Tag Archives: Art

The Art of Time and Space

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This summer has been rewarding for me, as the mark of the first summer that I spent time on a new hobby.  I think that my family probably wishes that I did not discover painting, but I do, indeed, love to paint.  I am but a hobby-ist right now, but I can put all my attention into a canvas, and definitely churn out a painting….  From start to finish, in about a month.  It is something I think that I didn’t know or understand as a child and student, even when I was being pre-occupied with the more “artsy” and “socially-oriented” subjects, like music, literature, and drama.  These already allowed me to express my more artistic self without much loss, without much missing.

So, as I attended the first class, nervously wondering if I had everything that I needed, I was surprised that Night School for Adult Learners, is very relaxed.  The place, usually a school during the day for teenagers, becomes a classroom full of art, color, instruction, and usable tools for the trade of painting.  The talk and conversation is surprisingly mature and it is as if we all followed the stream to this place of enlightenment.  Suddenly, a visit to the Art Gallery is much more interesting than the thoughts I had in the past while walking by all the talent.

One of the first subjects we tackled, was the issue, “What do you paint?”  We started listing things that we see all the time: portraits, still life, and landscapes.  Then, there were the more modern, and some would say, more experimental objects, like a lily flower, the foyer of a cafe, a pile of old shoes and boots, and surreal dreams.  Then, the big discussion, “What do you think abstract paintings are about?”  This took us a moment, but then, the thoughts came: irony, balance, color, strength, pride, honor, desire.  Armed, within the first twenty minutes of the class, with these beautiful words that describe painting and visual art, we became more certain that we could do this class.  That we knew how to be painters and visual artists.

This class took me into the summer.  I was very excited, as the end of June approached.  I dreamed of the beauty of our cottage just by the lake.  I dreamed of this beauty with the imagination of someone unsullied by failure or disappointment.  I took time to “picture” the scene, and I started imagining the mixing of paint, to create color, and then, the big decision, should I create texture by adding a gel medium to my paints?  To build leaves of grass that could stand up, and ridges into the wood used to build the house….  I dreamed, and I dreamed.

Then, the first weekend at the cottage arrived.  I packed everything I needed into the car.  Easel, canvas, palette, brushes, and paint.  Everything, including my husband and my children, arrived safely….  I was ready to just jump into my painting clothes and start!  We use our cottage all year round, so there was no need to undo anything and set anything up….  I started to move all my material and instruments out to the back sun room where there is a perfect view of the backyard leading down to the lake.  The sun was still out upon our arrival, and I stood there a moment, deep breathing the scene inside.

It is the most precious moment I have of the this particular view.  To walk into a strength of beauty after a long ride in the car is utterly amazing.  It is like taking that first deep breath on the morning after a big snowfall.  My breath rushes down, and I forget that I breathe.

So, being flexible in work, not only did I have weekends to spend absorbed by my new hobby, I spent up to a week, one week this summer, just lost in painting and relaxing by the small piece of space that most feels like home.  It has been rewarding.  I may not be able to paint the Mona Lisa, but I am able to capture that beauty, that she is associated with.

We have also partly re-decorated the cottage walls.  Taking down anonymous paintings of terrestrial beauty, to be replaced by my own exploration of beauty and meaning.  I am looking forward to the start of the night classes again.  I am already planning what it is I will paint.  Perhaps, still life, this time.  I would want to try to get a painting finished before the fruit rots and the flowers wilt.

I think about ironic things too.  If I can get enough of my paintings together, I would want to have a gallery show, somewhat along the lines of Virginia Woolf‘s style of publishing.  I would have a “Vanity Show,” where my work would be displayed only for as long as I could rent the space, rather than as one of the Gallery’s standard list of artists.  And suddenly, I could find people who could like my work.  Just like writers want to be read, so, visual artists want to be seen.

I am spending the last week of summer trying to title my two paintings.  I have a million titles, but it is hard for me to find a title I love.  And, very silly of me, I think I am purposely taking all this time, to see if I can come up with as many suitable titles as I can.

And so, as I imagine one day being able to paint the thrill of riding in a convertible down the highway, just like I imagined painting the quiet beauty and strength of a view of the lake, I like to imagine that I can do it.

Is the Beginning of the End Too Late?

