Lola Jovan Art Musings and Random Thoughts

Always At My Back

1/19/2026

Always At My Back

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Always At My Back
oil on canvas
28 x 31.75 x .75 inches
This item is unframed but ready to hang.
(click on the link to purchase)

"It is always at my back,” he continued, “and sometimes it grows bold and its teeth are at my throat. It drags me down, and if I did not carry a shield against it, I could not get up from beneath its weight."
― Adrian Tchaikovsky, Elder Race

There are things that loom over us, lurk behind us, peer over our shoulders. And sometimes engulf us.

Tchaikovsky's quote is from a book which includes a character struggling with clinical depression. His description is haunting.

For me, the thing which is always at my back is, well, my back. My spine, to be exact.

And here's the thing about bones - they are always at your back (and your front, and your limbs, and well, in your head). I have an ongoing conversation with my own bones, osteoporotic and sinking. It goes something like this:

You doing ok in there?
Yep, just don't bend over, or look up, or look down, or lift anything, or fall down or bang into things.
Hmmm, well that is awfully restrictive! How about if I just lift this thing?
Well, ok, but tomorrow could be iffy.
Iffy?
Uh huh. You might be in some pain.
Might be?
Yes, I can never say for sure.
And why not? I mean, you are the actual bones, right?
Yes, well, I am also prone to sudden mood changes.

Don't get. me wrong, I love my bones! I am grateful for their reslience and tenacity. But I sometimes delight in portraying my bones as unpredictibly monstrous. Somehow it feels better to imagine a moody monster within than a slowly crumbling structure of minerals. And my bones like being seen as sassy, anyway.

How about you, dear reader - what is always at your back?

About the art: another paint-over of a murdered piece of art. Once more the underpainting adds texture and depth to the new work. For the new piece, a rough sketch into the new, wet background paint using a long handled brush with thinned darks. A long drying time. Then working from the faces outward, adding layer upon layer of flesh tones with pinks and oranges and reds. More drying, followed by layers of darks. The suckers on the tentacles were a blast to add layers upon layers to. Finally, the unexpected yellow embellishment on the girl's clothing. Some darkly whimsical fun!

The painting underneath the painting!

Here is the final installment of the wonderful and surprising Questions Exchange with Dotty Seiter.
My last question for Dotty, and her response in poetry:

Aperitif - when you look back at your body of work,
written and painted/drawn/scribbled/collaged
and the life you have lived making all of that, what do you see and feel?

digestif

after yoga class, the poet-artist gives her friend
a ride home and her friend says, wanna join me for lunch?
sure!, she says, and they poke
around her kitchen and cobble together
what they decide to upgrade to a “luncheon," finding
a little of this and a little of that to fill the roles
of appetizer (tortilla chips), soup (tomato juice),
salad (celery sticks), main course (tuna sandwich),
and dessert (frozen thin mint cookies),
at which point her friend says with mock solemnity
and a faux haughty voice,
would you care for an aperitif?
uh, the poet-artist hesitates,
isn't the drink at the end
of a meal called a digestif ?
which hits their funny-bones
and sets them to laughing hilariously.
still laughing, the poet-artist stands up
and asserts, what do we care what it's called!,
i don't want a drink anyway,
best digestif to my way of thinking
is a post-prandial passeggiata.
perfect, says her friend, and she adds
as they begin walking, i have a question
i've been wanting to run past you—
you've been painting for almost 12 years now, and writing
blog posts for all those years and now poetry as well.
when you look back at your body of work,
written and painted and drawn
and scribbled and collaged and wordsmithed,
and you look at the life you have lived making all of that,
what do you see and feel?
the poet-artist takes only a few steps
before she replies:
i remember in first grade having to color a mimeographed page
of circles with color words printed below them. you know, like
BROWN PURPLE GREEN, and so forth.
i began coloring, easy-peasy,
and then before i could even finish coloring
the second circle my teacher
walked by and told me i was coloring
the circles the wrong way--
the RIGHT way was to move my crayon round
and round and not
from side to side.
which i knew was just plain stupid.
the writing and painting and
drawing and scribbling and
collaging and wordsmithing i've done
for the past dozen years,
and the life i have lived making
all that art and all those poems
feels like i went back to the day
before
the mimeograph page landed on my desk
and shifted my body just one degree
in a different direction
and scribbled my way into the best
whole-arted life ever.

--dotty seiter

And here is the final question from Dotty to me:

Position your hands to form a viewfinder, roughly fist sized; point it somewhere in your home—what is the/a story of what you see?

