Linda Wesner Original Art Work

Grandmothers: February 8, 2012

2012-02-08T11:05:00.001-05:00

Grandmas today are encouraged to do their own thing, to be their own person. 60 is the new 40! It is easy for us baby boomers to join this trend of "finding ourselves" in our senior years, but society told our black-shoed grandmothers that they should just continue their lifetime household duties as long as physicially able. In their declining years they should take up some crafts, childcare, or church work.

My Grandmother Arnold, however, defied all of society's expectations. She embraced "New Thought" in the 1920's, explored healthy lifestyles in the 1930's, California living in the 1940's, marriage emancipation in the 1950's, and fragile independence in the 1960's. She was always on the move, physically and intellectually. Like Mary Poppins, she would suddenly appear in Central New York from California to disrupt the humdrum of our lives.Even before her many boxes had arrived from California, she was already planning her return West. Soon she would be off to one of her many houses in LA, attending spirituality lectures, caring for elderly women, and sending us copious, stream of consciousness letters on all manner of paper.

Although my grandmother remains a mystery to me - and I think to herself - I often feel her restless nature on my own quest into the 21st century.

Happy Birthday, Mary Geneva Thompson Arnold, born 124 years ago today in 1888, in Harlem.

January 26, 2012

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January 26, 1945 was a cold winter day. So far, my twenty-two year old father had been deferred from service in World War 2 because he was a farmer, but today he had to report to the Draft Board. Milking the cows took longer than usual - perhaps because he had worked all night putting new springs on his car - and then he quickly changed from his barn clothes to street clothes, and drove in a bad snowstorm to the Armory Building in Downtown Syracuse. He arrived late, and the line of men waiting for their physicals stretched to the doorway. As the hours ticked by, he only inched forward. He started to panic. He still had to drive home, change, milk the cows, change into his suit, and then drive back to the city. He confessed to the guys in front of him, "I'm getting married tonight!" Word was passed up through the line of men and they all pushed him to the head of the line, whistling and jostling and clapping him forward. The doctor examined him and pronounced, "I'll be seeing you soon!" Dad dashed to his car and back to the farm. After milking the cows, he changed into his suit and headed back to the city. It was so cold the tires crunched on the snowy roads.

Meanwhile, downtown at the Onondaga Hotel, my mother the bride, the minister, and all the family and friends waited. And waited. My mother later confessed that she thought he wasn't coming, but the Unity minister from Rochester chuckled and said, "Knowing Bill, he'll be late, but he WILL be here." Sure enough, Dad finally arrived and the ceremony proceeded. In his haste he had forgotten his wallet and had to borrow $10 from his brother-in-law to pay the minister.

Later that night, for the second time in twenty-four hours, Dad was the subject of good-natured hooting and hollering while the neighhbors held a "Shivaree" outside the newlyweds' bedroom window. And all of this happened today on an ordinary cold winter day in January sixty-seven years ago.

By the way, luckily for my father, the war ended before he was drafted.

October 26, 2011: Family Mysteries

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I'm always trying to find out how events and the landscape evolved into the present. As a child, I was stunned to discover that the people and world around me had not always been as they were at that moment. Why was that old truck cab abandoned by the barn? Why was one aunt so bitter? Why were my grandparents at odds? Over the years I asked questions and inherited caches of letters that fill in many lines of missing stitches. When I read these letters, I hear my family speaking to one another - and now me - across time and space.

"River Passage," is a visual metaphor for the mystery of family history. This 16 x 12 oil on canvas will be included in Clayton Galleries "Small Works" show in Tampa for the holidays.

http://www.claytongalleries.net

September 5, 2011: Signs

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What are the landmark events of your life? I can recount certain people and happenings that pointed me in the right direction. Perhaps that's why I have always been inspired by this vista from a bridge overlooking the Oneida River on New York's Barge Canal. After a peaceful journey between crimson-tinged shores I can imagine boaters spying this sign "MARINA" - mounted on an old barge - directing them to safe mooring. The feeling of homecoming is what "River Landmark," 10 x 20 oil on canvas - just completed - is all about.

