Category Archives: Textiles and Drawings

Four Ways To Add Color To Stick Season

I think it’s safe to say that the last gasp of summer is now behind us. That fact, paired with the latest COVID restrictions on social interactions here in Vermont, point to more time for reading and digging into creative outlets, online and otherwise.

November Trees

It’s a time when we can all use a bit more color in our day-to-day, so I thought I’d share a few of the things that have brightened my outlook:

I’ve been enjoying the American Craft Council’s weekly post “The Queue”. It’s a series of interviews with 2020 ACC Awards honorees, often including a short video of the artist. The ACC is a wonderful resource; I encourage you to spend some time exploring the Stories section of their website. The satirical sculptures of recently featured Bob Trotman caught my eye several years ago, so I was happy to become reacquainted with his work on a deeper level via “The Queue”. With a background in philosophy, not art, Trotman was originally most interested in studying the idea of the individual. But as he developed an art career, his concerns turned toward examining the machinations of society. As a result, his artistic commentary is largely aimed toward money and power in America.
Considering the unprecedented behavior we have been witnessing from our out-going president and his enablers, Trotman’s powerful voice is more resonate than ever.
Another resource that delicately walks the line between delightful and educational is Vermont painter Susan Abbott’s Painting Notes Blog. Always enriching without being didactic, Susan shares her extensive knowledge of art history from both a visual and personal angle. She shines a contemporary light upon the artists and works that have gone before us, and who have laid a path for us to follow. If you’re interested in book suggestions from Susan, look for her generous response to my question at the very end of the comments section of this post.
Beginning with the lock-down last spring, several major textile organizations joined forces to offer weekly “Textile Talks” — video presentations and panel discussions that surround a huge variety of subjects related to textile art.
All can be accessed via YouTube.
The recent “creative discussion” between color icon Kaffe Fassett and his niece Erin Lee Gafill covers their personal history as well as the habit they’ve developed of painting side-by-side. They’ve recently released a book of these parallel works called Color Duets. Anyone who knows and admires Fassett’s work and his long, illustrious career will enjoy the conversation. Particularly inspiring is the way Fassett straddles different media while maintaining the consistent thread (sorry for the pun) of color.
And finally, if you too are a student of color, you know it’s hard to beat a garden – flower or vegetable – for the lessons it can teach. Our beds may be all buttoned up for the winter, but even as the snow flies we can dream about next year’s glory…while learning a thing or two along the way. Two resources that will be scratching the color itch for me this winter are Darroch and Michael Putnam’s Flower Color Guide and the Floret Flowers website. There are plenty of lessons to be gleaned from each, but perhaps more importantly during these crazy, stressful days, they both offer pure, visual delight.

Flower Color Guide

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With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I can’t let the occasion pass without saying how grateful I am that you choose to join me here every other week, sharing your ideas and comments along the way. Please accept the suggestions above as a token of my gratitude. Be well and wear your mask. We’re all in this together.

Linda ©2020 Elizabeth Fram, Ink, graphite, and colored pencil on paper, 11 x 8.8 inches. It’s always fun to see what each person chooses to include in the selfie they send me, because it’s a further window into who they are. Linda made the paper batik behind her and I think it’s an apt reflection of her bright spirit. All 13 pieces in my COVID-19 Selfie series can be seen together on my website.

One Very Simple Habit That Makes A Huge Difference

In Mason Currey’s book Daily Rituals, one of the commonalities he uncovers is that many artists, past and present, factor(ed) a daily walk in their regular routine.

As hard as it can sometimes be to interrupt what I’m working on to answer Quinn’s insistent mid-day call to get out to stretch our legs, I’m always glad we went. Aside from the obvious: enjoying our beautiful surroundings and witnessing the never-static changes of the seasons, I’ve also found that many of my best ideas, solutions, and conceptual connections have surfaced as I hang onto the back end of the leash. No doubt that’s part of what Currey’s subjects experienced as well.

