Jen Jovan Art Musings and Random Thoughts

Stop Being a Glass. Become a Lake.

4/29/2021

Stop Being a Glass

"Stop Being a Glass" and "Become a Lake", mixed media on paper, each 10.5" x 16.5". Available here and at Artfinder.

The pain of life is pure salt; no more, no less. The amount of pain remains…exactly the same. But the amount of bitterness we taste depends on the container we put the pain in. Enlarge your sense of things. Stop being a glass. Become a lake.

(Mark Nepo’s Book of Awakening)

This week we plunge into the pond. Monet's Pond, that is. With a new course from Pauline Agnew, where abstracting water and its surroundings is the goal. Which works well for this artist, who is spending time around waterfalls, rivers and the ocean.

It is still too cold here to actually enter the waters. But Nepo gives us a way to metaphorically become larger containers for water than we have been before.

I am intrigued with the idea of separating pain from bitterness. The pain will come - part of the experience of being human. We don't like it. We don't want it. We can't always stop it. But it comes.

What we can do is decide how much bitterness we want to taste with it. I'd rather not taste the bitter. And so I become a lake. Enlarging my sense of things. How large a container can I imagine for the things that hurt? Standing by the ocean, I think I can go pretty big with this.

About the art: using sumi ink, acrylic paint, water soluble pencils and oil pastels, creating varied marks inspired by a scene from a pond. Changing tools frequently, moving from different directions and from place to place within the pieces. Resisting the urge to fill in all the white of the paper. Letting the water have its way with the medium. Letting the paper become a lake. :)

Become a Lake

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The Arrogance of Belonging

4/22/2021

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The arrogance of belonging is not about egotism or self-absorption. In a strange way, it's the opposite; it is a divine force that will actually take you out of yourself and allow you to engage more fully with life. Because often what keeps you from creating living is your self-absorption (your self-doubt, your self-disgust, your self-judgment, your crushing sense of self-protection). The arrogance of belonging pulls you our of the darkest depths of self-hatred -- not by saying "I am the greatest" but merely by saying "I am here!"
from Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert

The studio is in the midst of a massive wild rumpus.

Many pieces, projects and commissions occurring simultaneously. None of them done. All of them in the embarrassing stage where a self-doubting artist couldn't possibly show them, let alone post them in a blog.

So of course I had to post them. :)

Works in Process

Gilbert's words with my morning coffee, the day after a long hike and some rather profound introspection and philosophical discussion on a mountain, have me thinking. Thinking about the threads of connection and words and interactions that create ripples. Some of those ripples are positive, while others leave a heavy stain the requires a lot of internal scrubbing. But in this case, Gilbert was influenced by David Whyte, who coined the phrase "the arrogance of belonging" and "claims that it is an absolutely vital privilege to cultivate if you with to interact more vividly with life" (Gilbert paraphrasing Whyte). And here those very words are, smacking me in the forehead, because interacting more vividly with life is exactly the course I want to sign up for! Positively sparkling ripples, joining the ripples of dazzling hikes and art rumpuses.

Vivid might be a wee bit of an understatement.

Blogger and blog will take a tiny hiatus for a long weekend and a mini vacation, but will return next Thursday. In the meantime, Wonder Mike hinted that it has been a long time since there was a reader giveaway! Post a comment below with your thoughts Gilbert/Whyte's words and how you live creatively, or post a really good recipe using rhubarb. (!!!!) Either way, one lucky commenter will be selected by my studio hound and receive a copy of The Storyteller's Apprentice (written by the amazing Dana Kumerow and co-illustrated by me).

If you aren't receiving blog notifications by email, subscribe in the column to the right. Wonder Mike says you'll be so glad you did!

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Sheep Lice Write So Very Little

4/19/2021

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"Sheep Lice Write So Very Little" - acrylic and charcoal on cradled wood panel, 12 x 12 x .75. Ready to hang (sides are painted; no need to frame. Hanging hardware attached). Available here and at Artfinder.

"...good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason they write so very little. " - from Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott

I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to understand who I am. Which leads to me trying to understand who you are...and how all of these beings weave and bob and dance around and with each other.

It makes sense that I do, being part of a species that needs and wants to understand. Good understanding, like good writing, I think begins with the truth. The inside truth, the outside truth, the oooh wait a minute that's not MY truth, that's what I was raised to BELIEVE is truth but holy cats in a basket it is not!

Life is so very messy.