Step Back to the 1970's: August 3, 2011

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When I was a senior art major at SUNY Oswego in 1973, I had the opportunity for planning art on a grand scale. Lakeside Dining Hall commissioned me to design and execute a mural on their double stairwell wall. My plan was semi-abstract shapes that suggested underground forms for the lower levels, and the main upper walls were landscape. Instead of tubes of paint, I had to use gallon pails of custom mixed paint from a local hardware store. My team and I (which included my future husband, Paul, and good friend, Charlie Brown,) worked long hours over Christmas break to complete the vast mural. We worked on scaffolding perched over the stairwell. First, we had to make a grid using a string line. Next we transferred the design, and began filling in the shapes with paint colors. After a week of twelve hour days, we completed the project. This weekend, our good friends from these college years are traveling from New York to visit us in Ohio. We'll be stepping back in time and re-connecting with our current lives.

Remembering William Henry Merchant: July4th, 2011

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This couple's image is one of my favorites, and I drew them over three decades ago from an old tintype. They just happen to be my great-great grandparents. I would guess this is their wedding picture. How I wish Sally Pepper, my young ancestor, would pop out of the frame and we could get to know one another! She and William (we have many Williams in our family - our grandson is named William, too,) went on to have four daughters. William enlisted in the 149th and fought in the Battle of Atlanta. He died of disease just before Union victory was declared. On this 150th anniversary of the Civil war, I remember him.

Rooms I Have Known: June 17, 2011

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Many of my dreams revolve around rooms. Often they are under construction, with dry wall to be hung, or vast areas to be painted. Other times, we have just moved in and are expecting guests, and I still haven't unpacked, organized, or cleaned. On daily errands or long road trips, I often wonder what stories are happening inside the passing houses. Perhaps that is why one of my passions are historic home tours, where I can walk through rooms filled with the ghosts of past lives, as in this colored pencil drawing, "Lake View 1" of Rose Hill Mansion in Geneva, New York. It just won the Arthur Harliss Memorial Award at The Hudson Valley Art Association's 80th Annual in Old Lyme, Connecticut. www.hvaaonline.org

Rainiest April on Record: April 29, 2011

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I grew up in Central New York, so I am used to rain. (In fact, I even find weeks of unending sun and blue skies boring!) But here in Ohio, as in most of the rest of Eastern states, we have had quite enough severe rainstorms, tornadoes, and cool temperatures. We are anxious to enjoy the spring, and we want our farmers to be able to plant their crops. I am posting one of my latest collages, "Spring Planting," (acrylic and water soluble colored pencil on paper,) as a visual prayer for some sunnier, warmer days in May.

Spring Rush: April 8, 2011

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When we moved back to Central New York after many years away, we were enchanted by all the water - everywhere! Down the road from our house, water cascaded over a dam for an old power plant. Along the next road, water rushed through a boulder-strewn creek. The old Erie Canal meandered nearby. Beautiful Cazenovia Lake was minutes away, and Lake Ontario shimmered on the distant horizon. Perhaps most mesmerizing was powerful Chittenango Falls, which has been a destination for generations of nature lovers. Last week, I completed this oil painting, "Spring Frenzy," of rushing Chittengo Creek. I contrasted the delicate budding foliage along the shore with the bold power of water. Can you feel how cold the water is?

March 25, 2011: Creativity or Chaos?

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I often heard my mother observe that my father's rolltop desk was "so messy." He would always respond, "But I know where everything is!" As a curioius pre-schooler, I was fascinated with this forbidden jumble of rolled up blueprints, mysterious slips of paper, small pads and notebooks, and the crowning jewel - a ball point pen standing upright in a holder! I longed to write with that pen just as I saw my father do. And how I wanted to open those little drawers and poke in the cubbyholes and pull out all those sheets of paper.

As you can see by this photo, I somehow made it up to the promised land, and it was just the beginning of my passion for the power of lines on paper.

March 10, 2010: Old Lady Under a Hill

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When I was little, I was fascinated by the nursery rhyme, "There was an old lady who lived under a hill...and if she's not gone, she lives there still." I was intrigued by the possibility of a mysterious old woman who lived in a cozy little cavehouse. I wanted to go visit her! Unfortunately, on our flat farmland, our only "hill" was a slight slope behind two old apple trees. In early spring, my favorite walk was to this spot to see green grasses emerging from tangled brown stalks. If you listened carefully you could hear the hill bubbling and snapping with new life. "Ohio House 1", colored pencil on paper, explores my lifelong feelings for hills in early spring - and the elusive old lady who might live there still.

Lonely Hearts: Valentine's Day 2011

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One day while waiting for the light to change in Westerville, I spied this elderly woman walking into the cold wind. Dressed in a warm wool coat and a jaunty deep blue hat pulled down over her forehead, she slowly but surely made her way down the sidewalk.

