This smoky, hot, muggy summer day began with digging sod. Not the most inspiring way to start the day. When it became too hot to dig, Blue and I set off for our walk around the pond and a daily painting. 

I am always amazed and grateful for the the power of creating art to uplift one's mood. The artist's task of slowing down and noticing something that provokes the senses - whether it be beautiful, interesting, or sad, always makes me feel more at ease in the world. I think it comes down to a cultivation of mindfulness, and for someone whose mind relaxes most with busy hands, the work of an artist is a really a blessing. 

I'll keep this short because I think Mary Oliver says it all in her poem, "Mindful."


"Mindful"

Every day I see or hear something that more or less

kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle 

in the haystack of light. It was what I was born for - to look, to listen,

to lose myself inside this soft world - to instruct myself over and over

in joy, and acclamation. Nor am I talking about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful, the very extravagant - but of the ordinary, the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations. Oh, good scholar, I say to myself, how can you help

but grow wise with such teachings as these - the untrimmable light

of the world, the ocean's shine, the prayers that are made out of grass?

~ Mary Oliver ~

A smoky sky backdrop at the Esther Simplot park pond softened all the edges.

Painting my way through Iceland - some reflections on Day 5

Well, at least painting my way through a very small part of this tear-jerkingly beautiful country. Driving is slow going when you take paintings instead of taking photographs. Slow but delicious.

Today is my last full day here, and I feel like I've been in a dream since I first arrived and camped in a windy lava field overlooking the ocean. The blues and greens of this landscape have somewhat eluded me, and the unexpected forms and compositions have coaxed me to let go of the horizon line that the Western United States has instilled in me. And the lupine. Lupine knows how to do it here, draping the hillsides in a heavenly lavender glow that offers a gentle contrast to the surrounding deeper reds, purples and greens.

Lupine coated hillside up close

Yesterday I hit a low point in the morning, frustrated with not being able to capture the immensity and dreaminess of what was around me. I sat down at my computer to upload photographs after yet another blissful swim in the Blonduos public pool where I returned to reset my attitude (there is something in that water - I actually am typing this after a third swim which I formed my travel schedule of the last two days around). Sitting at my computer, I was wishing I had some photographs of my friend Samuel Paden's paintings. Samuel lived in Iceland part time for many years before recently settling in Boise where I was lucky to meet him - serendipitous timing for my Iceland yearnings. I needed to see the work of another artist who had taken on this landscape. There was no internet access here, but I randomly found some images he'd emailed me in my draft folder. I sat and stared at one of them, "White Sky with Violet Lake," and was stunned at discovering a whole new layer of his work. The image seems simple and primitive but a longer look reveals exquisitely clear observation and sophisticated simplification of form. I am not sure if it is a landscape in Iceland, Idaho or his native Africa, but the painting evokes elements of the Icelandic landscape I've been struggling to do justice to.
The experience of looking at this painting after a few days of traveling and painting (some 25 tinyExpanses into the trip) changed the game for me. And in a bigger sense than just this trip. It clarified the question I've been pondering on the road as I often do when I travel and paint - what is this urge to capture landscape? When the real thing is so grandious and perfect in itself what is this urge to create an image of it?

White Sky with Violet Lake - is that lupine or water? 

Looking at "White Sky with Violet Lake" I recalled some thoughts I've been cultivating over the years as a compulsive Plein Air painter. The most challenging and important part of what we are doing when we paint what is in front of us is achieving clear observation, and honesty in the translation of experience. From observing something simple like the quality of a horizon line (how sharp is it, what is the angle...?) to grasping the big picture of an intricate landscape (of all the elements I am witnessing what relationships stand out as important to me?), painting from life is the process of defining one's own most true way of seeing the world and selecting priorities.

I remember a painting teacher (admittedly the same infamous one from the last blog) telling us that art is ethics. I always thought this was an overestimation of making art. But I am starting to agree. What we create is a reflection of our experience of the world, and that experience is created by how we process it. Every thought is a memory - we experience the world through our senses and then our brains process, or remember, and interpret, those sensations. The highest compliment in drawing class from this professor was "that is well-seen," (which is by the way an interesting echo of the story from which I found my last name -another story!). To live life seeing well - something to aspire to!

As I get ready to return to Boise, I am simultaneously nervous and excited to get back to the studio, to see how the prolonged process of integrating new visual landscapes into my work will proceed, wanting to hang on to the experiences I've had here as I return to something more familiar. As any traveler feels towards an end of the trip, painter or not. Will my observation of the Boise foothills be notably altered? Will the colors of this landscape seep into my vision of the Wood River Valley? I hope so...

