Transitions at GreenTARA Space Gallery in North Hero, Vermont, features Far from Black and White, an installment by Susan Smereka and Endangered Beauty, an installment by Sabrina Fadial. Their work combines to illuminate our instinctual desire to control our surroundings in order to make sense of the world in which we live. While Smereka reflects upon the human tendency to prioritize progress and purpose, Fadial challenges the notions of function as it relates to femininity. Together their work expresses an alternate perspective that challenges traditional concepts of value, revealing an unexpected sense of purpose that is often overlooked. Smereka and Fadial ask us to consider the minute facets of our lives that may be taken for granted, and reflect upon an essence of existence that is often overshadowed by the systems in which we function, and societal expectations through which we define our ideas of success.

Fadial sets these ideas into motion by making the impermanent permanent and the minute monumental. She forges iron into delicate organic forms that are larger than life. Her medium is traditionally used to build massive structures, and is valued for its industrial assets. Yet Fadial uses iron to explore minute details found in nature. She hammers, twists, and turns red hot iron into delicate forms such as seed pods and flowers. The strength of the metal becomes malleable in her hands, yielding graceful passages of iron that unfurl in space. Removed from the building supply stream, the iron is absolved of its original function, free to take on a new expression as a work of art. Without serving its typical purpose, nor providing an essential function, the value of this iron dramatically shifts. As a work of art it is allowed to appeal to the senses, evoke emotion, and become a tool of inquiry.

The act of metalsmithing holds great meaning to Fadial as it is largely considered a masculine endeavor. Working in a medium that requires considerable strength, and a penchant for sweat and grit, allows Fadial to celebrate a fiercer side of her femininity. Working in a process that is considered masculine, and creating elegant forms that most would describe as feminine, allows Fadial to dispel common cultural associations of traditional gender roles. Fadial’s sculptures take on an aggressive beauty that is startling to see on such a large scale. Their fluidity suggests a moment caught in time, a motion gracefully suspended in space.

Fadial embraces a spontaneous approach to metalsmithing to achieve these effects. While the traditional approach to metalsmithing is meticulous and planned, Fadial’s process is largely informed by impulse. She takes an emotional approach to her work, savoring the opportunity to be spontaneous, and finding inspiration in the detritus of her own artistic process. For Fadial, the most beautiful idea can sometimes come from the haphazard form of a scrap laying on her workshop floor.

The byproduct of the artistic process is central to Smereka’s art as well. She too challenges common notions of value by using scraps of fabric. Instead of casting aside the debris leftover from her projects, she regenerates her artistic waste in order to give value to the seemingly worthless. Smereka is inspired by a call to be resourceful, and an obligation to honor even the smallest scrap. She finds that even the most insignificant piece of material remains significant by virtue of its existence set in motion by her artistic process. The seemingly useless becomes useful again in the context of a new work of art, and takes on new meaning in its relationship to other materials.

Smereka emphasizes the aesthetic value of her material, and challenges her viewer to appreciate a fresh understanding that departs from the original function of the materials she uses. In this way Smereka presents a converse narrative woven together by the backs of tags and snippets of maps and fabrics that are obscured and transformed by her artistic alterations. Her collages ask the viewer to ponder the new significance of these materials, and experience the divergence from their original intention. In this way Smereka develops a sophisticated metaphor that reveals our need to piece together information to make sense of our experience of the world.

Smereka’s metaphor is present in the way she assembles her collages as well. Each piece of material creates its own unique portion of the composition, which is then divided in sections by lines of stitches. Following the tracks of her sewing machine one is confronted by a network of lines, some creating flowing organic shapes, and others that purposefully obstruct the rhythms found underneath. These divisions read like an aerial view of roads and borders, mapping out the systems through which we move, and the structures in which we live. These structures are necessary for our modern existence, provide us with stability and security, yet Smereka’s artwork presents them as superficial, delicate, and almost transient.

