd played, father, husband, Republican, businessman, perennial creator of fixit projects, giver of opinions, joker, nag, I spoke straight to his soul, the divine behind the appearances, ".... You trickster."
He laughed, eyes still closed, barely there, and said feebly but clearly, "See you later!"
Somehow this precious moment was worth every difficulty I ever had with my father, who could be hurtfully cantankerous and critical, even as he was also loyal, responsible and often pleasant and fun.
It worked out well that he went first. In the three months that followed his passing, I had the opportunity to spend some special one on one time with my mother, helping her in her grief and in handling the details of the funeral, the finances and a bizarre series of exploding pipes, doors falling off their hinges and broken locks.
We wondered at times if the Trickster was trying to urge her to get on over to the other side.
She was a healthy 86 when he passed away, but as they'd agreed the prior winter, she was ready to go. And when the first signs of cancer suddenly appeared, she confessed to me that she'd been praying every day to die. Sure enough, just one short month later, she did.
But in those sweet times we spent together in the last few weeks, before the pain killers shut her away in a dream world, we had a number of deep conversations about life and about what might lie beyond this life. One time I asked her if she would let me know, if she could, if she survived death. She agreed, though we laughed about just how that might be done.
Sooner than any of us would have guessed, she was gone, with "Light Unfolding" hanging in her hospice room. I'd spent several nights by her side but she passed, late at night during a summer thunderstorm, the day after other relatives had gone back home after their final visits, and just minutes after I'd left the hospice to get some sleep... and, it seemed, to give her the space to go. The nurses said it was often especially hard for mothers to pass away and to leave their children when they were there with them.
In the busy year that followed, I did not make a special effort to look for signs, but occasionally I had a distinct sense of her loving presence, particularly at crucial decision points. But nothing concrete. It could have been my imagination.
Closing out a family home of 50 years is something to take one's time at, if possible. We were able to do that, over several visits, as it was only a two hour drive away. As sisters and nieces and nephews packed and shipped away the bits and pieces of trips abroad, Christmas gifts, wedding silver, that big rug in the living room, as we boxed up photos and yearbooks and their love letters from World War 2, and as we sold the last pieces of unclaimed furniture, gradually it became a home more like the model home they'd seen in 1959. Clean, open, with a few of the best pieces to give its next family a sense of the possibilities.
By December we had sold the family home. We'd spent our last night on the beds they had lain ill on not long before, selling them to a Craig's List buyer as we packed up the next morning to go home. And now we had come to their summer place to clean out the final items not wanted by the buyer. It's a hard process, deciding what to keep, what to distribute to others, what to give away and what to leave behind.
It was a cool July evening in the mountains at the dream castle my parents built in the early 1970s in the pine-studded mountains of Northern Arizona. My husband and I had just trodded up the narrow stairs of the "tower" to take one final look at the stars. It was our last night there and a time to say goodbye.
As we sat looking at the stars on the bench my father had built with his hands, where we had all sat together many times late at night watching satellites and looking for the rare distant meteor, I had a sense of my mother's presence, smiling happily on us.
Telling my husband what I felt, I added, "But you know, I'd really like a sign! This would be the perfect time for them to make an appearance."
"How about a meteor?" he suggested.
"Wow..." I pondered. "That would be great... But I don't know if they are up to that!.... Maybe God is...."
Two seconds later a giant meteor shot across the sky, the biggest we'd ever seen there.
There had been none before and there were none after. The skies, a neighbor assured us the next morning, had been quiet.
And somewhere, somehow, I know that my parents and God have all had a happy reunion and that someday we will meet again.
2/28/2012 9:34:55 AM
In 2003 a good friend called, crying. A longtime friend of hers who had been sitting high up in a huge tree in protest of the clear-cutting of some of the last of the Northwest's ancent forests, had fallen to his death. No one knew why, but it appeared that he had unclipped his safety belt. Just a few days before, he had celebrated Thanksgiving with our friend and her family.
This event inspired me to write a poem, the first I'd written in years. I am drawn to share this years later as I find myself feeling ever more touched by the need we all have to care for our only planet and its incredible ecosystems, on which we and all life depend. Trees and forests are, indeed, the lungs of the earth, providing the very oxygen we breathe.