And as for Samuel, a big thanks for allowing his work here to accompany me on my journey. Boise is lucky to have him seeing the landscape of Idaho through his eyes and offering it to us. I can't wait to see what comes of that process. Check out his work at www.samuelpaden.com.

a tinyExpanse architectural adventure.

Kiasma from Musiikkitalo

I was beside myself today, spending the morning painting between Kiasma, the museum designed by American architect Stephen Holl, and the Musiikkitalo, designed by LPR Architects in Turku. Earlier in my stay in Helsinki I have also had the pleasure of painting the Kamppi Chapel, Turku's fortress, the Turun Linna, and numerous street views of Helsinki. I have been amazed that the process of painting these beautiful buildings reveal the apparent simplicity of their forms to be deceptive - the elegance of their designs as a coherent form can make the incredibly sophisticated details of the design hard to see at first glance. I suppose what I've learned from spending some time in this city is that good design does this - the form of a well-designed thing can be so harmonious and perfectly functional that it is almost not noticed - for me, at least.

Until I try to paint it. Kiasma has been the most striking example of this. It reminds me of a children's wooden puzzle, where the pieces snuggle together so perfectly and together form a simple shape. In Kiasma's case, beautiful light-filled designed exhibition spaces snuggle together into a smooth whole, which reminds me a little of the belly of a shark. 

I love the experience of painting a building, or any object for that matter, for the sense of intimacy I form with the object. It feels like I am conducting a course of study with the artist who made it, understanding why this angle is juxtaposed next to that one, how complicated the problem and how clever the solution. 

Even if you don't paint, my challenge to you is to try sketching your favorite building and gain a completely new relationship with it that will enhance your experience of it forever.

Uudenmaankatu

Kamppi Chapel

Mikael Agricola Kirkko

Kiasma

Turun Linna

Musiikkitalo and Finnish
National Museum from Kiasma

Creative Habits

My college painting professor at Pomona College was convinced that if he maintained the same routine every day - the keystone being eating the same burrito for lunch day after day - he would be able to create his best work. At the time I thought he was a little nutso, which of course in many ways he was, but after recently reading The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg I have come to see my professor's quirky inflexibility in a different light.

The effectiveness of his system had nothing to do with what burrito he ate. It was just important that he ate the same one everyday. That way he had one less decision to make - it was automated. He had more energy to think about the work he was going to create in the studio, to notice the quality of the light coming through the trees. As Duhigg explains, the more good habits you cultivate that free up your mental space and time for your most important work, the more effective you will be. And it starts by finding the most important "keystone" habits that will have a domino effect on all your other habits. (A disclaimer here - I'm not claiming that eating the same burrito everyday is healthy but it seemed to work for him).

Before reading Duhigg's book, I held the belief that really successful people didn't have time to think about the small stuff in their lives - what kind of toilet paper to buy, the most sensible morning routine. But I have realized that really successful people sometimes actually obsess over these little details because they know that some of them are going to have an exponential effect on their lives - on how they make the rest of their decisions throughout the day. Streamlining processes, maintaining a healthy body and rested mind - these are incredibly influential habits to form.

As freedom and spontaneity-craving artists, it is sometimes difficult to reign ourselves in with habitual practices. Won't this constrict our creativity? For me when I am successful at finding a healthy habit I can stick with, it does just the opposite - more the energy conservation my professor was experiencing. Even better is to find a keystone habit that is a creative act itself.

My most successful keystone habit over the last several years - one which I credit for eliminating my significant collection of day jobs to allow me to be a full-time artist - is to create a piece of art every day. This started in 2008, shortly after getting divorced at the age of 28. Somewhat organically, I began creating one drawing every day. Not allowing myself the excuse that I was too tired from teaching yoga, coaching gymnastics, and substitute teaching middle school (often all on the same day), I unfailingly pulled out a 4"x6" piece of paper that I had made stacks and stacks of and began to draw, usually shortly before bed. I drew the most beautiful thing I could remember seeing that day.

Painting aboard the "Mariella" on the Baltic Sea

This keystone habit of drawing before bed led me to wake up excited for what I might see that day to draw later on. It made me more observant and appreciative throughout my day, and at peace falling asleep, knowing that I had created at least one act of art making that day. Little by little this habit was leading me closer to my goal of painting full time.

Looking back this was a transformative habit. Today that particular, routinized way of coping with a difficult time has become deeply engrained as a joyful part of my daily life. From my daily art-making habit, my line of miniature plein air paintings sprung, and is at this very moment allowing me to travel through Finland and Iceland creating art and having pop-up shows wherever I am. It allows me to very quickly connect to a place and understand what its residents love about it, and through this I connect to the residents themselves. My life has somewhat effortlessly formed itself around one simple habit that sometimes takes  as little as five minutes.