The human tendency to impose our own sense of order on the world is even more apparent in Smereka’s Burlington Series in which she paints satellite imagery of Burlington neighborhoods on panels of birchbark. The birchbark provides the backdrop for the familiar network of buildings and roads. The bold geometry painted over the birchbark almost causes it to go undetected at first, but at a second glance it is understood that this is the foundation on which these intersections of life are built.

Both Smereka’s and Fadial’s artwork remind us of the importance of the natural world in its own right, and acknowledge the essential role that even the smallest details play in the structures we have developed to organize our lives. Paying attention to these details allows us to ground ourselves in the truth that even the most trivial element can have value, especially if that value departs from the original intent to take on new meaning.

Water, Sacred Water at GreenTARA Space Gallery in North Hero, Vermont, offers a glimpse into a decade-long project explored by artist Janet Fredericks. This body of work developed in collaboration with fellow artist Dona Seegers, poet Guy Jean, as well as Fredericks’ longtime muse, water. Fredericks composes a visual cascade of water’s mystical qualities, expressing it as an intangible essence rather than a substance. She achieves this visual effect by integrating with her subject, and becoming part of the river’s world by jumping in to embark on the act of creation underwater. Through this process Fredericks formed an intimate relationship with water, a connection which she passes on through her artwork. Her reverence towards water offers encouragement to live in the moment, just as she did while creating these pieces, in order to access a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us.

The idea to submerge her paper and draw underwater came to Fredericks spontaneously. On a warm sunny day she brought a large piece of paper down to the New Haven River. On a whim she let her paper sink in the water and found that the most amazing patterns came into focus. The water revealed a new language that Fredericks was instantly compelled to record.  She stood in the river for an hour drawing the flow and ripples that passed over her sunken paper. Through this experience she realized that the water heightened her intuition and sharpened her senses. She felt more alive standing in the rushing water. Fredericks likens this occurrence to a divine intervention. It forever changed her perspective as an artist, deepened her personal connection to the natural world, and helped her understand that water is the physical manifestation of our lifecycle.

Water’s currents are a reaction to the land it passes over, existing only as a flickering moment in time. Fredericks’ drawings express this manifestation through rhythm and movement. In Golden River Scroll the visual thrust of the current pulls the viewer in, suspended over passages of calm. In Folded Bend in The River light streams over a backdrop of pebbles dancing in the water. Fredericks abandoned formal drawing techniques in order to illustrate the spirit of the moment. Often an artist maintains a certain command of her materials, but to convey the true language of the river, Fredericks realized she must relinquish control. The river is also an artist in these works, at times unexpectedly floating Fredericks’ paper downstream, or asserting its will to wash away the marks of her hand; after all it is in water’s nature to deconstruct. But water also creates, leaving pools and trickles on Frederick’s paper which buckles and curls off the gallery wall.

Working in tandem with the river eventually gave way to another form of collaboration within the ebb and flow of fellow humans. In 2000 Fredericks engaged in a 2-year collaboration with Maine artist Dona Seegers. The artists would send each other water drawings through the mail. First, one artist would submerge a large sheet of watercolor paper into a stream, lake, or the ocean, and record the language unique to that particular body of water. Then, she would let the piece dry, roll it up, and mail it to the other artist. Each artist would repeat this process in a new body of water, responding to the marks of past experiences while adding elements from her current moment.

Fredericks and Seegers would eventually end up with over 24 drawings produced in the waters of Vermont and Maine. Lexicon was created in this way, as a correspondence between three artists; Fredericks, Seeger, and the water. Drawn with sediment from the earth and pigment wash, Lexicon has the visual quality of an ethereal cave painting. The symbols and gestures on the paper speak to a deeper meaning embedded within the artwork. Layers of washes create a depth of space on which forms float freely, skimming the surface, swimming underneath, sometimes barely visible and just out of reach. The abstract quality of this piece serves as an entry point, allowing the viewer to jump into the waters of their own mind to find its meaning through personal interpretation.

