Transitions

If you've been following my feeble attempts at blogging recently (only one post so far before this one), you've perhaps noticed the painting posted has changed. During that last month when my baby sis Kelli was in the process of losing her battle with lung cancer, I decided that, in spite of my promise to take my job as "Move Manager" seriously, I needed to do something to lift my spirits, since I was so sad, depressed, and lacking in energy. It was absolutely imperative that I paint something, so I allowed myself two days in my studio for art.

I couple of months earlier, I had ordered Robert Burridge's "goof-proof" color wheel, featuring a four-color palette of bright and lively acrylic hues and designed so that there would always be one dominant color; one focal color; and two "spice" colors. Being the die-hard experimenter that I am, I was anxious to try out Burridge's four-color, limited palette method--especially since the bright colors appealed to me as a way to lift my spirits. My plan was to complete two paintings during this brief period--ambitious, for me, but possible, if not probable.

I tried a few different color combinations and finally settled on my four colors. I discovered two 12" x12" black-gessoed canvases that had been sitting around for some months hidden under a pile of sketchbooks--concealed since I had been working in a much larger format on watercolor paper and board for quite a while. They seemed the perfect size for this experiment, and so I set to work.

I managed to complete one painting and effect a decent beginning with the second, but then abandoned them for a while as life's events began morphing into the interlopers, as they are wont to do, hindering my ability to find comfort and joy in art. It was with great regret that I said "au revoir" to my studio for a while as I returned to moving duties and holiday preparations. Christmas came and went; two days after the holiday, my sister finally succumbed in her struggle with the evil demon cancer. Tom and I headed to Iowa to celebrate her life with our family.

Kelli had written her own obituary, it turned out. In it, she described her passing as "transitioning into the great beyond." This phrase, especially, resonated with me, as I would soon be undergoing my own transition (from Utah to California)--not one with the sense of permanence and finality that she was anticipating, but life-changing for me nonetheless.

In those days following her transition, I finally found the will to return to my studio to face the enormous task of organizing and packing this space, one which had become such an integral part of my life, and indeed, of my self-identity. As I began categorizing and rearranging paint, brushes, paper, collage materials, half-finished paintings, etc., I came upon the pieces that had been the products of my two-day painting splurge a month before. I brought the more-or-less complete piece up into the light, and reconsidered it.

I discovered the title of this painting, "Transitions I," during this reassessment. (Only rarely does a title come to me as I am in the act of painting; I generally "discover" it later on.) What had been painted with little consideration of subject, per se, and what I thought was total focus on color, color relationships, and compositional considerations , now appeared to me as my life in relative chaos, but with the comforting presence of Kelli watching over it all, keeping my chaos in check. It was as if having moved into her own transition, she was now there to help me through mine. Hence the title of this painting, with the Roman numeral "I" added, as I became convinced that the second, unfinished companion piece would remain incomplete until I had moved into more "stable" phase, relatively speaking. When that painting is finished, it will be called "Transitions II."

I feel Kelli's presence now on a daily basis; her generous, guiding spirit shelters me and keeps me company during this period of my own transition--and remains with me as a positive, calming force during those moments that I threaten to unravel.

And I consider it a miracle of the universe that her energy, concern--and ultimately, her love--for me manifested themselves entirely through the medium of art.

Art and Arthritis

Strange title for a blog post, I know. What could art possibly have to do with arthritis--except if one is so arthritic that it becomes impossible to do art? Fortunately, I'm not (yet?) in that situation (thank the goddess!)

This is more about moving, believe it or not---the trials and tribulations of an (aging) aspiring hippie artist who will soon relocate to San Luis Obispo, CA.

The cold days and nights here in Sandy, UT, have been causing my joints to creak, explode in pain at times--especially if I overdo the packing thing--and generally cause me misery. This means more drugs, which I'm really loathe to put into my system. Blah, blah, blah--I know that in the grand scope of miseries in the universe, I have no right to complain. Suffice it to say that I'm very much anticipating warmer weather year-round in our new CA home.

Managing the move, packing, dealing with all the myriad details has become my full-time job, drastically curtailing my ability to just settle into my studio with my fur-child, Flynn, and paint. So along with the arthritis pain and lower-back muscle spasms, I am depriving myself--willingly yet with regret--of surrendering to the temptation to just start throwing paint onto paper and working out some emotions. Hence the "art"--or rather, the art deprivation--in the title of this post. Moving entails a bit of personal hardship on both fronts.

I've got about a month left to get all the packing done and all the other details associated with the move, so I've decided to try a bit of art journaling / blogging to compensate, and to also help me work through the stress and emotions I've been feeling in the last couple of months or so. If I'm not too embarrassed about what I end up producing, I'll share some stuff with you in this blog. Stay tuned!