Cicadas.

Periodically I reflect on the lackluster name of this blog, Process, and wonder if the title is still accurate. Some days I wish I had been a little more witty in my titling, maybe addressing some kind of word play with a specific nod to philosophical influences or something a little more obviously Zen, but having passed our 10-year anniversary rather quietly last fall, I’m happy to report Process is still on the mark. 

I’ve privately archived posts the majority of posts from 2005-2008. I left an art review and an essay about John Baldessari for old time’s sake. 

State of the Union. 

It’s 2016. Near, mid-February to be non-exact. The show at Marcia Wood Gallery comes down this week. Three reviews, all good. The Atlanta crowd was gracious.

I’ve been in Nashville past my expiration date, as noted by the recent letter I have received from the DMV. I have the option to have a new picture taken in which I will appear 5 years older, or to keep the last picture where I look like Aileeen Wuornos. I must have been wearing a scoop neck top at the time, because I look like I could be naked, only Aileeen Wuornos naked. It's not a look that works on me. 

The studio and the concept thereof, have shifted in the last year or two. Nothing to cause alarm. I am a periodic cicada. I produce work in prolific cycles. By accepting this, I've experienced a great freedom. As I write this, I’m building stretchers and have the beginnings of my next solo conceptualized and gestating in the room I call the paint studio. The idea came while driving one of the two loaner cars I had while my car was being repaired due to rodent damage. In other areas of my home/studio, I’m working on a Repair Project involving textiles and labor, and in the office/edit suite I am playing around with “new casualist" video art, (to co-op a phrase from Sharon Butler).

But that’s not all, gentle reader. Once I let myself leave the cult of painting, even more flow happened. I’ve been interviewing female artists and those in the arts for a series of micro-documentaries I’m producing—and writing, the thing I have the most trouble defining, figures in all this work prominently, if only for the sake of language. I’m voraciously reading like it’s  1988/89/90.

I wrote a ton of poetry in 1988/89/90, which in my mind, is one long year. There is a valid explanation. As a day job, I waited tables on a train car and travelled. I took poetry classes at the University of Chicago Graham School, and I broke my leg and wore a cast up to my pelvis for almost a year. Actually, the cast went through 3 phases becoming shorter with each cast. The actual casting sitch was about 6 months with crutches and and your basic gimpness lasting for the remainder of the year. I’m not sure if the above order is even correct. It was a long year and lot happened. Merlot and caffeine were involved. Chicago. 

Like everyone just discovering themselves, I got hooked on the Beat generation. After doing a few poetry readings, my poetry teacher invited me over to her place in Hyde Park for tea. She told me I should be submitting my work to publications like the Paris Review. I never did. I don’t know why. Most of my poems were about food. My day job was as a waitress. Later, a flood came along and I saw my writing folder floating in the basement. There was a red millipede or two. I let it all go. Only one poem survived and in the interim I had chronicled the better parts of my first marriage in a zine. My ex asked me not to write about him after the divorce. Or maybe I was afraid writing would beat painting, like paper trumps rock. When you’re in a cult, you get like that. Everyone is competing for your attention and in some weird way you champion the underdog until it’s no longer the underdog and you let it work itself out. The same happened with abstraction and representation, painting and video, video and writing, writing and painting. Cicadas, all of it.

****

Feb 9, 2016

What I do when I should be looking for work*

Nashville

* more on this later

I guess more than a few of us are thinking like this lately.

I stole this:
“You see I done get too old to get a job. Now I really got to stay with the music.” — Howlin’ Wolf (Chester Burnett)

I stole this too:
"Never give in--never, never, never..."—Churchill

I skimmed this:
http://www.edwardwinkleman.com/2011/04/how-do-you-get-to-carnegie-hall-or-when.html
-but sometimes I feel like these discussions are written for people who are more concerned with how their obit will read than the present moment.