Our quest to understand the world around us drives the creative process, and what can’t be expressed visually can be illuminated verbally. Water, Sacred Water features poetry by Canadian poet Guy Jean, developed in collaboration with Fredericks in a project and book entitled Et l’eau répondit… [And Water Answered… ]. Three of Jean’s poems and an excerpt from their book are hung alongside Fredericks’ paintings. The poems are presented in their original French verse alongside the author’s English translation. Jean’s poetry celebrates the art of language, offering a vehicle to further transport the viewer into the moment, such as in  J’inventerais des mots [I shall fashion words] excerpted from Et l’eau répondit…[And Water Answered… ]:

 

… so then

I’ll call your speech flowing on rocks and pebbles:

reudè, reudè

rosh-sh-sh-glou-glou

euch’-glùglù.

 

The movements of your lips

an unknown language

teach my lips to shape sounds I’ve never said.

 

Working together Fredericks and Jean illuminate the flowing consciousness that they each experience when contemplating the sounds and patterns of water. This is evident in Fredericks’ own verse as well: a journey between worlds / I am neither present nor absent / where mysteries of the soul / germinate. 

Water has the ability to communicate, and when given the chance provides direction and meaning. It speaks to us in the infinite ways it reflects and responds to its surroundings, whether urban neighborhoods or mountain streams. We know water is our primary source, and have always needed it in order to survive, replenish our inner reserves, and to cleanse ourselves. Fredericks’ artwork asks us to look beyond the ways water can serve us, and to consider the ways in which we can serve water. We may begin this process just as Fredericks did; by jumping in, watching, listening, and trying to hear what water has to say. Through Fredericks artwork we may access a conscious shift towards a deeper understanding of our inseparable nature by recognizing and honoring water’s energetic power, its spiritual value, and its life force.

 

In an age of uncertain complexities, Lion Roar at GreenTARA Space in North Hero, Vermont, offers a calmness rooted in our spiritual connections with the Earth. Artwork by Janice Walrafen, Suki Ciappara, and Diane Elliott Gayer evoke this sacred connection through tactile arts born of ancient tradition, wisdom, and harmony. The meditative quality of Lion Roar opens the door to a holistic selfhood that nourishes the soul, conveyed by each artist’s exploration of a deeper existence.

The series of masks by Janice Walrafen present the engaging personalities of diverse spiritual allies. A selection of masks were inspired by the artist’s seven day walk-about during which Walrafen fasted to encourage healing, vision, and to liberate herself of that which no longer served her. Each mask represents a specific idea corresponding to life’s journey, and the resulting self discovery acquired along the way. Each mask is an expression, conjuring a benevolent presence through empathy and affinity.

Many of these masks were created to be worn, offering a transformative power through their performative origins. Their clay faces are adorned with beads, boughs, feathers, leaves, some with magical traces of tulle and glittering pipe cleaners. The various shapes and sizes of human, animal, and abstract faces echo the rhythmic existence of all Earth’s species. Every apparent difference is an essential ingredient to the recipe of life; each character creating a dynamism in concert with the art around it.

Just as Walrafen’s masks symbolize metamorphosis, the felted pieces by Suki Ciappara offer a metaphor of transformation inherent to the properties of working with felt. The push and pull of fibers, teased apart, and gathered together creates an ebb and flow within each composition. The visceral nature of the wool fibers generates a physical presence that is felt without being touched. By simply viewing Ciappara’s pieces, one can understand the sensations of touch, the softness and warmth that resides within each piece. They break the barrier of sensation by conjuring a physical sensation through sight alone. This unexpected experience belongs to the realm of spiritual expansion, defying the rules of logic in order to achieve an abstract understanding of existence.

The series of weavings by Diane Elliott Gayer, titled Ancestor Voices, is inspired by the Five Elements; Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit. The visual effect is one of transcendence in the case of Gayer’s weavings, which present large blocks of color akin to a Color Field painting. The resonating colors produce a meditative effect that departs from weaving’s utilitarian heritage, breaking through to modern abstraction. Weaving is one of the earliest art forms, developing from the usefulness of interlacing branches and grasses to form shelters, nets, and mats. The connection to its ancient origins is evident in the functionality of its form and the harmony of the warp and weft.

