5 year Hiatus. Back on it. Grazing.
Revisiting this blog, that last time I must have painted was in 2014. I don't doubt a few paintings happened between times- but I couldn't tell you what they were. There are a few on my easels.
But though I think of myself as a painter- more in love with painting than anything else I do- but I know I barely know the bare basics of it all- and my time, if I even had it, has come and gone- it is still the central thing to me. There are lots of things similar- I can find similarities in every thing I love to do-everything that makes me happy- if that's even the word- they all have similar roots.
For one, you don't do this with other people. It's something that is 100% alone- something entirely between you, the materials at hand, your hands, and light. And a conversation running in your head that you can't turn off.
I have no idea how the really great painters did it. I ve read what they wrote (or used to), but I don't see the things I would say. So it makes me wonder sometimes if I am even painting. If I were, someone, sitting next to Constable, out on a river with clouds and trees- would we even talk about the same things? Or a more modern artist- our times- would we have anything to talk about?
Oddly, I think not. In fact, in all my 59 years, I don't think I ever met anyone whom I thought felt the same way I did, or visa versa. My experience isn't broad, so I don't know for sure. To correct myself, there was one time- and odd time- when a painter was excited about my work- and sat in front of a piece- fully focused- and started asking questions. Why is that color there?What's that shape doing? I do that part different...
That sort of thing. Can't recall her name. Totally appreciated her. Don't want to more, lest I realize she had no idea what she was talking about.
I'm writing this now as I painted today. No big deal, but I had to build 20 canvases (16x16), and today I forced myself out to the river. All those years of experience had a hiatus, and I feared that it would be a horrible disaster.
But in the trunk of my car is a painting. Pretty much like every other one I ever painted. Maybe worse. But not horrible. And all my equipment- the paints, the easel I've had since I was 19, the old army bag,and a (now) empty flask of Port wine- they are all in the trunk of my car right now. Brought home from an evening out.
And a pretty extraordinary and perfect one. I've lived in this valley for 30 years, in the area all my life, third generation, and have this feeling for the dark, wet, dripping landscape- that feels like its in my core. That's what I want to paint. And I pretty much think I know half a per cent of half a percent of 1 percent of what there is to know. I don't have the skills to know how to draw it all out- in paint, or a poem, or anything. Even in a personal feeling, seeing the light a certain way, I feel like I am just grazing the surface.
But though I think of myself as a painter- more in love with painting than anything else I do- but I know I barely know the bare basics of it all- and my time, if I even had it, has come and gone- it is still the central thing to me. There are lots of things similar- I can find similarities in every thing I love to do-everything that makes me happy- if that's even the word- they all have similar roots.
For one, you don't do this with other people. It's something that is 100% alone- something entirely between you, the materials at hand, your hands, and light. And a conversation running in your head that you can't turn off.
I have no idea how the really great painters did it. I ve read what they wrote (or used to), but I don't see the things I would say. So it makes me wonder sometimes if I am even painting. If I were, someone, sitting next to Constable, out on a river with clouds and trees- would we even talk about the same things? Or a more modern artist- our times- would we have anything to talk about?
Oddly, I think not. In fact, in all my 59 years, I don't think I ever met anyone whom I thought felt the same way I did, or visa versa. My experience isn't broad, so I don't know for sure. To correct myself, there was one time- and odd time- when a painter was excited about my work- and sat in front of a piece- fully focused- and started asking questions. Why is that color there?What's that shape doing? I do that part different...
That sort of thing. Can't recall her name. Totally appreciated her. Don't want to more, lest I realize she had no idea what she was talking about.
I'm writing this now as I painted today. No big deal, but I had to build 20 canvases (16x16), and today I forced myself out to the river. All those years of experience had a hiatus, and I feared that it would be a horrible disaster.
But in the trunk of my car is a painting. Pretty much like every other one I ever painted. Maybe worse. But not horrible. And all my equipment- the paints, the easel I've had since I was 19, the old army bag,and a (now) empty flask of Port wine- they are all in the trunk of my car right now. Brought home from an evening out.
And a pretty extraordinary and perfect one. I've lived in this valley for 30 years, in the area all my life, third generation, and have this feeling for the dark, wet, dripping landscape- that feels like its in my core. That's what I want to paint. And I pretty much think I know half a per cent of half a percent of 1 percent of what there is to know. I don't have the skills to know how to draw it all out- in paint, or a poem, or anything. Even in a personal feeling, seeing the light a certain way, I feel like I am just grazing the surface.