But what do I know. I'm trying to make peace with a few things.  Either way, it's a strange time. You look back and see all the choices you made. Some good, some not so good. I used to be a firm believer in the Universal Theory of  Self-Correction. I just made that up, but it sounded good so I Googled it and it seems there really is a

A UNIVERSAL PRINCIPLE OF SELF-CORRECTION,

though it's a principle on Boolean Algebra and and mine's a theory on life suggesting that whatever unwise, inept, or rash and insane choices you erroneously made would eventually even out for the good. I'm not so sure any more. At this point I am primed to go into an Existentialist rant or a

Huge small digression where I inexplicably rant about academic drawing: 

I still think it's funny and kind of sad that people seem to think that drawing something representational is the true measure of being a good artist. Some well meaning civilians popped in my studio the other day. In progress were the current abstract paintings. I was impressed that my visitor explained my work to her friends by telling them that they're about my day to day life, but I was deimpressed when she quickly added that I could paint things in the real world too, couldn't I? I quickly answered "Yes. It's called a commission and I get paid upfront." I should have said "No," just to be difficult, or see how awkward the conversation would turn, but I liked my guests, and did not feel like being ornery. But really, what was the point of that query? Can I charge double? Imagine the tables are turned. You see a figure drawing and you say to the artist, "But you can make random marks look easy as pie, too, can't you?"

In reality no one has ever asked me to paint anything realistically, so it's kind of a moot point.

[There's a bit of a leap in the plot here, as I deleted a couple of paragraphs where I come across as somewhat grumpy and a malcontent.]

...So after looking back at all the hurdles and congratulating yourself for not giving up because you didn't know any better, you look at how far you've come and think, whoa, if I was doing now, and knew now what I knew then, then like that billboard by the interstate apartment complex, If you lived here, you'd be home by now. * 

*Should I ever have another solo, this is in the running for being a show title. 

(Okay, so the billboard reference, in case you've never been on an interstate and seen one, is a billboard advertising an apartment complex right off an interstate exit. I assume it is aimed at people who are stuck in 5 o'clock traffic, meaning, something like, Hey, you in the car- why waste all your time in traffic when you can live by the freeway?) Obviously it's a memorable piece of advertising, as I have remembered it for more years than I care to remember. Periodically, I also find it useful as a zen metaphor.

[There's a bit of a leap in the plot, here too. Same reason.]

So I came across LaRose's post  and realize that when I get down, I've torture myself with self-doubt and ideas of getting a job doing something I'm ill-qualified for, or going back to school for my PHD or a second masters in something obscure and expensive, but then I draw a blank, and I don't really mean it. If I didn't love painting and working, I could justify it, but I can't justify it. But like the other day for instance I got a quote for framing a tiny painting- $60. That almost did it. I also have to plan ahead and order my supplies online now: Major inconvenience. Hat trick-the gallery representing my work in Los Angeles where I had my last two solo shows has decided to wrap things up at the end of this year and I am located 50 continents away and immeasurable fathoms under water. I exaggerate when I'm surly. My point being is it's time to cowboy up again. 

And yes, I painted twigs and flower petals on a dress the other day. I spilled something on it and was going to make it a studio dress, but suddenly decided to go spring after the recent paintings... Yo Etsy. 

It's 5pm. The sky has not changed color all day.

Thus far, my day has consisted of:
Getting worked up over a mission statement for a group I've decided not to participate in, that contained the phrase, "...with a goal to provide an alternative venue for artists free from the constraints of the retail market." Don't get me started. I already wrote a rant. It's not directed at anyone, but in it I pick apart, "constraints of the retail market." The economy is tanking, unemployment rate is 9.6% or 14.8 million here in the U.S., and project spaces are worried about the "constraints of the retail market"? Seriously, do not get me started.

• Trying to document my latest painting with and without a tripod, with and without studio lighting, with and without scanning, and then finally realizing that I still am in need of tweaking a portion of the painting. grrrrr.
• ebay, research and prep for auctions. Trying to simplify my life, 99 cents at a time. Sheds a whole new light on "another day, another dollar."
• ichat with tech support.
• Petting the dog & reassuring him that he was a good dog in that silly, who's a good dog? voice I use.
• Raking the kitchen floor after the dog came in the house.
• Afternoon espresso. sucked down and barely enjoyed.

 It doesn't help that I've had to take some medicine with the following side effects: 

• nervousness
• restlessness
• anxiety
• difficulty falling asleep or staying asleep
• nightmares or abnormal dreams
• not trusting others or feeling that others want to hurt you
• hallucinations (seeing things or hearing voices that do not exist)

-which means that when I wake up in the middle of the night, the first thing I am aware of is that I still have poison ivy and I want to claw my arm off. 

