Lola Jovan Art Musings and Random Thoughts

Uninvited

5/29/2023

"Uninvited" - oil on Yupo, 19 x 20. Available here and at Artfinder.

“It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,” - March Hare, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

The rabbit hole is deep and twisting...and sometimes leads to oddities.

Alice has taken us somewhere curious this week. She has claimed her place in this alien landscape, where she may or may nor feel at home, and may or may not rule over insectoid creatures. Her "face" is unreadable, but her body language is pretty clear - "I belong here", says she. I wouldn't dare argue with her.

Uninvited

Alice herself is an oddity in Wonderland - an oddity among a curious community of weirdos. In trying to make sense of the nonsensical, her frustration mounts. Maybe we are all trying to make sense of the nonsensical in these odd times? But maybe the lesson here is just to embrace our own whimsical weirdness.

When I personally let my own peculiarities and oddities fly their flags, I feel much more content, less stressed and more self-accepting. It sets the inner critic back on her heels (as you might imagine) and then...THEN is when the real creativity begins.

About the art: using a prompt which included "insectoid Alice in Wonderland" and some references to artists both fantasy sci-fi and classical, the AI bot spewed forth a veritable smorgasbord of ideas.

In this one, using thinned oil paint to begin a muted background and then drawing in the sketch on top, I embraced the idea of Alice sitting on a chair which was, itself, insectoid. Allowing the darks to come forward makes a lovely bit of drama. With the Yupo, the paint can be moved, removed, scratched through, layered translucently or thickly. And there is a bit of all of that in here.

The Liddel family, whose girls inspired the names for Alice and her sisters in Alice in Wonderland. (Photo: NATIONAL MEDIA MUSEUM/ROYAL PHOTOGRAPHIC SOCIETY/SSPL/GETTY IMAGES)

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I Am Not Myself, You See

5/22/2023

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I Am Not Myself You See

"I Am Not Myself, You See" - oil on cradled wood panel, 20 x 20 x 1.5. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.

“Who are you?” said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, Sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”

“What do you mean by that?” said the Caterpillar, sternly. “Explain yourself!”

“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,” said Alice, “because I am not myself, you see.” - from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

The Alices are restless.

They want to be released into the world, so here we are, tumbling down the rabbit hole into a story of multitudinous meanings and a heaping helping of malarkey. The combination is quite irresistible.

The Caterpillar and Alice have captured the essence of transformation in this conversation - we are not the same at the end of the day as we were at the beginning. Nor the week, the month, the year, the lifetime. And good thing, too. We can grow, change, adapt, morph and meander into the beings we are at this moment, even as we are moving into the next iteration of ourselves. I am not myself says Alice. Herself (and myself) is not a constant. It is (we are) ever flowing, ever changing.

Let's go back in time - take a look at the first ever Alice movie (right).

About the art: the AI bot and I are having a long wrestling match about Alice. The bot wants to make her a syrupy Disney character, while the artist wants something more peculiar and a bit creepy, perhaps? After a hundred Alices and as many prompts, some delicious inspiration has emerged.

In this one, I began on a gesso'd wood surface with a liquin-thinned background of oil paint and created a basic floor and textured backdrop. Alice was next, layers upon layers as her pale intensity grew and grew. Her shady sidekicks were last, along with her ever-growing hair, which is an amalgamation of small brushstrokes, chopstick drawing, rubber wedge pulling and fingertip smudging.

Congratulations to Dotty, Robyn and Niki! Your comments about transformation landed you in the winner's circle, where Wonder Mike and Lilly insisted you all win an original piece of art. Hooray! Send you mailing address to the shipping hounds at [email protected] and your treasures will be on the way. Thank you so much for your participation!

There is a new Reader Giveaway each month this year...stay tuned for June's giveaway - coming soon!

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C1ND3R3LL4

5/15/2023

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C1ND3R3LL4

"C1ND3R3LL4" - oil on paper, 21 x 21. Available here and at Artfinder.

“Fairy tales are rife with transformation — from beast to handsome prince, from dirty scullery maid to well-dressed princess. It is perhaps no coincidence that nature in the Cinderella stories facilitates transformation, for nature itself is a changeable thing, from season to season, from a sunny day to rain, from an egg to a flying bird in a matter of weeks."
― Marie Rutkoski

Here we are, back in the realm of fairytales, where the AI bot has provided the inspiration to paint a robot Cinderella. I wonder if that means the AI wants to be a real girl? Because everyone, at one time or another, wonders what it might be like to be something (someone, some way) other than what they are.

I have always been dazzled by transformation.

Whether it was rearranging the living room furniture as a kid (which my mother, for some reason, never minded), painting a wall, cutting off (or growing out) my hair, even simply pulling weeds to make a patch of the garden look better - something about transformation makes my eyes light up. I understand Marie Kondo's desire to tidy. Except I see it as magic. Perhaps it is the hope that accompanies visible change. If I can change this small thing, maybe I can also influence that big thing to be different. And by different, I mean better. Safer. Happier. Rut-less.