A knotted field of stitching on top of two layers of shibori patterning. The underlayer is raw silk, the one on top is translucent silk organza (which allows the lower pattern to show through).

In order to add another layer of texture to the piece I’ve been working on this week, while simultaneously suggesting the confining nature of a net (digging back to my Maine roots and lobster traps), I have been attaching short lengths of thread to an underlying foundation of stitches. Perhaps it was just a matter of getting more blood to the brain, but the proverbial lightbulb went on as we made our way up the hill on Tuesday. Beyond being a reference to netting, I recognized the dozens of knots I was tying as a metaphor for my general frame of mind while anxiously waiting for the election’s results.

Shorter threads knotted where the horizontal and vertical lines meet are reminiscent of netting.

Overall, does it really matter to the finished work that I made that connection? Maybe…maybe not, but it does serve to underline the emotional intent of this piece as an expression of this tense point in history.

Moving onward, we have a lot of work ahead of us in this country if we are going to find our way past the divide. As it always has, art will have a role to play in defining the current circumstances and in forging a way forward. However, artist or not, maybe getting out to take a walk is the simplest first step to finding solutions.

Detours

Part 1 – Firestorm

There’s often no telling how an idea will evolve.
A piece may start with a specific destination in mind, but logistical snags invariably crop up and I soon find myself on a different path. The serendipitous twists and turns that result take me to a place I hadn’t imagined, but one where I am ultimately quite happy to have landed.
What follows is the story of one example of this phenomenon unfolding.

As the top sketch shows, capturing an idea often takes just a few quick lines. But the evolution of that idea invariably becomes much more complicated as one moves through the process. My initial idea was to make a house that was completely enclosed / cut-off from everything around it.

News of the devastating wildfires out west, paired with having a son who has been navigating dreadful air quality at home in the Bay area, has gotten me to thinking what a malleable canvas these little houses can be for making a statement beyond COVID-19.

Reporting on personal wildfire stories has stressed the horror of being surrounded by fire as it rages all around. While I can’t begin to imagine such a scenario, I wanted to make a piece that in some way expressed that sense of being enclosed or trapped.

Resist stitches in place before the dye bath

My original plan was to make a small house that would sit in the center of a larger, house-shaped shell, and to use a translucent fabric for the outer house. Silk organza would allow one to see the house within, while also being a worthy medium for portraying the amorphous nature of fire which I planned to suggest with dye. Unfortunately, organza’s porosity, a characteristic I expected to work to my advantage, was also a downside. When undoing the resist stitches I’d sewn before the dye bath, I discovered that the dye had seeped right through many of them, leaving only a faint pattern. That fact, paired with relatively weak color, resulted in a rather anemic appearance.

This suggests fire, but not as forcefully as I’d imagined

However, there are always ways to work around an issue.
While dyeing the unstitched areas of the fabric, I discovered a way to create an effect reminiscent of the striations of flickering flames (as seen in the top section of the silk in the photo above). So I dyed more organza, employing that process with stronger color, figuring that layering the two lengths of fabric, one on top of the other, would achieve the effect I was looking for. It worked rather well.

With the fabrics layered together, the color and effect is much closer to what I envisioned.

Not wanting to compete with the impact of the fire-inspired cloth, I decided to leave the inner house a blank slate, covering it with un-dyed raw silk and stitching with neutral-colored thread. Spent daylily flower stalks gathered from my garden, varnished and sewn to the house, enhance the effect of the natural coloring while providing support.

The house constructed with the daylily stalks as stilts.

Once this stage was complete, I ran headlong into the problem of how to then create and support the organza casing that would surround it. I have a full page in my sketchbook with various brainstorming solutions, none of which ended up being right or feasible to execute. It became apparent that I was going to have to switch gears.

