- Published on
The Wild God, Denouement
"The Wild God, Denouement", oil on gallery-wrapped canvas, 30 x 30 x 1.5 Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons.
Here we are, at the end.
The end of the exploration of Tom Hiron's wild god and all the poking and prodding and demanding it has made of us - a gut-check and a reminder to nurture our passions. Oh and Oh.
There is something deeply satisfying about creating a body of work in response to a poem. Beginning last summer with Nudge - Shove with Sylvia Plath's poetry and artist Helaine Abramson, the unfurling of a thread between the words, the thoughts, the emotions and the arts became a lure, a whisper, a nudge. (Helaine and I will travel this path again, we think! But view last summer's exploration here.)
Wandering with Hiron's wild god in the paint pushed me places I've not been, and also renewed passions I had let wither a bit. Not dissimilar to the wanders my husband and I take in the wilds, where the ways are difficult but the payoff is placing your feet (and eyes and ears and skin and heart) places where you've not imagined before. Oh again.
The full poem and the paintings it inspired are gathered for viewing here. A solo exhibit, of sorts. My cheeks are wet with tears, my mouth aches from laughter and shouting. A minotaur sits in the paint.
The end of the exploration of Tom Hiron's wild god and all the poking and prodding and demanding it has made of us - a gut-check and a reminder to nurture our passions. Oh and Oh.
There is something deeply satisfying about creating a body of work in response to a poem. Beginning last summer with Nudge - Shove with Sylvia Plath's poetry and artist Helaine Abramson, the unfurling of a thread between the words, the thoughts, the emotions and the arts became a lure, a whisper, a nudge. (Helaine and I will travel this path again, we think! But view last summer's exploration here.)
Wandering with Hiron's wild god in the paint pushed me places I've not been, and also renewed passions I had let wither a bit. Not dissimilar to the wanders my husband and I take in the wilds, where the ways are difficult but the payoff is placing your feet (and eyes and ears and skin and heart) places where you've not imagined before. Oh again.
The full poem and the paintings it inspired are gathered for viewing here. A solo exhibit, of sorts. My cheeks are wet with tears, my mouth aches from laughter and shouting. A minotaur sits in the paint.
About the art: beginning with a gesso'd linen canvas, "drawing" the figures on in a toned neutral oil paint thinned with Liquin. Wiping away the paint to create the highlights - removing details with a battery-powered eraser tool. This creates texture and grit where the paint has been absorbed into the linen and removed on the high points. Adding in darks and color. Deciding the man needs hair and a beard like seaweed, as the story reveals itself and the characters tell me what they want to be. Resisting the urge to perfect and correct. Allowing the paint to direct and murmur. Wishing I could be hugged by a minotaur.
A.I.-generated inspiration image
wiping away
let's add a beard to match his hair
in situ
- Published on
The Wild God Nods His Head
"The Wild God Nods His Head" - oil on cradled wood panel, 20 x 20 x 1.5. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
- from Sometimes a Wild God, by Tom Hirons
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
- from Sometimes a Wild God, by Tom Hirons
We're so near the end of Hiron's poem. Are you listening to the snakes in your arms yet? Hiron's wild god wants us to inhabit our passions - to nurture and protect our unfettered creativity. The words are visceral and rightly so. It resonates deep within my bones.
Just one more piece to this poem, which has kept me company in the studio for a couple of months now. It has prodded, poked, stabbed and shoved. I will miss its daily prickliness. And yet, I am now holding a knife, a bottle and a handful of black fur. A beast emerges in the paint.
Just one more piece to this poem, which has kept me company in the studio for a couple of months now. It has prodded, poked, stabbed and shoved. I will miss its daily prickliness. And yet, I am now holding a knife, a bottle and a handful of black fur. A beast emerges in the paint.
About the art: beginning with an inspiration image the A.I. bot and I collaborated on (the beast in the background of the imaged called me deeply), I toned a smooth cradled panel with a neutral glow. Slowly working outward from the center and creating texture within the wet paint using paper towels, chopsticks, small rubber wedges and the wrong (right!) ends of paintbrushes. Allowing the "frame" portions to remain rather sketchy, keeping the focus on the (now nodding) wild god.
inspiration image
working from the center outward
building layers
boldly becoming
detail
The reader giveaway winners have been selected! Wonder Mike and Lilly selected THREE lucky readers! Wooohooo!
Thank you for reading, for commenting and for sharing your wisdom. I am so inspired by your commitment to, new pursuit of, rekindling of and delight in your very own wild passions and creativity!
Stay tuned! A new reader giveaway arrives in April!