• My yard sale is this weekend and I still have to wash the second, third, and forth batch of dishes and price everything.
• I got busted for not paying my Culver City business taxes, mainly because I never applied for a Culver City business license, mainly because my studio was not located in a business district. I weighed the option of getting busted for having a studio at home vs. getting busted for not securing a license and took my chance. They tracked me down, and five months and 2000 miles later, I owe some cash. That would be why the call it the long arm of the law, I suppose. The fines were doubled, times 3 years. It could have been worse. It could have been better, too. This is why I do not like to sell work out of the studio. Too much of a hassle. I haven't looked into my options here. I'm hoping to find a middleman, affectionately known as a dealer, so I don't have to. 
• Sometimes, I think I'd like to write poetry and call it a day. 

five pm it is
the sky has not changed color
I am restless

I am not a flower painter.

I usually don't like to share my low moods, but I am waiting for my fingers to unshrivel and I'm feeling a bit Cinderella-ish. I have committed to having a yard sale next weekend, one where I will be selling off 18 large boxes of kitchen items and a eye-popping assortment of other things. The 18 large boxes of kitchen items have been stored in cabinets undisturbed for 40+ years. At some point the exhaust fan in the kitchen became a decorative fixture. I still do not know if it works. All I know is that there are 18 boxes of grimy dishes and glassware needing a good washing before my yard sale. I have no dishwasher. No, actually I do, but it is also a decorative object as far as I know. Hence the shriveled fingers. I should wear gloves.

I am not a flower painter.
I'm sinking into oblivion here. Or perhaps, further, I should say. I sense a gap, a small crack if you will. One where I believe I have fallen. In reply to a question, (and I'll be very vague) the answer was, "I can't see such and such showing flower paintings."

My first thought was Allison Schulnik who shows at Mark Moore in Santa Monica. I've never met Alison, but I've seen quite a bit of her work and wouldn't call her a flower painter, yet, below I give you a flower painting.

Allison Schulnik, Red Flowers #2, 2008, o/c, 20 x16"

Here is another of Allison's images:

Allison Schulnik, Jimmy, 2009

, oil on linen

16 x 26"

I wouldn't call her a clown painter either. 

Below are most of my flower paintings to date. I've posted them before, so just move along if you're tired of seeing them. One looks suspiciously like a pool painting, but it's really a hybrid; the background is the filler you would find in a flower arrangement.

Carnation

Comic Relief

Art Deco Chinese Rug

January

Night Swim

Slight of Hand

I don't think my friend was insulting me when they made the flower painting remark, but it made me rethink how people, including artists or dealers, think about certain imagery and assume there to be certain baggage with said imagery.  Let's take barns, for instance. I read a comment from someone who jokingly, but probably not by much, wished there would never be another landscape with barn painting exhibited in Tennessee. After reading that, of course, I want to make dysfunctional barn paintings as a subversive activity. Then what? I'd be a crappy barn painter, too? (Note: I really do have soft spot for good barn paintings- I juried one into a watercolor show, based on the sentimental factor.)

The good news is that I said fuck it and bought a new liner for my motorcycle helmet. I was convinced the old one was a minefield of urushiol and no amount of washing was going to make it go away. So for 29 bucks, it's like I have a new helmet. Cool. The guy at the motorcycle shop even gave me the spare face visor from his personal helmet, noting that mine was seriously trashed. He told me he was a father-to-be and therefore was giving up riding for awhile. I admit to worrying if Otto could find food and water if God forbid I didn't make it home one day, but I suspect he would fill up on base molding and find a toilet before perishing, and so I still ride.

At some point, I promptly went out to the studio and de-representationalized 2 paintings, once again setting into motion the evil pendulum from which I now swing. After that, I began the humble task of dish washing about 400 dishes and glasses. 

Happy Birthday Process!

Woo-hoo! An anniversary! October 10th, 2005, marked my first post. My initial intent was to document my process as an artist. No, that's not quite true. My intent was that the blog would serve as a document of the artwork I made as a result of that process, i.e., a picture blog with a few sentences posted under each finished painting or artwork, more or less briefly describing my thought process as it related to the work. A mini-statement, if you will. (A plan, I might add, that had I stuck with, would have bailed me out of the recent statement fiasco of 2010.) A mere twelve days later marked my first pity party post where I let my guard down: I had broken a toe while training for a marathon and received two rejection letters in one day. It was also in this post that I revealed, that on occasion, I have doubts and insecurities, and that as confident as I think I am, I do, in fact, relish questioning my capabilities and admit to being a sensitive artist. Five years later, I still like to question my capabilities and I am still a sensitive artist. But other than that, much has changed in five years.