The “fire” would have to run up the sides of the structure rather than fully enveloping it. I was still undecided as to whether or not to support it so that it would hover above the roof and be held out from the sides as in my original plan, or lay it directly upon the roof, letting it fall naturally down the sides. If it hovered, the stalks’ prongs could be leveraged to support the fabric, but even if not, their physical resemblance to a flame still added significantly to the overall impact.

In the midst of deciding how to attach the fabric, I discovered that using both layers of dyed organza together (discussed above) was unworkable; the layers became just too thick and unwieldy. However, reverting to using the originally dyed piece alone worked beautifully. Layered upon itself as it was gathered and folded to fit the narrow roof space, the previously bemoaned lack of pattern and color suddenly came alive. Pressing folds into the silk to create a tactile pattern that is reminiscent of flames added to the overall effect.

Loosely pinning the fabric in place, one begins to get the impression of fire, the effect of which is emphasized by pleating and the jaggedly raw edges along the roofline.

Running my progress by the discerning eye of a trusted artist friend, she rightly commented that the house, left white, appeared “unscathed and disconnected” from a fire’s devastation. My decision to keep the house neutral was meant to suggest universality, but she was of course right — the piece appeared inappropriately light – even upbeat. The solution was charcoal.

Drawing with charcoal directly upon the raw silk, achieves the charred effect that is necessary for conveying fire’s impact.

In the end, I decided to leave the dyed organza resting directly on the roof rather than elevating it. The top edges of fabric have been left raw and uneven which not only suggests the upward movement of flame as it consumes a building but, with the bottom edges of the organza sweeping around the base of the piece, I could maintain the suggestion of the house being enveloped.

I’ve learned not to be surprised by the unexpected issues that present themselves as most of my pieces come to life, or the need to puzzle my way to a solution. It is the rare work, for me anyway, that runs a straight line from conception to completion. But to be honest, that is one of the perks of art-making — it’s what keeps each day fresh, interesting, and ultimately rewarding.

Part 2 – Isolation

The addendum to my blow-by-blow tale above is that going down a different path doesn’t preclude one from getting back to the original starting point. After finishing Firestorm, I was still anxious to find a way to make a piece that mimicked my original sketch. I thought of all sorts of options for how I might construct a wire structure to support an organza “envelope”, but in the end they were all a bust. Any wire I tried was too soft and flexible to hold its shape. What could I use that would maintain the stiff, straight lines I wanted?

Framework

It took my architect father less than a moment to offer a solution: coat hangers. We talked through the best way to form the frame and how to attach the various pieces to each other. In no time I had the structure I’d envisioned and after that everything came together very quickly.

Hard to believe because my thread drawer is brimming, but I had to dye some silk thread to get just the right color for this one. However, it was too dark to use to suspend the little house. But no worries, I had just what I needed in that notorious stash.

After making the inner house, I suspended it with clear thread so that it would appear to be floating. The next step was to make a house-shaped sleeve out of silk organza to tightly fit over the wire frame. I didn’t mind the idea of seeing seam allowances, in fact, that seemed preferable to me aesthetically. Joining the seams via the hand-stitching method used in Pojagi (Korean Quilting) was the best way to complete this step.

This is one of the more delicate ways to join two pieces of fabric; its effect is lovely

Now complete, the outer casing was stitched invisibly to the frame to keep it taught. The final piece appears exactly the way I had hoped. Whether describing the fraught emotions of being caught in a fire or isolated by the coronavirus, it strikes the note of removal and disconnect that I had originally intended.

Time and again, I’ve found that hitting stumbling blocks and being forced to rethink my approach allows for an idea to evolve into something greater than I might have come up with in one shot. The roundabout discoveries often provide a suitable proving ground for finding my way back to an idea that needed additional “simmering” before it could be realized. It makes the detours well-worth the time, and perhaps ultimately a sort of secret weapon.

Thanks so much for hanging in with me to the end of this very long post!
Ready for a visual palate cleanser? Check this out.