An artist, like a playwright, can change the scenery to tell a more interesting story. Because the number on the door was "14", I had the idea to change the window decorations from Easter to Valentine's Day. The result is my colored pencil drawing, "Februrary Skies." With a change of holiday, the viewer could wonder - along with me - about the loves in the life of this determined woman of a certain age.

On this Valentine's Day, remember the older people in your life with a call or note. The heart is always eager for love!

January 30, 2011: Winter Days

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During these gray snowy days of winter, I'm reminded of my Great-Grandmother Morey, who wrote a letter to my grandmother in 1918 "that a wagon had passed by today." As I sit at my computer sending Facebook messages to my friends and family, I marvel at our communication technology. And yet, we still sit alone at our devices, much like great-grandma in her rural farmhouse in snow - drifted Central New York almost 100 years ago.

As a person devoted to creative activity, I have to be mindful of the present moment so I don't miss those perfect ideas. If I multi-task or fly off in too many directions, I miss that wagon passing by.

This graphite drawing is my great-grandmother Morey sitting on her porch on a summer day. I included activities of her life from my imagination using multiple images.

January 14, 2011: Dreams of Florida

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How to prevent creative burn out? One way that works for me is my sandbox, where I try new techniques. No judging is allowed, only a carefree and open attitude will do. Out of this playtime, I've begun to make collages. I snip and paste text and imagery to my heart's content, and then in a mad scramble try to unify it all. I love combining drawing and painting with text images from my historic and family history treasure chest.

In these cold dark days of January, I am thinking of our 1960 trip to Florida to visit relatives. We travelled south - this was before interstates - in our new sleekly finned turquoise Plymouth station wagon. One of our stops was St. Petersburg, where my grandparents rented the back apartment of a little cottage. I created these collages about our trip to what I fondly now call "Old Florida," which still exists today in such places at Mt. Dora. Clayton Galleries in Tampa featured these collages in their holiday show.

November 22, 2010: "Seeking Place"

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This is an image of an older man we happened to meet along the Oswego River who showed us how to use a sextant. When we first stopped by the little public dock, he was busy cleaning the rest rooms. We found out he was a retired electrician, a widower, and was living with his daughter's family. He volunteered his services to keep the park facilities clean and neat. While he held the instrument to his eye, seeking the horizon, I realized that he had discovered the secret of a happy life. He continued to seek his place in the world by giving. In November, this drawing received the Parsons Brinckerhoff Award at Cincinnati Art Club's Viewpoint 2010 National Exhibition.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL

Gallery of CNY artist uses historical resources for new work

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Gallery of CNY artist uses historical resources for new work

October 26, 2010: "Autumn Allegory"

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I was discussing the change of season with my good friend Lauren, and we wondered why fall seems a little bittersweet in all its glorious colors.

I think that autumn waits. This scene in Galena, Ohio, intrigued me with its complete calm. No breeze ruffled the tree tops, and the water's surface was motionless. Drivers roared and rattled in their vehicles behind me, bent on making good time for their next destination. But autumn was winning the race, moving silently forward in the stillness. Splashing russets against sky, this annual show astonishes me yearly as I drive along roads I thought were familiar.

I'm reminded of our son Jeremy, then only a toddler, who asked of autumn's falling leaves: "Does this happen every year at this time?" As an artist, I try to remember that childlike wonder about the nature of time.

"Autumn Allegory", 27 x 39, oil on canvas, is currently part of a group show, "Trees," at Marcia Evans Gallery, 8 East Lincoln St, Short North Arts District, Columbus. 614-298-8847.

August 28, 2010: Journey Back in Time

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Last week my husband Paul and I visited lovely Central New York, where we grew up and started our family together. The weather is usually warm and sunny in late August, and we weren't disappointed this year. We drove around the beautiful hilly farmlands of Madison and Onondaga County, and visited a working hops farm. I was able to take some reference photos of several old hops buildings for a painting for an upcoming show of historic farms at The Gallery of CNY in late September.

We dined in the courtyard of iconic Lincklaen House (see my colored pencil drawing "Travelling Light") in the quaint lakeside village of Cazenovia, the home of The Gallery of CNY. The first course was warm popovers hot from the oven. The onion rings were golden brown and lightly crisped. And of course Paul and I enjoyed our haddock sandwich and cole slaw, which is a Central New York tradition.

