I would venture to say that at one time or another nearly every artist has been asked about their artistic process, life philosophy, and the meaning behind their work. It is all part of the creative experience. Upon entering the arena of putting your work in front of other people, you realize quite quickly the obligation to answer questions about the meaning behind the painting. People crave to know who the artist is as a person and what they stand for or stand against.

 

I have been told countless times the value of being able to effectively convey who I am, what I do, and its benefits for the people I work with into a short few sentences that could be shared in the amount of time equal to an elevator ride. This type of speech is ever so cleverly  termed an “elevator speech.”

 

Constraints. I get the purpose of it and understand its use and effectiveness. I also know full well, that though I have tried on numerous occasions, I will never be able to fit all of myself into that box. Some of myself yes, but that leaves no room for what I feel are important fundamental components essential in understanding my what, whys, and who. Needless to say, I am not a three-story apartment building kind of girl.

 

Lately, I have been thinking about my dilemma of not having a solid speech. I guess I have quite a stubborn block against even trying to begin writing one. Never have I liked speaking memorized lines. Even the best of my deliveries still sound a bit too stiff and automated for me. I feel like an actor in a play reciting lines, simulating supporting emotions, and moving my body in all the physical gestures I have been practicing in front of the mirror for weeks.  It just does not feel authentic. That being said, I decided I would go about things a little differently. Not too sure how it will work out but I thought it was worth a shot. 

 

GOING UP?

The fascinating thing about artists is that we all do things differently. Yes, there is a skeletal structure in learning to use a medium but after that, all creation is driven by the unique personal energy of each artist. The following thoughts are from and about my perspective on my “artistic process.”

 

The reality I experience creating art is much more vast than what happens in front of the easel. Every brush stroke, and every decision on the canvas is a reflection of my perspectives, beliefs, experiences, states of emotions, states of health, hopes, and dreams…there are so many variables moving in a constant, somewhat synchronized flux. What some call an artistic process, I see as a way of being. It is a part of my core inner nature that cannot be altered. 

 

“Artistic process” encompasses the fusion of every moment I breathe, every day I experience, every being I talk to, and feel connected to…love. As far back as I can remember creativity has been the way I take in, process, and gain understanding about the world. It has also always been the most natural way for me to contemplate and understand my personal perspectives so that I can communicate them visually. Creativity is the engine behind all of my experiences.

 

Moving on to my second objective in this speech…I will delve into what I do and why I do it. 

 

I love to dance. I have ALWAYS loved to dance and still do. It just feels so good to me to be in conscious control of my entire body while at the same time allowing it to move freely driven by my intuition in whatever direction it chooses. Some of my most cherished memories are dancing with my mother in the kitchen of our upstairs apartment. We would often find ourselves moving to the rhythms of her stack of Motown 45’s, jazz, or whatever was playing on the radio. It was the late 60’s, or early 70’s. Even the AM radio had a hard time finding a song that could be coined as, (ironically), “elevator music.” There were only a few songs that would set me off howling in agony in the back seat of the car. I could not have asked to be born into a more prolific musical era. The outpouring of talent able to reach the spotlight was staggering. We did not have social media back then. Hell, our phones even kept us tethered to the wall. I could always tell when someone in a household became old enough to date by the condition of the phone cords. In an attempt to have some privacy by retreating to a quiet room, the cord could be stretched out so far that the coils of the phone cord would be permanently uncurled. Most of the time the “uncurling” lasted longer than dating the crush.

 

Anyway, back to dancing. Back in those days, I could never have imagined how dancing would play a big part in future breakthroughs and experiences. To be honest. I never really thought about dancing at all except for knowing when Mom had to practice for her class or a performance. I had saved all of the outfits she wore for shows for years after she passed. Sometimes I would sit in the cedar closet where they were stored and remember being in awe of how the feathers on her headpiece daintily moved as if they were lightly breathing the air in and out. I would think about how the shiny sequins on her body suit would mesmerize me as it glittered in the light. I would wonder how she was able to tap dance in those fancy shoes. 