Gayer’s personal history also inspired Ancestor Voices. The experience of exploring boxes of remembrances passed down by her late mother provided the foundation for these contemplative pieces. The timing of their creation, during the rise of the 2020 pandemic, also informed their meaning. The convergence of past and present, seen and unseen, are apparent in the poetry Gayer wrote to accompany each weaving: I bow to you in prayer / I give thanks to you in grief / I remember you in this time of stillness / and dream of other futures / on your winged flight – excerpt from April Sky, 2020. These poems illuminate the overall theme of Lion Roar, which is grounded in respect for the Earth, reverence of the past, and hope for the future.

Lion Roar emanates energetic healing and flowing compassion, celebrating the human spirit, and our moment along the thread of history. Lion Roar taps the power of visually soothing and meditative artwork, while creating an atmosphere charged with optimistic inspiration. The spiritual qualities of life, including the unseen forces of our ancestors, will always remain available to ground us in the present moment. No matter what extenuating circumstance is thrust upon us, we will always have the ability to return to the fundamental ideas that allow us to gain our bearings and reacquaint ourselves with our spiritual self.

 

Where do you Draw the Line featuring the works of Tuyen My Nguyen and Barbara Waters is on view at GreenTARA Space in North Hero, VT through October 6th, 2019. Exploring the impact of The US/Mexico border wall, Where do you Draw the Line presents analysis of its impact on human, environmental, and spiritual habitat through visual interpretation and photographs of the wall itself. The exhibition uses the power of art to move the politically charged topic out of the frenzy of the media into a space of contemplation to consider the consequences of drawing an impermeable line across the land.

Line is central to Barbara Waters’ monotype prints. She uses horizontal lines to create meandering intersections where the land meets the sky. In her panoramic prints she portrays vast landscapes with color gradations that create a sense of distance spanning as far as the eye can see. There is, however, another type of line in Waters’ prints: the vertical line, repeated one after another, also as far as the eye can see. These lines form the border wall. These lines divide and obstruct, representing a shift in perspective that undermines our roll as stewards of the environment in order to enforce a political mandate.

The border wall violates countless laws that were established to protect the environment. It prevents the natural movement of species that thrive on freedom and drastically alters fragile ecosystems including a UNESCO world heritage site. Waters presents the environmental protection laws that were dismantled in order to legally complete the border wall in Borderlands: Ghosts of Protections Past. In rows of lines mimicking the physical structure of the wall, Waters lists the 48 laws the government waived in order to erect a structure that would span the US/Mexico border. Some of these laws include The Endangered Species Act, Safe Drinking Water Act, Clean Water Act, Clean Air Act, American Indian Religious Freedom Act, and The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act.

Where do you Draw the Line includes a presentation of articles that delve into the history of the border and the Mexican-American war of 1848, when Mexico was forced to sign over 525,000 square miles of territory to the US. The legal issues surrounding the structure are discussed along with the myriad of environmental consequences, including the hazard it poses for over 90 endangered and threatened species, the expected increase in flooding due to obstructed waterways, the division of tribal nations, and the seizure of private land. The literature also sheds light on smaller details that hold great significance such as The Bureau of Land Management quietly removing their conservation-focused mission statement from all agency news releases.

Photographs that Waters took at the wall in Douglas, Arizona offer a glimpse of the structure in reality: barbed concertina wire looped in curls, the clear blue sky abruptly intersected, tourists taking pictures, and the distant horizon of a Mexican mountain range obscured behind jail-like bars. To expand on her metaphor of line Waters includes prints of multiple organic lines woven together like a fabric. But in Democracy: Frayed Edges and Mending Project the fabric has torn, appearing vulnerable, tired, and worn. In Ask the Right Question Waters uses a series of strong lines again, this time united in a lattice pattern. These pieces comment on the frailty of the US government while acknowledging the potential to address the deeper issue raised by the border wall.

