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Posted on 1/20/2019 2:12:45 PM
By Donald Fox
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For two days I have absorbed a quiet passing. A cloud moves in front of the sun as I see it, and that ninety-three million-mile journey of light that travels eight minutes to warm my hands is briefly interrupted though my hands still glow with radiant heat. Yet something has changed; hidden by that white veil, a spirit slipped away like the furtive creature disappearing into dense foliage. Tracks on the path give clues to its passage like notes jotted into nature’s journal. A bear, a deer, a fox, a poet - all gone silent into the leaves and grass.
We are fortunate to have thoughts and insights as fervent prayers pressed into pages much like the keepsake golden leaf pressed between the leaves of a scrapbook. These scraps, though, chronicle a life’s journey and light the way for any of us who choose to follow the wisdom of nature as reflected in the mind’s eye of this solitary traveler.
In Blackwater Woods
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Mary Oliver, from American Primitive, 1983
Posted on 1/17/2019
By Donald Fox
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Whether I begin a blog in a notebook or writing pad, I will transfer it at some point to a Word document which is then uploaded to my website. I always begin with a blank document, change the default 11 point font to 12 point, set for first line indent, single space, and check the box that says “Do not add space between paragraphs of the same style.” These actions set my document to desired format, something that could be done after the document is completely typed. In a way, though, these preparatory actions are similar to prepping a canvas for painting or assembling materials to be able to draw or paint unfettered by interruption by having to search for the proper tool. Inspiration and creative expression can flow without hindrance. These small rituals also help me prepare my mind for that creative flow.
Many artists follow rituals of preparation much like athletes and performers warm and loosen muscles or vocal cords so that their physical instruments are fully prepared to meet the demands and potential stressors of their chosen activity. Additionally, practices and rehearsals keep those instruments attuned for longevity. The physical body is as much a part of the painter’s expression as that of the athlete or dancer, but the body is always powered by the mind. Whatever actions prepare the body also affect the mind, and exercising the mind is fundamental to wellbeing and creativity.
When I was a kid, I learned from my granddad about priming the pump, an expression that many young people would not understand today. Though his house had indoor plumbing, there was a well between the house and the barn with a hand pump that had to be primed by pouring a small amount of water into the top while pumping the handle. These actions created suction to draw water up from the well. That water was always cool and clear with a taste superior to that of treated tap water. The small priming action reaped a great reward. The climactic scene in the film The Miracle Worker when teacher Anne Sullivan forces young Helen Keller’s hands under water pumped from a well while signing the word for water was especially poignant for me because of my granddad. Helen makes the connection between the water and the sign for water tapped into her hand by her teacher. This one action opened a new path to learning that lasted the rest of her life. She transcended her afflictions (deaf, blind, and dumb) to become world renowned as an advocate for the disabled and underprivileged and a voice for social justice (she literally learned to speak and lectured widely). She wrote about this priming event in her autobiography, a pleasurable and inspiring read.
As a painter and artist, there are many actions I perform by way of preparation. I don’t discount the smallest of these for I understand the priming action and its multiplying effects. I make notes often. I doodle and sketch in notebooks and drawing pads. I clean my brushes, my palette, and my work space. I pay attention to as much around me as I possibly can. I give myself time to think and to daydream. I read and research frequently. I study the history of art and muse about early attempts at creative expression. I paint often and without reserve. I never cease to marvel at the richness of the world or the varieties of creative insight. In short, I do everything possible to prime the pump.
Posted on 1/13/2019 6:48:43 PM
By Donald Fox
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Totem Window
As a landscape painter, a path I followed off and on for over two decades, I worked mostly on easel paintings of moderate size. On location or plein air, I would work small scale, generally not more than 16” x 20.” The logistics of transport from the field of equipment and wet work in progress demanded a smaller scale. In the studio I could size up to paintings rarely spanning more than arm’s length. A four by five-foot piece was about as large as I chose to work mainly because that pictorial space felt sufficient in size to explore the visual space of a scene. A lot can be said visually within the span of an easel size work.
Much mid to late twentieth century painting, especially abstract painting, was monumental in scale. Large architectural spaces needed large works to fill them and artists felt moved to work on this over life-size format. Some painters began to think of paintings as pictorial environments and would create mural-sized works or a series of connected works that might fill an entire room or gallery. The viewer could stand close and have his or her visual field filled by the expanse of the painting. Or, the viewer could be surrounded by a connected work on all sides.