 

During this time I was enrolled in tap dancing class but was still wearing flats and practicing heel toe, heel, toe over and over again. It was by no means as fun as the freedom of our kitchen sessions so I wound up quitting before I got a solid hang of it. Sometimes you just know when something is not the right fit. In most situations, I don’t equate quitting as something that reveals a negative characteristic in a person. Stepping back often opens up time and opportunities to step into an arena that I am more aligned with. 

 

So the first of three elements in what I do is dance. The second is my addictive fascination with color which happened to surface at a very early age. For me, as well as for many others, the visual vibrations of colors greatly affected how I felt. For instance, I was always pretty adamant about not wearing red. There were times I was brave and brazen enough to toss all of my red shirts or pants out of my second-story bedroom window in hopes that they would not be found behind the bushes before I could get to them and throw them in the trash bin. The risk of being found out and grounded was a much better outcome than having to wear them and feel like a flashing red railroad sign. 

 

And yet there were times when I could not drink up enough of reds, oranges, and yellow ochres. One of those times had to do with the yearly coming fall and winter. Mom was pretty hip in the early days and her decor tastes well reflected the times we were living in. She was also really into changing things up season by season. It was a custom that she ultimately passed on to me. If you think about it though, it makes sense to breathe new life into a room. The light changes so drastically from season to season that there is usually a better spot for you to enjoy your favorite chair.

 

One of the seasonal changes would take place in my bedroom. I always liked going into fall and winter better than heading into spring. Right around the end of September my Mom would change my pink fluffy bedspread and curtains to my winter bedding ensemble. The curtains were heavier and better able to block the cold coming off the windows and diffused the shining street light beaming into my room. The bedspread was quilted, warmer but the fabric was noticeably more course than the softness of my summer beddings. Even so, I was grateful for its ability to warm me up rather quickly every time I crawled in between my cold November sheets. 

 

It was the curtains that grabbed my full attention, especially around the holidays. The paisley-like pattern of the fabric was made of deep reds, maroons, olive greens, browns, and ochre. A few weeks before Christmas my mother would put a plastic candelabra with orange bulbs in each of my windows. I can remember how they made my curtain’s deep rich colors glow. My room felt as warm as if I were sitting next to a campfire, which I often imagined I was doing. Every night I would lie in my bed staring at the light coming through the curtains until my eyes were too heavy with sleep to keep them open. 

 

Being a painter is the third element of who I am. During college, I chose to be an Illustration major. I love the idea of being able to address a subject visually and tell a story from a perspective no one else has seen. At the time I was experimenting with finding my creative voice which entailed creating my personal language of symbols, shapes, and colors. My work was done exclusively with colored pencils. I had spent countless hours learning how to use them to convey what I saw in my head. 

 

 

GOING DOWN: 6th FLOOR

Just when I thought everything was going well, my world fell apart during my junior and senior years when six of my family members were faced with terminal illnesses. All four grandparents, and hardest of all both my parents. I remember feeling like I was out in the middle of the ocean desperately searching for some kind of safe shelter. I was blindsided by how deep my emotions could dive. I am sure it was quite obvious that I was spinning in an unfamiliar world. 

 

 

GOING UP: 24TH FLOOR

Artistically three things happened that I often feel helped save my life. The first was that my Illustration professor, who was a Vietnam Vet, seemed to know what I needed and kept a rather close eye on me without being intrusive. I remember him telling me at times that I could go home and work instead of being in the classroom. I felt so distant from my classmates finding it difficult to connect with most. My energy felt heavy and dark compared to all those carefree smiling faces. Roland though, understood my struggles and instinctively knew how to support me for which I was and always will be so very grateful.

