Flying Free

When my child left home for college, I expected my art practice to shield me from the emotional fallout of this major change. It didn't happen like that, and before long I found myself creating a series of babies. The process let me understand a bit of what I was experiencing, and culminated in this piece commissioned by a labor and delivery nurse.

Utero Baby, charcoal, oil paint, beads, and glass on canvas, 24”x20”

Utero Baby, charcoal, oil paint, beads, and glass on canvas, 24”x20”

Any series I work on generates paintings that are essentially byproducts of working things out but don't stand alone as completed works. I stack these abandoned canvases against the wall and look through them when I need a surface to work on. I liked the baby (left), but felt done with it. I erased the drawing and wound up with a fragmented image (right). This would be the starting point for something new.

Pelvis Baby (unfinished) charcoal, sand, and acrylic paint on canvas, 24”x20”

Pelvis Baby (unfinished) charcoal, sand, and acrylic paint on canvas, 24”x20”

Erased image, charcoal, sand, and acrylic paint, 24”x20”

Erased image, charcoal, sand, and acrylic paint, 24”x20”

I was looking for a new way to express this feeling I had of being in the midst of transformation. I turned the canvas around and thought about the powerful emotions that had led me to make babies, and where that journey had taken me. As I turned the canvas, I saw a different type of birth possible.

Bluebird, charcoal, sand, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 20”x24”

Bluebird, charcoal, sand, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 20”x24”

This image has become iconic for me. It began with overwhelming and inarticulate feelings, and grew into a visual record of my passage from one life circumstance to another. The bluebird, harbringer of happiness, is gritty, messy, a bit dirty, and emerging to fly free.

Let me hear from you! Has the past week brought you a moment of breaking free?
All the best,
Alissa

Perspective

These days, I try to look at my situation with a broader perspective. Sometimes it's easy to feel grateful for extra time with family, a slower pace of life, and the opportunity to do lots of creative work. Other days, well, it can take some effort to get up out of the chair.

Coyote, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 40”x30”

Coyote, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 40”x30”

Several years ago, frustrated with my work, I started making abstract paintings as a way to refresh and recalibrate. I used what I had - acrylic mediums, sand, house paints, pieces of broken mirror - to express movement, energy, and mood. Beginning with a white canvas, I would activate it any way I could. This was engaging at first, but soon enough I began to imagine putting imagery on top of the random marks. I drew flowers, intriuged with the decisive lines of their forms over the unplanned splashes and the tension between their delicacy and the chaotic and forceful motion beneath. Then, things began to happen that flowers fell short of communicating. I felt that animals were an ideal mix of emotive and wild, and could best express what I was trying to get at.
The array of displays at the Museum of Natural History is fascinating and dramatic, and it was of this I thought. I went to the museum and photographed stuffed creatures that seemed poised to flee.

Wolves, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 30”x40”

Wolves, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 30”x40”

As I drew and fleshed out the animals, I thought of the expeditions tasked with hunting them, the process by which they were brought to Manhattan, and how they were readied for display. I thought about what it meant that countless visitors stood one foot and a thin pane of glass away from magnificent beasts, rendered lifeless for that very purpose.

Buffalo, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 40”x30”

Buffalo, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 40”x30”

I noticed that I had to add very little to the abstract underpainting to have it read as landcape. I worked as sparingly as possible, allowing the random marks to form parts of the animals as well, so that they became interwoven with the background. I preserved as much raw white canvas as I could, seeking contrast with the textured colors.

Rhinos, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 30”x40”

Rhinos, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 30”x40”

Time passed, I finished the series and became interested in birds. Distance let me see something new in the work: these paintings say what I feel about our treatment of the planet and the animals we share it with. My sense of things as intertwined and disappearing emerged through my approach to creating the piece, even though I was not aware of it at the time.

This idea of following a path and only later seeing what the sum of my actions have led to feels analogous to the current situation. I'm starting to like reminding myself to stay in the moment, for by doing this fully, I'm likely to surprise myself later with what I was up to.
How about you? What bigger thing might you be up to while you are in the moment?