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Is the beginning of the end too late?  I know I have already asked this question, at least once this year, but it is rearing its enormous head, yet again, begging my attention.  I feel that everything that is happening, with my job, with my family, and with my interests and pastimes, are all coming to some sort of end.  The thing?  Well, a simple, “What is going to happen next week?”

It is easy for me to be a coward, until, that is, I realize that if I choose to not do something, that I will literally end up with nothing.

The next step?  I need to be clear that I want my job, that I want to be with my family, and that I value my lesser talents in my hobbies.  Yes, an enormous and ugly head is rearing itself up, right now.

So, in this end, I ask, “Let’s do something!”

With some disposable money, a short trip outside of this one horse town is possible.  Then again, visiting friends or throwing a big party and inviting some out of town guests is always fun too… and probably something worthwhile if I can promise some fun and a magical tour of the city’s bars in the trendy and bar part of town.

About time….  My children are going to be hanging around the house for the whole summer!  Should I promise them another Camp  Summer?  Or, should I home school for two months and have themselves teach themselves a new skill?  And to practice on it?  I had perspicacious parents who did this to me every summer.  I would get home from summer school, which was filling half the day, and i would have to read books, practice piano, or do a chore like bake muffins or cookies.  Having responsibilities like these made me aware that I was more privileged than other children.  It made me aware that I had a lot more to do, than just come home and watch television.  I actually loved a lot of the things that happened to me in childhood, and I valued the things I could do, and having control over these talents, tasks, and knowing things when I heard other people talk, helped to keep me interested in school, life, and other people.  I accredit my parents for being the smart and cool parents for doing so.

So, this end that I see approaching, very quickly, is it for real?  Is it too early for everything to end?  or is it in fact too late?  Am I now too old to start a second career?  Am I too bored with my job to be able to do another similar job?  Do I have time to go back to school and find that magical, hoped for, favorite second job?  all these things are true, which makes me ask myself, “Am I filled with enough energy to handle two lives happening to just one person?”  Can I be a student and still be a parent to a family and a wife to a husband?  While I go to school, will I have time and money to cope with all of it?  I really cannot take out a second mortgage for myself, while I also envision taking out a mortgage for my children’s education.

With responsibilities pressuring me in a way that I could’ve never understood before, I feel as if I am giving up on myself in order that I am responsible for my children.  As well as for my husband.  Being a wife and mother changes priorities.  Men will always win, as men are.  And I am willing to put my education somewhere at the back, where perhaps, when all monetary responsibility for my children and also my physical responsibility for providing a home to them, is past.  It is not as if I have lost hope in myself.  It is at this fork in the road that I yet again, take the right hand fork.  I can’t see how far it leads, or, where it will begin again, but I am confident in being here.

If I can convince my children to fend for themselves a few days in the week, with promises to pay for visits to the theme park or the water park, and maybe a ten day trip family camping or going to rented cottage, this summer, I think I can still live with myself.  I will have the time to indulge, in secret, my interest in art.  As I fumble with the pencil in my hand, and play with the color of paint.  This looks as if it will become a satisfying two months, before the next time  I will have to yet, again, make the THE decision.  I will have to decide whether to be more of a mom, more of a wife, or more of me.  So, for now, it is done.

Surprising Thoughts In the Summer

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Funny thing.  I recently saw a play where nothing ever changes.  The name of the play?  “Waiting For Godot.”  I actually not so much as saw it, as read it in book form from cover to cover.  The exciting thing is the one skeleton tree on the stage.  It is there when the stage lights come on and still there at the end when the lights go off.  It is the one very strong metaphor, outside of the life we live with the two clowns.

The play is only two acts long and the same  thing happens in both acts–nothing.  The clowns clown around, spending the night together by the tree, and eventually, the clowns leave, singly–effectively separating themselves.

The play is by Samuel Beckett, an ex-patriot Englishman living in Paris, France.  He originally wrote “Waiting for Godot” in French and then re-wrote it in English after receiving the reviews.  He is still a very famous playwright, now that he is dead.  He is in good company with other playwrights like Eugene Ionesco, all of them referred to as the Absurdists.

It was by accident that I came across the play, and even got to reading it.  I think I was attracted by the black and white 1929 or 1930 feel, of dust-bowl America where nothing exists, and everything is cheap.  The clowns are in bowler hats, overalls with suspenders, and checked, button-down shirts.  They have stubble and rough work boots on.  They also often speak non-sensically, in gibberish, and they will mix their languages, with one sentence carrying up to three or four different languages.  “Waiting for Godot” relies heavily on our imaginations to fill in the parts that the clowns do not speak.  They in fact do not debate very much or very long on their existence, which we can only say is a mystery.