 

The second thing that happened was somewhat of a surprise to me. Like in any college, there are some classes that one must take first in order to enroll in more advanced ones. In my first semester during freshman year, I was mistakenly put in an advanced drawing class without having completed the preliminary requirements. I had taken drawing classes for years and felt confident that I would be able to pass Drawing Two, which I did quite easily. I went on to take Drawing Three achieving similar results. During my senior year, I tried to make my case of taking an alternative class instead of Drawing One but rules were rules and there was no way out. 

 

About a week before the final semester began, a woman who worked at the college in administration struck up a conversation with me. She knew of my disappointment in having to take a beginning drawing class and she wanted to let me know that it might not be as awful as I thought. Mmm, nice try. I am sure she never had to do a drawing shading the shadows of an egg or learn to draw boxes in two-point perspective. Disappointed didn’t come near what I was feeling. She told me that they had hired a new professor to teach the class and that he had a different approach that I might actually like. I kindly thanked her for the info as I walked away unconvinced. 

 

I had received my schedule and noticed that Drawing One was to be held in the library instead of in the usual drawing classroom that was outfitted with large drawing tables to work at. On the day of class, I arrived a little early so I could have a choice as to where I would sit. When I walked through the doors, I immediately saw that where I sat didn’t really matter. In the middle of the room was a huge circle of easels and drawing benches. There was also a stool placed right in the center of the circle. It was clear that we would be doing some life drawing today. Life drawing’s sole focus is drawing the human body which is one of the best methods to immerse yourself in when learning to draw. The body encompasses it all. Shadows, highlights, shapes, perspectives, compositions, textures, foregrounds, and backgrounds not to mention atmosphere and emotions. On and on it goes. 

 

I heard someone walk into the room and say hello. Turning, I said hi and introduced myself. I quickly realized that he was the new professor I had heard about. He had rock star-styled bleached-out hair and wore all black. His shoes sported a zebra pattern on the top and were a trendy new style that “cool” people wore. Tomek had a refreshing sense of edgy individuality. 

 

Most of our classes involved the study of drawing nude models. Every now and then he would switch things up. One time he had us draw a model who had to ride a bike around in circles for the duration of the class. In another, he brought in sumi ink sticks and some newsprint which he rolled out on the floor and cut into large eight-foot pieces. We were to cover the entire piece of paper with a drawing of the model. I had never used a sumi stick nor had I ever worked so large. The administrator was right, I really did love this class. Day after day we had the opportunity to step out of our comfort zones and push our limits.

 

As I walked out of class on the final day, I stopped to say goodbye to my professor. We spoke for a few minutes as I thanked him for his method of teaching. As I turned to go I heard him tell me good luck in my future painting endeavors. It struck me as strange because, throughout the entirety of my college, I had worked exclusively with colored pencils. 

 

“Thanks but I’m not a painter.” He gave me a funny look and inquired as to what I meant by that. I repeated that I was not a painter but rather an Illustration major about to graduate.

 

“That’s what you think,” he said. “You are a painter, you just don’t know it yet. I am sure you will figure it out one day.” It would take me a couple of years but it turned out he was right. I am a painter.

 

The last and most influential part of my salvation was a class that most students put off due to its’ difficulty. As if that were not enough, I had heard the professor had very high standards when it came to grading our work. Usually, I didn’t find that to be a hurdle but this time I was somewhat intimidated as I knew nothing about color theory and only had a few painting classes in high school.

 

The class was held in the same room as all of my Illustration classes in a room that was filled with natural light coming in from huge windows that looked out onto the square below. It was filled with leaf-laden trees offering shade and overflowing with more azaleas than I had ever seen before. I took the same seat as I had been using for all of my other classes as I was used to the light and loved that I was able to be off to the side and away from most of the other students. What can I say? I like my privacy when I work. Too many distractions make it difficult for me to zone out and get into the project at hand. 

 

Our textbook was Ittne’s “Elements of Color.” To this day, thirty-seven years later, it still sits near my easel for quick reference and inspiration. Up to this point in my artistic development, I worked from my intuitive understanding of color without giving much thought, if any, to the life of the colors themselves. 