Solitude

April 21, 2020, 8am:

Last year on September 1, I unloaded art supplies, groceries, and books into the magically-mine-for-the-month cabin and watched my family drive away. The last time I'd lived alone in the woods was close to 30 years ago on St. John in the Virgin Islands. As though no time had elapsed, I once again had with me a baseball bat and metal flashlight for courage in the darkest hours of night.

Here I am in the studio at Weir Farm with a paper mache bird. Click on the photo (credit Gaston Lacombe) to see the National Parks Magazine article written by Melanie D.G. Kaplan.

Here I am in the studio at Weir Farm with a paper mache bird. Click on the photo (credit Gaston Lacombe) to see the National Parks Magazine article written by Melanie D.G. Kaplan.

Apple Tree, charcoal and oil paint on canvas, 9”x12”

Apple Tree, charcoal and oil paint on canvas, 9”x12”

Ice House, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 9”x12”

Ice House, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 9”x12”

I was thrilled, overactive imagination aside, to be alone with my work. It was easy to shed everything not art or daily necessity like eating. In this way time opened up for me, a great vast field in which to create. Fueled by the urgency of only 30 days in this glorious bubble, I searched out new places on the grounds each morning to paint, and worked in my studio each afternoon. Even filled with so few activities, the days flew by.
Now it's different: similar stripped down living, but no clear end in sight. How to keep that sense of time as precious and irreplacable? I can wish I was living in a time beyond confinement, but focus too hard on that and this time is lost.

Stone Picnic Table and Bench, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 22”x28”

Stone Picnic Table and Bench, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 22”x28”

Back of Tree by Stone Steps, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 24”x36”

Back of Tree by Stone Steps, charcoal, acrylic, and oil paint on canvas, 24”x36”

I've been asking myself, how do I recapture that simple and supremely fulfiliing way of life now, despite the loss, uncertainty, and the fact that I did not choose this?

The answer is elusive, but as I search for a path I am spending my time making art, being as nice as I can to the people I'm here with, and looking for ways to make a difference.
In that spirit, I'm donating a percentage of all painting sales on realart.work, my art commerce site, to the  Lower Fairfield County Food Bank. All the best, Alissa

Time Lapse

Buds started to appear on the tree in my backyard a week ago. I'm waiting for the flowers to open, a brief but joyful sight, so I can set up outside and paint them for what will be the third time. In the photo below, I'm at Stamford Hospital with the first painting.
Each day I look outside and think, surely today the tree will burst into bloom. It seems to be holding steady, poised to flower, reminding me of my own confinement. I feel suspended in time between the difficulties of sheltering in place and the good fortune not to be suffering as many are. 
The tree is on its own timeline. I'll watch it unfold, act when I can, and trust that when the time is right, our world will bloom again.
 


When I'm working in my studio, things often seem to take ages and  it can be hard to see what I've accomplished, but each time I check the clock I see it's only been a few hours and I have made actual progress. Time feels different now, and in the spirit of embracing that, I am sharing my first time lapse video: a quick sketch of a daffodil. Click on the arrow below to watch.

It took some google searching, lots of trial and error, hot glue, duct tape, and an intro to editing from my child for me to figure out and create a time lapse video using my phone. Have you tried something new while at home? Hit reply and let me know what it is!

All the best,
Alissa

Moments of Peace in Strange Times

Life has a strange suspended quality now, and the days feel repetitive and surreal. I'm lucky to be isolating with plenty of space, and not to be on the front lines of risk (though grateful to everyone who is). Even so it takes conscious effort to remain optimistic. I thought, what if each day there was one thing I never got tired of?  Well, no matter how many times I move through essentially the same day, I will never stop looking forward to that first taste of my morning coffee. It's a small instance of gratitude that makes me want to look ahead to other moments of happiness.


Coffee, oil paint on linen, 8”x8”, private collection, Brooklyn NY

Coffee, oil paint on linen, 8”x8”, private collection, Brooklyn NY

How about you? What ritual, routine, or habit is sustaining you?

A note about this blog - painting is a pretty solitary profession, but I want to share and talk about my work. I'm trying something new: weekly notes from my studio. Want these notes delivered to your inbox? Subscribe here!


Curious about my work or the practice of art? Ask me in the comments and I’ll address it in a future message from the studio.

All the best,
Alissa