They make fun of almost everything, which leads to some surprising conclusions, whether the answers have to do with reality or with just imagined places and things.  It takes an educated actor to be able to take on one of the roles, including a travelling hobo who sells things from his cart.

The three characters are equals.  There is no “ruler,” “police officer,” “rich person,” “poor person,” “parent,” or “child.”  They all meet as strangers, and even though they become acquainted, they leave each other’s  company separated.  It is a stark play of a tough reality.  They become closely acquainted in their struggle to find meaning in existence, even going to the point of questioning whether they actually are existing?  But, as reality is, the play comes to an end, the stage is cleared, and the skeletal tree is left standing on the stage.

So, have I heard the clowns?  Am I enlightened, according to that great European Revolution, which demanded its intelligentsia debate reality and come up with better solutions to life?  Beckett probably can be considered one of the elite during the tail en do the Enlightenment.  He challenged common thought that there must be a God, that life as it is, is not “good enough,” as, any person who imagines himself with the power of God, would definitely do a better job.

It has now become moot in my eyes.  The debate is an exercise.  Something to meditate on. I heard that things change as we grow old.  That my reading of “Waiting for Godot” now, will have a completely different understanding ten years from now… or, even twenty to thirty years from now.  The English language, according to the Oxford dictionary of Common English is always changing, and it always changes faster and more accurately the more people read–the dictionary included.

I consider this the one big project of the year, that I have promised myself to complete, annually.  It is a habit I picked up from school.  My private school teachers insisted that even though school is out for the summer, we must find a project to do and finish.  Now, that I am older and no longer living my life from school term to school term, I can usually satisfy myself by completing one big project a year.  It does not have to be reading some elitist book, but it does have to make me fee like I like myself.

So, now that “Waiting for Godot” is over, for another twenty or thirty years, I find myself thinking of making a beer cocktail, making sure it is sparkly, sugary, and bitter.  I see myself at our cottage, by the dock, and feeling the breeze that builds in late summer off the shore.

Library Books

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One year, when I was working for the winter in the Public Library, due to my contract there, I travelled to one of their central branches–the storied branches that held more than the usual books on more than the usual topics.  I noticed, quite early on in the contract, that there was a little room run by volunteers (little old ladies with white hair and light blue smocks on) where books that had been withdrawn from circulation and donated books, were being sold at the incredibly cheap prices of $1, $2 and $5.  Even, now, with inflation, these are cheap prices.  The books were not necessarily current, and they had never been on the bestseller list, but there was appeal in their timelessness, and anyone studying on any topic could probably get a very good start in understanding it–much more than taking the introductory 101  could, at the local university.

So, one afternoon, as I was finishing up for the day, I decided to see what this little room was all about.  When I say little, I mean, very small and cramped.  All it was missing was the musty smell and the dim lighting famous in many university libraries.  The two little old ladies were by the door where there was a desk and a little money box. They did not pry, as, I guess, they were not librarians.  So, I disregarded them after a smile, and proceeded to look at the shelves to see what this room was about.  Not the Dewey Decimal System.  (I was relieved.  I would have walked out without any interest lost.)  The shelves were labelled with English words (and not universal numbers) that described broadly what the subject of the books were. There was an entire book case where each shelf on it was reserved for several of the more languages in the city.  I can’t read anything other than English, so I skipped it entirely.

Even though the room was small, three walls were filled plus two long rows down the middle.  Some books were old and breaking, almost beyond repair, and I guess people looking for a gem, even if it were slightly damaged, would pay the $1 or $2 for it.  There was also a good collection of children’s books.  I did look through it, at the time, because I already had a niece, but I didn’t happen to find anything.  There were two shelves reserved for random movies, and because I am not overly interested in this genre of entertainment, I gave the most cursory glance and moved on.

I got to the bottom shelf on the bookcase against the back wall, and I gasped in delight.  It was filled with large books of photographs on various topics.  My experience with large books of photographs, even if the photographs were not taken by famous photographers, is that they are very expensive.  Many a time I have spent over one hundred dollars on any of a number of impressive books.  And, the hobby of photography is incredibly expensive, even now, in today’s world when you don’t have to rent space at a local darkroom to get the photograph you want developed.