- Published on
I Was Busy Surviving
"I Was Busy Surviving" - oil on paper, 23 x 23. Available here and at Artfinder.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Here I am still. Communing with this poem and the wild god at my door, in my studio, in the paint. And this bit of the poem - oh and oh. Why did you leave me to die? asks the wild god. And how often have I left my inspiration, passion, interests and sparkle to die while I was busy surviving? For much of my life, I fear. But, I didn't know how.
How do we feed what makes us thrive when we are busy trying to survive? How do we exist in the world of should and musts and responsibility and busyness and yet nourish, protect, inspire, infuse, inhabit the wild god of our passions and explorations? It is, by far, the thing I most hear from other artists and creatives - how do we live in the world and yet create?
I know how I have learned to do it. And how I am still learning to say yes and yes and YES, HALLELUJAH when the wild god knocks at the door (and yes even when the muse is not present - show up and often things happen) But what I'd love to know is how do YOU inhabit your passions, dear reader? Perhaps your secret techniques will be just the whisper another creative needs in this very moment.
Both Wonder Mike and Lilly think this is an important question - and will reward one lucky commenter with a piece of original art! Yep, it's time for the MARCH READER GIVEAWAY (not giving away a reader, nope nope! Giving away a bit of original art!! Leave a comment below to be entered.
How do we feed what makes us thrive when we are busy trying to survive? How do we exist in the world of should and musts and responsibility and busyness and yet nourish, protect, inspire, infuse, inhabit the wild god of our passions and explorations? It is, by far, the thing I most hear from other artists and creatives - how do we live in the world and yet create?
I know how I have learned to do it. And how I am still learning to say yes and yes and YES, HALLELUJAH when the wild god knocks at the door (and yes even when the muse is not present - show up and often things happen) But what I'd love to know is how do YOU inhabit your passions, dear reader? Perhaps your secret techniques will be just the whisper another creative needs in this very moment.
Both Wonder Mike and Lilly think this is an important question - and will reward one lucky commenter with a piece of original art! Yep, it's time for the MARCH READER GIVEAWAY (not giving away a reader, nope nope! Giving away a bit of original art!! Leave a comment below to be entered.
AI-generated inspiration image
work in process
why didn't I take. more process pics?
At last! She has an arm.
About the art: beginning with an inspiration image generated by the A.I. bot responding to written prompts. Note the bot decided the woman did not need an arm!!! I used a grid on this one to keep myself from veering too far from the composition. After toning the Arches oil paper with oil paint and liquin (several days to dry), then a grid and sketch with colored pencil. Working from the inside out, applying layers and glazing the requisite 80 million times. I pulled the man forward in my rendition, deciding the interaction between these two characters needed a spotlight. And that she needed an arm. :)
- Published on
Hymns to Enchantments
"Hymns to Enchantments" - oil on paper, 22 x 30. Available here and at Artfinder.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table
And the moon leans in.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table
And the moon leans in.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Ooooooooh the wild god is running rampant around the studio! Enchantment is everywhere. Stags bellowing, sparrows dancing, pelicans leaping, lightning pounding fists.
I continue my exploration of Hiron's poem, which is nearly always running through my thoughts. The A.I. bot is fickle like the muse...you have to show up regularly to get good results. This inspiration image was created on a very good day with the bot. So much magic; only two hands to paint it with. And then the moon leans in.
About the art: this piece, a full sheet of Arches oil paper, was a dance in itself. Wanting to capture the essence of the inspiration image, but lighten the ominousness of it a bit, I began with a background of layered oil paints thinned with liquin and applied with a rubber wedge and paper towel. A light sketch in colored pencil and then working methodically right to let (I am largely a southpaw, so trying to keep my arm from dragging through the paint) and from top to bottom. Using negative space to define the figures. Building layers with brushes and wedges, then drawing back into the paint with a bit of paint thinner on a brush to create the delicious runny "swirlyness" that the bot does so well.
You might notice the bot does not do hands well - take a look at the inspiration image. It's good to know artificial intelligence has creative limits. :)
You might notice the bot does not do hands well - take a look at the inspiration image. It's good to know artificial intelligence has creative limits. :)
inspiration image
work in process
adding color
wardrobe
- Published on
"Exults and Weeps at Once" - oil on paper, 15 x 18. Available here and at Artfinder.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Exults and Weeps at Once
March finds me still in thrall with the wild god.
Hiron's poem nudges and prods, demands and whispers, pushes and dares. Let the wild god not find us, dear reader, wondering how we got so old and where our passion went. Instead, let us listen to the foxes and otters and snakes and live on the edge of our eyeballs whenever we can. And so, in witnessing what is emerging in the paint while the wild god prods, I both exult and weep at once.