Then: Lived and worked in Culver City, California
Now: Live and work in Nashville, Tennessee
Then: Worried a lot about if I would ever have another show.
Now: Worry a little about whether I will ever have another show.
Then: Obsessive and copious amount of works on paper, large paintings.
Now: Smaller paintings, prone to being obsessively detailed.
Then: Fear of impasto
Now: Love impasto
Then: Team Fang & Fife
Now: Otto
Then: Abstraction, Technicolor palette
Now: Landscape? Figures? Colors from Nature? Abstraction?
Then: Married, Adjunct Art Faculty
Now: Single, Speed reading, "What Color is Your Parachute?"

And so forth and so on. The blog still serves as an archive of what I was thinking or doing- who I was on a particular date. I don't revisit the posts except if I'm trying to remember something- like what events might have triggered a painting, or see what a painting looked like before it transmogrified before my very eyes.

Some other things have changed- some good, some difficult, some challenging. There's also a realization that life is short, and it's never too late. I should really hook up the nice stereo system and sell the uncomfortable sofa, soon.

The blog knows all.
Happy Birthday Process.

Just between you me and the lamp post...

It's pleasant enough being back here, but honestly, I'm already to go home again. Apparently this means I have defined home. I also am at a small crossroad regarding blogging and facebook. Feeling a hibernation coming on. A retreat or withdrawal.  Made it to Steve Roden's show at the Armory today. Very good. Dental appointment followed by studio visit with Mark Dutcher tomorrow. My hostess has suggested I go to the Korean Day Spa. Perhaps I will. I did yoga this evening and fell asleep during shavasana. I rough hung the show this morning. Last night I had sushi with Matt.

9/25/10 Addendum: Bummed to have postponed my studio visit with Mark due to the dental appointment. My face was so numb my friend said I looked like I had botox and Bell's palsy. I'm still hungover from the anesthesia. Lesson learned: Never, EVER, miss the 6-month check-up again.

Mars: Day 10, 11

I feel like I landed on Mars. A Mars that needs to be ushered into the 21st century. A dusty Mars. A Mars with moths and moles and carpenter bees. I've seen more insect varieties in one week than I recall seeing over my lifetime. I am not a gardener, though on occasion, I have raised tomatoes in 5-gallon buckets and brought near dead plants back to life with nothing more than water. I decided to plant a hydrangea and some tomatoes, but succeeded only in getting the tomatoes in the ground. If the hydrangea does not die before it goes in the ground, it will be a miracle. The neighbors gave it to me after my mom passed and I guess they figured I'd plop it in the ground immediately. I still owe thank-you notes to people. My stuff has not arrived from LA. In order to make room, I am tossing old clothes and clearing out closets. I am reminded of a former student's drawing in which she stated that "death is just another change of clothes." I used to take comfort in that phrase, but I would hate to come back in moth-eaten clothes, so now I'm not so sure. I am grateful to have a roof over my head, a roof that needs repairing or replaced, but a roof nonetheless. I have taken electricity for granted. Yesterday during a power outage, I polished a candelabrum and contemplated being off the grid. I am in suburbia, less than a mile from metropolitan Nashville and just about 2 miles from Trader Joe's and Anthropologie. I swept and vacuumed a portion of the garage, and noticed this morning, in what I perceived to be a declaration of territorial dispute, that a spider had reinstalled cobwebs across my nice clean patch of garage. The big dog has a secret compartment located somewhere in his coat where he tarries dirt and twigs from the outside and deposits them on the inside. I yield a broom 75% of the day.

I can't imagine getting the house and garage clean enough to resume what I considered to be an ideal environment for working. I am lowering my standards. I saw Sherie' Franssen's video of her studio on facebook and was reminded of what it was like to have a painterly studio. I miss paint. I miss my easel and I didn't even use my easel much. I miss my palette. The moving van is due here next week. I still need to vacuum the silt in the garage.

Today I found an X-acto knife circa 1980 in its original packaging, a penny from 1857, and a black plastic bag filled with something lumpy hanging in the closet. I gently opened the plastic bag and couldn't figure out what I was looking at. It seemed to be possibly a shirt or jacket, but mostly there was dark gray fluffy matter and it smelled. It was too creepy to even poke at, so I double-bagged it and and threw it away. I'm not even going to hazard a guess.