So here, I felt as if had found the fount of gold, and the river just kept flowing out with the gold.  Even just glancing at the shelf I could see several books I was interested in.  My limitation, today, was the weight of the books, as, at the time, I had taken transit to the library (it was in the central part of the city.)  I knew that they would not be so nice as to hold on to the books I bought, and that whatever I bought today, I would have to take with me… even if I bought ten.  So, I began to calculate, in my head, the best way to solve this problem of space and muscle and strength.  In the end, I settled on three very large books, with photographs on every single page in between the covers.  They must weigh at least twenty pounds each.  The way I decided to let go of any of the others?  Easy, I chose every single book on the country.  One, about the United States, one about Canada, and one about the mid-West.  The pictures were priceless, and I only paid $5 for each book.  I find that when I go to the commercial book stores, the photography and art books appeal to the greater public and that the topics are therefore very broad and have no subjects that would involve any great and deep understanding of politics, color theory, history, or a foreign point of view.  All that is needed is the ability  to see and understand beauty.  So, now, armed with this new theory as to the type of photographers and the domain covered by certain books and experts, I found beauty in the books that day.  I still have these three books today.  They communicate, more, than what words alone can.  My favorite from the three books is in the catalogue of the mid-west.  The picture is of a winter evening on a small hill looking downwards to the small valley, and the rise beyond where the setting sun sits in command of it all.  The evening coats the thin layer of snow in a regal, purple-lish glow, and the bench in the foreground in relief as almost only a shadow.

I am quite content with my purchases, considering that they are not the usual fare.  I find the older I get, the more I value the things I couldn’t understand before.   I value what it is that others have and what others are.  So, to this July’s celebration of the incorporation of the country, grow older happier and richer in experience!

Artists Posing As Models

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Artists always think about models and imagine the ways that they can pose, but, artists never imagine themselves posing for art.  The beauty is always on the outside, radiating outward form the life of the model as they stand in perfect placement, showing what pride, or rush, or attitude is.  And, as an artist, I imagine the light shining on these beautiful models, illuminating their strength.  I imagine them, dressed, to show the place, the time, the meaning of just standing.  I imagine them, unclothed, lying on a surface, reclining on cushions, or standing with a purpose in full nudity.  This is how artists work.  But, to ask the artist themselves to do what it is the imagination says is the way to do it, then, they become shy, and hesitate, and try to think of all the ways that this request does not make sense.  It truly is not a proposition that actually, truthfully, works.

Artists spend much more time seeing and working than in bathing in the beauty of lighting.  So, I was surprised by a request from a fellow artist to pose for one of his pieces.  True, he did ask it of me in good faith, as it was to be a silhouette shot and my actual bod would be as of a shadow.  Light coming full force from behind like this, is usually flattering on the body, even if it is rotund rather than lithe and lean and long.  So, if you have guessed already, yes, I did agree to do it.

So, now, the picture of me , posing as someone in full ecstasy at the sight in front of her, while she holds a camera, is something that exists.  I did not get a good look at the final product….  But I trust my artist friend will do a good job of making it representable.  I thank him, as we all have pride that easily bruises.

I spend a lot more of my time looking at how things are.  I wonder if the colour, or if the shape, or the height of a thing….  Perhaps if even the race of a human being, all make sense.  I wonder if there is meaning to be captured in skin colour, in hair colour, in costume, or even occupation.  I am comfortable here.  Mostly, like everyone else, I am never sure that I see the truth of it all, but I am curious enough to always ask the question, and to be daring enough to find the answer, with words….  Or with sight….  Or with models who can pose the meaning int the truth of their physical pose.

Right now, it might  as well be a doctoral thesis, but I am searching through paintings, and repainting the traditional European view and stance of the beautiful woman.  The idea of the strength  of a man, and even the crises of war, rape, and death.  Sometimes, I can do it….  I can accurately recreate another view, and sometimes, I have a cartoonish outscome to something that needs grandiosity rather than humour.  Overall, the work is slow, and at often times gratifying.  Mostly I consider this work, rather quite rightly described as “experimental.”  It never truly is ever all completely satisfying.

So, to my artist friend who took a picture of me, thank you….  You posed a very accurate question  in asking if I would pose.  Yes, in my mind, when I think, I would ask a model to do the same pose….  To capture what it is an artist looks like when they are in ecstasy looking at something beautiful.  Whether I am a model…  Well, let’s just say, in my own mind, yes, as my thoughts are the model of meaning for all my work.

