shell shock

Sketchbook page. 9 x 9. Ink and watercolor.

It is just days after November 8, 2016, and the outcome from the presidential race still has me numb with shock. More than feeling sad that my choice (Hillary Clinton) did not win, I am overwhelmed with sadness and despair for our country. President-Elect Donald Trump campaigned on fear and hatred. His character of disrespect and violence shone through in the ways he spoke and acted in this last 18 months of our attention and his national stage. And millions of Americans voted for him.

I am sick.

As the title of this post suggests, it feels like shell shock.

    Shell shock is term coined to describe the reaction of some soldiers in World War I to the trauma of battle. It is reaction to the intensity of the bombardment and fighting that produced a helplessness appearing variously as panic and being scared, or flight, an inability to reason, sleep, walk or talk. -- Wikipedia

Oyster. Monotype. 12 x 12.

 While the election cycle was not at all like the horrors the soldiers saw during World War I, it brought its own share of horrors. "Shell shock" seems fitting for this election experience. All it takes is to listen to my friends who are immigrants, minorities, LGBT, female, disabled, dependent of medical insurance they finally got by virtue of the Affordable Care Act.

Abalone. Monotype. 12 x 12

Once the overwhelming sadness and numbness passes, I will sort out for myself how I will live in positive and courageous ways for the four years of President Trump's term. I genuinely HOPE that his will be a good presidency and that the people in our country will live well under his leadership. All of the people of this country.

In the meantime, I grieve. And I look for beauty and nature and kindness and love and life. For now, it's the best I can do.

Great Blue Heron at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge

 I know that I am not the only dreamer, but peace seems very far away.

"Imagine."

easy living in the summer

Watery Way, 9 x 12, alcohol ink on Yupo

 

 

For me, summer months usually mean time on the waters of Puget Sound on a boat. It was a thoughtful time, a time for thinking and writing, for looking at light and color and shapes, and for relaxing into a meditation that is all about water.

The painting above is an abstract reflection on our meandering path on the Salish Sea.

Monotype, 12 x 12, Gamblin Intense Cool Black on Rives BFK paper

The monotype above is more specific, but still abstract in a sense. The way light pulls across the water fascinates me and I never tire of looking for the patterns and rhythms of interlocking shapes.

Me, playing the public piano at Cap Sante Marina, Anacortes

When we pulled into the Cap Sante Marina to provision, I was delighted to discover a public piano at the top of the dock. It wasn't until after we'd gotten our groceries and loaded them back on the boat that I had a chance to come back and play. What else? "Summertime."

Here's Norah Jones playing and singing. The livin' is easy in the summertime.

ink: waterfalls

Monotype with pastel, 13 x 6.5

I was eight years old and for my birthday, I received a Kodak Instamatic camera as a gift from my parents. I was thrilled. It had a square "cube" flash for indoor shots. I took a lot of outdoor shots with it. Of my siblings. Of my friends. Of our dog.

Only a couple of months after my birthday, our family took a summer vacation to Yosemite National Park. I took my first serious landscape photographs during that vacation. What I remember most is Yosemite Falls. I was entranced. Especially when we played in the cold water at the base of the lower falls. It tasted sweet and was cool and clear.

As an adult, I am more familiar with Ansel Adams photos of the park and the falls than I am of my own images. But, in one of my early photo albums are my square photos of Yellowstone Falls. I was there. It made an impression.

As I explore more with monotype and ask myself about what inspires me in the landscape, I come back to water again. This time waterfalls.

Monotype with pastel. 12 x 12.

The two images above are monotype prints done with Gamblin Portland Cool Black ink and run through my Glen Alps Press. After the ink dried, I went back into the images with pastel. Why? I was curious to see the effect.

Black and white, without pastel color added, still holds the most drama. The print below is an abstraction of Multnomah Falls in the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon. Multnomah Falls have such popular appeal, many visitors go there in the summer months. Crowds of people. I prefer to go in the less popular months.

Monotype. 12 x 12.