I found this twig on Otto

I found a cart, pulled it into the kitchen, and officially have a makeshift studio. I started a painting, but mostly out of rote, which is to say, I wasn't challenging myself to shift focus, although it's a decent start. These things change, so starts are just starts. I assume at some point this experience will filter into my paintings, but I still cannot say how. I guess that's why it's visual. A friend thought that I would break with tradition and turn the living room into a studio. It's a radical idea but deserves more thought. Meanwhile the kitchen seems doable. Does this mean I've been demoted? I've never worked at a kitchen table. I'm slow to challenge the authority and inherent structure of the house. I threw away a bunch of dust rags-old shirts and baby undies that had been stashed in the linen closet for obviously a very long time. I didn't feel like keeping them. The logic that everything is useful tries to take over. I resist. Since the flood, I am concerned the garage will not make a good studio. The house is naturally dark. As a painter, I am desperate for natural light.

Perhaps it's not as bad as I'm portraying it to be, or maybe it is. It's certainly more than what I imagined.
So far:
Possibility of needing a new roof.
Crawl space has mold and fungus.
Crawl space has crickets. The good news is that the crickets eat the fungus. Nice ecosystem.
The pool needs to be filled in. Meanwhile, some yet-to-be-seen, semi-aquatic creature calls it a home. Perhaps, it too, is eating fungus.
Electrical system functional, but needs updating.
Moths.

I am here until I figure out what's next, and maybe then some. Sometimes I am uncertain.

Dusk is nice. The colors are different here. I need to paint.

I am tired, people.

I am surrounded by wonderful people in the various spheres, both tangible and not. All most of the paperwork is done. Seems I let a small policy lapse this past month on my mom's behalf, so I can look forward to more paperwork in June, but other than that, the business end of of the end got done. The funeral is Monday. I picked up Otto, the Palindrome Dog, from jail. He's no substitute for my boy, Fang, but he's a lovable lug and is special in his own way. I am happy to have him. I also felt an odd sense of comfort when I discovered there was an empty plot next to my grandmother that's already been paid for. I mean, it's not the same as owning as house, I'll give you that, but something about knowing I have a final resting place, just in case I'm not immortal made me feel good. I also got a sneak peek at the horse-drawn funeral hearse they have at the cemetery. Pretty cool. 

I found this sketch in a notebook my mom had compiled. She admitted liking Modigliani. My mom was a bit of a historian of life. There are records and documents of just about every thing. The Museum of Ephemera is taking note.

Transitions.

I was caught by surprise yesterday morning when they called to tell me my mom had passed. Less than 12 hours prior, the resident psychiatrist had called to tell me mom was "profoundly" depressed, citing Mom's 24/7 accessory, the sleeping blinders. She did look pretty cute in them, and I figured they gave her some sense of comfort. The doctor felt confident that starting mom on an anti-depressant would help tremendously. She said that my mom hated being at the facility, even thought the whole point was to get stronger so she could come back home. She also told me that my mom's cognitive impairment/pre-senile dementia, was mild, comparatively, for her age, and that she thought all the other behaviour stuff could be lumped under the oh so clinical term, eccentric, or idiosyncratic. This is one of the reasons I love being from the South: One DSM-IV-TR under God, indivisible etc.  

I had talked to my mom the night before in a rather uneventful conversation:

Me: "Hey mom, How are ya?" What's new, How's the weather?" "Are you doing therapy?" "Are you eating?" "The doctor said you're not using the call button when you need to get up." "You know the whole point of you being there is to get you back home, right?" "I'm almost finished boxing stuff up. I'll be there soon to break you out." 

Mom: "I'm okay, I'm okay." 

Me: "I know you're okay." I just want to make sure you're eating and doing therapy." 

Then mom probably said something about trying to sleep, or maybe she sounded agitated with me asking so many questions, so I said I love you and I'd call her tomorrow.

They were moving her from either the bed to the wheelchair or vise versa. I can't remember now. I just remember she was in transition when they said she gasped, and that was it. And for some reason I have that as a mental image- that she was neither sitting, standing or laying down but that she was in some state in-between. 

Feeling down, so I thought I'd post a work in progress before it morphed intProbalbynoto something else

"Seance," 2010

Really not much to say. Thought briefly about starting up another blog documenting the slow demise of people and animals I love, but it seemed way too morose.

I made some headway in the studio. I'm at the point where I want to throw everything out and start fresh on the other side, but that seems like an unnecessary waste. I also have realized I am a compulsive maker of things. I cannot stop painting even when I'm trying to pack up. I'm ditching a few pieces of studio furniture- carts and shelving I can replace on the other side. Why I am I calling Nashville, "the other side?" I don't know.