The painting is of the ponderosas next to the second floor deck of my parents' beloved "castle" where they spent every summer from 1971 to 2008 just before they passed away. I painted it onsite, as a gift for their home, later inherited.
In Memoriam: A Forest Activist
Down to the earth he fell,
Through limbs that could not catch,
Through boughs that could not grasp,
But only wave good bye friend.
Down he fell,
Hundreds of feet down,
Down to the earth.
His ancient home.
From such lofty heights he had ascended,
Released his clip: no one knows why.
Perhaps to better see that bird,
That tree,
That grove,
That world
He sought to save.
So recently here,
So recently giving thanks,
So normal, so here,
Gone now, gone to the earth,
Gone to the sky,
Gone to the everywhere
Within us all.
He fell home.
Home now.
Let go that clip,
Let go that fear.
Let go that last reserve.
He helped us see,
He let us see
What people do for love.
Here is a hug, friend,
A warm hello,
A sweet goodbye,
Whether we knew you well
Or not til now,
Now we see you,
Now we know you,
Now we thank you,
Now we bless you,
Now we send you Home.
To us
And to this world
You will always be
An angel.
—December, 2003.
2/26/2012 6:49:26 PM
After twenty years of slogging through the rainy Northwest, I was quite happy to return to the sunny Southwest in 2006. Not only did I grow up in Arizona, but Sedona has been a great place to revive the art career that somehow washed away when we moved north in 1985 from California so that we could afford a decent home.
Do you detect a small note of resistance in this? Well, you are perceptive.
It's not that the Northwest is not full of beauty. Summers are great: all three days of it, as we used to say. And it's not that one can't be happy under just about any circumstances with the right attitude. Indeed, I loved much of my life in Oregon. It was a great place to garden, a wonderful place for biking and camping, and it has a progressive culture. Not to mention those delightful Farmer's Markets and summer's outdoor festivals. And housing is definitely more affordable than in beautiful coastal California where you can mortgage your soul for something your dog might decline.
But for all this ... You Pay.
You Pay with month after month of mostly cloudy weather. You learn to cope, mostly by adopting the lifestyle of native Oregonians, who can't wait for the winter months when they can finally put away the mower and the weeding tools and simply curl up by the fireplace with a good book.
OK, enough grousing. This is all background for The Day I Came to Peace With Rain, October 26, 2011.
Here it was, nearing the end of the 2011 Sedona Plein Air Festival. Most of us festival artists had packed up and headed to Jerome early that morning at the invitation of the local Chamber of Commerce. And it's a great place to paint, with stunning vistas. Driving up the hill, I saw the writing in the sky: dark, dark clouds pouring over Mingus Mountain, ready to pounce on the tiny berg of Jerome, still bathed in glorious morning sun.
Quickly, I pulled off to the side of the road, hurled my pastel plein air gear in place and whipped out a 30 minute rendering of the scene before me. I was about 95% done, thankfully, when at first a few small splats of rain hit the piece, creating small dark blotches in the sky of my landscape. No worries. Took about 10 seconds to get it under cover, and another 60 seconds (well, maybe a little more, but this is how Plein Air Festivals are, you understand) to dive into the car and head on up the hill to the town.
Arriving at the festival tent to check in, I found a handful of artists, staff and volunteers huddling around the coffee and doughnuts, stepping away from the edge of the shelter as a "hard rain began to fall". At least Arizona rains don't fool around for two to three months like those in Oregon. They know when to rain and when not to rain. And this was rain time, most definitely.
It was a cheery crowd, though. It's really good to see the rain in a desert land, after all, and the good people who put on the Sedona Plein Air Festival are a lot of fun. After a while it let up enough to set up a small shelter under my van's hood, overlooking the old Jerome High School and the distant vistas below. It's a good thing I use different artmedia, because pastels are no match for a rainy day. Nor are acrylics. OILS, on the other hand, definitely do not mix with water. This is the day of my life that I really, really learned that simple axiom.
And so I painted two different vistas in the shelter of the van, as a few intrepid festival visitors stopped by in the occasional sun showers between torrents. One was such a favorite that my husband claimed it for his office, "Here On This Mountain":
It was darn fun, actually. Here it was, 2 or 3 pm and I'd already gotten three pretty decent paintings for the day. I was on a roll.