And it's the little things that I love about it - you all know about my painting kit from a post detailing its contents a few months ago. (It now has a name, Georgia). This little box has become my most prized possession. It offers endless hours of enjoyment, or just a quick salvation from a stressful day. I love the pop of the wet painting storage box when opened, finding my brushes just how I left them, familiar and clean. All my favorite colors greeting me. The satisfying snap of the Sigg box lid when I close it. I started creating art daily for the relief it brought me, and the satisfaction of working towards a goal. Now the process itself has become the reward. It is a perfect manifestation of what Duhigg explains as the cue-process-reward mechanism. I see something beautiful (cue). I make a painting (process). I feel at peace and have a little piece of art to share (reward). Ultimately process and reward merge and the habit becomes the reward.

For artists striving to make their work a bigger part of their lives, creating a keystone habit that directly inspires their creative process is one piece of advice I can really attest to. Give yourself the luxury of an enjoyable, meaningful daily practice that will help you feel more connected to the artist in you.

A bad painting day.

What do all you writers, painters, sculptors, musicians, do with a bad creative day?

Yesterday I went out to Hull's Gulch to paint. I was very excited to be geared up with my big Plein Air rig for its first outing of the season - my Mystery Ranch sling was loaded up with my Guerrilla Painter box and wet painting tote, easel, stool, and the works. The sun was shining and I even had some dark chocolate for a snack. But what do you do when the stars finally align for a precious day in the field or  the studio, and you are all set up, and you suddenly find that you are NOT in the mood?

I often debate with myself if it's better to push through these days, or to just take a break and go get a cup of coffee or take a yoga class. The feeling is different than a creative block, where there is a feeling of impulsive anxiety that signifies one needs to just stay put and push through. On bad painting days I just feel like I'm in a funk, and rather than the sense of urgency that accompanies a creative block, I just don't care about painting.

Well on this particular day I forced it. I painted for about 2 hours, hating every moment of it. The beautiful spring day and bright idyllic flowers just seemed to mock me. I packed up, got a cup of coffee and went to the bookstore to look for a book on Richard Diebenkorn, (a painter who is far superior to me in what I was trying to achieve), of course didn't find one as it was indeed a bad painting day, went home and took a 3 hour nap. Then I went to the studio and completely wiped my chicken scratch painting out. I liked the wiped version much better.

Often a nap is the best remedy to these moods where I couldn't care less about the activity I love the most in the world.

But from my eternal optimist's perspective, I have come to feel grateful for these bad painting days. Looking back, I often realize that these bad days are ones where I have become very tired of myself. One of my favorite writers, David Whyte, says sometimes becoming good and tired of yourself is a blessing. These moments are turning points. Whyte also says in one of his books, "Sometimes the antidote to exhaustion is not rest. Sometimes it is full-heartedness." So those moments of dullness and apathy, either immediately or a little ways down the road, challenge us seek out new inspirations and experiences, and are the catalyst for growth and discovery.

In this sense I guess I could conclude that there are no bad creative days. There are days when creative work feels exciting and exhilarating. And there are days when it feels awkward and murky. They are all useful if greeted with full-heartedness.

So enjoy those bad days, dammit!

By the way the one painting that I came away with yesterday that I thought I liked was described on Facebook as looking like a "nekkid lady's bum." Thanks, Angela, for the laugh - you are quite right.

The post-show let-down.

Waking up the morning after an exhibition is always quite disorienting and depressing for me -  strangely regardless of how successful the show was.  I rise uncharacteristically sluggishly and inwardly bemoan The Artist's Predicament, temporarily deciding that "I just can't do this anymore!"  I am writing this post today, the day before a big show, because the post-show hangover has repeated itself enough times that I try to prepare for it in advance.

I'm sure that this experience is not exclusive to artists - that anyone who works months or years on a project that culminates in a short period of intense public exposure before being disassembled and dissolving into the ether can relate to the at-best anti-climatic, at-worst completely disheartening, day after. I think it has much to do with the act of exposing one's hard work and creative output to the public eye while under the complete exhaustion this output leaves in its wake. A few viewers will "get it," but most people's eyes will glaze over an artists' "babies" like they scan the boring parts of the newspaper. The excitement and forward momentum of the creative process can come to a devastating screeching halt the night of an exhibition - ironically even if sales are good. Plus, artists are usually introverted people, and having to talk to hundreds of people in one evening can be overwhelmingly draining. It's a feeling of vulnerability, misunderstanding, and exhaustion that creates the exhibition hangover the next morning.

