Lola Jovan Art Musings and Random Thoughts

Rapunzel

4/25/2023

"Rapunzel" - oil on canvas, 15 x 20 x 1. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.

"I reread Rapunzel the other day after many years and wondered why I ever liked this fairy-tale. I found myself screaming at the pages: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, cut off your hair! Use it as a rope and escape from there!” - Leah M. Mariani

The wild god is a-pushin' and a-nudgin' into the realm of fairytales. There is a hoard of Alices, Little Reds, an Evil Queen and a few wanna-be fairytale characters parading on the studio wall. Each one is demanding a deeper look into their story - or for a story to be created around them. (They are a LOUD bunch, btw. Anyone who thinks these characters are mild-mannered and well behaved is kidding themselves)

Mariani got me with the quote - Rapunzel had the means of escape all along. So why didn't she?

Rapunzel

Which got me to thinking, when in my own life (creatively, professionally, personally) have I remained trapped in a metaphorical tower while the path to freedom was right within my grasp? And oh, dear reader, there are many times. The "towers" that trap us might be in the guise of security, predictability, fear of (insert any word you'd like here), or the things we've been told (and come to believe) about our own strength, talent, tenacity and creativity. I think I build my own towers, mostly. Fortunately, there have been people along the way who have opened my eyes to the ladders hanging from the windows. And now and again, I've cut off all my hair.

About the art: the AI bot and I had a grand time coming up with the inspiration image for this one. There were very few wonky interpretations - a pretty straightforward creative collaboration (unlike most of the others, which have been quite meandering).

Beginning with a canvas lightly toned with oil paint and Liquin, adding a colored pencil sketch and thin layers of paint. Keeping the color palette pretty narrow and focusing on value. Using thin washes to create shadows in the fabric and in the window frame. Using a narrow, round brush heavily saturated with paint and paint thinner to drag individual ropes of hair across the canvas. Whispering to Rapunzel to climb out the darn window already.

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The Wild Edge of Sorrow

4/17/2023

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"The Wild Edge of Sorrow" - oil on canvas, 15 x 30 x 1. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.

[Shame] is unspeakable because we do not want anyone to know how we feel inside. We fear it is irreparable because we think it is not something we have done wrong - it is simply who we are. We cannot remove the stain from our core. We search and search for the defect, hoping that, once found, it can be exorcised like some grotesque demon. But it lingers, remaining there our entire lives. anxious that it will be seen and simultaneously longing to be seen and touched with compassion. - from The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller.

Even as the skies are watering us with spring, it seems there is a great weeping sadness in the world.

Perhaps it is just my own clouded view, my own lens, my own filtering of news and social media posts and lessons learned (an often deep source of shame) and recent loss.

The Wild Edge of Sorrow

And yet...here in the studio where the will god prods, there sits a book on the supply shelf waiting to be digested. Recommended by a divinely creative friend and collector, Weller's book unpacks sorrow in a way both scientific and spiritual. As that book sits in my own two hands, the lightness of connection, compassion and being seen lifts the burden of loss and says, "Lola, you are not alone."

Here in the community of tender hearts (artists, writers, sensitives, creators, collectors, deeply feeling humans) we can put wings on each other simply by seeing and saying. As one tender heart commented last week in the blog, "I've learned that I'm not alone in these feelings anymore and that really helps a lot..." Whoa.

About the art: after a long, rambling creative session with the AI bot, from cyborg fairies all the way to ballet, a tiny snippet of one of the resulting images inspired this piece. Beginning with a canvas toned with the general range of background colors planned for the piece, I drew a colored pencil sketch and lightly painted in the shapes with thinned oil paints. The key to this one was keeping the abstraction of the figure and background, so many big steps back as I over-defined and had to dial it down again. Ending with a final coat of thick paint applied with a palette knife. That pop of minty-ness makes my mouth water. Yum.

Wonder Mike and Lilly selected TWO winners from the April Reader Giveaway commenters! Congratulations Carol K. and Kelly M! Send your mailing address to the shipping hounds at [email protected] and your big prizes will be flying to you in the post. And thanks SO much for participating!

