Behind the Painting: Both.

I realized yesterday that while I don't miss the confusion and effort of gathering blog post content, I miss sharing stories about my work. So I thought I would talk about Both., a painting from my nature series, which consists of seven paintings of flowers or tree branches.

This painting is different from many of my pieces because:

1. There are no chairs.

2. It was done on paper and then mounted on a panel.

3. It is painted in ink and acrylic paint.

4. This piece has a title on its tag as well as a haiku about the piece.

Only two of the seven pieces in the nature series are done on paper, the rest of the nature series are paint on wooden panels. Still, I consider this piece a painting. For this series, I wrote a haiku for each painting, which was tedious and also really satisfying. Writing and words and meranings and implications are really important to me and my work. I also felt relatively proper because haikus are supposed to be about nature. The haiku for Both. was one of the quickest to write because I had already taken notes about the imagery. You can read the haiku by clicking on the second image below.

This tree was found in a friend's backyard. I plopped down on the back steps and searched for something to sketch and landed upon this fascinating tree. The tree itself is rather simple, hardly any smaller branches until about 10 feet up and yet its body language spoke to me. It told a story of two separate entities splitting early on, but yet still sharing one base. The mounted watercolor paper was originally supposed to be cut up and placed on two smaller panels, but having each limb in its own space emphasized the idea of division, as well as including messy paint edges. But life is messy and imperfect and so it makes sense to have this wonky shaped image. My notes and haiku relating to this image are wondering about why these two grew like that. Do all trees like that do that? Is it necessary? Or were they tired of each other? Why do we grow apart? Why are we not united? And yet, look how much do we still have in common.

Both.

9 x 12 x 1 inches

Ink and acrylic paint on paper on wood panel with paper tag

2015

Both. 
Tag Detail of Haiku

2015

 

Tree sketch

Pencil on paper

2015

This: Poem

Now that the dozen Behind the Painting posts are complete, I'm pondering what to share on this blog next. Today I am posting a poem my Granddad wrote about my chair pieces. This poem serves as a lovely way of wrapping up my stories behind the pieces because it makes suggestions of what else these stories could be about and summarizes my chair series succinctly. I contemplate using it as an artist's statement sometimes. My aim is to have viewers relate to the paintings or to identify themselves in the scenes and I feel this poem could help lead people to understanding without me spelling it out.

As a little behind the scenes, here's a tidbit about my Granddad: He has been a great source of support and inspiration. He always believed in me and my art trajectory, even when I was younger and more unsure of myself and making, uh, terrible things. As a geezer, he continues to write poems and submits them to be published (as well as always trying new things, especially artistic endeavors!) Also please note that while this poem is sincere and beautiful, he has the weirdest and best sense of humor you'll ever find and ever since I decided I like elephants, it is everything pachyderm for me from emails to presents (this fact will help you appreciate the personal note as well as the expression that is the last line.) Enjoy!
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HAVE A SEAT

By Bill Dill

25 portraits of empty chairs, 

the simple folding kind, alone

to a baker’s dozen – jumbled,

neatly ordered sets, tumbled

on a side. No group has a name.

Each one brushed with love,

simple browns and grays, most

clean of dents and scratches –

they stand in sunlit patches,

bare floor and wall. That’s all.

Try the palettes of our minds,  

conjure how the chairs have lived

with us and we with them: to meet,

listen, pretend to work, pause to eat;

picnics, pizza, hugs and mugs of beer.

Dangled, tangled legs, a restless

child or lover in the dark; debating

art or numbers on a chart; doomsday

waits in fear – what will someone say

about our rights, our health, a job?

By the gallery door surmising ways

that each of us might fill the chairs,

the painter chuckles while we ponder. 

Will we share the truth, she wonders

about elephants who share our rooms?