I left Vermont 7 years ago. To start over. A reset. I can’t quite say in hindsight it was a reset, but it did mark the beginning of a journey. A path of seriously questioning all my motivations and default reactions. I had been hurt and didn’t even recognise it. I acted out of fear so many times I humbled myself again and again having to admit it. 

A few weeks ago, I strapped myself to my computer to begin a grant application. I have applied for this particular grant for about 10 years with the exception of last year. Covid really screwed up everyone’s timeline. 

Anyway, with most grant applications there is a part of the application where you have to write some sort of artist statement. Usually there are some guidelines. Questions to answer. As painful as these can be, I like to use them to sharpen the vocabulary I use to describe my work. It’s a good exercise. I briefly looked over the requirements and saw in the narrative section a space titled Artists Concerns. I spent a few days in thought and then the better part of a week composing something. I kept coming back to the fact that they had titled it Artists Concerns. I decided that my chances of getting the grant were slim so I would take the writing in a different direction. Not write about my work. Not write a carefully constructed piece on how I think my work is an important voice in the contemporary conversation and how I should be funded to continue. No. This time I would just write. About my concerns. 

Mapping: according to the Oxford Dictionary: an operation that associates each element of a given set (the domain) with one or more elements of a second set (the range).

This past spring, after many years of searching, my sisters and I finally found out where our maternal grandmother is buried. This shouldn’t be such a big deal. But because she committed suicide, her story was taken from us. She died when my mom was 16. My mom never talked about her. My great aunt and uncle never talked about her as a sister. Her husband, my grandfather never talked about her as his wife or the mother of two. He had another wife by the time I met him. 

I’ve been in a deep dive this past week. Actually, it’s been slowly progressing all summer. I have been pondering the disease of depression. What I might have control over. What I absolutely don’t or am not even aware of. What’s inherited. What’s situational. I’ve never been diagnosed with clinical depression but I can certainly name it for myself. At different times in my life the disease of depression has presented itself in a variety of ways. Somehow though, I have learned to keep one step ahead of the days when I can’t get out of bed or my motivation is so buried I feel numb.

Late summer is upon us. Hopes of the world healing any time soon is fading each day. There is so much anger and hurt in the air. It seems impossible to mend. I am constantly reminding myself that all I can do is simply make small ripples of love and kindness. Embrace my daily encounters with compassion. Everyone has their challenges.  

Summer is in full tilt for 2021. Heat waves, droughts, floods. Irritated people on the vacation they missed out on last year. Virus cases rising again. I don’t know. It’s difficult to go about my day without being reminded in some way how we are lacking the basic instinct to take care of each other. That is sort of a side note to this week’s writing but also not really. 

As I begin work in the studio after completing such a major solo show, I am once again at a loss for words to define the content that is emerging. Preparing for a large cohesive show is nerve-wracking. As much as possible, I wanted a concise and direct statement to define the body of work I was about to show. I feel “Strength in Vulnerability” achieved its intent. I am not starting over now, but I want to free my current work from any constraints imposed by a previous narrative. 

It’s been quite some time since I have posted here. It’s now been over a month. I’m trying to figure where that month went. Spring came fast and very quickly. It feels like summer. In fact the solstice is just around the corner. It is light past 9pm. The writing I started weeks ago does not seem relevant anymore. Life is running and I am trying to plant my feet in the sand only to have the undertow thwart any attempts at stability.

After taking my show down last Monday, I am faced once again with the big nagging question of why I make things. Physical things that will exist in the world hopefully for a long time. I have always struggled with this. The majority of the work I brought home from the show now lives in storage. This always brings a pause. Don’t get me wrong, I am very proud of the show I put together. I feel closer than ever to my expression of deep meaningful ideas. The only answer I can come up with regarding the making of material things is this. I don’t have an answer. Haha. I really don’t. I have been making things since I can remember. Having my hands busy helps calm my spirit. I can’t see stopping. Making art is integral to who I am. It is in the making, not the thinking about the making, where the magic lies. I guess the biggest questions in life will just remain unanswerable. 

I started writing a blog about eight months ago as a way to more thoroughly understand the visual work I do in the studio. To be able to verbalise my intent. When I am in the middle of making something there is no need to explain why. It just happens. Often there can be a profound revelation or even a soft quiet development but once the piece is done that sentiment just becomes another integral construct. I no longer need it. Over the last couple of years though, I am making more of an effort to understand the significance within my work. It is a dialogue not a statement. If I don’t understand what the piece is saying, how do I expect the work to change and grow?

About ten years ago, I made a conscious decision to shake things up in my life. Or maybe more accurately said, to shake things down. My life had already been quite shaken up. I don’t remember having a particular vision or goal of where I wanted to be. I did know that my studio practice was slipping and I needed to bring it back front and center.  My art making is essential. It’s my career. It’s who I am. So, I did what I had to do. 

For some reason this post has been incredibly difficult for me to sift through. I have written, edited, deleted so many times I thought maybe I should just wait and not post this week. But I am trying to stay committed to this. So, here it goes.

I took a break from posting last week. I was out of the studio and concentrating on other things so I have little to report as progress. Maybe it’s a good time to reflect though. Look at how I have gotten here. Why I am making this particular art.

Musings on life. An ongoing discussion.

This week we are getting a hint of spring. A cacophony of birdsong is in the air and there is a warmth to the wind. It’s funny. I love when the world starts to awaken, but it also brings deep anxiety for me. Especially during these pandemic times. I have gotten somewhat comfortable in my nest. Not going anywhere, not planning anything except my daily agenda. Having good reasons to hunker in bed and read. Then the weather changes and suddenly my head explodes with things that apparently have to be done. Time speeds up. I get extremely scattered. The best intentions for my day go by the wayside hourly. I can even be found yelling at myself to stay on task. 

Having been a visual artist for so long, I know what distinguishes an artist is the very act of making the art. An artist can’t make progress without putting in the long hours of practice. It really is not some divine gift or a brilliant new idea. It is the work. It is a practice of making intentioned responses to stimuli. Internal or external. Again and again. 

Every day for a very long time, daily walks have been part of my routine. It started with taking the dogs out. Dogs like a schedule and never miss the chance to remind you about that. Now though, even if I am getting a break from having to take the dog, I need to walk. 

I am finally almost finished with a series of three large paintings I started about a year ago. As I am uncovering the strong connection between them, I find myself reflecting on where it all began. That would be at the start of the year 2020.

The word vulnerable in the dictionary is defined as something that is laid bare, making itself available to be attacked, either physically or emotionally. When I had read this, I thought, of course vulnerability would equate with weakness. It’s a crack in what otherwise should be strong. Right? It’s a peek inside to the soft part. The part that is easily damaged. It is a challenge for me to see why it is important to expose that part; to lead with that part because it is seems so easily broken. 

This past week, despite all the sadness, confusion, and anger, I still am trying my best to produce in the studio. I’m finding it really hard to concentrate and all I seem to be accomplishing are multiple days lost in thoughts. Maybe it is a distraction from the growing heartache, but I have been spending a lot of time mulling over how we communicate as visual artists. And why I feel I struggle so hard to be heard.