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You’ve Changed

4/10/2023

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“You’ve Changed” - oil on gallery-wrapped linen, 26 x 34 x 1.25. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.

You’ve changed.
Yes, of course I have and so have you
but you don’t see it.
You kiss me and wonder why the leaves are dying
and I try to explain to you that
I am turning to winter,
but this answer is never good enough.
You fell in love with spring.
You fell in love with the girl who danced and laughed and sang,
and now you’re wondering where she went.
You’re wondering why there are snowflakes in my eyes
why my fingers are cool to touch.
Tell me, would you ask autumn to stay forever?
Would you ask winter to hold on?
Do you wish for a draught of summer to last for all time?

Then why do you expect that of spring?
- NIKITA GILL

You’ve Changed

I am in a bit of a conundrum. Puzzling through the path to growth, happiness, flow and finding it increasingly a journey un-embraced by others.

This happens in art just as in life - people love a style or subject matter and are disgruntled when the artist wanders away from it. Change is unsettling, unnerving, sometimes scary. And in life, when people love you for being a certain way, they may get jumpy when you grow into a new version of you.

In the poem, Gill grabs this concept and anchors it to my very bones - there may be snowflakes (or sundogs, or eclipses) in my eyes - I am becoming another season.

In this painting, the motion of the ever-changing landscape spins within the very bones of a tree, which transforms even after the final winter of its productive life. It is never too late; you are never too old for transformation. No matter what others may say.

About the art: I gave the AI bot a photo from a recent hike and asked it for an abstracted landscape. The bot isn’t a fan of painterly abstraction, but it did give me a handful of compositionally interesting “failures”, which inspired this painting. Beginning with a rough sketch with chunky charcoal and blending it into values with gesso to create a toned canvas, then adding layers of thinned oil paint. Resisting the urge to add color. Allowing the paint to move and create texture. Darkening with glazes and then drawing into the paint with a rubber wedge for movement and line. Softening with a cloth so the eyes can rest here and there. Standing back and smiling.

The April Reader Giveaway is here! Wonder Mike and Lilly are busy choosing which original artwork will be going home with one lucky reader. To enter, subscribe to the blog (see column on the right) and then leave a comment below answering this question: do you find yourself creatively (or personally or professionally) stymied by the expectations of others? If so, how can you best grow anyway?

It’s a BIG question! So this month’s prize is not a tiny painting. One commenter will win BIG!

(note: if you are already subscribed, just leave a comment to enter! yay!)

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They Caught the Wild Children

4/3/2023

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They Caught the Wild Children

"They Caught the Wild Children" - oil on paper, 24 x 22. Available here and at Artfinder.

They caught the wild children and put them in zoos,
They made them do sums and wear sensible shoes.

They put them to bed at the wrong time of day, And made them sit still when they wanted to play.

They scrubbed them with soap and they made them eat peas. They made them behave and say pardon and please.

They took all their wisdom and wildness away.
That’s why there are none in the forests today.

- Wild Child, by Jeanne Willis

It is April and this morning it snowed.

In the studio, the wild god continues to nudge and prod - there are directions I'm heading in which are mighty peculiar. The inspirational can of worms has been opened and the horse is out of the barn. I fall asleep visualizing brush strokes and color. I awaken thinking of composition and subjects, stories and themes. Oh!

The A.I. bot and I are heading down the rabbit hole of fairytale and fantasy. If only I could paint faster! And yet, the whole point is to paint more slowly.

Perhaps the morning snow is a message - slow down, Lola. It's too soon to put away mittens and boots.

About the art: beginning with an A.I. prompt "little red riding hood" and about three dozen resulting images, veering away from the prompt to capture just the wild child within the tale. A rough sketch in colored pencil on toned Arches oil paper, then slowly capturing faces with layers of oil paint thinned with Liquin. Drawing into the paint with a small brush laden with paint thinner and color, using broad arm gestures to avoid prissiness.

Stay tuned for April's Reader Giveaway! Wonder Mike and Lilly are busy selecting the prize - reader comments and entries begin next week!

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Rapunzel

The Wild Edge of Sorrow

You’ve Changed

They Caught the Wild Children

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