My boy is still not eating much- at all. Oh, he ate some of my left-over oatmeal and even a few leafs of lettuce from my lunch, but dry dog food, pfft. I broke down and bought a can of food and mixed it with his dry food. He ate most of it after spitting out the dried kibble. He cannot jump in the car or on the bed anymore without assistance. I'm sad. I love that guy. The vet couldn't find anything radically wrong in his blood work a few weeks ago. Maybe I said that already. I keep hoping it's just the chaos of the house sale and all the packing. I don't feel any lumps on him. My mom is also in a state of decline. I call twice a day and every time I call she tells me in a weak, but agitated voice, "I'm okay, I'm okay. I just want to sleep." That's our conversation. I try and ask her if she's been sitting up or how therapy was and it angers her. They put her on oxygen the other day. I don't know if that was temporary or not.

Here are the questions I was asked to address in my upcoming studio visit:

Can you discuss the evolution of your painting?  Is it possible to have a few of your earlier works out for the group to see?

Discuss your approach to abstraction. How do you place yourself in relation to earlier abstract painters. Which artists to you admire, and do you think they have influenced your work?

Discuss your interest in the 19^th century British critic John Ruskin.

Talk about the new body of small paintings. Is there a narrative element to the work? How do they convey passage of time and of memory? How do you explain the choice of deserted swimming pools and decaying floral still lives as your choice of themes?

Christopher Knight Los Angeles Times, May 16, 2008 described your paintings as a “visual feast of color, technique.” Can you show us the range of your approaches  to applying paint – scuffing, smearing, brushing, pouring, shading and drawing? Are you technical decisions spontaneous, calculated or a combination of the two?

I'll post my response later. I'm tired now. 

This is my studio today.

This is my studio today. 

I have to straighten it up and pack things away by Wednesday to accommodate a large group of visitors. I will be in there all day today. 

Fang hasn't been right since the house painters came in. Barely eating, finicky, etc. He had an infection so he's back on antibiotics and I think Matt fed him too much hamburger meat while I was gone. I found a dry food he eats, but I've had to feed him by hand. 

I saw a video someone made about the flood in Nashville. I'm still in awe of the amount of water and devastation. Even more amazing is that the community found creative and efficient solutions to spread the word about the water supply, deal with the aftermath, and help each other immediately. Before the flood, when I was dealing with the situation with my mom, I kept thinking of a couple of lines from the Baz Luhrmann song, "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen.)" 

"Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft."

I thought about this because after moving from Chicago to L.A., I have become soft. It was a fluke I took my raincoat on this last trip. I never wear a raincoat and I certainly don't carry an umbrella. Walking the big dog in the rain, wearing a raincoat and rain boots I found in the utility room, felt good. I felt like I was on my way to finding a happy medium between hard and soft. 

Saved

I know. Like how many in progress shots can one handle. 

Sleight of Hand (2010, possibly finished.)

I tried calling my mom for almost 2 hours and no answer. Had a neighbor go over and knock on the door - still no answer. Called the paramedics and they got in with a key. She was okay. The phone was unplugged. No explanation why she didn't answer the door. Her neighbor said it looked like she wasn't functioning on a daily basis anymore. My mother keeps saying she's okay. She's not. Tomorrow I  will try again to find a caregiver she won't kick out. I'm not sure whether I can last out the end of the semester. before moving. She seemed better last week. I am sad. And kind of full of anger at intangible things. 

Round-up

I'm back. Still haven't hooked up Internet in Nashville, so here's a pictorial recap:

The box scoring tool

No, it's not a Flemish still life, not yet, anyway.

It's comforting to know that someone else in my family read Ruskin a long time ago.

Meat products at Kroger

Avon soap dish from the 60's or 70's. I'm going with 60's. 

This was my grandmother's house in East Nashville. I lived here from the age of 3 to 7 or 4 to 6, something like that. I love this house. It's not for sale and I couldn't afford it now even if it were. It's in the hip artsy area of town, which wasn't always the hip artsy area of town. My mom grew up here.

We then move here.

Mom and I had pancakes for lunch...

and drove around town while I looked for studio space. This is the city cemetery. It dates back to 1822. It's not too far from one of the studio space locations I scoped out. The dogwoods are in bloom. 

My 3rd or 4th trip to the city dump. I thought I had lost my shades, but they were under the car seat. I was happy. 

I have a gift of being able to spot 4-leaf clovers almost immediately. I was taught this as a child. 