Startled By The Startling

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It has happened several times already, to me, and twice just in the beginning of this year till now.  When I ride the subway, I am enclosed in a tube that travels fast in a darkened tunnel.  The noise is a din, and sometimes, the subway car will shake and rattle….  And thankfully, it has not yet rolled.

During the ride, I will sometimes turn my head to look out the window.  And, on occasion, I have seen full-grown, rotund in girth, men….  Standing inside the tunnel, inches from being brushed hard and forcefully by the subway car.  They are often in helmets and reflective vests, as well as their construction pants.  It is a startle each and every single time.

I have been reflecting on this phenomenon, and it leads me to ponder the ideas that men have about “Design.”

There is a museum in Toronto, the Museum of Contemporary Design, called the Design Exchange, that I visited around the time I first happened to spot one of the many men of the TTC standing in the tunnels….  Almost  as if I was only going to get my questions about the oddity of men’s behavior answered.

Just thinking about fifty-year-old engineers gleefully measuring out the inches in a tunnel is a funny thought.  It makes me chuckle a little, but also, to turn my “fun hat” around and think more seriously about “design.”  Building buildings and tunnels and bridges takes a lot of money.  The type of money that governments of the world hold and spend.  So, would there actually be a fifty-year-old engineer, gleefully mapping out the construction of a subway and the tunnels, just thinking in passing, of creating enough space for utility and safety…  Or…., would this engineer be without care, spending enormous amounts of money just to have some fun?

So, being unable to justify spending millions on a few extra inches, I went to the only place that was open to the public that dealt with the study of design–The Design Exchange.

The day I decided to go to the museum, was a hot, sunny, August day.  I decided to wak there from the office I work in.  It was around time to leave the office and go home for dinner, and, surprisingly, since I did not do this very often, I noted that a lot of people choose to walk a few blocks rather than stand in the heat and eventually sweat in the sauna of a transit streetcar.  It took me twenty minutes to get there.  I got reprieve from the many tall office buildings.  It was almost as if tall and large buildings are built in the new world of summer heat just to be enough shade that interior city streets can be kept cool by the buildings’ enormous shadows.  The Design Exchange is just in the south end of the Business District, and is, itself, housed in a very tall building.  It is on Toronto’s Stock Exchange street, Bay Street, which is equivalent to New York’s Wall Street.

Inside the front lobby, which was spacious with a two storey ceiling, the materials for a display on printmaking, bookbinding, and eReaders was placed near the entranceway.  It felt welcoming as the objects looked familiar and this made me think that I wouldn’t have to read all the written material and feel completely lost to the meaning.

There were many examples of print, and a history of print font, starting from the Bible to Newspapers and Magazines, and even into the digital print font that we are all now surrounded by, more than anything that is printed on paper.  The display only dealt with the international language, English, rather than any other print font of another language.  But I am sure I understand the idea of the change in font throughout history.

Inside an alcove just behind the main display was a somewhat smaller, more artistic, display of books on shelves of different heights.  It was a mini-review of the design of the book cover over the decades as the printed word became more and more accessible and saleable.  Finally, the last part I looked at was a written piece about the utility of the eReader in comparison to the longevity of the printed book.  This essay, by a prominent editor, might be floating around the internet right now in one incarnation or another.

After this gold-mine, I still had the “Store” to visit.  It was another display of objects and art that involve design.  Practically everything was in it….  If not in object form, then in the form of a picture.  No mention of money was ever made in this mini-museum display, but my understanding is that advanced civilizations are very minutely designed in everything.  This is an area of work that is rewarding, probably both monetarily and socially.  Designing things that are useful, fun, surprising, pleasing, accommodating, and, that others can find and want, is a true career.  There is no end to the work that needs to be done, and therefore no end to the job.  There will always be money in Art and Desgin.  I am thinking back to the men in the tunnel.  I am sure they find the “neatness” of being able to continue their work even when trains keep running through, and past, them, one of the reprieves of their job.  It would probably take more than double the time to do what it is they do, if they could only work when there were no trains running by.

In life, making money and having lots of friends while doing it, is truly rewarding.  It is almost a requirement in the job description to make it happen successfully.  I think I am truly envious AND jealous of all designers.  In my next life, I will become what is becoming….  A practitioner of that which rules the world.