- Published on
Impossible Things Before Breakfast
"Impossible Things Before Breakfast" - oil on cradled wood panel, 18 x 24 x .75. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.
Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said: “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said: “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Oh, let's DO believe in impossible things!
On our bookshelf here at home sits a growing collection of science fiction. Some as old as 1950, others as recent as 2022. When you read a span 70+ years of futuristic imaginings, it is easy to see how many of these "impossibilities" are now quite real.
On our bookshelf here at home sits a growing collection of science fiction. Some as old as 1950, others as recent as 2022. When you read a span 70+ years of futuristic imaginings, it is easy to see how many of these "impossibilities" are now quite real.
As artists, writers and creators, we are charged with the mission of imagining the impossible, the improbable, the unlikely and the peculiar. Whether it is Alice in her best insectoid tea-serving form or the unsettling emotions of being human captured and rendered into a treasure of experience and deep beauty, or the landscape of a hidden mountain pass covered in mist and made magical for those who may never get to place two feet in that place - we carve a path in the human continuum that makes space for the unlikely to blossom into existence. Whoa.
Click on the image to link to the video
Here's a link to a 1960's BBC version of Alice In Wonderland. Mary Jean St Clair, the granddaughter of Alice Liddell, had a lot of concerns about this rendition. As a descendant of the girl who inspired Lewis Carroll's story. she worried that "the film would make her grandmother ‘appear into some sort of strange person’ when ‘[s]he was not’. The BBC version was not intended for children, and doesn't even use costumes! I admit to not having watched it in its entirety. But I am fascinate by this very peculiar version of Alice.
About the art: beginning with a wood panel with a very smooth surface treatment (almost as slippery as Yupo) and adding layers of dark, liquin- thinned oil paint. Moving the paint with a large rubber wedge to create a spider-web effect in the background and letting the darkness fade into the bright foreground. A rough sketch of "Alice" with thinned paint, then off to the races in creating this quirky piece. Final details with a small brush.
The AI bot and I are now on the same page about Alice. Together we are well down the rabbit hole of peculiarity and improbable Alices. It is absolutely delicious.
- Published on
"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.
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.
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.
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)
- Published on
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
“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.
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).
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.
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 thewanderingsofllola@gmail.com 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!
There is a new Reader Giveaway each month this year...stay tuned for June's giveaway - coming soon!
- Published on
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
“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. :)
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!
- Published on
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.
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.
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!
- Published on
"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.
"[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.
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.
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.
- Published on
"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
"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?
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.
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.
- Published on
"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.
[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.
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 thewanderingsoflola@gmail.com and your big prizes will be flying to you in the post. And thanks SO much for participating!
- Published on
“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.
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.
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!)
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!)
- Published on
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
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.
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!
