This sweet & functional piece might be my favorite commission to date. A family of dear friends converted a little nook into a work-from-home office space, and came up with a hinged desktop that could be propped up when needed, and just hang on the wall when not in use. Since the nook faces their family room, they asked me to paint "something!" on the desktop so it can serve as an art piece whenever it's not (and while it is!) a desk. We talked through some options, I came up with a few sketches, and the idea they ultimately chose was a floral burst with each flower representing a member of the family. While the landscape and abstract floral designs I also offered were fun, this was definitely my personal favorite. Selecting a bloom for each of them was so fun, and I *think* they like my choices, ha! Since they wanted the stained wood of the desktop to be visible, I made sure to choose colors that would pop not only next to each other, but next to the tone of the wood as well. After choosing my colors, I set up on my front porch to map out the shapes and get started with the paint! Some of the lighter colors required multiple coats, and I was thankful the drying time of my oil paint was quickened since it could soak into the un-primed wood. Slowly building up contrast & detail, fine-tuning the shapes, and sharpening edges, I finished the painting and topped it off with a matte finish protective coating. The rustic feel of the stained wood persists, but the painting won't scratch or chip during use.
Overall, I'm so happy with the way this piece turned out! And I'd love to do more. If you're interested in a similar project, or adding paint detail to another type of furniture, head to my contact page and let me know!
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It pains me.
You exclaim how important art is to the world, ‘especially in times like this,’ yet I see no one but artists supporting artists. And we can only hold each other up for so long. It pains me. My hands feel like lightening bolts with nowhere to strike but the same place over and over again. Is it my redundancy that bores you? Or is it your thick skull refusing to crack at the shock of my electricity? It pains me. “Are you a student?” I was asked at a gallery opening as my heart was pinned to the wall, my guts dripping with years of hope and anger and wisdom compacted into tight little balls of crap you spent 5 minutes (or no minutes?) looking at. “Do you do this every month or is this your first time?” Does it even matter? Do you really care how many times I slice myself open, or are you just trying to gauge what you deem my ‘success’ against yours? It pains me. The thoughtlessness with which you approach my thoughts. The emoji replies. The ‘you’re so beautifuls’ and ‘omg pretties’ that I could care less about. Are you absorbing it? Does it make you uncomfortable? Is that why all you can point out is aesthetics, of either my own body or my body of work? Dear God, I hope so. It pains me. That in this time where so many of you scream at me to hunker down and produce a masterpiece, half of you don’t think I’m truly capable (because of my vagina), and the other half can’t bring yourselves to really look at it. But you expect my dripping guts to hit different now that I have all the time to weep until they come out of my throat. It pains me. That I can’t control your expectations (or responses, for that matter), but I can be angry about them. I can feel them rolling around in my belly and I can’t ignore them. You’re in this with me, after all. Are you ready to pin your eyes wide open until they fall out of your head with all this time you have now to focus? Oh, you don’t always feel like it? You do actually have other things to do? Or you’re realizing that everything about our world has changed? Me too. It pains me. That as much as I don’t want to, I need you. That as much as I don’t need to, I want you. That I have to find a new balance, after feeling like I barely got my feet on the last tightrope. That I don’t get to see you come face to face with my work. That I feel like I have to continue trying to put my work in your face. That I want to keep creating, but that process is filled with bigger thorns now and I keep having to gently pluck them out of my skin. It pains me, but I’m going to heal. I'm starting to notice a cycle forming in my artistic practice. I want to say that there's a beginning, or starting point, but every season feeds off of the others. One season is ideation; full of writing (like right now) for myself, for my newsletter, for proposals and applications. During this season is when little seeds are planted, when I jot down random phrases or short descriptions of a possibility. I spend a lot of time in my comfy yellow chair for this one, taking breaks to hypothesize a collage at my table, or stretch and rearrange some paintings.