The humanitarian crisis unravelling as a result of the wall is palpable when standing in front of Tuyen My Nguyen’s installation threadbarrier. Lines of black fishing twine reach from floor to the ceiling, arranged in the same even rows as the bars of the border wall. Situated between the entrance to the gallery and the rest of the exhibit, threadbarrier requires anyone who enters the gallery space to navigate its presence. Sets of life-size clay hands created by Georgia Landau gently grasp the thread, reaching forward, and in places parting the obstruction as easily as one might part a curtain. The disembodied hands memorialize the lives that have been lost, including the distinctly small and vulnerable hands of children.

The position of the hands, on the brink of crossing forward from behind the barrier, addresses the concept that fueled the construction of the border wall. Caught in a state of limbo, the hands are never allowed forward into the space occupied by the viewer. As just mere hands without bodies they are devoid of identity. They maintain their position as part of the wall, and therefore part of the problem. They are a reminder of how ‘the other’ is perceived, and in many cases feared because the differences in ‘other people’ challenge the truths we build. The border wall was erected because of that fear. It is an attempt to remain separate and encapsulate our culture instead of enriching it with others.

Born of Vietnamese refugees, Tuyen My Nguyen empathizes with the immigrant’s struggle to make a better life. Her family settled in Louisiana, in an area that would eventually be hit by hurricane Katrina. In the aftermath of the disaster, Tuyen’s parents remained committed to rebuilding their community despite the level of decimation and dwindling population. It is significant to Tuyen that the feat of repairing the local infrastructure was achieved in part by the efforts of migrant workers from south of the border. They showed up to help when many were fleeing the wake of the disaster, joining together for the greater good of the remaining community.

As a barrier made of twine, threadbarrier is ultimately meant to be irrational. Its ineffectiveness mirrors the wall’s failure to address the complex issues surrounding immigration, xenophobia, and the human rights violations that cause people to seek asylum in another country. threadbarrier is fragile, reflecting the delicate nature of our relationships with one another when our need to become a secluded nation overshadows our potential to demonstrate decency toward others along with respect for our planet.

Nature itself is constantly in flux, existing with an ebb and flow that does not observe the human tendency to set parameters and boundaries. The wild chaos of ecosystems, of which humans are an integral part, thrives only with the freedom to move and exist in tandem with this on going and dynamic ebb and flow. The border wall disrupts this, preventing species from fleeing danger and unfavorable habitats, restricting migratory patterns, and impeding the health and procreation of local wildlife. By creating an impassable barrier that divides the continent, we are developing more physical, social, and economic problems, while solving nothing. It is time to ask the right question – where do we draw the line?

 

Adding strength to this standpoint are Joan Watson’s Rock Formations. Occupying the same space as the viewer, the rock sculptures offer a grounding presence in their familiar form. They assume the role of companions, each with their individual character, to cultivate a sense of connection. In the setting of the gallery, Watson’s sculptures demonstrate the potential for a relationship based on the mutual benefit of simply existing together. The versatility of clay allows it to be transformed into almost anything, yet Watson has chosen rocks as her subject; a simple element elevated as art to be revered and appreciated.

Clay is one of the oldest materials of creation, dating back roughly 20,000 years. It is one of the earliest mediums used to create functional objects, which in turn provided surfaces for creative expression and communication. Sculpting with clay is one of the earliest steps in the evolution of technology, however at some point the sense of partnership between the creator and the medium was lost. Responding to the human hand, clay cultivates an intimate relationship; volume must be built from the core, working from the inside out. The artist’s intuitive response is achieved by feeling the material and understanding its properties, guiding the clay to its final form.

 

When I first started trying to be an artist there were two paths in front of me. I embarked on one at the sake of the other. Born of a fiercely competitive streak and awareness of being ranked while in school, I chose a path that I hoped would arrive at being the best. Of course there is no such thing as being the best, so this path is a catch-22 of infinitum. The other path, the path less traveled because it is more difficult to find, a path I wish I spent more time on, accesses the extraordinary thing that only the one unique individual self has to give. This path leads to the very core of all great art, and is the whole point of creating to begin with.