 

The class began with painting a color scale of primary and secondary colors, after which we designed and painted our own color wheel…not so bad so far but I knew what was coming. The most challenging of all assignments spanning the entire four years of school was now looming over my head. I had left it to my very last semester before graduating for a good reason. 

 

It was called Music Transposition. We were given a choice of three pieces of music. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, a composition by Donald Herb, and the third I cannot even remember. Possibly there were only two. Our objective was to couple a color and shape to a particular note found in the music. Once there was a colored shape representing the many different notes and instruments, we then created a visual composition that depicts how each moves through the music. It was an exploration on the correlation of color to sound within the structure of music. 

 

I can remember being really frustrated because I was so distracted by my grief. I can also remember how deeply I could get into the assignment which somehow subdued the chaos in my head and heart. At first, I didn’t even realize it. The assignment allowed me to get into what is called the “flow state” which is a place where the mind hands over the controls to your intuition. It’s a beautiful place.

 

Shortly after graduation, I found myself back in New England. Gardening and painting became my go-to escape after a day at work. I realized it was time to drop using colored pencils and decided to move on to chalk pastels. The switch allowed me to work bigger which I liked. My paintings were soft and dreamlike. Looking back on them I can see my quest for peace and balance. I also remember the paintings feeling like beacons rather than representations of my inner world. Perhaps I was afraid to open the floodgates as they say.

 

GOING UP - 96TH FLOOR

Life went on with its ups and downs and in 1996 I found myself in an instrument store in Portsmouth, NH. The minute I stepped through the door I felt a sense of sadness come over me. My husband asked what was the matter. I told him I was sad because I didn’t play an instrument. He told me to walk around and see what called to me. I knew full well what instruments did not intrigue me but I was not sure what one did.

 

The store had everything you could imagine from flutes, trombones, saxophones, violas, and violins, to guitars, bass, and drum sets. As I turned the corner of the aisle and into the next one, I saw what I was looking for. Standing in the corner of the shop, bathed in shafts of warm afternoon light, were a rather large collection of djembe drums. My intrigue came from my chest and stomach even though my mind was intimidated. I had always found the rhythm of drums made me want to move and dance to its pulse. It had a way of opening something up inside of me that I cannot really describe. 

 

The drum sat pretty much silent in the corner of my studio right next to my easel. I would occasionally sit and try to play but still, my mind was getting in the way. One day a good friend of mine stopped over for tea and a chat. As we sat at the kitchen table she noticed the drum and asked who played. I told her the story ending with saying I had no clue how to play it. 

 

A couple of weeks later the same friend called to ask me if I wanted to join the rest of our friends in a woman’s drumming group. She had found someone who would come once a week for classes. Little did I know how much my life would change. I was hooked from the first lawn mower-like rumble of our collective sound to our local performances. The hypnotic repetition of the pulse, the unity of the drummers…it deeply, yet gently, caressed my soul while shifting my energy. 

 

Within no time, my art took off in a completely new direction. Again I switched mediums going from soft pastels to acrylics. I needed something that would work faster, and respond at a moment’s notice. I did not want to have to be so contemplative and quietly meditative at the easel. I wanted to be able to stay in a moment of full-bodied action, placing colors and marks on the canvas, and reacting to them until a beautiful conversation started rolling. 

 

It dawned on me that the drumming was beginning to merge with the way I approached painting. As I was working on my first piece I realized that I was doing my Music Transposition assignment all over again. I was less concerned with mapping out the rhythms exactly as they were as I was with capturing how they made me feel. My colors exploded into the vibrant combinations that I had left behind long ago. There was energy and movement compared to the stillness in my earlier work. There was a flood of emotions flowing out of me and onto the canvas.

 

Between my daily painting practice and my weekly drumming classes, I found myself immersed in a space where the creative processes of different mediums were weaving themselves together into an emotional safety net that continues to support me to this day. 

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I honestly don’t know what, where, or who I would be if I didn’t have such a strong drive to be creative.