My viewfinder has been a camera lens since I was young.
Taking family photos (which I was seldom, if ever, in) was how I made a place for myself where I did not belong.
But, when you spend a lifetime taking photos, your internal viewfinder becomes well-honed.
Composition, light and shadow - now comfortable friends.
Over 58,000 photos are stored in my phone.
Another gajillion on my computer, in the cloud, on flash drives.
And yet, what I am most drawn to now are the faces around me - my husband, our dog, our crow family.
I belong here.

10 Comments

Between Atom and Dust

12/9/2024

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Between Atom and Dust

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"Between Atom and Dust" - oil on copper panel, 12 x 12 x .25 inches. SOLD

This, then, is the agreement: Learning to live is learning to love, and learning to love is learning to die — the imperative in the inevitable that renders our transience meaningful and holy. The price of this holiness is absolute humility: There is no pact to be made with the universe — we die, whether or not we agree to it, whether or not we have learned how to love in the bright interlude between atom and dust. - MARIA POPOVA

Winter is coming.

The rains and cold have settled in and made themselves right at home here in the Pacific Northwest. The leaves have fallen, the crows are gathering at sundown and the light is soft and brief. It's a good time to contemplate and to create.

We lost one of our crows recently (to avian pox, we believe). He chose our home to spend his final days, perched right outside our window where we spoke to him gently and offered him treats. And as this little loss settles into my bones, it brings back other losses, whispers of the brevity of all things and the importance of making it all count.

Popova's words roil and resonate. The imperative in the inevitable makes me want to hurry up and DO DO DO! But I think it is the very opposite that is required of us. A slowing down, a savoring, allowing the moment to saturate and permeate. Which may or may not include allowing the feisty, frigid ocean waves to dunk me now and again when rockhounding at the coast. :). Yep, I'm all in.

About the art: this is the first in a series of new pieces on copper panel. You thought I was in love with Yupo? I'm head-over-heels for copper. Its is a bit pricy for a substrate, but the oils just love it, and the warm glow of it comes through like no underpainting I've seen. In my quest for the balance between fantasy and reality, abstraction and realism, humans and robots, I found myself quite enamored with this one. The focus here was in capturing her gaze and the set of her expression, while allowing the rest to become abstracted, allowing the earthy background to contrast with the modern figure.

There is a double giveaway going on this month! Woot! Leave a comment on any blog post this month to be automatically entered in the December Reader Giveaway. And follow me on Bluesky (@lolajovan.bsky.social) to be entered in a New Follower/Subscriber Giveaway for yet another piece of original art! And thanks to everyone who subscribes, follows, reads and comments - you make this artist grin from ear to ear!

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The Great Spine of Rock I and II

11/4/2024

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The Great Spine of Rock I

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"The Great Spine of Rock I" - oil on canvas, 15 x 30 x .75 inches.
"The Great Spine of Rock II"- oil on canvas, 10 x 30 x 1.5 inches. These are unframed but ready to hang (click on the images to purchase)

The great spine of rock holds diverse forests, dreamy meadows, skeins of streams, radiant lakes, and rare glaciers. Life ascends even to the highest reaches of the range, thousands of feet above tree line, where gardens of black, orange, and chartreuse lichen adorn the rock. Everywhere a tenacious living skin sheaths the ancient bones of the mountains. - RICHARD J. NEVLE

Here at Malarkey Central, we've got a thing for rocks and for bones. Hunting for, gathering, oohing and aahing, cleaning, polishing and displaying these treasures in rather large quantities. And for climbing on the ancient bones of mountains where we find so many of these relics.

But this affection for the spines of things is also personal for me. My own bones are no longer the strong inner framework they once were. I sometimes wonder if it is my own tenacious living skin holding me together.

And so, while some folks may have spirit animals or celestial guides, my own talismans are stony and bony - oozing strength, resilience, solidity and groundedness. Some of those stones, the agates, are also translucent. A symbol of my becoming more worn with time so the light shines through (a Mark Nepo-ism which I embrace). Because there is a silver lining to most everything, in my rose-colored lenses. Even the slow eroding of the mountains of our own bones.

About the art: inspired by the quote to create a sheath of "skin" on an abstracted landscape, I set out to build a number of layers and a thickness the mountains would appreciate. I began by collecting paint palettes still wet from completed pieces and pressed them against the canvases, building an uneven layer of texture and color. Once those dried, I roughed in the composition with a thick application of dark paint. Allowing it to also dry, then coming in with a palette knife and thick paint in successive wet on wet layers, leaving some of the dark poking through to give edge definition and allowing the wet layers to mingle. Two long months of drying time on these two. Worth every minute!

