january shows

My new work (O Mountain) will be up and at ’em in two locations in January.

I’m very excited to announce that I’ll have work at G.Gibson Gallery here in Seattle. Some newer small drawings will be there that have only been shown in Miami, as well as a handful of the mountain pieces that debuted at Gage Academy.

In Portland, I’ll have nine pieces at Laura Russo Gallery, for “New Views – The Carl & Hilda Morris Foundation Young Artist Exhibition (Featuring Gala Bent, Grant Hottle, Marcus Gannuscio, Rachel Peddersen, Megan Scheminske and Liz Tran)” When I dropped off my work, this Fay Jones piece hit me from across the room. So great. She’s an artist also living in Seattle, and in her early 70s. I love it.

Fay Jones
Rear View     2010
acrylic, sumi and collage on okawara paper
36″ x 39″

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…and solaris

I’m in the middle of Solaris. (This is a bit of an embarrassing admission. Once it’s nighttime, and the kids are all tucked away, even my love of Tarkovsky can’t keep me from getting dozy at his films’ pace. So I’m not watching it as I know it should be… in one long sigh). But anyway, especially since seeing Ralph Lemon’s performance, I’ve wanted to see it. The circular windows that overlook the ocean of Solaris are also sticking with me in the same theme of last post. At night, they are yawning black holes, and the protagonist leans into them as the camera zooms in slowly… and we are all floating in the dark together.

Andy Goldsworthy talks about his black hole pieces in Rivers and Tides (he has just explained that he began making these pieces when his brother’s wife passed away):

darkness like soil

“You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.” Wendell Berry (from The Country of Marriage)

In the above pieces, and more to come, I’ve been thinking about unknown spaces (especially those that recede into darkness) and how they can function in a drawing. There’s something both frightening and inviting about the dark. It can be comfortingly womb-like, but also threateningly mysterious– everything you fear can take shape in the dark, but it’s also where loves pass, and sleep, sweet or fitful.

{Joachim Patinir}

{Jenolan Caves, via BLDGBLOG}

{Fra Angelico}

{Anselm Kiefer}

{lost the source on this one…}

The primordial darkness of the universe at the moment before creation, as represented in a plate in Robert Fludd’s 1617 Utriusque Cosmi Maioris scilicet et Minoris Metaphysica, Physica, atque Technica Historia (The Metaphysical, Physical, and Technical History of the Two Worlds, Namely the Greater and the Lesser). The words Et sic in infinitum (“and like this to infinity”) are written on all four sides of the square. Courtesy Wellcome Photo Library. (caption and image from Cabinet)

wrinkles in time

{above: Tiffany Bozic}

Time is terrifying. Can I get a witness?

When I read “A Wrinkle in Time” as a child, Madeleine L’Engle blew my mind into orbit. I remember lying in bed with the universe spinning around me, trying to comprehend the beginning and end of my life– trying to imagine the world before my window on it opened up. And seeing time as something that went far beyond my own small scope. It was a first exhilarating and terrifying look at mortality.

At this age, L’Engle’s view of time is more comforting. The mortal L’Engle is gone, but her words are here. And I suspect she is a new creature somehow. She was (is?) pretty wonderfully wacky. A holy fool. I’m forever different because of her.

“It’s a good thing to have all the props pulled out from under us occasionally. It gives us some sense of what is rock under our feet, and what is sand.”

“I am still every age that I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a searching adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be… This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages…the delayed adolescent, the childish adult, but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide… Far too many people misunderstand what *putting away childish things* means, and think that forgetting what it is like to think and feel and touch and smell and taste and see and hear like a three-year-old or a thirteen-year-old or a twenty-three-year-old means being grownup. When I’m with these people I, like the kids, feel that if this is what it means to be a grown-up, then I don’t ever want to be one. Instead of which, if I can retain a child’s awareness and joy, and *be* fifty-one, then I will really learn what it means to be grownup.”

From “A Wrinkle in Time,” about Earth: “They are very young. And on their earth, as they call it, they never communicate with other planets. They revolve about all alone in space.”  “Oh,” the thin beast said. “Aren’t they lonely?”

“But unless we are creators we are not fully alive. What do I mean by creators? Not only artists, whose acts of creation are the obvious ones of working with paint of clay or words. Creativity is a way of living life, no matter our vocation or how we earn our living. Creativity is not limited to the arts, or having some kind of important career.”

“I think that all artists, regardless of degree of talent, are a painful, paradoxical combination of certainty and uncertainty, of arrogance and humility, constantly in need of reassurance, and yet with a stubborn streak of faith in their own validity no matter what.”

— Madeleine L’Engle