Hiron's poem nudges and prods, demands and whispers, pushes and dares. Let the wild god not find us, dear reader, wondering how we got so old and where our passion went. Instead, let us listen to the foxes and otters and snakes and live on the edge of our eyeballs whenever we can. And so, in witnessing what is emerging in the paint while the wild god prods, I both exult and weep at once.
About the art: beginning with an inspiration image provided by the A.I. bot, who seems to very much like ballet (oh yes, even monsters, villains, goats, rabbits and demons might be wearing tutus when you ask the bot for things), I set out to create a deeply colored piece with an air of thoughtful wistfulness and contemplation. Beginning with a light sketch in color pencil, laying down thin washes of oil paint with rubber wedge, brush and paper towel. Allowing the paint to do things on its own, resisting the urge to perfect, overly clarify or define. This one is on Arches oil paper, which remains my new favorite.
- Published on
The Wondrous Dance of it All
Dear reader - I don't always know what these art pieces mean until after they are completed. The stories seem to fall into my lap at the right time, and I suppose that is just the magic and mystery of art.
I did not know, when creating this peculiar dancer, that I was about to get a message from a friend I'd never met - an artist I'd known for years. And I did not know the message would begin with I have a short time to live.
I did not know, when creating this peculiar dancer, that I was about to get a message from a friend I'd never met - an artist I'd known for years. And I did not know the message would begin with I have a short time to live.
Over the three weeks following that message, I met Valerie for the first time, and then said goodbye for the last time. The incredible artist Valerie Thomson passed away in her own home yesterday.
She was a fount of knowledge, sharing her passion for plastic-free art and environmentally-gentle packing materials, paints, substrates (and even tape!) with anyone who was curious. And she painted like the muse was in her own two hands. Her entire home was her studio - no space was left for anything other than art and the creating of it. She collected art from around the world (including many of mine) and sold her paintings around the globe.
During the last visit, I asked her what she wanted the world to know. She said, without hesitation, "there is always room for more kindness." And then she proceeded to give away her entire studio of art supplies and her entire collection of art. To me and to others who responded to her messages. This amazing woman, who had been reclusive and hermit-like for the last decade, found herself in tears over the people who said "YES!" and rushed over to meet her and help in any way possible. And there I was, on the end of her bed, crying with her. Over bagels with scrambled eggs, just the way she liked them.
My studio is packed from floor to ceiling now. Canvases, boards, oil paints, oil sticks, papers, pigments, brushes and wedges. Including several of her unfinished paintings, of which she said "finish them. Or paint over them. You'll know what to do." It's a daunting thought.
From her diagnosis to her final day was just a few short weeks. Once again, the brevity and fragility of life overwhelms me.
She was a fount of knowledge, sharing her passion for plastic-free art and environmentally-gentle packing materials, paints, substrates (and even tape!) with anyone who was curious. And she painted like the muse was in her own two hands. Her entire home was her studio - no space was left for anything other than art and the creating of it. She collected art from around the world (including many of mine) and sold her paintings around the globe.
During the last visit, I asked her what she wanted the world to know. She said, without hesitation, "there is always room for more kindness." And then she proceeded to give away her entire studio of art supplies and her entire collection of art. To me and to others who responded to her messages. This amazing woman, who had been reclusive and hermit-like for the last decade, found herself in tears over the people who said "YES!" and rushed over to meet her and help in any way possible. And there I was, on the end of her bed, crying with her. Over bagels with scrambled eggs, just the way she liked them.
My studio is packed from floor to ceiling now. Canvases, boards, oil paints, oil sticks, papers, pigments, brushes and wedges. Including several of her unfinished paintings, of which she said "finish them. Or paint over them. You'll know what to do." It's a daunting thought.
From her diagnosis to her final day was just a few short weeks. Once again, the brevity and fragility of life overwhelms me.
About the art: beginning with an A.I. prompt asking the bot to create a "killer robot samurai dancer in the style of Degas" and the bot's response image below, I created a notan and a notanized grid, sketched the composition onto some Arches oil paper (a new favorite) with colored pencil. Thin washes of oil paint to rough in the shapes and the background, then increasing thicknesses applied with brushes, rubber wedges and paper towels. Veering away from the inspiration image to create my own version of this strange little one. Oh, the wondrous dance of it all...
- Published on
"The Wild God Asks for Whiskey" - oil on paper, 16.6 x 22. Available here and at Artfinder
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
This week I continue a deep dive into Tom Hirons' poem and using A.I. bots as a painter's tool. It's not for the faint of heart. Maybe pour a glass for the muse and one for yourself before you begin. :)
The Wild God Asks for Whiskey
You will not let her see the strange guest at your table... and yet here it is, the strange guest, the wild god which is A.I.