Drawing Things Out

I always look forward to Thursdays – especially on blog publishing weeks. I get an extra lift of accomplishment from clicking the “publish” button, knowing it’s another opportunity to connect with all of you, and also that the week ahead will be less about writing and more about making.

I have a system in place that allows me to get these biweekly posts out, making room for the time that blogging requires while still juggling the dyeing, drawing, and stitching that make up the practice I write about.

In a nutshell, I let ideas for writing simmer until the end of the day on the Monday of publishing week, write a draft on Tuesday, polish the draft on Wednesday, and finally make last-minute adjustments before going live sometime during the day on Thursday. Dividing all these components into small chunks allows me to also keep up with whatever else may be in the pipeline, practice-wise. Having such a set schedule may seem restrictive, but it’s become my tried-and-true method for achieving this task, without fail, for almost 6 years.

To underline this approach of manageable, consistent bites, James Clear’s Thursday 3-2-1 Newsletter last week drilled down on the concept. His title says it all: Scaling Down Your Habits, Obstacles, and Finding Time to Do What Matters. And while I have to continually remind myself to keep up with it, time and again I have seen the wisdom of adhering to this theory. Below is one of the key take-aways he offers:

“Go smaller.
Can’t learn an exercise? Reduce the range of motion.
Struggling to grasp a new concept? Break it down.
Failing to stick with a habit? Make it easy.
Master stage one, then advance.”

With all this in mind, I have a new house that is almost complete. There have been lots of unexpected decisions and mid-stream changes that have cropped up along the way. Chipping away at it in small bites has made for steady progress. Come back next time when I will share the process and the results with you.

The Light And The Dark Of It

Before I begin, the Grange Hall Cultural Center is hosting an in-person exhibition called DWELL. Sixteen artists’ responses to living during a pandemic will be on view, including my piece “Cocooned #2”. Visit by appointment from September 24 – October 24 (see contact info below). COVID precautions will be in place (no more than 5 people in the gallery at any time). If you’re in the area, please plan to visit — and don’t forget your mask!

Dwell poster

Now, for the “light”…

On our recent stay-cation, we visited a spot that has been on my list for years but, for whatever reason, I hadn’t been to yet. As long as it isn’t pouring rain, just about any day – in any season – would be a great time to go check out this gem. The beautiful, sunny September morning of our visit was perfect.

Please go to the Bundy Modern’s website for lovely pictures of the gallery in all seasons

The Bundy Modern of Waitsfield, VT was built in 1962 in a lush natural setting with mountain views. The structure itself, designed by Harvard GSD architect Harlow Carpenter, is a wonderful example of the Bauhaus style and is an unusual treasure for central Vermont.

Zeus ©1966 Paul Aschenbach, Sorten Steel, 20 feet. The lighting of my photo was so bad that the best and only way to show this striking sculpture was to convert the photo to black and white. Even though it was unintentional, I think the contrast between the hard sculpture and the trees and sky in the background make for an interesting duality that wasn’t immediately apparent in the color version.

Conceived as an art and sculpture gallery, it presents a unique intersection between the modern and contemporary artwork that is displayed within the building and on the grounds, and what is “an unusually pure example of modern architecture”.* The natural surroundings play as strong a role as the art and the building that sit within them, making for a truly exceptional visual experience.

Triforms ©1965 Fred Pallini, Steel, 96 inches. What I loved most about this piece is that it seemed that it was made of textile rather than steel. There is a lightness (almost pillow-like) and a visual tactile quality to this sculpture that I find very appealing.

Current owners, Wendell and June Anderson, are doing a marvelous job as stewards of Carpenter’s vision while bringing exciting contemporary art to our area. Put a visit on your list, if you haven’t already.

And now for the “dark”…

To date, the COVID houses I’ve been making have skewed toward the optimistic in my search to find and express a sense of hope and positivity in the midst of this pandemic. But as the months have worn on, I haven’t been able to ignore the bleaker aspects of these times.