And, well, if you want to go all out, you can always change your name. :)

About the art: beginning with Arches oil paper and some liquin-thinned paint, I toned the paper in two sections, blue upper and the dark brown/violet mixture in the lower section, leaving space for the robot. A quick colored pencil sketch, then shading the robot with a small brush and thinned paint. Moving around the painting, alternately softening (with brush or paper towel) or hardening lines (with brush or rubber wedge) until the right balance was achieved. Adding in the details with a tiny brush, then glazes of color for the background robot body, glaze of white mixture for the tutu. Adding hot spots at the bottom and resisting the desire to make the background look like anything specific. This one makes me grin every time I walk by it in the studio.

It's time for the May Reader Giveaway! Leave a comment below describing a moment of transformation (or the hope of one to come) in your life. One (or more) lucky reader (s) will be drawn at random by the giveaway team of Wonder Mike and Lilly to receive a small piece of original art. Hooray!

Coming soon! A Song for the Hunted, a new collaborative on-line show with the amazing mosaic artist, Helaine Abramson. Details and sneak peeks coming in June. Get ready to get WILD!

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Modor

5/8/2023

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Modor

"Modor" - oil on canvas, 26 x 32 x 1. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.

To join the company of women, to be adults, we go through a period of proudly boasting of having survived our own mother's indifference, anger, overpowering love, the burden of her pain, her tendency to drink or teetotal, her warmth or coldness, praise or criticism, sexual confusions or embarrassing clarity. It isn't enough that she sweat, labored, bore her daughters howling or under total anesthesia or both. No. She must be responsible for our psychic weaknesses the rest of her life. It is alright to feel kinship with your father, to forgive. We all know that. But your mother is held to a standard so exacting that it has no principles. She simply must be to blame. - Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

Mother's Day is a maelstrom of emotion for some of us. Our own mothers, the mothering we have done (and may still do) - Erdrich gets in my craw with this quote. Oh and oh.

I have blamed my own mother for many things. In fairness to me, she was an abusive and critical alcoholic. In fairness to her (the benefit of hindsight, information gleaned after her death, wisdom and the passage of time), she was doing the best with what she had. I now imagine her somewhere being loved, encouraged and held; smiling and content. She might have loved me, had she herself been loved.

As for me, I was not a perfect mother. Not even close. There are many (so many) things I would do differently had I known what I know now. But I loved (and still love) my kids. Fiercely, strongly, over protectively, probably. As the pendulum swings from one extreme in one generation to the opposite in another.

But it makes no difference, I realize, the mothers and their methods. In the case of my mother to me, and me to my own children, she simply must be to blame.

As with most of the pieces that emerge in the studio, I had no idea what this one's story was at first. She stared at me from the wall of finished and drying pieces for over a month. That gaze, that hair, those odd beings hovering near here. What the heck? And then she whispered modor....and I knew.

About the art: beginning with an AI bot image from a prompt of "peculiar, naive, whimsical girl" and jumping off into this BIG canvas - toned with oil paint, painted in layers, then (oooooooooh then!) for the hair, big, big BIG oil sticks and big arm movements. This one took several weeks, but was worth every second. She's a force of nature.

The May Reader Giveaway is coming! Stay tuned next week for a reader question and the opportunity to win a piece of original art! Hooray!

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Le Petit Chaperon Rouge

5/1/2023

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"Le Petit Chaperon Rouge" - oil on yupo, 23 x 20. Available here and at Artfinder.

"[singing] Do not put your faith in a cape and a hood, they will not protect you the way that they should. And take extra care with strangers, even flowers have their dangers, and though scary is exciting, nice is different than good.” - Mother, 'Into the woods' (2014).

The tumult of characters in the studio demanding attention continues.

Little Red Riding Hood has been here before....she has many forms, many faces, many meanings. And the AI bot loves her madly.

Le Petit Chaperon Rouge

What is it, exactly, about a cape and a hood that settles over the wearer like a sort of protective shield? How does a cloak become enchanted while worn? And what is it about wearing a red cloak that says we can walk through the forest unharmed?

In the clip (left), Red ultimately gives her cape away to the Baker, hoping her grandmother will make her a new one out of the skin of the big bad wolf. That gesture gets me right there, as she freely lets go of her naïveté and embraces the lesson and her own power.

About the art: the AI bot has given me a stack of Little Reds to play with. Something about this fairytale resonates with the bot, while others do not. In this version, she's calm and pensive, eyes closed, flanked by protective beasts. A little older, a little wiser, perhaps.

Beginning with a piece of yupo toned with oil paint and Liquin, then lightly sketching the shapes with a colored pencil. Slowly adding thinned paint layers, and then carving back through the wet paint with a chopstick (the yupo is amazing for this - exposing the paper down to the white. Yum). Adding successive washes of darks and lights to create value. Using paint diluted with Gamsol to allow the edge of her dress to run and drip down the paper. As a final step, carving back through the paint with a palette knife to expose the highlights on her hood. Lots of drying time with the yupo, but it is totally worth the wait.

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Uninvited

I Am Not Myself, You See

C1ND3R3LL4

Modor

Le Petit Chaperon Rouge

Author

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