AND, the festival was almost over and I still a 24x24 stamped panel waiting THE Frame of the Century I'd had custom-made for the event by Mountain View Frames in Cottonwood, a carved copper beauty. So I packed up, buzzed down the mountain back to Sedona, saw an incredible sun spotlight against the dark sky again, this time against the lovely red rocks on the west side of town by Zaki Gordon Film Institute and, well, the old town dump.
This time I jumped out of the car even faster, forgetting my hat and jacket. Dashing off to the prominence about 40 feet from the car where the view was ideal, I whipped my trusty Soltek easel into position, plopped the panel in place, and, using the largest brush I had, blocked in the scene in about half an hour. Whew.
What a beautiful squall it was, as I brushed it in, coming over the red rocks... Coming... which way? Oh...
Soon the squall was no longer There, but Here, a pouring, drenching sheet of rain that left a half inch of water in my Soltek trays and turned me into the approximation of a drowned rat...
But I was nailing it, I thought. No matter the rain! Soon the sun was out again and the brush flew over the panel, leaving my hands hanging on for dear life. And then the rain would come again, ha, ha, ha! What a tease it was!
And so I continued painting another 20 minutes or more, laughing almost hysterically, the tension of twenty years of resentment about the reality and necessity and life-giving beauty of rain washing away into the damp red earth.
Finally, it was time to stop. The painting was done enough, certainly fresh, and the day was coming to a close. But the laughter and the smiles continued all the way home and then some. It was a great laugh.
And that is why I named this piece, "Hilarious Squall."
Later, after the festival was over and it had not sold, despite the aura of joy beaming from its every pore, I confess I did spend a half an hour or so of considered time in the studio doing what artists do: adjusting the brightness here, the shadow there, the hue and detail at this place and that. Not too much I hope.
After all, I wouldn't want to paint over the lesson contained in this piece: to welcome whatever it is that life brings us!
:)
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"Hilarious Squall", still in the frame of the century, is available for purchase. To inquire, phone 928.203.1095.
10/21/2011 12:19:11 AM
Why do we create art? I believe, from my own experience and observations of other artists, that art is an expression of the spiritual core of life. Ultimately, life is one vast, mysterious, interconnected whole. Just like a hologram, each of us is a microcosm of that wholeness, and something within us just simply wants to "have its way with us" and express the truth of that interconnectedness, especially through the arts.
Recently I organized a group art show, "Oneness: Art and the Spiritual Journey" at the Sedona Arts Center. I invited seven artists to submit artwork and statements or poetry around that idea. Our opening is, fittingly, 11-11-11 at 11 am. (Is that enough "ones," you think?).
The show contains some outstanding artwork, including pieces by the celebrated Southwest contemporary landscape artist Joella Jean Mahoney, rich painterly figures in the landscape by Vince Fazio, elegant glimpses of people in everyday life by Libby Caldwell and much more.
Finally, we published it through Blurb — and it turned out beautifully. Take a look!
Like it? You can easily order here. Available in softcover, as well as hardcover and special paper upgrades.
This would be a wonderful gift either for an artist, or someone who values spirituality, or both.
Let me know what you think!
5/4/2010 12:22:46 PM
If you are a landscape painter and have not yet discovered the magic of glazing, I have four words for you:
You Are Missing Out.
Glazing can transform a mediocre painting into something special, using the principles of unity and contrast. Create Unity, for example, with a warm glaze over the entire painting. Or increase Contrast by with dark glazes over backgrounds in that play off the center of interest.
You can also create contrast of near and far. With dark glazes of dull blues you can push the background of a landscape into the distance. Or use just a bit of warm glaze on the foreground or the center of interest to bring it forward or into prominence. After applying a glaze, you can then re-work the highest and lowest values of the painting, especially where the glaze has obscured them.
I did all these techniques on this piece, "Layers of Reality."
Originally the distant hills were brighter. I knocked them back with some blues but also unified the whole piece with a mixture of orange and ochre. Then I repainted some of the foreground highlights more sharply. Maybe I should have called it "Layers of Glazes"! It was a plein air piece, and with oils you have to wait a few days for the lower layers to dry, as compared to acrylics. But with Extended Plein Air painting it works beautifully: return to the same place at the same time of day for a few days or weeks.