My latest two pieces lean toward this darker direction. I don’t consider myself a political artist, but there is catharsis in creating a fuller picture of what is happening now and in striving for empathy.

Swirl of Fire, alternate view

Perhaps a sense of fellowship / camaraderie / community is the best and most hopeful of what we have to offer each other. With that in mind, I came across two sources of interviews that have brought some light to my reading, and perhaps they will for you as well.

#artinthetimeofcovid – MetroFrame Blog Conversations with artists regarding how they are navigating their practices during COVID
Pat Lowry Collins’ Aging and the Creative Process (click the menu bar to access the interviews)

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And finally, a story:

I got to know Walter at the Vermont Studio Center a couple of years ago when our studios were across the hall from each other. He doesn’t live close, but close enough that we manage to get together from time to time. Obviously that stopped with the virus.

When I asked for a selfie for my project, Walter sent a couple. But this one, with his dog Pepper, whom he had lost unexpectedly this summer, captured an endearing moment that anyone who has a pooch in their life will recognize immediately.

*quoted from the Bundy Modern website

Small Things Adding Up To Big Things

There isn’t much in my process that quite matches the excitement of undoing the resist stitching or wrapping that was painstakingly put in place before a dye bath. Wonderful surprises are always revealed.

Dye1

Sure, there are things one can do to nudge the process along; with time one learns about the various ways colors will mix and how multiple layers will absorb (or not absorb) the dye. But there are also rich rewards in the tiny unexpected passages that appear through pure kismet.

Dye 3

As with any venture, outcomes always vary in success. But without fail, there is at least one area of wonder to be found in each piece, even if only a couple of square inches within a whole yard of fabric.

Dye6

Working on my little houses, especially the ones without embroidery, has given me an opportunity to appreciate and highlight some of the more beautiful passages of pattern and color that might get overlooked in a bigger field. Spotlighting those sections within the small parameters of a wall or a roof is somewhat akin to opening the curtains in a dark room, allowing light and color from outside to burst through the window frame into the space, emphasizing individual elements that might not be noticed if you were sitting outdoors with the full scope of your vision in front of you.

Dye2

Along this vein of paying attention to small areas for their particular visual interest (sorry for the semi-awkward segue here), in addition to the fact of bigger matters surrounding the post office, I am worried about what I think of as one of the best (and smallest) elements the USPS has to offer: the postage stamp. Aside from being a way to dress up the mail by adding a little art to the pedestrian, stamps are one of the most public and cost effective ways that we honor our artists in this country.

Dye4

My father taught me to appreciate stamps years ago, so I am always on the lookout for something beyond the generic American flag to elevate my personal snail-mail. Most recipients probably never notice, but my choice is the final bit of care that finishes any hand-written note.

Asawa Stamps

What a pleasure it was to walk into my local PO branch last week and to buy a 20-stamp sheet of 10 different miniature images of the lyrical work of Ruth Asawa.

Since our son moved to the Bay Area in 2015, I’ve crossed paths with numerous Asawa works. Perhaps the most memorable being a permanent installation of 15 of her pieces in the Education Tower of The de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park.

Asawa installation in the Nancy B. and Jake L. Hamon Education Tower of The de Young Museum, San Francisco Photo credit: ruthasawa.com

There has been a lot written about Asawa concurrent with the issuing of these stamps. This recent article by Thessaly La Force in the NY Times is quite comprehensive. Asawa is yet another female artist who created consistently throughout her long life, forging ahead despite little recognition, and in tandem with the consuming business of raising a family of six children, becoming an educator, and being an activist. Imprisoned as a teenager in Japanese internment camps, she endured prejudice and racism but never saw herself as a victim. She just kept moving forward. Her recognition as an American Master is long overdue.

Ruth Asawa, detail

Below are several Asawa quotes that are particularly resonant for me. They hold a lot of wisdom. Hopefully you will find something in them that rings true for you as well.