Another season is realization: I start making. Or, I've been rejected, but I still make. My projects, personal or for another purpose, begin to bloom and grow, and I begin to realize what will and won't work. It's constant revision, constant pruning, constant decision-making, and I think I take the most naps during this season. I've just finished the third season, reconciliation: I come to terms with what I've made, meaning I take a pensive step back and evaluate for the last time, deciding that the work is finished. I often re-organize and clean up during this season, keeping my body busy while my mind steeps in the new pieces surrounding me. Then write a little more. Exhibition statements, titling individual pieces, creating marketing materials. It slowly ushers me into the first season I mentioned, ideation. And on and on we go. Through all of these seasons, I'm taking in inspiration and striving to grow and be better (we talked about that in December). A phrase I've become quite attached to recently is "I am my own." It strikes me in the sense that I am my own to love and nourish, which can seem selfish, but also in that I am my own to recognize when I need others. I am also my own to reflect upon, to see myself. I am my own, whole person. I am my own muse. I am my own curator, of my person and of my artwork. And I think this is where that phrase hooks me, in my career. As an emerging independent artist, I am solely my own. Exhilarating and empowering and exhausting. I am my own idea machine. I am my own executive. I am my own production team. I am my own marketing specialist. I am my own graphic designer. I am my own publicist. I am my own photographer. I am my own contract manager. I am my own social media manager. I am my own secretary. I am my own creative director. I am my own custodial team. I don't mean that I do these things in a vacuum; I work hard to make sure that's not the case. But I am the one with the responsibility and opportunity of my work, and all that entails. I decide when and how to show up. And while I believe that ultimately my entire life belongs to a much greater power than myself, and while I feel like I belong in and have responsibility to my community and my relationships (hi, marriage), this phrase clings to every season of my artistic calling. I am alive. I am creative. I am ideating. I am realizing. I am reconciling. I am my own. It was 10 degrees Sunday morning. Not my ideal "wake up early to go install artwork at church" kind of morning. But alas, I did it. And I'm glad. The church I attend, Fountain Square Presbyterian, asks artists in the congregation to create work to hang throughout the seasons of the church calendar. I chose to make work for Epiphany, a season that is often outshone by Advent and all the holiday hubub. I also chose to interact with the windows in our (rented) sanctuary, because they are just so darn lovely. I mention that our space is rented because I had to take into consideration the possibility of having to take down & put up this work multiple times throughout its duration. My desire for a large, impactful, consuming piece was reconciled with the short-term practicality by using muslin, watercolors, and a few wooden supports. I call it 'Soaked in spirit and in truth,' and it hinges on the idea of the 'thin place.' The idea of a ‘thin place’ is not uncommon. We are drawn to places that feel ethereal, that persist with the feeling of being close to the divine. Found in old Celtic traditions, modern Christian beliefs, and even in travel culture, is the idea that these physical spaces hold something metaphysical within. A celtic proverb states “Heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in thin places, that distance is shorter.” Tied to this idea, I think, is our longing for retreats and getaways to beautiful vistas and temperate climates. How many retreats are taken in the mountains, reaching towards the sky in hopes of getting closer to God or another idea of the divine? We are physical beings, so it makes sense that we would seek the natural world in our methods of worshipping a supernatural God. We see His creation all around us, and while some mundane scenes may not always scream of His character, we are quick to see the golden light cast upon the trees and call it His handiwork. Or as we stare into the foggy morning, the sense of the mystical unknown leads us to dwell upon His power. Our need of physicality to understand holiness is bound so tightly with scripture. In Exodus 3, Moses is called to the burning bush, hearing his God command him to take off his sandals, for he stands upon holy ground. Both terrifying and beautiful, God pulls in the physical when He is near. Mount Sinai, with its deep crevices and honey-colored sands, is the space where God revealed Himself to His people, where He declared “I AM,” amidst thunder and lightning, smoke and fire. But He did not stop there. In John 4, Jesus says to the Samaritan woman, “..believe me, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.” A time when the physical will not be the only thing tying us to our God, a time when thin places will be everywhere. A time when we all can approach the Father with full confidence that He is with us and He is for us. That confidence is possible because of the very season we have just celebrated. Through Advent, our powerful God, manifested in a small child who grew into our perfect Saviour, came to save not only His chosen nation, but every human being. And we now enter into Epiphany, the season where God revealed His eternal plan to all, even to those who seem unworthy. “Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth.” Christ is pointing us to the familiar ‘already-not yet,’ a tension-filled dynamic that leaves us aching with the hope of His arrival to fully heal our broken world. If we truly believe and hope for this, then let us worship in Spirit and in truth, in our own little thin places that we’ve created through our own spaces, our own communities. In an effort to encourage the FSP congregation in that mindset, I created the work you see below. The windows are thinly veiled, reminding us that we are not yet seeing the full picture, yet light peeks through colorful stains, giving us glimpses of glory. My hope is that these banners, soaked with the colors of Indiana landscape, swaying in the light of the windows, will serve as a reminder to take off our sandals, stand upon the holy ground we’ve been lead to, and declare that He IS, and always will be. While I feel a little big-headed typing this, I have to say that photos will just not do this piece justice. The watercolors separate into bands of pigment around each shape that is just not captured here. The breeze from the heating vents creates soft movement of each banner. And being surrounded by people who know and love you, who hope and ache and struggle and believe with you, gives much more depth to these veils.