Last week we took a look at what A.I. can do with a painting. When you're stuck, seeking different ways to view your work, it is a mighty valuable critic. This week, let's wander into generating inspiration images from photographs.
Using a photo taken by a creative mischief-maker (my husband), the bot was asked to interpret it as a painting. It first wandered down the path of illustration and moebius. This is a good prompt to allow a bit of chaos and dystopian scenes. After many prompts and meanderings, it ultimately landed on the second image below. It was photorealistic, but that works when you're just looking for a jumping off point. Goodbye Unsplash and license-free reference photos. Hello wild and wonderful photo wanderings.
The bot can do some things with landscape photos as well. We will take a gander at that in a future post.
My favorite technique (moving the wet paint with a rubber wedge) created some fabulous texture and highlights in the abstracted hair. A little splatter of red on the left side of the antlers was the final touch. Oh oh OH!
Last week we took a look at what A.I. can do with a painting. When you're stuck, seeking different ways to view your work, it is a mighty valuable critic. This week, let's wander into generating inspiration images from photographs.
Using a photo taken by a creative mischief-maker (my husband), the bot was asked to interpret it as a painting. It first wandered down the path of illustration and moebius. This is a good prompt to allow a bit of chaos and dystopian scenes. After many prompts and meanderings, it ultimately landed on the second image below. It was photorealistic, but that works when you're just looking for a jumping off point. Goodbye Unsplash and license-free reference photos. Hello wild and wonderful photo wanderings.
The bot can do some things with landscape photos as well. We will take a gander at that in a future post.
My favorite technique (moving the wet paint with a rubber wedge) created some fabulous texture and highlights in the abstracted hair. A little splatter of red on the left side of the antlers was the final touch. Oh oh OH!
photo inspiration
A.I. bot interpretation
in the beginning
Thanks to all who commented on A.I. last week! Wonder Mike and Lilly are thrilled to announce the winner in the reader giveaway. Gail P., your name was selected at random by the pooches! Email your shipping address to thewanderingsoflola@gmail.com to collect your piece of original art. Hooray!
- Published on
The Wild God Stands in Your Kitchen
"The Wild God Stands in Your Kitchen" - oil on paper, 14 x 20. Available here and at Artfinder.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
It is time to face the wild god's dragon, and that dragon is A.I art.
Dear reader, if you are feeling a huge emotional revolt against the surge of A.I art and what it means for creatives (and how damn good some of it is), you are not alone. And as with all things I set my jaw against, I know that I absolutely must go there. So I got to wondering, is there an upside to this thing?
Like any new technology, it was wildly frustrating in the beginning. But then (but then) little glimmers of oh and ah and hmmmmmmm. And two months later (the amount of time it has taken me to be mildly proficient) it has become a cyber version of the wild god - inspiring, pushing, challenging, stuck-in-my-thoughts-all-the-time and making me leap off cliffs.
It is an unapologetic critique group. I load my own paintings and photographs and sketches and scribbles and demand its feedback - what would the bot do? I give it a composition and it demands I look at it with fresh eyes - as if I had centuries of art experience and exposure.
Here is the story of one painting.
Dear reader, if you are feeling a huge emotional revolt against the surge of A.I art and what it means for creatives (and how damn good some of it is), you are not alone. And as with all things I set my jaw against, I know that I absolutely must go there. So I got to wondering, is there an upside to this thing?
Like any new technology, it was wildly frustrating in the beginning. But then (but then) little glimmers of oh and ah and hmmmmmmm. And two months later (the amount of time it has taken me to be mildly proficient) it has become a cyber version of the wild god - inspiring, pushing, challenging, stuck-in-my-thoughts-all-the-time and making me leap off cliffs.
It is an unapologetic critique group. I load my own paintings and photographs and sketches and scribbles and demand its feedback - what would the bot do? I give it a composition and it demands I look at it with fresh eyes - as if I had centuries of art experience and exposure.
Here is the story of one painting.
I was inspired by a fashion photo of a woman who seemed part cyborg, part future samurai (below) and images of samurai with arrows as I browsed the google machine. And also my own whimsy. So I combined the concepts in a painting (second image, below) and it just fell flat for me. Something was missing.