Native American legends explain that the falls were created to woo a Princess and to allow her to bathe in privacy. The falls resemble her flowing hair. I thought of her hair as I worked on this print.

Ikea purchase metal cable with hanging clips.

At Ikea, I discovered an inexpensive and effective system for hanging my prints in the studio. A thin, wire cable is suspended between metal supports and small clips hang from the cable, like clothes pins on a clothes line. It gives me a way to look at the prints from a distance.

Detail of the cable and holder.

Detail of the hanging clip and cable.

I enjoy NPR's Tiny Desk Concerts. They are like little samples of musical treats. Here's one to get you started, if you enjoy acoustic guitar.

Rodrigo y Gabriela NPR Tiny Desk Concert. Enjoy!

ink: landscape confession

Seascape. 12 x 12 Monotype. Ink on BFK Rives paper

Sometimes it's better to keep my mouth shut.

When I was in my first art class, and had successfully completed the learning pieces on how to handle various media, my teacher asked me what I would like to paint on my own. Landscape? she suggested.

I made a face and insisted that I was not interested in painting landscape. Landscape bored me to tears. I would rather clean the shower than look at a landscape painting... On and on I went. I probably went on longer because my teacher's laughter kind of encouraged me.

I painted flowers. I painted people. I painted fruit.

But, I kept thinking about landscape. And I started to look at landscape paintings by the some of the greats. The more I looked, the more I liked what I saw. Maynard Dixon gave me shivers. Albert Bierstadt wowed me and made me laugh (how audaciously he manipulated the landscapes in his paintings to please himself!). Wayne Thiebaud thrilled me with the Sacramento River delta scenes.

About the same time, my husband and I started to travel. For two months or more at a time, we drove to get out of the Northwest winters and find some sunshine. And, because I love it, we often made our way to the coast. I had plenty of opportunities to study the landscape. And I did.


I love the space where the land meets the sea. I love the smell of the briny air. I love the sound of the water pulling and pushing at the beach and the whisper of the wind in the oatgrass. I love the way the light reflects on the shifting water and hints at the mysteries below the surface.

Before I realized what happened, I was painting landscapes. And loving it.

I should have kept my mouth shut in the first place. But, maybe, by opening my mouth and ranting a bit about landscape paintings (and how much I despised them), I created a space for myself to explore it. Between the rant and the question mark behind the work "why?" I found landscape and fell in love.

"This Land is Your Land" Woody and Arlo Guthrie, and others.

thinking of Dad and painting this

Monotype. 6x6. Ink. Pastel.

Sting and Stevie Wonder "Fragile."

sharpened focus: inspiration

Sculpture by Modigliani at PSAM

 

 

During a recent trip to Southern California, I was delighted to attend "A Passionate Eye: the Weiner Family Collection" at the Palm Springs Art Museum. The sculpture above was one of many stunning pieces collected by Ted and Lucile Weiner of Fort Worth, Texas. There's some talk among the museum docents that the collection may end up at PSAM permanently. What a treasure!

I spent a long time with the Modigliani sculpture. As I looked at it, I wondered about the artist. He was a painter, but for five years, he worked as a sculptor. It's possible that he was discouraged from exploring further with sculpture because of scarce supplies in the years prior to World War I. But, even so, he studied sculpture with Brancusi (another favorite of mine) for a year! He went back to painting, but his habits of drink and drugs, and disease cut short his life at just 35 years.

Experiment. Try new things. Through yourself into it wholly. That's what I see, what I feel from the Modigliani piece.

And why not?

Inspiration feels like a sharpened focus. All of my senses are dialed in. I'm sure I have seen these pieces by Franz Kline many times before, but this time, I was fascinated by them. How bold! How perfectly composed!

Paintings by Franz Kline at Palm Springs Art Museum

Even outside the museum, I felt that sharpness as I looked at other things:

the tender green leaves on the Ocotillo.

the symmetry of the Agave

the surprising outbursts of Prickly Pear flowers

Those feelings of delight and focus are what I bring in to the studio now that I am home. My first experiment is with alcohol inks on Yupo. Why not? I am not nearly as invested in the outcome as I am in the process. It is the process of creativity and inspiration. It feels like LIFE to me.