Admittedly, it can give you pause to paint over an area you may have spent hours perfecting. You can, of course, wipe off the glaze immediately if you don't like the effect, but it will likely leave some residue anyway. (You can also selectively wiping the glaze off of important details first and see if that is a good way to to bring them out by contrast.)
When I have demonstrated glazing, the first question everyone asks, is "What do you use? "
FOR ACRYLICS: Start with one of the matte or semi-gloss glazes manufactured by acrylic paint makers such as Liquitex or Golden. I use Liquitex Glazing Medium. The stuff seems pretty much like a thin version of white glue. Indeed, when acrylics first came out (yes, I'm that old), we used to mix powdered Tempera with Elmer's glue in high school art class to achieve the same effects, which, by the way, have stood the test of time.
Do use the proper materials, though. But like white glue, acrylic glazing medium has a slightly adhesive quality. That's its virtue: it adheres very small amounts of pigment to the layers beneath in a way that water alone will not do as well. So be sure to keep your brushes in water.
FOR OILS: I am old-school when it comes to oil mediums. My art education emphasized mixing your own mediums based on classic formulas by Ralph Meyers, a guru of artist's materials.
These formulas are tried and tested and you can easily adjust them according to the basic principle of oil painting: "lean to fat" (unfortunately an all-too familiar truism in life). This principle means: don't apply thin coats of paint with small amounts of oil over thick juicy passages loaded with oil. The bottom layers dry slower and the surface sooner, resulting in cracking.
Likewise, don't use water-based paints over oil-based paints. Housepainters tell me, however, that you CAN coat very thoroughly dried oil-based stain with a water-based varnish. But don't take chances with a potential masterpiece. I once accidentally started an acrylic painting on a very thoroughly dry old piece of oil-primed linen and it soon became apparent that the surface was repelling the paint. (Now I make sure to mark all my canvases A or O for the type of primer!)
Back to Meyer's formulas for glazing oils. For lean glazes that you apply over thin passages, mix equal parts Stand Oil (sun-thickened linseed oil) and Damar Varnish. Thin it with 5-7 parts of mineral spirits or odorless thinner. For "fatter" final glazes over more oil-laden surfaces, use the same formula but with just 1 part thinner. Meyer suggests a few drops of Cobalt dryer to aid drying, but others suggest this could cause cracking for the same reason as above: I haven't seen it happen so far.
Enough of technicalities. Now for the fun part, application.
First, be sure your painting is dry enough that you wont' disturb your work so far. (Acrylics lend themselves to glazing "en plein air" for this reason and you can do the whole thing in one session.)
Next, pour some medium into a small medium cup or jar lid, or even just a blob on a disposable palette. Dip your brush into just a TAD of color and mix it with medium. Err on the side of too little color, as you can always add more.
For greater clarity, use the more transparent colors, such as earths and lakes. But if you wish to haze out and reduce contrasts in a background area, you can mix in a small bit of white or simply use the more opaque colors such as the cadmiums or cobalts. You can either brush it on or use a lint-free cotton rag to spread it quickly and evenly over your painting. You may wish to come back with other subtle layers of color and glazing to spice up the painting with vibrant colors as in this acrylic, "Interconnected":
Play with it and you will see for yourself the magic of glazing.
But before you start, also take a look at this informative one-minute
video by John Cogan, a master painter. A picture is worth a thousand words and this shows you
exactly how glazing (and subsequent highlight touchups) has the potential to bring a whole new quality to your artwork!
4/29/2010 11:53:10 AM
Spring is in full bloom, after a long wet winter. Recently I set out to find some flowers to paint in celebration.
The Heartline Cafe in Sedona is always a reliable place to find all kinds of flowers in bloom during the season. And sure enough, alongside a busy highway I found a beautiful clump of irises against the red rocks.
As I sat sketching them in bright pastels, it occurred to me that they are true gifts of beauty, bravely being themselves in all their glory in an unlikely setting. Cars rushed by on the grey highway behind, traveling as we all often do these days, at a speed that often prevents us from taking notice of the small things.
But today I took notice. And in these simple flowers, I found this message:
Love’s Heart Revealed
Lost by the wayside,
But not entirely unnoticed,
Fragile and fleeting blooms.