For countless reasons, I was too distracted to access the path of deeper self knowledge while in school. I was also probably fearful of looking that far inward. Having graduated with an MFA in painting in 2012 – the year the world was supposed to end anyway – I had even less of an idea about what making art meant to me than when I started. Sure, I could knock out a mean painting when I really applied myself, but I lacked a real understanding of what I was doing because I was using success and praise to gauge my progress, which is the most classic case of missing the point.

Fast forward to a day in June, 2019. Objective: paint from my heart, do it with feeling. Break the glass ceiling, punch through the fourth wall – give it a real go! In my haste to create, with pure wild abandon, I make a bunch of technically poor choices which are instantly humbling. I did a terrible job stretching my canvas, so I decided to rework a painting that I had been putzing with for months, and fulfilled every painter’s nightmare by applying acrylic over oil paint, completely ruining the entire painting.

Of course I felt really dumb when these things happened, and kind of like I was totally sucking as an artist. But I realized that in my excited, albeit foolhardy state, I was in fact chasing down something more important than the rigid formula of steps and chess moves involved in making a ‘good’ painting. This was the opposite of sucking as an artist. The preoccupation with technicalities, and adhering so strictly to doing things correctly are the very hurdles for the mind to get where it needs to go. In my zeal to create I wasn’t following the rules so I wasn’t curbing my imagination, and it was awesome.

However I did ruin a painting. And this felt pretty bad because I felt really stupid for making the mistake, and I squandered something that had a lot of potential. But as in art, so is in life: never underestimate the power of letting go. Especially when you are holding on to something just because you are overly sentimental about it. Sentimentality is an anchor that tethers you to the stagnant soggy bottom of non-creation. And that statement pretty much sums up the painting I accidentally destroyed.

The Ruined Piece was an attempt at abstraction, comprised of a series of noncommittal cute little whimsical marks that didn’t really relate to one another. When I looked closely at it I loved all the parts. But when I stepped back and beheld it as a painting it had no sense of unity, no substance, no meat on its bones – just fluffy movements recorded by absent-minded brushstrokes. It also revealed the bane of my artistic existence: the inability to paint over passages within a painting just because I liked them. Why would I pledge such allegiance to these insignificant passages, which existed like little dams for the creative flow? Because I was being sentimental, inflating the value of something meaningless, and holding my painting back from its own greatness.

The Ruined Piece has showed me that on occasion, the mere fact that something existed once, only to be seen by me, is worth while enough if it helps me progress towards something more meaningful and closer to what I envision creatively. It is inevitable that it will inform a permanent painting someday. Trusting this idea is empowering, letting go is necessary, and losing this hang up is pivotal. Getting rid of something that holds you back is worth every ounce of the precious space created by its absence. Sometimes the experience and the memory of the painting will be more worthwhile than the actual painting – you just have to trust that outcome.

This painting and I have been together now for 3 years. I think that after all this time we are finally done. It was meant to be a springtime painting in 2013, a primavera of renewal. Things started off pretty well, but I soon realized that I had exhausted the resource of its inspiration. So this painting sat for a while, would reappear, remain resistant, get turned to the wall. Reappear, change ever so slightly, but basically remain the same. Unwavering.

 

 

Starting a painting is like meeting someone for the first time. A painting can light a spark in you. The idea of whats beginning can make you want to pour your heart out without a thought as to how it all ends up. These paintings escalate quickly, fueled by the driving force of the feeling of experiencing the engine of it all. The inexplicable desire to indulge in the unraveling layers of curiosity brings on unimaginable transformations.

In theory these kinds of paintings would just hurtle forth and shatter all preconceived notions and expectations, materializing with ease each invigorating time after time.

But it’s far more inevitable to get lost. Where do you go when the blaze burns out? Once you loose your initial inhibition the process feels more like dredging the bottom to salvage the memory of the idea of how things could be. No matter how much effort is put forth, things are just not working out. No amount of deliberating or calculating can ever really change the course of nature; the more you want it to work out, the less likely it will.

Coming to this conclusion paralyses any forward motion.