This was not a new concept, however. Some of Monet’s late works of water lilies were environmental pieces like those massive panels in the Musée de l’Orangerie, a museum built specifically to display the physically surrounding connected paintings. These were early twentieth century paintings by a painter usually associated with late 19th century Impressionism, but he lived and worked into the late nineteen twenties.
Even during preceding centuries, though, painters worked large scale to make impressive works for the French and English academy salons. And before that artists sometimes worked large scale for their wealthy patrons to make works that would cover enormous walls in castles. Of course, there are many Renaissance examples of mural works done for churches and chapels. Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling mural being one of the most noteworthy.
That kind of scale has not interested me although I’ve done a few murals, the largest being about twenty feet in length. These were commissioned works that were not expressions of my normal areas of exploration. I’d call them strictly commercial pieces.
The abstract work of the last ten years or so has mostly been in the same scale range as my landscape work and has been an outgrowth of that work. I think of this work as experiments in color and texture influenced by landscape but also influenced by handmade paper explorations done during the eighties. That paper work was mostly about process and the physical texture of dyed fiber manipulated into collaged pieces with occasional paint added to dried paper. Sometimes I created low-relief cast paper sculptures.
Paintings done over the past decade are about painted surface and the visual and physical texture of paint on that surface. Process is important as layers of paint create spatial and gestural movement across and within the surface. I don’t reject illusory depth as some abstract painters have done. The illusion of depth contrasted with real physical texture from layered thick paint suggest to me the interplay between memory and momentary perception. I intend to create paintings that are as visually rich as the world each of us experiences every day.
As I continue this exploratory process, I find myself gradually increasing scale. The half dozen or so recent works are larger than previous ones and are also more complex compositionally. The largest so far is six by four feet. The physical presence of such a work makes a distinctly different statement from a piece one quarter that size. Somehow, I find this reassuring at a time when so many images are shrunk to the size of a hand-held screen.
Posted on 1/1/2019 7:16:32 PM
By Donald Fox
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The first painting of the new year is a small oil on Masonite that I titled Layers of Time. Our calendrical notation of time is somewhat arbitrary though we impose natural seasons upon it, which makes more sense. We’ve done the same to tracking days by dividing into twenty-four hours each cycle that varies one to the next and again fits better with the seasonal movement. On one level many of us crave permanence in the face of inexorable change. At some point, though, perhaps we come to terms with mutability and incorporate that into everything that we do. Very little of our experience is instantaneous, and most worthwhile experiences are savored over a span of moments. In midst of the very best of these, we are not even aware of time. We simply focus on whatever is at hand. Such is the making of a painting or any other work of art.
Recently I went to the Menil Collection in Houston – something I don’t do often enough – mainly to see the Jasper Johns drawings on view in the new Drawing Institute. I also visited the Cy Twombly gallery for the first time (embarrassed to say that after all these years) and noted in both exhibits how little time most people spent with each work. Some just walked down the row of works glancing at each but not reading titles and certainly not questioning anything about what they were seeing. Perhaps they were compelled by some time-sensitive agenda that kept their minds largely elsewhere.
One of the perks of art is that it entices us to slow down. A really compelling work will captivate attention for extended periods. Time becomes irrelevant. This is certainly the case for the artist while making a work. Some mediums or techniques will require quick attendance, but that is usually just one or more phase of the process. Acrylics dry faster than oils, for example, so a painter using acrylics is forced to work quickly. For the artist that kind of timing is built into the process just as a dancer must change tempo to follow the music. There may also be extended periods of contemplation rather than active expression – again, part of the creative process. I tend to spend more time contemplating than actively executing in the creation of most works. Whether contemplating or executing, for me time is irrelevant.
Contemplating time as the subject of a work is a different experience from being aware of time while making a work. Involvement in the making is an out of time experience and the irony of the art, most any art, is that once it is complete it becomes a timeless object though as viewers, we take time to experience it and often locate it in its time period chronologically. With powerful works we may remember the first time we encountered it and create a history of our experience with that work. Much more can be said, but these are my thoughts about painting in general and not necessarily this particular work. The viewer’s experience now is what becomes important.
Layers of Time oil on masonite 16" x 13"