Such ancient origins,
They live only right now.
Both eternal
And transitory.
Love’s heart revealed anew.
– Susan Pitcairn
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This piece has sold, but a similar piece, "Scent of Iris," is available. Phone 928.203.1095.
4/11/2010 3:24:38 AM
"Beyond Words" (24x24) is an experiment in a more abstract style, different than my usual landscapes and figures.
Really, it is an homage to the beauty of silence, the truth of the inner kingdom of heaven, of stillness, that can be felt within.
In the outermost rings the words are written (thoughts) that are negative, despairing, some extremely so.
As the spiral of words moves closer to the center they become more neutral, and then more positive, until finally they transcend these polar opposites of the thought itself and dissolve into the magnificence and purity of the light. This piece has had a strong effect on those who have seen it in person.
Available for sale.
2/25/2010 9:13:10 PM
On the Verge
Of something softly
Profound
Of dark turned to light
Enduring majesty
We turn gently ,
Gratefully,
To One.
This pastel and this poem came to me today in a delightful experience on the wilderness trails near my home.
In the past two years I've been exploring the combination of poetry and art, especially plein air painting. Today's journal gives you an idea of at least one way to approach this rewarding experience.
First, I kept it simple, carrying only a light nylon briefcase with a box of pastels, a 9x12 pastel pad and foam board, a viewfinder, a small notebook, a strip of foam for sitting on rough ground, my Ipod and water. Couldn't weigh more than 2 or 3 pounds.
Pastels are an ideal medium for light transport into out of the way trails where one can be alone with all that is, which is not alone at all. They are also perfect for producing quick and easy results with a vivid, gestural quality that somehow makes it easier not to overwork a piece of art. They retain the spontenaity of the moment of connection with the subject.
With little preparation, I headed into the wilderness north off the main trail, settling on the ground in view of Coffeepot Rock, a favorite subject, with the intent to open my heart and mind to its beauty once more. The spot I found had a nice lead-in for my composition, a wide shelf that emphasized the path leading to the giant butte. To me such paths have an allegorical nature, suggesting the path that we traverse in life as we seek meaning, purpose, beauty and love.
Settling down next to a friendly yucca, I put on my Ipod headset and chose an inspiring album of satsang music, "The Lover and The Beloved," by Donna deLory. It was a tossup between that and silence. But often I find that the combination of conscious, inspired music and nature is ideal for getting into the zone with plein air painting.
As I began sketching with the pastels I asked the Universe-- God-- Life-- whatever you wish to call that from which all arises-- to guide me and help me learn what there was to learn today.
Somehow the feeling and the message I received was an excitement of discovery, of knowing that I am on my right path as I prepare to open my own gallery and further expand my artistic explorations.
Like dictation, the words of the poem came to me, in this case short and simple. I thought of how the butte itself was solid and earthy, yet sits on the verge of the emptiness of space and blue sky.
In the same way, we are always but a thought away from the ever-present nature of the sacred quality of life.
If we but be still and open our hearts.
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"Morning Joy" is not for sale, but prints are available. 928.203.1095.
2/13/2010 1:58:39 AM
While googling my name placement on the web for my art, what should I find but two of my childhood art pieces for sale on EBaY? And at top dollar too--- $450 for a colored pencil portrait sketch and $1500 (was $3000) for an 11x14 acrylic.
I guess they aren't making any more vintage 1960s era art! Artists: there may be an untapped market here! Start digging through those closets. Tell the family not to toss 'em!
It is definitely flattering, but also mysterious who this seller is and how they got hold of these pieces, which were recently in my parents's home. I think it's possible I put one in a pile of giveaways during a garage sale, but the other one... I don't THINK so!
I put in an email to the seller . Hey, I've got MORE of those!
I will keep you posted if I find out anything further on this bizarre mystery.
The link:
Update, March 2010: Apparently, someone picked it up by mistake at the estate sale. And, it sold for $1000 as a result of this blog!
Think I'll start lookin' thru the closets.....
1/12/2010 4:38:23 PM
To receive the Glory,
The glory arising with every breath
Neither far nor near,
But everywhere
In the silent space within it All.