I employ several strategies for dealing with the plummet. First, I  expect and give myself permission to experience the hangover by planning to do nothing productive that day - just spend some time outside and get some exercise or do something with a friend - things that make my body cared for, my spirits lifted, and my perspective regained.

Second, I have a shiny, new, unrelated project lined up to begin immediately. I order my materials ahead of time and start brainstorming some ideas so that if I start sulking around the house the day after a show, I can simply wipe the slate clean and start something new. Channel that self-destructive energy into new creative force as quickly as possible.

Thirdly, whether an exhibition is one night or 2 months long, I make it a rule not to have remaining work hanging around the studio afterwards. Using three storage racks I built for my shed, I hang those suckers up where I can't see them until a client requests to see them or they are needed for another show. I do this as soon after a show comes down as possible. This is a good way to get out to the studio the day after a body of work comes home - ceremonially stow those unsold works away - with respect, knowing that the reason they didn't sell wasn't because they aren't good but it just wasn't their time and place.

Different people will of course discover different methods for pulling themselves out of the post-show rut - I think the important thing is to just have a plan that involves being kind to yourself and creating an environment conducive to creative refueling - whatever that means for you. The roller coaster is an inevitable part of creative processes, but the time in the pits of despair can be shortened and lessened intensity with a little preemptive planning.

Film still by Jason Kauffman of Alpenglow Press

Some thoughts on outsourcing for artists.

As I painted in the lovely spring green of the Boise foothills today, I was feeling very grateful for all the people who help me do what I love to do. Very obviously this list begins first with my parents who have always supported my artistic endeavors, and second with collectors who keep my dream alive with their purchases of my work.

But a close third comes a list of skilled people who own their own businesses that help mine look and function better. Last year I read The Four Hour Work Week by Tim Ferriss, and it gave me a lot ideas, many of which I now realize I've implemented. This book at first baffled me. How could I possibly reduce what I do into four hours, and why would I want to? I love to paint. What I realized is that there were ways to minimize the hours I spend each week doing everything involved in my business BESIDES painting so that I can paint more. I could very easily spend all my time working on my website, meeting clients, researching opportunities, and never actually get to creating new work.

This is where outsourcing comes in. The idea is to figure out which necessary tasks are time consuming, you don't enjoy, and don't make the best use of your skills. Then figure out if you can afford to pay someone better at it to do it for you.

Outsourcing is terrifying at first. How can I, an early career artist who is just scraping by, afford to pay people to do things I could do myself? But by changing this thought process into the question of "how much do I make per hour doing what I do best and only I can do" it quickly becomes a no-brainer. Professionals can do the jobs you find frustrated and incompetent doing in a fraction of the time. And at a fraction of the cost, once you figure out how much you could be making per hour doing what you are best at. Outsourcing is a leap of faith but it quickly reveals that you can't afford NOT to if you are going to spend more time doing what only you can do.

Here are some of the jobs I've outsourced: building, stretching, priming and sanding stretcher bars and panels, accounting, errands, printing and mounting exhibition materials, website maintenance, online research, and promotional videos.

Many of the things I thought I and I alone could do, really can be done by others much better. It was a process to admit this and trust others (especially making my own stretcher bars), but well worth it. Most of this outsourcing I've paid for directly, but for some items I have participated in mutually-desired trades. It has all ben so worth it, and I've noticed that my studio procedures have become more streamlined and efficient - after all if you are paying someone for their time you want to make sure what they are doing is necessary! I have also become much more organized, as my three studio assistants have witnessed.

I have found so many amazingly skilled people in this town, and I'd like to recognize them here! This is just a list of those I happen to work with, and of course there are many others who do great jobs too.

                 My wonderful studio assistants, Vivianne Siqueiros and Val Kempton, both seniors at Timberline High, prime, sand, and help me with online work. My third assistant (and mother) Teri Devine, does all my errands and accounting, and those who have met her know that she is much less rushed and friendlier than I am when I'm on the job. John Studebaker in Garden City is a local woodworker who builds beautiful custom frames and supports, and Jake and Moriah at Evermore Print in downtown Boise is my go-to for imaging and printing. David Ultis from the Reuseum designed and fabricated my wet painting carrying box. Jason Kauffman of Alpenglow Press just made a promotional video for my Indiegogo campaign that will launch next week. When I saw his seamless editing and beautiful camera work, it made me chuckle to think that a few months ago I was considering trying to make a film on my own.

                 Thank you to all these people and others, including fellow artists who have created such a vibrant art community here in Boise. From my experience, I encourage all artists to take the leap and find people who can help you do your creative work better and more often.

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