Sheep Lice Write So Very Little

But maybe that's the purpose of it all. To spend enough time sorting through the mess, getting to the truth, understanding a little of who we are - enough time that we can sit with that mess all around us and say "well, ok then." And then maybe take a day off of all that mess-sorting and be ok with not having figured out all the mysteries of the universe. Becoming more like sheep lice, just for a moment or two. Who knew I would ever write that? :)

About the art: A recent hike through over eleven miles of forest burn has left images of darkened trunks, obsidian sentinels, etched in my brain. The trees, their shadows, the sparkly light dancing through the dark and providing the impetus for wildflowers to pop through places that might have been so shaded just a year or two ago - it is a deep beauty.

In this piece, a slightly abstract view of shadow and light: towering trunks, the echo of fire and the bright green of new growth. Tools used include brush, fingers, rubber wedge, wooden pick, sprayer bottle and paper towel.

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Before the Deluge

4/15/2021

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"Before the Deluge" - mixed media on cradled wood panel, 12" x 12". Sold.

And on the brave and crazy wings of youth they went flying around in the rain

And their feathers, once so fine, grew torn and tattered

And in the end they traded their tired wings for the resignation that living brings

And exchanged love's bright and fragile glow for the glitter and the rouge

And in a moment they were swept before the deluge.

from "Before the Deluge" - Jackson Browne

Before the Deluge

I spent the week with Jackson Browne.

Well, not really, but listening, watching, reading about and channeling the mojo of the man. A super fan and collector wanted a commission (I seem to be developing a tiny niche with celebrity portraits - wahoo!) and really wanted it to express the depth she gets from the man and the music. When I asked this super fan what she wanted the world to know about Jackson Browne, she replied: "His relentless passion for human rights & the environment- and walking his talk." We can sure use more people like that in the world right now.

This piece makes me smile...a contemplative moment, "the resignation that living brings."

Torn and tattered feathers - perhaps many of us can relate to that? After this year, after these lives. And yet we soar, dear reader! I see you there, with your brave and crazy wings. Still flying. :)

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Be a Compass

4/12/2021

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Be A Compass

"Be a Compass" - acrylic on aluminum panel, 10" x 12". Available here and at Artfinder.

We are moving in wider circles
We are opening our circle
We are moving in wider circles
We are opening our circles

Oh be a compass
I'll be your lighthouse
Speak your words with triumph
And I will watch your mouth

I'll march with you my sister
To your place of fearing
We'll dive into those waters
Swim into the clearing

from "Wider Circles" by Rising Appalachia

After more than a year of narrowing our circles to the smallest possible sphere, we are beginning to move in wider circles. Not me, yet. But the world around me - restaurants, shops, people. Wider circles. And soon, me, too.

What grabs me about this song, these lyrics, is the idea of being beside someone through fear. The concept of compass and lighthouse. And haven't we, dear reader, marched together through this past year? So many of you have been (and are and are becoming and will become) my lighthouse. And if I'm lucky, I'll be a compass for someone, too. (Disclaimer! I can't use an actual compass yet, but I will learn!). The darkness is passing; the clearing is coming. We are opening our circles.

About the art: if you've ever painted on aluminum panel, you already know. It's lovely and fickle all at the same time. So fun to build layers, but so easy to lose everything if you don't make sure the layers are very dry before taking the next step.

Tools used in this piece include brush, wedge, chopstick, wooden pick, paper towel, hands and fingers.

So here is an entire painting, start to finish, on aluminum panel. And the beauty is, in the final strokes, you can carve through the paint, exposing the aluminum shine and adding an unexpected texture to a piece. Ready? Set? ALUMINUM!

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Waking Close to the Bone

4/9/2021

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"Waking Close to the Bone" - mixed media on cradled wood panel, 12" x 36" x 1.5". Ready to hang (sides are painted; no. need to frame. Hanging hardware attached). Available here and at Artfinder.

Now, simply by waking, waves of feeling pulse close to the bone, and this continual pulse is so deep it aches. It is the ache of being alive. I used to think this ache was sadness, but now know it is deeper than not getting what I want or losing what I need. This waking close to the bone is the pulse from which both joy and sadness rise, where pain and wonder meet. Now I wake on stubborn fall days that resist the cold, I wake before the sun, the world wet with anticipation, and feel this ache, the way the Earth feels its core grind about that central fire that no one sees. It is the slight burn of being here. - MARK NEPO

'"The slight burn of being here" - Nepo wields words in a ways that resonates deeply with me. When I am floundering for the right words, a way to cut through the muck and get to the unabashed heart of things, it is always Nepo.