Ah, it's not a waiting,
But an opening to joy.
Living on the edge of
Life's ups and downs
One day the Glory just finds us,
Sitting and open,
A still field of light in every smile,
A sparkle in everyone's eyes,
Whether seen
Or not seen.
The you, the me,
The them.
It matters little then.
When at last there is
Just this Glory
Unfolding
Everywhere.
1/2/2010 8:29:31 PM
Today while giving a private art lesson in my studio, I was talking about the use of complementary colors, one of the secrets of the Impressionists. Instead of using black or brown or some random dark color to shade or to tone down a color, the Impressionists instead used its opposite on the color wheel, creating a perfect harmony that enhanced each color. Opposites were also placed side by side in areas of a painting, causing each to vibrate.
As Tom Allen, a long-gone but not-forgotten art teacher who guided me in my youth, once explained, the whole color wheel shows us the beauty and harmony at the center of the universe.
He taught that any symmetrical geometrical form, laid on the color wheel, points to colors that harmonize perfectly with each other.
A straight line, for example, points to opposites, such as blue and orange, or red and green. This is called a complementary color scheme. An equilateral triangle points to three colors that form an "equilateral" or "Triadic" color scheme. The same is true of pentangles, squares, and so on.
As Tom further observed, equal mixtures of such opposites (or triads, etc.) always yield a neutral gray. He likened this to " the stillpoint at the calm center of the universe" and offered it as an example of a divine order behind life. This explanation awakened me to an understanding of color that has stayed with me ever since.
Today the two of us explored this lesson with a simple orange. I placed an orange on a sheet of white paper and lit it with a bright incandesent light. Immediately we could each see the blue in its shadow, created by physics I cannot fully explain but can observe.
Hope, my student, went on to create a small painting of the orange, using subtle combinations of blue and orange in the simple Zen-like simplicity of this still life. After she left, I did the same exercise with the orange, enthralled by this reminder of the beauty of opposites.
As I created this 8x10 acrylic, titled "Orange and Blue," I immersed myself in a parallel truth of life — that withinin our shadow lies our perfect opposite, inseparable and beautiful.
Often we deny and disown all that we see as the exact opposite of ourselves, and yet the truth is that by embracing and "owning" that what seems so "other" is really but a hidden part of ourselves.
And the more that we recognize that truth, the greater becomes our capacity to love.
Like this simple orange on a sheet of white paper shows us, let us embrace the beauty of the opposites of life, and in doing so, may we receive all of life's blessings.
ORANGE AND BLUE
Simple and round,
O to be so perfect.
How were you made?
How did you come to be?
And how long ago
Did we learn
That softly within your
Shadow lies
Your perfect opposite,
Inseparable
Since time began?
— Susan Pitcairn, 1-2-10
10/31/2009 1:33:55 AM
Living in Sedona, Arizona, it’s easy to become enchanted by its magical landscapes.
Sedona's towering red spires, mystical panoramas and dramatic skies are an ever-fascinating inspiration for painters.
When I first moved here to return to art full-time, I took a plein air landscape workshop with John Cogan. He emphasized that every good painting tells a story, and that every part of the painting must support that story.
One day at Red Rock Crossing he asked me to reflect on the question, “What is it about Sedona that inspires you? What is the story that it tells you?”
Until then I had never exactly thought about why Sedona (or any place) was so inspiring. It was just, well… beautiful.
But here was an intriguing question, one that every artist, poet or musician should ask themselves about those things they find inspiring. So as we gazed at the spires of Cathedral Rock reflected in the autumn waters of Oak Creek, I paused to consider the question. It’s that classic scene that we all think of as the essence of Sedona:
And before I knew it, out poured a stream of spontaneous insights about how this landscape spoke to me:
“Well, we know that opposites on the color wheel create harmony. And here in Sedona the rusty orange rocks and turquoise skies are a naturally perfect harmony."
I paused again to consider the beauty before us:
“And just look at the textural contrasts here! There are vast skies with soft clouds, versus the rough, hard rocks. And that directional contrast between the hard vertical spires of the rocks and the horizontal, reflective surface of the water... What perfect opposites!”