Alcohol ink on Yupo (synthetic paper)

"Crazy" Diana Krall.

missing Dad

Bob Goodman, Dad

It's been a time of travel, fear, worry, phone calls, more travel, and saying a final good bye to my father. Dad did not suffer at the end, and that came as a relief to all four of his children.

The busyness of the last months has come crashing down on me as normal life continues but my grief has some breathing room. Every day the sun rises and sets. Every day, people go about their daily routines of work and play and love. It seems a cruel fact of life, that it relentlessly continues. Despite death. Despite the death of my father.

Yet, life goes on. I remember my father and his many good years. I honor his good death. I miss him.

And maybe, just maybe

 in the missing

 I love my husband

 and family

and friends

 just a little more.

Because our days are all numbered.

 I want to leave a 

big trail of 

love 

light

 and laughter

in my wake.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.

April 2016

Just weeks before his death, Dad sang this song with me. "King of the Road."

And, he pulled out his cornet and played "Taps."

All is well, Dad. Safely rest. God is nigh.

ink: tree with color

Monotype. 13 x 6.5 on BFK.

A morning at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge turned into an afternoon of printmaking.

At the Refuge, I love the natural, beautiful, slow decay of the older trees. Over time, they become "nurse trees" for younger seedlings. This tree was a shell of dry bark holding the shape while the inside was wet and rotting and stunning.

I cannot help but think about my father (who is on my mind a lot these days). His dementia has left him a shell of his former self and now disease is causing further decay on the inside places.

It comforts me to see the tree and think of my father. Life is short. And beautiful. Stunning at the end.

inky step: cloudscape

Cloudscape.Monotype. 12 x 12

A print studio has a unique atmosphere. Artists stand at various tables, applying and removing ink from plates. The sound of brayers rolling through buttery ink is in the air, along with the smells of the oil-based ink and modifiers. Now and again you can hear the sound of the press bed moving between rollers, the sound of the turning crank, the sound of the lift as the print is pulled. Not many people are talking. We may be a group, but we are obviously individuals, each person follows the siren songs only s/he can hear.

I wanted to play with the idea of edges in this print. What happens at the edge where land and sky meet? How can I describe the soft edges where sky and clouds meet? How can I hold interest when more edges are soft than hard?

You see the result. Ink on. Ink wiped off. More ink on. Ink manipulated with rags and hands and paper. More ink on. Print pulled after it goes through the press.

The final result reminds me of Satie. Space to think and wonder with an undertone of melancholy.

Erik Satie "Gnossienne No.3" transcribed for guitar by Thomas Konigs.

inky steps

Landscape Monotype, 12 x 12 on BFK

Where do you go to find your way back to inspiration?

My path includes a five day workshop with Bill Park in his Portland studio. It was a perfect time with a small group of artists, two presses, lots of ink and plenty of time to explore this art form.

Over and over, I heard Bill say, "I want to encourage you to ..." He said something different to each of us, but I listened to those gentle words and I felt lifted above stumbling blocks of my own imagining. Lifted and pulled along to my own art making places.



Bob Dylan "Things Have Changed."

big magic

Shattered. 32 x 29. Mixed media on paper

"Big Magic" by Elizabeth Gilbert is a book I should have read two years ago.

Two years ago, much in my life was upset and my creative energy leaked out. Two years ago, I felt empty. I also felt desperate to get back what was lost. I tried to go back to old ideas and disciplines that used to get me going artistically, but what used to work, no longer did.

It's possible that Gilbert's book would not have resonated with me two years ago. The frantic chatter in my head could have drowned out Gilbert's quietly insistent words.

I hear it now:

Trust
Persist
Take courage

She has much more to say than that, but for now, it's enough for me to hold on to these pieces and to feel them expanding inside of me.