The Great Spine of Rock II

The November Reader Giveaway begins today! Leave a comment on any (or many) blog post(s) this month to be automatically entered to win a free piece of original art. The winner (or winners) will be announced right here in the blog on November 25th.

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Beauty, Life-Deep

9/30/2024

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Beauty, Life-Deep

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"Beauty, Life-Deep" - oil on canvas, 20 x 20 x .5 inches. This item is unframed but ready to hang. (click on the image to purchase)

That must be what the great artists see and paint. That must be why the tired, aged faces in Rembrandt’s portraits give us such delight: they show us beauty not skin-deep but life-deep. - URSULA K. LE GUIN

I am determined to find, appreciate and savor the beauty in aging.

The message we're given in the world is quite the opposite. Which has led me to critically eye every wrinkle, sag, crepe and soft jiggle with suspicion and judgment, followed by a liberal application of miracle lotions and potions.

But as I become an apprentice of self-compassion and mindfulness, I realize each of these judgy moments is telling my very own self how unacceptably inferior I am. Whoa! Wait - am I being mean to me? Funny how we can be mean to ourselves in ways we would not tolerate from others. Hmmmm.

As I wander through our collection of bones here at home (the by-product of being hikers and amateur naturalists), I can see the beauty in each of these relics; the very richness of existence itself. They tell a story - where they were found, what condition the bones are in, how the teeth are worn, which pieces are missing...and so my own bones, still inside my body, have a story to tell. And my muscles and teeth and the lines upon my face. And the hands that painted this piece. There is beauty in a life well-lived.

About the art - the AI bot and I often play with skeletons. It seems to like them, and is very wiling to dress them up. The folder of inspiration images for cheeky skeleton compositions is rather large. But this one! The colors, the texture, the nod to traditional portraiture and the wistful gaze of a skeleton lady missing her love - it grabbed me by the hand and said PAINT! So I did. The focus in creating this pieces was making the forward figure three-dimensional and the portrait figure flat, along with the textured "wallpaper" which implies the natural decay of our surroundings. Another piece that leaped from the paint, intuitive and joy-filled in the creating.

Thanks to everyone who participated in the September Reader Giveaway! Your comments make this blog space deeply meaningful and community-centered. I am so very grateful.

Wonder Mike chose three winners this month - congratulations to Gretchen, Carl and Sara! Send your mailing address to [email protected] and your original artworks will be on the way in a jiffy. Look for a new contest beginning a week from today.

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I Used to Howl

2/26/2024

4 Comments

"I Used to Howl" - oil on unstretched canvas, 23 x 18 inches. (click on the image to purchase)

I'd love to leave in winter
I used to carry in the weight of a drum
I'd love to leave in winter
The clock keeps ticking and the calm won't come
I'd love to leave in winter
I used to carry in the weight of a drum
(I'd like to howl)
I'd love to leave in winter
(I'd like to howl)
The clock keeps ticking and the calm won't come
-from PULSE VI by Kerala Dust

I Used To Howl

The studio has gone to the dogs.

Winter's chill has crept into our bones, we're craving sun, and every little bit of greenery straining upward for warmth has us hoping spring is just right there.

So there's a bit of growling (and howling and gnashing of teeth) and perhaps a wild look in our eyes. Is that a speck of saliva by the corner of your mouth? Oh, it's got you, too, has it?

About the art: unstretched canvas likes to gobble the paint, so it's perfect when you want to create something a bit sketchy. It lends itself to sallow flesh tones and scribbles, paint applied with a rag and burnished to a pale stain.

Though it appears there are only light washes of paint, there are actually many layers in heavier thicknesses. And while it is a long process to allow plenty of drying time with this substrate, the resulting effect is scrumptious.

This guy is hungry, by the way. Don't let him near the pie.

Congratulations to Mary C.! Wonder Mike chose your name as winner of the February Reader Giveaway. Be on the lookout for package of free art coming your way in the mail. And thanks hugely 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!)

12 Comments

Always At My Back

Between Atom and Dust

The Great Spine of Rock I and II

Beauty, Life-Deep

I Used to Howl

You’ve Changed

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Always At My Back

Between Atom and Dust

The Great Spine of Rock I and II

Beauty, Life-Deep

I Used to Howl

You’ve Changed

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