“And really," I continued with the excitement of discovery, "Such contrasts and opposites, and the balance between them, are the underlying essence of the universe. They are everywhere: night and day, warm and cold, male and female, protons and electrons, right and left, plant and animal. It goes on and on!"
A NEW WAY OF WORKING
Earlier in my life I’d had glimmerings of the symbolism in nature. But from that pivotal moment, I nearly always look for the deeper qualities in the landscapes that attract my attention. And often, I write poetry to help me explore that.
In a way, every part of nature has a story to tell, one with complex and ancient origins stretching back to the beginning of the universe itself. Such a story is truly mysterious, forever beyond our ability to fully understand.
Nevertheless, nature speaks to us constantly and we can hear some part of its story if we but listen.
The vastness of the sky, for example, may speak of life’s mysteries and the unfettered spaciousness of those moments in which our thoughts quiet down and we sense a quality of the sacred.
A towering tree may speak to us of inner strength, of endurance, or of balance, as it is both deeply rooted in the earth and reaching for the sky.
Grand Canyon scenes often speak to me of the process of surrender, the edge between structure and the formless, the beauty of the act of letting go. The inevitable processes of wind, rain, snow and time inevitably wear down layer after layer of the Canyon’s ancient rocks, carrying it piece by piece to a distant ocean. Likewise, life is a process of constant change, ultimately taking from us all that we try to hold onto forever.
One of my favorite poems, “Surrender” was written to accompany an acrylic that placed in the 2007 Paint the Parks competition. Both express the way that vast spaces invite us to let go of all that does not truly matter. A golden bluff of limestone clings tenuously to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon on a late winter afternoon. Though these rocks have existed for eons, gradually even they erode and wash into the mystery of the light-filled distance:
Surrender
So golden each moment,
So utterly clear
To stand on the edge of creation.
So joyous that surrender to eternity.
Love is not optional.
Love is infinite gravity.
Each moment we live on the edge.
Cling we may to the rock of will,
But its fate is written into its making:
Surrender is not optional.
Surrender to time and trust,
To wind and breath,
To water and soul.
Like rain we flow into
The greatness of Being,
Into the indigo,
Into the every,
Into the All.
It's love that pulls us,
Light that leads us.
Let us go
Let go.
Recently I compiled many of my Southwest paintings and poems in book form to share the inspiration and strength that I derive from nature ("The Poetry of Place," 2009) is just the start of much more to come. I also now offer a workshop on how to incorporate this process into plein air painting, through the Sedona Arts Center, "The Heart of Landscape Art").
THE PROCESS
There are no hard and fast rules to writing poetry or journaling as a means to deepen your connection with your subject. Mostly, it simply requires a clear intention and a passion for doing so. Sometimes I've just taken a break from my easel and waded into a creek, pocket notebook in hand, scribbling poem after poem, knee deep in water and literally "in the flow."
But tools and exercises can certainly help. For example:
• First, find something in nature that attracts you.
• Then, simply quiet down and listen, with the intent to understand what draws you to this scene and what it may be showing you.
• Pen in hand, write down the first words or phrases that come to mind, no matter how odd they may seem.
• Keep writing, uncensored, until you feel done (later on you can polish the wordsmithing if you care to do so).
• Invite inner guidance as to how to best use composition, line, color, direction, values and textures to emphasize and express the inner story or meaning you want to communicate (and it may also help to explain it to a fellow artist and get feedback).
• You may wish to listen to inspiring music as you work. I find this very helpful and bring my IPod along on outdoor painting expeditions.
You can do this process before you paint, while you are painting (indoors or out), or even years after you have completed a painting.
In the latter case, I suggest you just sit and look at your piece and ask yourself the same questions: “What speaks to me here? How does this inspire me?”
Finally, appreciate that whatever inspires you will usually inspire others. After all, we humans are much the same. In my own experience, I nearly always find that my most popular paintings and images are those in which I’ve taken the time to connect with my subject in this inner manner.
You need not be a poet laureate to explore this process, and you may or may not want to share whatever you write or think about the inspiration behind your work.
But if you play with this process I think you will find that it enriches your life as an artist. And ultimately, that matters far more than the outer rewards of producing a nice painting, getting praise, winning awards or making sales.
Art, after all, is really a matter of the heart, a matter of the spirit. Be true to that calling, and the rest will follow.
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