Distant sailboats danced on shimmering Cazenovia Lake as we headed back to Syracuse. See "Vantage Point", oil on canvas.

Old House by the Road: August 16, 2010

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I recently finished this oil on canvas, "Summer House." As I painted the roof in broad swift strokes, applied thick pigment to the corners, and added some warm dabs of color to the windows, I remembered my love - even as a teen-aged artist - for the simple lines of these New England style farmhouses.

I found them everywhere along the rural roads of Central New York. One autumn weekend, when I needed a subject to draw in my sketchbook for high school art class, my mother and I took an aimless Sunday drive along narrow roads lined with asters and goldenrod. "Stop here!" I yelled. My mother did as directed, but with a shrug and a look that said, "What do you see in that fallen down old house?" But for the next hour, she patiently read the paper while I sketched and wondered: who planted that rose bush, and why did the front door have no step?

On the way home, we cooled off with the car windows opened all the way. My mother suddenly said, "I always did like our old farmhouse better than the new ranchhouse..."

June 29, 2010: Earthly Connections

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On Thursday I gave a gallery talk for "Coffee and Conversations" at the Columbus Cultural Arts Center. http://culturalartscenteronline.org/linda_wesner A lively group had gathered, as they do every month, to eat their bag lunches and ask questions of visiting artists. It was my turn to chat and listen to their observations about my current colored pencil solo show "Ohio Landscapes" in the main gallery.

The group asked practical questions, such as "Do you pull over to the side of the road when taking reference shots? Do landowners ever chase you away?" I responded that the easiest method is akin to a "drive by photo shooting" from the passenger seat while someone else is driving the car. Over the years I have become pretty expert at this. (It helps to be on a smooth road!) The trick is to have your camera at the ready on trips - both short and long - so you don't miss that one unforgettable image.

The group also made thoughtful observations as we moved from one work to the next.

I mentioned that my work is calm, but group members added, "Yet there is so much movement in the grasses and sky." I said my work was realistic, but many pointed to abstract qualities. As you can gather, I was on a learning curve, and a positive one, because these observations are the ones I aim to achieve in my work.

We ended up by "Field Trinity," which hangs by the front door to the Cultural Arts Center. I told them the panoramic fields of Ohio inspire me with their unique atmosphere. I was reminded that my yoga instructor, Kit Spahr, once said in class that the breath is the door between body and mind, and I felt that the three burly trees are the bridge between field and sky.

The hour was up, and so we parted. I hope they felt inspired to create more art. I know I did.

June 9, 2010: Strawberries

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For the last two weeks, every time I go grocery shopping, I find myself holding up box after box of strawberries, looking for the best assortment. Finally, impatient with my quest for perfection, I realize they are all about the same, and I just stick one in the cart.

Pushing on with the rest of my shopping, I wonder what I was really searching for among all those identical boxes of berries. And then the door of memory opens, and I am back among the endless rows of berry plants. I jump as mosquitoes swarm, and my mother warns, "Be careful not to step on the plants!" I am new to berry picking, and ask repeatedly, "Is this one ripe enough?" Sometimes I just stand and watch the other pickers. Some women crouch, but most bend over. Every so often, one woman stands and arches her back, sighs, and then quickly grabs more wooden quart baskets and begins picking again. "Berries are sweeter this year than last," Aunt Doris remarks while she and my mother have a quick coffee and cookie break. "Yes, the smaller ones are the best," my mother says. "Remember when Lu put rocks in the bottom of the basket?" Mom asks. Aunt Doris laughs and says, "And when those city folks stopped at our stand, they asked her if they were all berries, and she said yes!" My mother rolls her eyes and shrugs.

Finally we have our twelve quarts. My mother puts them in the trunk, we pay the farmer, and head home. She spends the rest of the afternoon making strawberry jam, and my first experience with chemistry is waiting to hear the "pop" when the jar lids seal.

So, if you will excuse me, I'm going to have a few strawberries before I return to my art studio. Their sweet juiciness takes me back to the fields of stored memories that I cultivate for fresh inspiration.

Lilacs from the bridge: Memorial Day Weekend, 2010

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"Why doesn't Linda just walk with Lee and Paul in the Memorial Day Parade?" Aunt Doris asked her sister Marge. Thinking it over, my mother finally nodded her head and said, "OK, I guess it would be all right if you think you could walk that far, Linda." Yes, of course I could, expecially since I would be walking right in the middle of streets where I was never allowed. My teacher had even described how the children in the parade threw flowers over the bridge's railing into the Seneca River in memory of soldiers. I wanted to do that, too.