I am very good at finding them.

I opened up a medicine cabinet and found a soap carving I did of the Nashville Parthenon as a kid. Charming exhibition, is it not?

 

This is mom's best friend, Otto. I call him Nashville Dog or Big Dog. 

He's pretty cute for a rogue beast.

I made a trip to Jerry's Artarama and bought a tiny set of Lukas oil paints. mmm. creamy. Not sure how I feel about that yet. I started a 8" x 10" painting. I tried painting one of the above scenes outside, but got nowhere. This depressed me because I immediately figured my painting mojo was in a dead zone in Nashville. 

I felt better when I decided to paint the slop sink in the utility room  as a substitute for the swimming pool. 

I left it hanging in Nashville. I'll work on again next month. I installed daylight compact fluorescents. It's not ideal, but this will be my temporary mini studio annex once I can make better use of the space. 

When I got back, I discovered someone was slacking on the job. Maybe he was practicing TM.

Hello from a hotel room.

A) The painters wrapped all but the bathroom and utility room in plastic today.

B) The paint fumes were a bit much from Saturday. Fang didn't eat 2 meals in a row and then this morning he was totally Mr. Sicky with a fever, so after a trip to the vet, some antibiotics, and a home cooked meal of rice and ground beef for the furry one, I booked an overnight stay for one adult and one dog at one of the hotels down the road to avoid the fumes.

D) I give you the decor of my environs...

Box Populi

The alarm goes off, signaling the start of another day at the MAH Fang compound.

Lucky for me, Samy's Camera is right around the corner. Samy's is an excellent source of boxes. I did buy some new boxes, because, well, I was in a hurry and the folks at Samy's were not on my schedule. I'm good now, totally flush with cardboard cubes, rectangles, and hard to find, perfect for packing art-work, sized boxes. 

Fang and I are no longer separate beings. We have merged into a superbeing. He has tethered himself to me, shadowing my every move. Have you ever brushed your teeth with a dog sitting directly beside you? It's a little odd, even for me. 

So why am I blogging as opposed to say, sneaking a stroke in the studio, or packing, you might be asking. Because I am at school giving a test. But you teach drawing, you might be saying. How do you test a drawing? It's called a Student Learning Outcomes Assessment Report. It's also called Why I Don't Believe in Testing, But I Will Comply to Make Everyone Feel Better.

Overall Proportional Frame: 

Measured & Noted. Executed correctly. Frame Included. Very Good. 2 pts. 

Measured & Noted. Executed incorrectly. Frame Included. Good. 1 pt.

Not measured or noted. Frame Missing. Poor.  0 Point.

Etc. 

It's not really about how well they can draw. It's a test so that my colleagues can see how well I can teach a student to draw a circle. When I was told this, I replied that I don't teach my students to draw circles, I teach them how to observe and draw relative proportions and relationships. I stopped short of asking how you teach someone to draw a circle. I think I stopped short, but come to think of it, maybe I did ask that. I was a little grumpy that day. 

Most of my students are drawing these things  (cubes, spheres, cones, cylinders) fairly correctly. Over the years I've seen a weird, odd, if you will, tendency for wide people to err on the side of drawing wide squatty objects, and ectomorphic body types tend to draw things rather elongated, but other than that, everyone is usually within a degree or two of accurate or "correct."

The house painters came today. I chose a new exterior paint. Bison Beige. I picked it from a paint chip. Now I'm freaking out because when I googled it just now it looks more gray than I remember from the paint chip. I know I'm selling the home and therefore should not care, but I do. I loved this house. I want it to have a good life with its new owners. I want it to be happy with its new coat. 

Not much new going on in the studio the last few days. There are at least 2 shows I want to see before they come down- Mark Grotjahn at Blum and Poe, and Kim Dorland at Mark Moore. Whenever I hear Mark Grotjahn's name, I always thinks of a conversation I had with a gallery owner several years ago who told me that someone had told him that Grotjahns' new works in the studio were really bad failures and he didn't get what everyone saw in him. I remember this for 2 reasons: (1) that someone would criticize new works in a studio, calling them failures. (2) because I had that Eureka moment when I realized that even A-list gallery owners make a bad call.

Bedtime. House painter here at 7:30am. I really hope Bison Beige is a winner. 

So, if you think I had issues with packing and shipping, you should catch me with packing and moving.