So, let me know if you'd like to see this piece in person. Otherwise, join us in your own thin place, aching with your own hopes and holding close your own community. Soak. it. up. Rest is a double edged sword for me. I absolutely love anything to do with being cozy, peaceful, calm, quiet. Napping is my favorite activity, preferably with my cat, Agnes, curled up on my chest. A cup of tea or coffee gives me all the warm fuzzies. I constantly have a blanket around me, regardless of whether I’m actually cold. While I adore fashion, I honestly won’t wear something unless it’s comfy. A number of people have stepped into our home and immediately said “it’s so cozy in here!” and it makes me so happy every time. I’ve built in moments of rest and calm into my home and life and I love it. However… Amidst my moments of rest, even when I need it the most, I have a very loud, annoying, nagging voice telling me to be productive. It seems to almost get louder the more I need the rest. A day or two away from my studio can cause so much anxiety and guilt. But you’re paying for that space, and you’re not even in it right now. How are you really pursuing this dream if you have to rest from it so often? No one is going to take you seriously as an artist if you aren’t constantly working at it. How are you going to make a living if you don’t constantly put out work? Well, since you’re not in your studio you should clean the house. Do every chore imaginable! Have you seen the dust bunny in the corner of the bathroom behind the door? You slacker. And while yes, I do need to do work on the reg, this is not the voice of self-discipline. I know that voice and love her dearly. But this is a mean, accusatory voice that makes me feel like shit. It takes so much effort to silence her that I often just agree with her. I “push through” and go to my studio anyway. I suck it up and do every chore on the list. Usually on those days, I’m not that productive anyway. Or if I am, I’m an absolute witch while doing it. So this voice not only takes away one thing I desire and require (rest), but it chips away at my goals, dreams, and self worth too! LifeThe fact of the matter is that art needs rest. I need moments away from my work to come back at it with fresh eyes and new ideas. And those moments don’t always have to be a nap (maybe only, like, 60% of the time). It can look like taking in other artists’ work, talking about my life with friends, talking about my friends’ lives with them, reading a book, watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, getting angry, getting sad, getting inspired and going to the studio and making and then starting all over again.
The other fact of the matter is that I, personally, require that rest. My personality, my anxiety, my human-hood has let me know in many ways that I must have moments of quiet and calm. If I don’t listen and care for myself in that way, I can’t function in a way that benefits myself and those around me. So, how do I deal when our culture screams against the practice of my career? I honestly don’t know. I just keep pushing back. I keep asking those I trust for reassurance. I keep napping. I keep being cozy. But I also keep pushing myself to say yes to things that scare me and make me uncomfortable (or uncozy, if you will). Because it also means saying yes to the moments I find I need to pause. Life is never a binary, and I'm always walking these lines striving to find a balance somewhere. Just add "rest" and "work" to that list, please and thanks. I’ve been slowly pruning myself for years. I think we all do this, as we gain a sense of self, we begin to observe others’ selves, internalizing the things we are told are valuable, gross, lovely, weird. I remember at first it was bad to be weird. Sixth grader with the weird jeans? Nope, go to American Eagle and fit in! Your hair does that weird cowlick thing? Ugh, style it better! But then high school hit and it was like, cool to be weird and like, random! Like, so unique! But not TOO unique.