"I'm going to walk in the Memorial Day Parade!" I boasted to Mrs. V,, my kindergarten teacher during recess. "Oh, I should think NOT," she replied, "Only first graders and older are allowed." She pursed her lips and gave me her severest look. I swallowed hard and blinked fast to hold back the tears.

Racing off the school bus, I reported to my mother what Mrs. V. had said. "Just walk with Lee and Paul, and it will be OK," she replied. (Why, I wondered, did my normally mild-mannered mother look a bit defiant?) Over the next few days, I tried to reassure myself that if Mrs. V. tried to pull me away from the marchers, my six and eight year old cousins could mutter "Tough toenails!", hold my hand tight, and run.

Memorial Day arrived. Early morning clouds disappeared, and my mother cut a bouquet of lilacs for me to carry. A huge cluster of grade school children gathered at the very end of the parade group. We were behind the veteran's groups, (both world wars), dressed in moth-balled uniforms, firemen riding their shiny trucks, politicians waving in convertibles, Scouts holding flags, a couple of bands booming and tooting, and several floats decorated with flowers. We stood and stood. Would we ever start marching? My lilacs wilted and my legs already hurt.

Finally, the whole crowd of children was given the signal to move forward. We walked down the hill, under arched treetops, through the Four Corners right under the traffic light, over the canal bridge, and then over the bridge by the dam. "Linda, throw your flowers in NOW!" shouted Lee and Paul. I flung them over the railing, and watched the current carry them swiftly out of sight under the bridge.

Soon we were walking right near my school. Surely Mrs. V. was in the crowd along the sidewalk. I tried to make myself disappear between my cousins. I imagined her angry face, framed by gray hair pulled back and piled high with hairpins, suddenly spying me. I could almost see her brooch glittering in the sun, and her black shoes clacking on the pavement. She would rush into the swarm of children and yank me from my bodyguards. I might even have to go to the police station.

Somehow, we reached the parade's end in the cemetery, where hordes of onlookers and paraders mingled and gathered for the solemn ceremonies. There was my mother and aunt! Now Mrs. V. would have to deal with my mother if she wanted to pursue me. Soon I was in the backseat of my aunt's Mercury, chugging up the long hill out of Baldwinsville, speeding down the hills to our family picnic in the backyard.

Every Memorial Day I still feel apprehensive and excited - and comforted by the scent of lilacs.

May 2, 2010: Connecting Words with my art

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Over the past couple of weeks I had the privilege of listening to 5th and 6th graders from Willis School in Delaware, Ohio, recite poems they had composed after viewing my art. Based on my drawing of a long-demolished schoolhouse (with students names from the old roster imposed on the grasses,) here is an example of one poem:

Field Calligraphy

By the Chasing Light Writers

The smoke from the school's chimney

Welcomes moving shadows of all sizes

Cutting through a field

Like a box of crayons

Fingers have touched many times

Their names written in time and space

Within a meadow's grasses

Leaving footprints in the path

As a flag waves goodbye.

It was quite an dizzying experience for me to have this remarkable word imagery created from my visual art - and by such young poets! Teacher Pam Beery deserves much applause for guiding their efforts.

This project was part of the Residency Activities for Central Ohio Symphony's "Chasing Light" with visiting Pulitzer Prize - winning composer, Joseph Schwantner. Sponsored by "Ford Made in America", his composition "Chasing Light" was inspired by a poem he wrote of day breaking at his New Hampshire mountain home.When I mentioned to Warren Hyer, manager of the symphony, that I sometimes write poetry as inspiration for my art, he invited me to provide my artwork as the subject of the students' poems.

To read more of their poems inspired by "Waiting for Gas", "Lost Arches", and "Morning Run on South Old State", "Signs of August", and "Spring Fields", see "Events" at

www.chasinglightindelaware.org

Cups of Coffee

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March 28, 2010: Cups of Coffee

My mother's busy days were measured by cups of coffee. I learned at a young age not to be too chatty with her until she had finished her first china cup of hot "Taster's Choice", lightened with a teaspoon of "Coffeemate" and one tiny white "Saccharine" tablet. Several more cups throughout the day gave her a chance to relax while she scanned the morning paper, read the afternoon mail, and watched the Late Night News on TV.

