Fling A Fox

At this morning's Ashtanga Class I challenged myself to working more slowly and combining more than one posture on each painting. Instead of being totally focused and present in the moment of the movement I found myself uncomfortably slipping out of the state in which the pen and paint flow freely as an extension of experience rather than the result of thought.

A half hour passed and I found myself feeling as I did fifteen years ago when I assisted Michael in the retraining of his brain. Every morning and every evening we spent at least half an hour doing vision exercises that involved eye hand motor coordination while simultaneously keeping the brain busy with a slightly different activity. Each time I added a figure to my painting I had to make left-brain decisions such as where to place the next figure; what size to make the figure; what colors to use on the figure. I felt myself stiffen as I dipped the pen into the ink. After a deep breathe I relaxed and added the figure. The cycle began again with the next figure.

My routine is to pile the paintings up and not look at them again until the evening. Because I had battled back and forth between the two sides of my brain, I felt that the resulting paintings would be of a more serious nature, less light-hearted and free-spirited.

As I looked again at the painting illustrated above, I was reminded of how blinded I am by the previous experiences in my life. I can't look at the painting with any sort of objective point of view because it reminds me of an extremely absurd painting I did more than thirty years ago, an illustration for the letter 'F' in an alphabet book. The text for the illustration was "Fling a Fox". I think it is the line of movement created by the two largest figures in the yoga painting that bring to mind the flinging of the fox.

All of the illustrations for the alphabet book may be viewed at: Alphabet Book
Click on each image to see the text that goes along with the illustrations. I am amused by the fact that the illustrations were, and are, considered rather bizarre. I don't think of them as any more bizarre than the text.

Time Crunch

Recently my schedule has had to change. My time for painting has been cut drastically. I made a choice not to accept this change with resentment, but to take advantage of the forced opportunity to make the most of my creative time.

This past winter I began small studies, both watercolor and oil, in order to form new patterns for using color and for toning my drawing skills. I have not worked from reality for several years.

While at the grocery store, I gazed in awe at the pile of Bartlett pears. I questioned why they inspired me so much more than the Anjou pears I had painting the week before. The shape is relatively the same, yet not at all the same. The slight bulges and irregularities of the Bartlett acted on my inspiration as do the lines and movements of the human figure. The shapes begin the movement and take me into that space where anything can happen and everything does happen.

At that point I abandoned my cart and lost myself testing my emotional monitor with every fruit and vegetable on display. With so little time to paint, I see no need to draw or paint anything that does not make my monitor soar. There is no shortage of shapes that make me catch my breathe. There is also no shortage of shapes that leave me in the dark. There's too little time for me to waste any of it painting in the dark.

Rejected Treasures

"Sorry, we don't rent hats. We are 'Anything But Costumes'."

The tone of voice on the other end of the line turns angry.... "I didn't think you meant that literally!" Click..... the angry voice becomes silent and we return to our work. It amazes us how many people call us looking to rent costumes. Perhaps if Linda had named her company "Anything But Props" people wouldn't be confused and angry when we tell them we rent props, not costumes.

At the end of their project, film crews are notorious for unloading all their left-overs along with our props, hoping we will save them a trip to the dump. Sometime we get lucky and fill more of our weight-burdened shelves with unique clocks, hideous lamps, outrageous lamp shades, shag rugs, broken teapots and other odds and ends that set designers from the extended tri-state area adore and pay good money to rent.

Rarely does something come along that Linda rejects. Fortunately for me, these loom reeds fell into the abyss of the unrentable and ended up in my car. Now they hang on the wall of my studio tempting me and teasing me to abandon the miserable job of framing the five pastels I have completed for the upcoming annual "Spring in Bloom" exhibit at Solaris Gallery in Califon.

It's a real toss up between the loom reeds and the wooden bowl & billiard ball. I can feel the series of pencil drawing and paintings already beginning the trek toward manifestation.

I'm sad that the prop shop must find a new home. I love the smell of the barns and the way the light plays on the buildings. I love the sound of our footsteps on the wooden floors. It's frightfully cold in the winter and blisteringly hot in the summer. We haven't any running water, unless you count the constant leaking of the roof. I would rather be in touch with the weather, both foul and fair, than to be inside of a windowless warehouse all day long, oblivious to the changes of the light, the sounds and the smells of the day. I will adapt, as I always do.

Regardless of the location, the props will continue to inspire me. Props are used to create illusions, to define character, location and time. Last week a press back chair was brought back to us after having been repaired. The man who had repaired the chair, one of a set of two, thought he would do us a favor by giving it a fresh coat of paint. He had no idea that the fresh coat of paint has now made a chair that was rented constantly into one that will hardly rent at all. Its mate will continue to rent because it still shows its character and its history. I am reminded that the wrinkles in my face and the silver streaks in my hair define more clearly the joys of my life.

Lines and Spots

I adore playing with lines. A line can carve a shape out of a piece of blank paper. The shape can move or be still. It can dance and it can meditate.

I adore spots, splatters and seemingly haphazard marks. It is only when I make these simple strokes and dabs that I absolutely don't care what anyone else thinks about what I'm doing.

It is spring and it is time to eliminate the unnecessary and to redefine my path. Perhaps I should imagine it is spring each morning when I awaken.