Enter.. adulthood? Or maybe the Societal Hum of the Importance of Normalcy’s Link to Success got a little too loud? I can’t pin point the timing, but somewhere along the line my pruning shears became quite sharp, and I slowly began to shave off bits of myself that felt like overgrowth. Too much oddness, too much emotional expression, too much caring. I wanted so badly to fit into the mold set out for me, to be seen as all the good things and none of the bad. To not rock the boat too much, just enough that it’s cute and quirky. To not let my ideas be too out there, just different enough to be ‘good.’ It was ultimately fear that motivated me to sharpen my shears. Fear of being over the top, of not being right, of disapproval. I could hear my fears stir from slumber in the subtle language of peers, misguided reprimands, my own inner critic, and that damn Societal Hum! Instead of my oddities being cultivated into twisting vines to adorn myself with, all of these sharp blades just snipped them at the roots. So I burned the underbrush and polished myself shiny. I cut back the wilderness and presented a well manicured garden. Sometimes I wonder how marvelous I would have looked if my vines had become overgrown. Instead of getting caught in that lovely what-if, I’ve decided to go in search of those roots, pull them to the surface and encourage them again. To vibe off of Mary Oliver’s idea of the three selves, I want to chew my life as a child well in my savage teeth. I think it is then that my third self can flourish, can continue hungering for eternity with the hope of grasping it. That self requires solitude at times, occasionally darkness, often nostalgia. She aches amid injustices large and small, and will absolutely cry for what seams like no reason. Allowing her what she requires is often frightening and uncomfortable. It means taking risks and waking the fears from their slumber. It means letting the madness of overgrowth bear fruit. So. If you see me being a little funky, a little absurd, a little twisted and covered in vines, just let me grow. I’m coming up on one year (!) of signing the lease on my studio space. It’s got me dwelling on this past year of creating, of parsing out my practice and organizing my space, of creating two (!) new bodies of work, and many things in between. I’ve said before how much I love buzzing back and forth between different mediums. Sometimes I work in three different ones all in the same day, or maybe I spend a week in oils, the next in collage or printmaking or drawing. Before I had this studio, that movement felt chaotic and painfully spontaneous, leaving me with unfinished work or less-than-coherent ideas. This space has given me the freedom to leave things out, to stare at them for hours without “working” on them. It’s given me perspective, and allowed me to approach pieces with deliberation and softness. Not to say there aren’t days when I just get to WORK, with a fierce passion and emotional energy, slinging paint and ink and slashing around magazines. But those days feel like a creative climax instead of a forced hurl, and they’re brought about by the slow, progressive work done beforehand. Cheeky, I know.
All that to say, in this new season of creativity, one where I feel a sense of rootedness and methodical knowledge, I’m beginning to thread all of these mediums together. Not on one canvas, but in one space. By letting them converse, by taking visual languages from one to another, by weaving similar thought processes into the fibers of their foundations, I can assemble my work in a way that screams in harmony. So, if you’re wondering to yourself as I’m sure you often do, “What’s BA up to this winter?” I can assure you that I’m listening to the cacophonous voices inside and outside my head, slowly knitting them into one big harmonious yell. Come listen with me sometime. Fall has always brought with it a nostalgic pull that alternates tugging the corners of my mouth into a smile, then a frown, then back to a smile again. I’m not sure if it’s because my birthday lands on the first day of Fall, or if it’s the anticipation of being back with family during the holidays, but as the air shifts and the leaves turn, I find myself harking back to autumns past. Listening to bands like My Chemical Romance, The Mars Volta, and Coheed & Cambria, windows down as I drove myself through winding country roads to and from the barn three times a week. Stinging breaths of chilly air as I rode my horse through dressage and equitation tests, hands frozen in place but happy to not move them. Long walks to the shopping center near my house with my best friend, laughing off cat calls, contrastingly whispering about cute boys at World Market, and then buying all the snacks we could possibly eat. Nights beside a bonfire with my brothers and their friends, sneaking first sips of beer and feeling like I belonged. The warmth all these memories bring staves off the newfound chill in the air. My husband and I took a weekend recently and stayed at a horse farm in southern Indiana, simultaneously a much-needed getaway for both of us and an artistic retreat for me. These kinds of weekends were numerous as I grew up on the East coast. We could head to my grandparents’ house at the beach, or find a reasonable cabin in the mountains at a moment’s notice and just get. away. It’s not so easy here. Instead of two hours, it’s more like five to get to any mountains. There is no salt-water to speak of. And I have to say: flat cornfields are not as inspiring as the Blue Ridge mountains (I’m spoiled, I know). All that to say, this weekend was longed for and sought after with much anticipation, and I was surprised at the beauty that sits 2 hours away. Armed with oil paints, a cooler full of beer & hot dogs, and a 1000 piece puzzle, we arrived on the farm and were immediately in love. I could feel my chest swelling as I inhaled the sharp, sweet smell of horses & hay & dirt & damp while night fell and we unpacked the car. We puzzled, we drank, and we woke up to horses grazing outside our window. We hiked through rolling hills of grass & corn, through a wooded creek bed, and back to the barn to make friends with the cats. I hugged the horses multiple times. I sketched by the winding fence, painted atop a sun-lit hill, and Grant made a feline friend as he sat beside me writing haikus. After a night of grilling out, petting the cats some more, and finishing our puzzle, we woke up and made the quick drive to John Hay Lake. We sat and sketched and wrote some more. I almost cried. We left. It was perfect. It gave me hope that we’re making more autumns to look back on, creating new playlists to send us into fits of nostalgia, and gathering more memories to keep us warm when life gets cold. It also gave me space and time to take IN instead of constantly giving OUT. As an artist, it’s easy to feel like I’m not productive if I’m not constantly producing. The truth is, I need moments to take it all in, or what I produce isn’t going to be what I want and need it to be. It’s a cycle I need to follow, and I’m thankful for the ability to do so, a husband who encourages it, and for seasons that so accurately demonstrate that cycle.