1. I went to a meeting with some biker friends.
2. Made two trips to the storage unit.
3. Organized the storage unit.
4. Laundry.
5. Did part one of a repair on a vintage purse my aunt made, and that my mom paid good money for someone to sew together but they did a half-ass job and I felt bad because it was the best they could do and so after a few years, I finally got around to redoing it myself today. And no it wasn't on the todo list, but I was packing away purses, so it was now or never. It's a great purse. I'll post it when I finish the repair. Unbelievably I have no black thread.
6. Studio. Stacking 'em up and knocking 'em down. De-canvased 3 stretchers today and said goodbye to 3 less than stellar works.
7. In the process of killing an 11" x 14" painting I keep thinking is done, but is annoying me.
8. Thinking about stretching a 54" x 43" canvas and making a new larger painting for the show at the Brand library in May. 
9. I was really inspired by a friend's painting on raw canvas, gorgeous buildup of layers and layers and layers, so I started an 8" x 10" painting on raw canvas with lots of thin layers. It's covered with a solid sheet of thick acrylic now. Not feeling the thinness and lightness of being, I guess.
10. X'd out a few areas on another painting and brought it inside. I can't wait to paint in a studio with natural light. 
11. Finally called my mom a 7pm to see if she remembered my birthday. She said she had been trying to call me all day and that the operator told her my number had been disconnected. I think she forgot to dial the area code. I wasn't very good at hiding my sadness. She asked me what was wrong and I just told her I was tired.
12. Took an iPhone pic of #11. 

And now it's Monday....

I delivered a truckload of boxes to storage. I counted 8-10 boxes of books so far. I still have about 2 bookcases to go. I had more but I'm donating about 3 boxes of books to Goodwill. It just occurred to me that I am very comfortable around books. When I was a kid, my mom was working on her Phd. and also taught at Peabody College and Peabody Demonstration School in Nashville. Conveniently I also attended Peabody from nursery school through 3rd grade. Sometimes mom would stash me in the library on campus if she still had a class to teach after I got out of class. 

Then I scanned the house for detritus. first and second sweep, you know.

Then the studio to work on killing the same painting that did not die yesterday. Maybe I need to step away for a bit. 

Then back to house to finish up this post. 

Oh, and I have chosen to scan a bunch of loose papers with random but pertinent information, instead of painstakingly copying down the info by hand. So that's next. 

Surprise! HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARY ADDISON!!!!

I used to love birthdays. I still do. My only real gripe this year is that I have to pack and move stuff to storage, and so will not be able to fritter away the day. I'm sure I will go in the studio, but I HAVE to cart stuff off to storage. HAVE TO. Other than that I have no real plans. Yesterday I took the motorcycle out to Eagle Rock to pick up a painting from a show that came down. On the ride, I was kind of gloating to myself about being able to ride my bike to pick up a piece of artwork. Beautiful day in LA. Warm, sunny. Maybe I will sneak in a ride up the coast today. Along with everyone else in Southern California. Maybe not. Maybe I will paint outside. According to a chart I found on the internet, I am 8 in dog years. Fang is around 74 in human years.

Last night I dashed over to see Brit Tolliver's work at Kinkead and ran into a bunch of Tennessee ex-pats. Such a great group of folks.

I'm going to start a large painting. Just one.

To make a long story short-

I finally found my car keys in a box of Valerian-Mint tea.

Moving and packing is not my friend.

Writing on the wall. Once you read the post, you'll groan at how cliché my post title was.

I don't know why I am compelled to upload work in progress, but I am. I worked on the above painting for a little bit today. Maybe I will work on it again tomorrow, but it was more like an experiment to see how I would handle the physical act of painting directly on the wall, along with with how I would make a painting without any preconceived notions to start with whatsoever. I guess this falls in to a Rules painting. (I will explain what I mean by that later, as well as my rules.)

I knew I would eventually do some wall paintings and when I came across Josh Smith's project at Deitch, something stuck in my head. I've decided to couple the idea of site specific painting with my desire to do "live" painting. The lack of the object, the efficiency of the mark, the expediency of the task at hand, the no-safety net approach to painting- all of these things make painting on the wall perfect for me right now. I'm still working on the small paintings on linen with the o k a y, but not great show title which needs revamping, but live wall painting feels like a meaty deviation. If all goes well, I plan on showing these (those) at the Brand Library and Art Center in May. Any other takers out there?

In other freaky scary news, we signed on the dotted line with a real estate broker today. 180 days or less until I fall out of the homeowning class. [Sigh.] Letting go, letting go.