It’s important to learn how to use your small bits of time. All those begin to count up. It’s not the long amounts of time you have that are important. You should learn how to use your snatches of time when they are given to you.

Sculpture is like farming. If you just keep at it, you can get quite a lot done.

I am able to take a wire line and go into the air and define the air without stealing from anyone. A line can enclose and define space while letting the air remain air.

An artist is not special. An artist is an ordinary person who can take ordinary things and make them special.

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This weekend marks the 28th South End Art Hop in Burlington, with curated exhibitions to follow for the next 1-3 months. As with so many happenings right now, this year’s Art Hop will primarily be a digital event with as many in-person portions as possible. Visit the link above to learn more and for the full program guide and schedule.

I have two pieces in the affiliated 2020 SEABA Art Hop Juried Show:

and

You can see them and preview the show now. Please return to vote for the People’s Choice Award, which will go live on that link Friday 09/11 at noon through Sunday 09/13 at 7pm.

Little Houses

For the time being, continuing to make these little houses inspired by the Sheltering in Place project seems right and appropriate. There is something reassuring about making work that directly relates to this unusual time and that has the power to add a positive spin.

The in-process piece I showed you two posts ago is now finished. Here all the sides are laid out and ready to assemble. I planned the imagery so that it would wrap continuously around the corners.

The ferns in detail

It has been exciting to discover needle-weaving as a concise (although slow) means of creating richly textured images. It also serves to make the most of the color variations found in variegated threads.

The corner images of this shot and the next illustrate a fuller idea of the piece as a whole

As the ferns turn the corner, the dogwood branches add to the sense of woodland.

In speaking with a friend who is a plant expert, I was bemoaning the fragility of the branches I’d collected in our woods to make “Cocooned”. I wanted to find something more flexible to use going forward.

Cocooned ©2020 Elizabeth Fram, 20″H x 11″W x 14″D overall, house dimensions 9″H x 6″W x 4.5″D, Wrapped-resist dye on silk with foraged branches. I barely dare to take this out of the studio because the branches are so brittle.

I told her I had hoped to be able to use plant material from our property, but figured I was out of luck because we don’t have any willow trees. She suggested I try our red-twig dogwood. It was a great idea. The dogwood branches have made a world of a difference, resiliently bending and springing back as I manhandle the piece while stitching it together. Their lovely red color and the fact that my dogwood needed a good pruning was an added bonus.

Titles are often the last big hurdle to finishing a piece. I try to come up with something brief that conveys the spirit of the work while offering a window into what was going through my mind in the making. “Cultivating An Oasis” is meant to communicate how valuable it’s been to have a garden to tend in isolation.

Due to the overall repetition, and my struggle to come up with pithy titles, it made sense to choose a series name and then to number each piece within it. If that method was good enough for Richard Diebenkorn, it surely works for me.

After much thought, I decided to go with “Retreat” as an umbrella title for these latest little houses. After all, a retreat can be seen from two opposing angles: as a withdrawal from danger or as a quiet and secluded place of comfort.
And doesn’t that dichotomy speak exactly to our experiences at home these past months?

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It’s occurred to me that of the ten COVID selfie images I’ve completed so far, eight are those of artists. I feel very lucky to have found such a vibrant tribe of creative souls since moving to Vermont!

I’ve written about Michelle’s work before, ironically almost exactly a year ago. She is continually pushing herself and her process. I encourage you to check out her website and her Instagram account.

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And for those of you who may have missed this, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Landscapes Of A Different Stripe

You may wonder a bit about the disconnect between my last post’s talk of the color that surrounds us outdoors, with these (mostly) black and white drawings that are centered on being indoors.

Considering how beautiful it is here in Vermont, it’s sometimes hard to reconcile the fact that I’m just not that interested in drawing or painting landscapes.

Instead, I find it much more satisfying to work with smaller worlds that tell a story about the variety of activities that compete for my time and attention, weaving together a fuller picture of the reality of my day-to-day life.