The easy way out is to jump ship, because efforts met with such resistance can drain the ever loving life out of you. It is easy to get stuck here. Paintings that end up here are hard to budge. Because the pursuit of what can only happen naturally is a baffling undertaking.

For this painting I had let the impression of a face form first. Just the slip of gravity on a string. I was so enthralled by this early accomplishment that everything else after tip toed around these features. I became preoccupied with preserving what was already there instead of letting it evolve.

By accessorizing my proud moment I created a cacophony details, thinking that if I added just the right one they would all somehow make sense in the end. But every detail wanted its own attention and eventually all I could see were the parts. I had lost the sense of their unity as a whole and forgotten the face that had come forth then disappeared under layers years ago.

For some reason this one drew me back in, so instead of annexing this painting to the graveyard of unfinished ideas, I reacquainted myself with it. I was sure that there was still something waiting to be seen. Once I started again I was astonished at how quickly and simply all the parts fell into place, reaching the conclusion I had brooded about for so long in a matter of moments. I think this happened because I had truly given up on the painting; it wasn’t precious to me anymore. I didn’t really care if it worked out or not.

Feeling like there were no consequences to whatever I decided to do next was the only way to regain my footing. Getting inspiration back after loosing it is almost more of a triumph than when the momentum lasts all the way to the end. There is more of a story in the grappling, more soul in the revival.

These kinds of paintings are a real thorn in the side, but once they are done I love them even more because they contain a tremendous amount of myself.

It can seem counterintuitive not to do something just because you do it well. When I stood in front of the paintings in my undergraduate thesis exhibition I realized that there is purpose beyond the slick hyper realism rendering of reality. Because I was so eager to deliver a specific message, and achieve a predetermined measure of perfection, I had masked most of myself in the artwork by focusing narrowly on what it was supposed to mean, and supposed to look like.

 

 

As contemporary humans, and artists, we are susceptible to conditioning. Being so preoccupied with the desired outcome – our concrete definition of success – only serves to distract from the pleasures of expression. We are smart, but are we too smart? This indication of our advancement as species is the very thing that can take ahold of our creativity and marginalize its relevance. Without making room for the things that don’t pertain to the standards we have set, we miss the potential to unleash the best part of ourselves.

“At each stage I reach a balance, a conclusion. At the next sitting, if I find that there is a weakness in the whole, I make my way back into the picture by means of the weakness – I reenter though the breach – and I reconceive the whole. Thus everything becomes fluid again.” – Henri Matisse

Although the modern equation in which we live suggests otherwise, truly embracing the essence of who we are does not rely on our ability to accomplish but in embracing the resulting flaws of our efforts. Because our true nature is not to fulfill a preconceived notion of how things should be; our flaws are what make us absolutely unarguably different from every other single person.

Our flaws give us identity.

 

I can’t say that I know what I’m doing, which has always been the most exciting way to get things done. At least in my experience of artwork. I wouldn’t say that I am a technically advanced painter, but I can sure catch a certain momentum and ride it like the wind. Sometimes things turn out in my favor, the ending arrives with a flourish or a slow sifting out of all the ideas that have spontaneously cropped up. Sometimes I let go at just the right moment.

Most of the time I go too far and the magic that I harnessed on paper, canvas, in my memory, gets lost, burnt up in the process, destroyed by an emotional reaction. A handful of the art on here is merely a glimpse of pieces that eventually met their demise at the hand of their creator. I am still learning when to jump off  on the right beat, and figuring out how to pay better attention to when an idea has arrived, danced the tango, and then departed, leaving a somewhat mystical visual trace. For me creating art is more about being in touch with this inexplicable force and honoring the fact that it exists, and less to do with convention or expertise. I think that this very fact is why I can call myself an artist and not just feel like it’s pretend.

 

 

This piece is a multi media collage I titled Rapunzel because it is literally the woman in the tower letting her hair be climbed by a man. There is a lot of say about this as a metaphor for me as a young woman having let a man climb her hair back in 2006…but that isn’t as important as the other kind of woman this is: the raptured one, looking to the sky with a dagger of geese flying into a sunset piercing her heart.