Elizabeth Gilbert, interview on "Q" about "Big Magic."

spring forward

Sketch. Ink and watercolor. 9 x 9.

The best part about Spring in the Pacific Northwest is the abundance of flowers. The signs of new life after the dreary stillness of winter is welcome to me."Winter" does not just describe the time of year, but, also describes seasons of life. I feel like I am coming back to Spring after a very long Winter.

Did you know that when the conditions are right, it's possible to see a green flash at sunset? It felt like a beautiful gift to see the green flash last week as I watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean in Southern California.If you look closely, you can see the shimmer of green just around the setting yellow sun in the photo above.

I did not do anything to earn the green flash. I just waited with patience and hope. And I watched carefully. My patience was rewarded.

The creative journey is different for every artist. My journey has been interrupted for a while by life. Nothing I planned, but hugely distracting. Aging parents. The arrival of grandchildren. Heartaches. Illnesses. Legal challenges. Economic hardships. Good things and bad. Distractions all.

I feel agitated and frustrated by this, but I know that I cannot force creativity back in to my life. Instead, I have been out in nature because I trust in its healing power. I am doing things like watching the sun set.

Ridgefield NWR

I've taken trips to watch birds at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge.

Snake River, Idaho.

I watched the slow movement of the Snake River in Idaho and mourned the loss of the huge salmon runs.

Snow outside of Burns, Oregon.

I played in the snow in southeastern Oregon and watched the white snow turn blue and violet in the fading light.

Nevada

I walked the buttes of Nevada and studied the paths of the waterways in the soft rock.

I am finding my way back to my creative path by going deep into nature. Slowly, I feel myself healing and sorting out a new way. I think I can see the way up ahead.

Monotype. Katherine van Schoonhoven

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Lord Byron "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"

Deadman "When the Music's Not Forgotten."

monotype

I have been experimenting with monotype and oil-based inks ever since I got my press up and running. "Trial and error" in my case means a lot of errors, but a few good results, too.

This small piece (5 x 5) comes from beach memories. I love the feel of hiking through the oat grass to the rise of the dune. Just beyond the path is the endless horizon of the Pacific Ocean. And, as I stand there, I can feel my worries shrink and drop away. Life is good at the beach.

press on

Glen Alps Press

It has been a couple of years since I purchased this big piece of machinery, nicknamed "Orange Crush.". It is set up in my garage, adjacent to my studio, and ready for use. Some things are still in progress, like the amount of strength it takes to move the rollers down so that they touch the bed. The wheels are locked now, but when unlocked, they allow me to move it (with three strong people) in and out of this space. The extra height provides some challenges, though. I am excited to learn how to use this press, and how to find my voice with monotypes.

This press is one of about 50 that were created by Seattle artist, Glen Alps. This one was originally used at the Olympic College in Bremerton, WA.

I still hold my breath when I pull a print.

Wishing you all good things during this holiday season and in the new year. Peace. Health. Light.


A Classical Christmas.

arrival

Arrival.1. 20 x 20. Oil on board.

 

 

I am devoting more of my studio time to painting in oil. I enjoy the creamy texture and vibrant color. I am learning the language of oil and playing with how to move it about the painting in ways that interest me.

This painting may be the start of a new series of paintings, but it's still early to tell. Arrivals come in all shapes and meanings. At Thanksgiving, my home was the sight of many arrivals as family joined us to celebrate and feast. Christmas season speaks to another kind of arrival. Much is on my mind, but not organized into words yet. In this case, the images come first.

The Piano Guys "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel."

Thanksgiving

"Company of Women" 25 x 32, acrylic on board

Some of my happiest childhood memories of Thanksgiving include times spent with extended family and gatherings filled with people and food. The women crowded into the kitchen and laughed and bustled, chopped and bumped, and talked and shared. The little girls watched and dreamed of the day when we were grown and knew the kitchen secrets of a happy holiday. The men were often in the den watching football. Later, after dinner, the adults played poker for chips or toothpicks.