As I’m mapping out these sketches, I often think of Mel Stabin’s advice in his book Watercolor: Simple, Fast, and Focused where he urges one to always think in terms of shape and value.

These drawings aren’t just an opportunity to concentrate on those elements, they’re also a source of endless opportunities for working with composition. And, to a degree, approaching them as abstractions lends greater depth to the learning process.

Truth be told, I like to think of them as landscapes, but of a different stripe.

I get a lot of joy from drawing food grown in my garden and the tools I use almost every day (many of which have been passed down from my mother and grandmother) to create the meals that sustain us.

As such, these 2-D microcosms tell a much bigger story than one might guess, offering a lot of mileage for relatively little input.

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I recently discovered “Arnold’s Attic” on YouTube, a bevy of textile-related videos that include artist interviews (India Flint, Marian Jazmik, & Dionne Swift, to name just a few) as well as tours of assorted textile exhibitions (embroidery, quilting, knitting), and some how-to’s. Quite a find!

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And finally, a selfie two-fer this week! Many thanks to Leslie & Micah. Don’t miss Leslie’s fabulous work and Artist Interview with Studio Place Arts.

The Comfortable Reliability of Change

A friend, who understandably seeks mid-day breaks from her job’s unrelenting stream of Zoom meetings, recently asked me if I found what I do equally challenging because I seemingly need to sit in one place for long periods each day. My quick answer was no.
While there are plenty of long stretches when I am stitching or drawing, there are so many other elements to what I do that I can easily stop at any time and move into another phase of the work (or, for that matter, to take Quinn for a walk, do a bit of weeding, throw in a load of laundry or do the breakfast dishes, etc.). The ace up my sleeve, aside from the fact that I am in charge of my own schedule, is change – it keeps things fresh and it keeps me interested.

The color combo of these daylilies and liatris makes any trip to the veggie garden or compost bin pure pleasure.

That fact is just as true for living in an environment where the landscape is in constant flux because of the seasons. Those changes set a rhythm and a tone, not only shaking things up, but also offering a sense of reassurance in their constancy.

When the view out the window is subdued for many, many months, one can’t help but revel in the variety of tones and the lushness of texture to be found in a composition of greens.

Personally, I find contentment in the muted colors of November through March, enjoying the visual calm after the fiery hues of fall. In a strange way, the lack of color outside during that time of the year, makes my work with color inside all the more inspiring. And not to be discounted, there is no truer light in the studio than on a snowy day. But I also look forward to the rejuvenation that comes with the early blush of maroon and lime-green as trees flower and begin to leaf-out across the hills in April and May, knowing that there will be a fuller and brighter spectrum to follow.

In 2012 I built a stone herb spiral that is usually reserved for herbs and flowers. This year I had a few leftover Rainbow Chard seeds that I took a chance would sprout there and that I hoped would be ignored by the critters. Success on both counts! But even more rewarding is the jolt of color in the magenta central stems and veins of the chard leaves, humming alongside the singing petunias.

On a visual scale, summer is its own entity. This is the one short season when we have a measure of control and can choose for ourselves, via our gardens, the colors that surround us. Is it any wonder that so many artists garden and so many gardeners are artists? There is a Monet quote: “I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers”. I think every artist carries within them a bit of that sentiment. One of my earliest posts celebrated the garden of artist David Stearns. It remains one of the loveliest home gardens I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting.

If there is one plant I eagerly await each year, it’s this delphinium. It adds so much to my front bed in height, shape, and glorious color. It’s situated so that I can enjoy it from inside as well. And each winter, when the snow slides off the roof in that spot, piling up to just about the same height, I think of this beauty that lies in wait for mid-July.