The year fearlessness, the emergence of Lola (which really means, the year of being afraid but leaping anyway, the emergence of all that I have always been but was too afraid to be) has had some unexpected consequences. By opening my heart to see my own pain, I see the pain of others, even (and perhaps especially) those who have caused my pain. By opening my heart to the beauty of others, I see my own extraordinariness. And I discover it is harder to look at what is bright and beautiful in me than to look at what is broken and flawed. I strive to wake close to the bone...where pain and wonder meet. It feels very close.

Waking Close to the Bone

About the art: This week in the studio, I embrace the peculiar again. Allowing a portrait to jump off into wherever it wants to go, shushing the inner critic and seeking the emotion, without sacrificing composition and color. Charcoal and acrylic paint on unprimed wood panel. Liberal use of water, wedge, squeegee and fingers. An oddly-edged Catalyst wedge provides striations in the paint. Embracing the color of putty, and how it sings when pushed up against cadmium red light and magenta.

It is such a great joy when something I bring into the world somehow helps another birth her own creation. In this case, the outrageously amazing art of Matilda Carr-Betts.

Carr-Betts is a 16 year-old student of artist Deborah Gregg in Florida. She used one of my distorted self-portraits to inspire her own piece (left), and gave me permission to share it here. Keep. your eyes out for this up and coming artist. She is already embracing her inner wild.

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Someday You

4/5/2021

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Someday You

"Someday You" - acrylic, charcoal and oil pastel on cradled wood panel, 8" x 8" x .75". Ready to hang (sides are painted; no need to frame. Hanging wire is attached). Available here and at Artfinder.

Someday you,
what is left of you,
will be flensed of this marriage.

Angular wristbone's arthritis,
cracked harp of ribcage,
blunt of heel,
opened bowl of the skull,
twin platters of pelvis--
each of you will leave me behind,
at last serene.

- from "My Skeleton" by Jane Hirshfield

I'm like a dog with a bone.

Or rather, my dog with my bones. Which he was, while I was off hiking. He climbed up on the table, grabbed a few choice pieces (bird pelvis, elk hoof, deer femur, vertebrae) and had himself a feast while I was away. Sigh. I can't blame him. It was there.

Things come and things go.

And Hirshfield's words, as I contemplate bone and legacy and life, are a perfect fit.

the artist learning to see

About the art: inspired by a deer pelvis found by my partner on one of our hikes, this painting used a notanized bone photo (left) as a jumping off point for an abstract. The organic shapes, curves and hard lines of form and shadow hint at, but do not tell, the whole story when combined and colored and texturized, allowing the viewer to fill in and interpret.

The requisite 80 million layers of paint, applied with brush and fingers, transformed with water and squeegee and paper towel. Finished with a hint of charcoal and vibrant oil pastel.

A little lovely surprise this week, as my witchy and wonderful "Adelaide" was featured in an article for children's book authors at The Charmed Studio. Check it out! Thea's blog is OUTRAGEOUSLY good!

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Boneyard

4/1/2021

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"Boneyard". - acrylic on arches 300 lb watercolor paper, 30" x 22". Available here and at Artfinder.

We all know that fear is a desolate boneyard where our dreams go to desiccate in the hot sun.
- from Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert

It is no-fear year for me.

That doesn't mean I won't be afraid (if only!), but it does mean I won't let fear prevent me from doing, dreaming, thinking, feeling or trying anymore. It tries, that pesky, persistent fear. Tries to fill me with anxiety, dread, stomach-ache and shallow breath at the thought of attempting something I haven't done before. But I don't want to live in a desolate boneyard.

Boneyard

And the bones....they keep appearing. In front of my eyes, at my feet. I bring them home, reminders and relics. Wait for them to talk to me. When Gilbert's quote landed in my lap, just as I'd finished googling "how to clean found bones" (desiccating in the hot sun is the preferred method, by the way), I smiled. Bone-talk.

If you've followed my journey, dear reader, you know bones are a theme in my life. That my very bones have taken some hits, been stitched and glued and caged back together and are, well, something to consider when I do anything. The universe reminds me that those same bones will be here long after my essence is gone. What do I want them to say to others?

About the art: this, my friends, is a failed painting. Or rather, a rescued one. I set out to paint one thing (plan-fully, and as if I were in control in any way) and ended up painting another. Because once I began listening to the paint, it wanted to SING a boneyard of blown-down trees in the forest. It did not want to play at the beach! And so the video is how it began. It went sideways after the camera was off. This is what happens when I try to control, instead of flow. Thank goodness for paper that takes a heap load of paint.

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Stop Being a Glass. Become a Lake.

The Arrogance of Belonging

Sheep Lice Write So Very Little

Before the Deluge

Be a Compass

Waking Close to the Bone

Someday You

Boneyard

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