Using Midjourney, I put my own painting in the prompt and asked it for a whimsical female samurai with arrows based on the image I provided, and then specified it to be in my own style (since I have images on the internet, I presume the bot pulls from my catalogue just as it does for other, more famous, artists). The bot spit out an image that was a big improvement - deeper colors, better composition and more abstracted versions of "arrows". Whoa! It was like having my own group of savvy critics point and advise and critique.
Using Midjourney, I put my own painting in the prompt and asked it for a whimsical female samurai with arrows based on the image I provided, and then specified it to be in my own style (since I have images on the internet, I presume the bot pulls from my catalogue just as it does for other, more famous, artists). The bot spit out an image that was a big improvement - deeper colors, better composition and more abstracted versions of "arrows". Whoa! It was like having my own group of savvy critics point and advise and critique.
fashion photo
initial painting
art bot rendering
beginning the piece
I am standing in my studio at the intersection of art robots and inner dragons. And somehow, it seems the wild god knows exactly what it is doing when it coughs up foxes. Oh and OH!
What are your thoughts about using A.I. as an art tool? Or about A.I. art in general? Leave a comment below, or send an email to thewanderingsoflola@gmail.com. Wonder Mike and Lilly think someone needs a little original art in their hands, and will choose one commenter at random to receive something sweet. xo
- Published on
“Blood on the Paintwork” oil on paper, 17 x 23. Available here and at Artfinder
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
Your dog barks;
The wild god smiles.
He holds out his hand and
The dog licks his wounds,
Then leads him inside.
-from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
Your dog barks;
The wild god smiles.
He holds out his hand and
The dog licks his wounds,
Then leads him inside.
-from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Blood on the Paintwork
In the studio this week, I continued an exploration of Hirons’ poem and trying to capture some big emotion. I didn’t know until I knew, but the wild god was at the door.
A random post I read. A text or two. And then, the knowing.
The knowing and then the heaviness. The weight of loss: of one of the great painters, art instructors and encouragers, Dianne Nance. She was the one who pointed me in the direction of the peculiar - she said "go there." She opened my eyes to artists I’d never heard of or imagined, and infused me with the courage to dare try anything. She shrugged her shoulders when I presented her with something bland and said “so what?” Her eyes sparked with surprise when I brought in something boundary-nudging (or pummeling). Oooooooh yaaaaaasssss.
She was too young and vibrant to be gone already. Life feels exceptionally fragile and brief.
This piece is for her - the daring, the baring, the boldly sharing.
A random post I read. A text or two. And then, the knowing.
The knowing and then the heaviness. The weight of loss: of one of the great painters, art instructors and encouragers, Dianne Nance. She was the one who pointed me in the direction of the peculiar - she said "go there." She opened my eyes to artists I’d never heard of or imagined, and infused me with the courage to dare try anything. She shrugged her shoulders when I presented her with something bland and said “so what?” Her eyes sparked with surprise when I brought in something boundary-nudging (or pummeling). Oooooooh yaaaaaasssss.
She was too young and vibrant to be gone already. Life feels exceptionally fragile and brief.
This piece is for her - the daring, the baring, the boldly sharing.
- Published on
"When the Wild God Arrives at the Door" - oil on paper, 14 x 11. Available here and at Artfinder.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
When the Wild God Arrives at the Door
A new month and a new direction to explore in the studio - some strong emotion, some tenderness, some deep vulnerability. Inspired by Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons and allowing the muse to tug at my heart and hands. This month we'll explore the poem side-by-side with the art and see what awaits us.
I don't know about you, dear reader - wild creative being that you are - but sometimes a wild god appears at the studio door. He grabs me by the shoulders and demands things: heart-cracking, wound examining, stirring the pot and letting its aroma saturate the room. And so the art those days in uncensored, unfiltered and without apology or explanation. The inside of me reaching out to the inside of you, because a wild god insisted.
I don't know about you, dear reader - wild creative being that you are - but sometimes a wild god appears at the studio door. He grabs me by the shoulders and demands things: heart-cracking, wound examining, stirring the pot and letting its aroma saturate the room. And so the art those days in uncensored, unfiltered and without apology or explanation. The inside of me reaching out to the inside of you, because a wild god insisted.
About the art: beginning with an old painting covered in gesso and carving into the gesso with a chopstick while it is wet, creating deep texture in the underpainting. A quick sketch in colored pencil and then diving in with thin layers of oil paint. Keeping the face soft and gentle but allowing the remainder of the painting to become rough and guttural in its emotion as thicker layers of paint are added.. Carving back through the wet paint with rubber wedge, chopsticks and brush ends to expose colors underneath and create even more texture. The "dress" is made with quickly sketched flowers, saturated with paint thinner to allow the blurs and drips. When I stepped back from this one, she grabbed my heart. Oh.