This year my garden has been a refuge unlike ever before. The bright colors and gentle scents are a salve during a point in time one might metaphorically equate with winter. While it’s been hotter and drier than usual and some plants are doing better (and others worse) than last year, I am always amazed to know I can expect each plant to reappear and then come into its own within 3-5 days of the date it did every summer before. Heck, I can even count on the Japanese beetles to show up around the same week each year. Good or bad, I find a great deal of comfort in this reliability — especially now, when so much in the world seems out of control.

Work in progress: This new house I’m currently working on is a reflection of the joy our yard and garden are bringing to me this summer. It celebrates the myriad colors that surround me and the sense of home and hope that comes from watching all our plants cycle in and out, the same as they do every year.

But just as dependably, the seasons come and they go. The bright colors that are so enjoyable now, will transition to deeper shades before fading altogether. So, I find it worth thinking about and appreciating the oxymoron of the consistency to be found in change, and how that lends the gift of both excitement and stability to our day-to-day existence.

The Artist's Garden

Maybe you aren’t as interested as I am in getting your hands dirty, or perhaps you are. Either way, two books I’ve been enjoying this month are The Artist’s Garden: The secret spaces that inspired great art by Jackie Bennett, and Spirit of Place: The making of a New England garden by Bill Noble. Both are a testament to the joy that is possible right outside your doorstep.

Spirit of Place

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Update

I had so much fun with this latest addition to my “selfie project”. Hard to believe as I look at it now, that the leaves hadn’t even fully budded when the photo sent to me was taken. But generally, the image struck me as very hopeful and joyful – a mini-celebration of the fact that spring was on its way, despite our all being confined to home at the time. I’ve tried to use color to help further that feeling.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Ai, yai, yai!

This week is as close as I’ve come to crying “uncle” during the selfie project. No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to capture my dear friend Dianne in a satisfactory way. Sometimes only the eyes and nose pass muster, sometimes it’s the mouth that is okay. And every single time I’ve struggled with the overall shape of her face, partially because in the photo her mouth is open, making her chin look unusually elongated.
This is the inherent danger of drawing people I know. I so desperately want to get it right.

I can’t even tell you how much courage it’s taking for me to post these images, especially since I know many of you who read this blog know Dianne personally and will immediately see my missteps. However, I think it’s important to highlight that rough patches are a given. They test our resilience and are also the secret sauce that moves our work forward.

The picture she sent was not meant as a selfie submission, but rather to share the beautiful hat her granddaughter had made for her for Mother’s Day. She looked so tickled and proud that I asked if it would be okay to use the image for this project and she graciously said yes.

Dianne 2

The result is I have felt doubly responsible to both Dianne and her granddaughter, so my shortcomings and inability to do them justice cuts deeply. Four unsuccessful iterations later, each new version cringe-worthy in its own way (I’m not even going to share the 3rd attempt with you), the process has left me feeling more than a bit beaten up.

Dianne 4

To say I’ve been frustrated doesn’t come close. The next best (and only) step was to just shake it off and to start completely from scratch, this time using a bamboo reed pen and a bottle of ink. No expectations, just the joy of line and the buttery feel of the pen as it glides across the paper.

Red Ink

This latest may not be successful in a formal way, but it’s not a total loss because I can finally see the slightest glimmer of my friend Dianne as I know her peeking through. Even more importantly, I am going to celebrate the fact that this little drawing represents a fight survived. Not one that was won, or even one that was escaped without a few mental scrapes and bruises. Rather, it marks a battle that honors persistence and stands as a reminder that the real reward is in the process, not the result. That realization in itself is more than enough for today.

Note: Austin Kleon’s latest book Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad is a welcome shot of inspiration for navigating minor rough patches like the one outlined above, or for finding ways to keep your creativity intact through bigger challenges, such as the uncharted territory of a pandemic.

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On the flip side, there was also a bit of a win last week.
I’m quite happy with this new little house – an offshoot inspired by the Shelter in Place project. It’s an expression of the dichotomy of feeling both hemmed in and safe at home – one I know we’re all experiencing these days.