Although I did not paint this piece with Thanksgiving in mind,it now reminds me of many good holiday times. In the figures, I women now passed and little girls who have grown into women. Family. I am grateful for the memories.  

I am cultivating a daily habit of giving thanks. I think that a positive, grateful mindset will take me far down the road I want to travel as I age.

Thank you.

"As it Seems" by Lily Kershaw.

listening for the silence

D. oil on canvas, 18 x 18

"D" was one of five band mates I played with about 15 years ago.When we played, "D" held his head tilted, closed his eyes and listened for those spaces between us. We often let the silences linger before we started to fill them with fragments and ideas and building materials for new things.

Making music isn't just about playing notes. It's also about the silences.

As with music, art is not just about what to include, but also what to edit out. I have been thinking about how to include silence in my paintings. Art and Music are good bedfellows, but they don't always share the blankets nicely.

Simon and Garfunkel, "The Sound of Silence."

expressions

Lonely People. Mixed Media

Back in the studio after a "life happens" break. It's a relief to paint and let things happen as they will, without limitations or direction on my part. Not art therapy, but still therapeutic. Not purposeful, but still with purpose. Not self conscious, yet completely expressive.

Scarlett "Eleanor Rigby" cover.

here I am

Cairn, pen and ink

The beach at Seward, Alaska, was mostly rocks from glacier retreats centuries ago. I was on a long walk along the shore, feeling the many miles between where I was and where I was from. Those quiet meditative moments are hard to find in the busyness of a normal day. But, this day was different. There was no rush to go anywhere, no pressure to drive someplace new. Just a day at the beach. And my thoughts on a walk.

When a boat left the marina and motored past me in Resurrection Bay, the wake created small waves that lifted the rocks and set them down with muted thumps and clacks before the water sssssss shhh -ed as it pulled back. That sweet rhythm lasted only minutes and then faded again to the silence of the beautiful landscape.

I picked up a few rocks and rubbed my fingers over their smooth surfaces. And slowly, I built a small stack of them along the beach. When I finished, I sat next to the stack and sketched it. Each step of this act, a meditation. A song. A quiet moment of breathing and being. And being fully awake. Sketching, another meditation, felt good and slow, too.

When I finished the sketch, I took the rocks off the cairn and put them back on the beach. I left no trace.

But, for those moments, I was there, on the beach. In Seward, Alaska.

Sometimes a song can put me into a meditative state. This one does.
Lily Kershaw "Maybe."

plein air in Homer, Alaska

At the Nick Dudiak Fishing Lagoon on the Homer Spit in Alaska I have had a few days to stare and think about the landscape and a sunny morning to paint it.

I feel a shift in my ideas about plein air painting. I used to feel pressured to paint a frame-worthy piece every time I went out, but now I feel like I'm taking notes. I am catching the rhythm of the land, the high notes of color, the bass part of line and texture. It doesn't need to all come together now. It might at some later time, if/when I rework it or start fresh with the idea of this place in mind.

I watched many people, of all ages, catching salmon here. I watched a man fish (fishing and catching are two different experiences, they say), unsuccessfully, for four hours before he packed up his gear and hiked out of the lagoon. When his back was turned, a fish leaped in the water nearby. In fact, almost exactly where his line had been just minutes before.

I watched a grandfather and 6 year old grandson stand together on the rocky shore. First, the grandfather taught the little boy how to bait his hook, hold his pole, cast his line, and watch the bob for a bite. Next, I watched the boy go through all of the steps on his own, with grandfather nearby for assurance and answers to questions, which the little guy asked over his shoulder. Finally, I saw the two of them standing side by side with lines in the water making forever kinds of memories. When the grandfather caught a fish, the grandson reeled in his own line and stepped aside to be out of the way. Grandfather skillfully pulled in the fish, and grandson helped pull it out of the water, only dropping it once when it wriggled and wrested itself out of little hands.

Best of all, I felt perfectly safe while I painted, even if I felt like I was in the middle of a Rie Munoz painting!

Enjoy "The Fishin' Hole Song" and whistle a little, if you know the tune.