After Sunday dinners, she and her sisters would congregate with their cups and saucers around the table, looking at ads from the paper. "Anybody want more?" Aunt Doris would ask, coffeepot in hand. "Sure!" Aunt Lu would say, sliding her cup and saucer closer. "You, Margie?" My mother would shrug and "Oh, I guess so." As they sipped coffee together, huddled around the table, I would hear "Here's a letter from our sister Jeannie"... "Edward's" has sheets on sale this week"..." and "Can't wait to get a perm this Thursday"...

One morning when I was about sixteen, my mother sat sipping her first cup of coffee as usual. Before I could think of what I was saying, I blurted out, "That really smells good to me!" Even though she was only a few sips through her first cup, she looked up at me, and smiled congenially. "Would you like to try a cup?" "Why yes, I think I will," I replied.

She poured steaming water into a china cup, and I nervously stirred the ingredients together and took my first sip. It was delicious! We celebrated my rite of passage into the sisterhood of coffee sippers with a lunch (and of course, a cup of coffee) at Edward's Cherry Valley Room in Downtown Syracuse.

We shared many sips of coffee together in the years ahead. And today, I'm drinking several cups of coffee in memory of you, Mom, on what would have been your 94th birthday.

Undercover Art

2010-03-07T18:41:00.002-05:00

March 8, 2010: Undercover Art

In my conversations with other artists, we all lament the difficulty of knowing when a work is done. It's hard not to add just one more definitive stroke, or make that one tree a tad lighter.

This week I've been working on an acrylic painting that I began last fall, and just hadn't resolved. As you can see in "Summer Breezes", it began as a cool, rather stark rendering of a solitary house against the sky. I had fun being loose with the strokes, and experimenting with some different colors, but the feedback from my circle of critics was not enthusiastic, so...

I went undercover.

Going undercover means searching for new direction on a previous work, much like snow melting (as it finally is here in Ohio this week!) to reveal crocus buds in the frozen earth.

It was a complex journey to the "final" image of "Spring Welcome", acrylic on canvas. At one point, three tall pine trees loomed on the left side! But for now, I'm sounding the buzzer. It's done! And it speaks of spring's arrival just down that path.

February 18, 2010: Power Lines

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February 18, 2010: Power Lines

For well over a year, I've had a drawing idea in the queue, waiting for its turn to become one of my colored pencil drawings. This week I began working on my concept.

It seemed so ordinary, just a reference shot looking down the railroad tracks, taken after a freight train had passed through a nearby crossing. But something about the distant power lines etched and stretched across the opaque February sky kept calling to me. Perhaps it was the memory of the power lines that cut through our family farm in Central New York.

In the distance is a collection of all sorts of power line towers and poles, some wooden, others metal. Each has a different configuration, forming an intricate tracery of scaffolding connecting earth to sky. I love the way the cables cross the sky, carrying stored power of invisible sky sentences on delicately lined writing paper.

The train is far down the tracks now. Everything is still and desolate on this bleak winter day, yet somehow vivid with implication. I am reminded of a high school speech teacher who demonstrated how a whisper can have more impact than a shout.

February 5, 2010 A Special Day

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Today my father, William Arnold, would have celebrated his 88th birthday. Just hours before he made his transition, he wanted us to take pictures of all of us together, and he managed a big smile. This is my favorite image of that smile.

From my earliest memories he recorded the daily events of our lives with his Kodak. He bought one of the first Polaroids. I can still smell the chemicals and feel the magic of watching the image magically appear on paper from just a few minutes earlier! Dad also recorded holidays and birthdays with his 35 mm movie camera.

He was a fastidious keeper of diaries, and always urged me to write down the day's events. He sent me his weekly entries right up until his last hospitalization. Each day was important, and each life significant.

Thanks to my father, I have a vast archive of imagery to draw upon for inspiration. He would be proud to see the hundreds of photos and pages of journal entries that I use in my drawings and paintings.

January 29, 2010 Idea Auditions

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January 29, 2010 Idea Auditions

Part of art-making is finding order in the chaos of ideas. Which images should I select for this new year? I always find the process exciting yet exhausting as I categorize images into piles of "winners", "losers", or "try again next year". I fear that I will misfile, overlook, or trash a really good idea. In the reality show of my studio, I have to keep the inner critics from too quickly eliminating a contestant, yet I rely on them to help me whittle the images down to a realistic number. Somehow, order must prevail over chaos.

Idea auditions end this week. Next week production begins in the colored pencil and painting studios.