Well, I have a lot of them. Feelings of inadequacy, of doubt, of elation, of excitement. And the contradiction of feelings results in tension, right? A tight pull in your stomach, maybe a swelling in your chest, or the need for a deep breath. Well, that tension is why I create. If I didn't, I'm convinced I would be pulled apart by it all. Actually, I started to be pulled apart by it all. For about a year, I just stopped making. Those feelings of inadequacy, mixed with a still-new city, lack of community, and quite honestly a lack of resources, led to me pulling back and almost hiding from my desire to create. It seems like I thought it'd be easier to just not. But oh, ho ho, was I WRONG. Those feelings didn't just go away; they festered. I didn't realize that listening to the tension in my body and letting it out by working at this artistic career would actually help. And while that year was hard and sad and full of anxious nights and a bit of terror, it also made me come back to making with a vengeance.
Part of that vengeance is right here. This blog, yes, but mainly my work. Putting myself out on a platter (read: screen) for all to see and read and misread and misunderstand and understand and identify with and roll their eyes at. Listening to the tensions in our minds and bodies, slathering them on a canvas, slicing them out of a magazine, squishing them onto a piece of paper and shoving them in your face. I won't always be profound, or entertaining, and sometimes I'll just be quiet, but I'll be here. I think you should listen to me. It started with me seeing a simple call for submissions on Instagram, which resulted in me marching up to Mike and saying “Hey! I want to paint the wall!” I work at a flower shop in the City Market, where Gomez BBQ is located. I eat there often. Mike & I are, what I considered, buds. So, I was maybe offended that I didn’t just pop into Mike’s mind as the ideal candidate for the mural he was commissioning. And since I didn’t, I reached out and made it clear that I was interested, sketched out some ideas, and presented them! He interviewed a few other artists, we chatted about cost, made some design changes, and finally, I became the chosen one. I am so, so thankful for the opportunity that Mike gave to me, and the joy it was to work with him. Don’t worry, we’re still buds. Since this is my first mural, I thought I’d write a bit about the experience. It was a bit of a challenge to work on. If you’ve ever been to the City Market, you know how crowded those halls can get, especially between 11a-2p on a weekday! Since I didn’t want to risk a load of spilled paint, I would only work on the mural during closed hours- namely, Sunday afternoon. This meant oddly interrupted work hours for me, and it took over a month to complete (thanks for your patience, Gomez!). Not to mention the challenge of working on a 90 degree, vertical surface, instead of the slight angled easel I’m used to! My arms were achey after every session, but it was so. much. fun. Blasting my music, hanging out in a space that felt “off limits,” and painting on a wall tickled my rebellious inner spirit. The resulting mural, while simple, is exactly what Gomez & I both wanted. A graphic, black & white depiction of local landmarks mixed with BBQ-ed whimsy. It even features his very own smoker! Since the full mural can’t be viewed 100% straight on, the simplicity lends itself to the angles you can see it from, and gives you just enough information to grasp the concept. Be sure to stop by Gomez BBQ, grab a sandwich, and check out the mural!
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