On Her Way

It was after we moved to Asheville, having uprooted ourselves from 20 years in our Westlake home. It was after the breast cancer diagnosis that was followed by surgery, radiation and then – surprise – chemotherapy. It was after I retired (for real). Mostly it was after tending my mother at her passing, holding her hand as she danced out of this life. And then did it again 18 months later with our dear friend.

I wanted to wail. I needed to scream. The magnetic fields of grief, worry and turbulence had compromised my emotional compass. So I got out my paints. I was untethered and needed to map my way through the loss. I was consumed by the need to visually articulate the eruption of energies at the end of a life, like that scene in Close Encounters when Richard Dreyfuss is carving Devils Tower out of his mashed potatoes. I wasn’t painting for pleasure, I was painting to process.

My early attempts were simplistic and flat; stick figures substituting for the human form.

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I persisted. Thankfully I also progressed. I now had a few versions that almost resembled that unnameable something.

And then repetition yielded to release. Finally I was free to expand my visual language, expressing more than just grief.

In January I worked a new canvas with no clear goal. I was working intuitively and more quickly than any others. In about three days I had started and completed the piece. It wasn’t until I was finished that I realized I had finally done it. I had painted On Her Way. 

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On Her Way, Acrylic on Canvas, 24 x 24

P.S. A few days before my mother passed away, she surfaced from the depths of her visions and asked “Am I on my way?” “Yes Mom,” I answered. “I think you are.” She smiled and nodded, then slipped back into the current that pulled her further away from her earthly existence.

WHOOP! WHOOP!

 

I remember leaving the building and letting go a loud “whoop” into the cold dark air. I had completed my last final of my last class of my Bachelor’s degree program. When I’d first begun taking classes at the age of 28 I was convinced I would fail, convinced that 10 years of marriage followed by raising two kids alone had certainly atrophied the academic part of my brain. Now, for perhaps the first time, I felt accomplished. This whoop had been hard won.

It was déjà vu last Friday evening when I entered the gallery at the Old Post Office Museum and Art Center in Graham, TX. After just two years exploring this medium (plus the 30 intervening years when I dabbled), I had two pieces hanging in a public gallery. Our friend Alisa leaned into me. “These artists are really good,” she whispered. I felt both humbled and honored to be included in this show. And yes, accomplished.

The juror, Randy Meador (http://randymeador.com/) was gracious and encouraging. He talked to the collected audience of his own experiences with submitting pieces and getting rejected; of how random and fickle the jurying process is. In addition to the prize winners, he offered to provide feedback on any of the paintings in the show. I eagerly took him up on the offer. He talked about his own work being realistic and how you can easily see if the painting is an accurate representation of the image being painted. Not so with this work he said. Abstract expressionism “comes from inside you and none of us can know what that was the day you made this.”

I am Artist. Hear me WHOOP!

Finished? Or Good Enough?

Giving Forth, (18×24/Acrylic on Canvas)

In the language of Meyers-Briggs I am an INFP: introverted (surprised, right?), intuitive (preferring to focus on the big picture over the minutia in data gathering), feeling (values-based decision making) and perceiving (preferring to remain flexible and open-ended in the service of a potentially better outcome). INFPs are typically very idealistic (check), need inspiration (check) and are driven to creative expression (double check). Lately though I’ve been battling that “P-thing.”

In my last post I announced my intention to apply for juried art shows hoping to see my work hang in a public space; I am still committed to that goal. It turns out though, that having finished work is imperative to the application process. After 18 months of near daily painting I have about 20 canvases in various states of artistic development. If you consider that the vast majority of these have at least two, often more iterations under the current surface, I am prolific. The problem? None are finished. I have framed and hung exactly TWO pieces. Truth be told they weren’t done when I hung them. I just wanted something to show for all this effort.

This past month, I’ve been driven to FINISH. Not perfect, just good enough to be submitted. Instead of seeking that one last stroke or splash of color to make it just a little better (and usually creating new problems to be solved), I have been focusing on the conclusion; getting resolution and moving on. Putting that “P” factor in time out, I’ve enjoyed getting closure on three pieces. I’ve submitted the two shown and have just learned they have both been accepted into the show.

Next stop on this artistic journey will be Graham, TX for the opening reception. Here’s to a new revolution.

Finding Vertical (20×20/Acrylic on Wood Panel)

Going All The Way — Part II

Just over a year ago, I wrote about my intent to find my artistic identity through painting (see my post dated October 31, 2017). Reading through that post, I am remembering both excitement and angst about stepping onto that path; the hope of engaging my creative spirit mingled with the certainty that lack of talent would doom my efforts. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

I met an artist (gwenbighamstudio on Instagram) whose paintings and sculptures, so full of energy and emotion brought me to tears. I asked her to be my mentor. We’ve been working together for a year now and I paint nearly every day. My journey to become an artist has been both exhilarating and exasperating. I’ve made some very, very ugly things, only to learn that art is often born out of the dreadful. I’ve produced a few things I find worthy of framing and hanging for others to see. But am I an artist yet?

I have a goal to see my work hang in a public space and so I am applying for juried art shows. This requires that I compose my Artist Statement, the most challenging and humbling bit of writing I’ve ever faced. It is also the one act, more than any other that has helped me claim my artist self.

Here it is:

“It is a quality of revolutions not to go by old lines or old laws, but to break up both and make new ones.” Abraham Lincoln

To be present to the many revolutions that occur in a life and follow the story-line as it unfolds is the imperative in my work. Inspired by the dance between colliding energies — stillness and turbulence,  ease and dis-ease, life and end of life — I explore and  react to both the permanence and permeability of the lines created at these margins.

My journey as an artist is born of the desire to expand my vocabulary for personal, creative expression. It draws on the landscape of my interior life and embraces the abstract nature of human experience. I regard each canvas as a new relationship, one that requires patience, a sense of humor, a willingness to suspend judgement, and room to breathe. I may start with texture, a color or line and then allow the story to evolve in its own way. In those moments when I surrender, truly give up control, I am rewarded with a revolutionary experience.

Untitled, Acrylic & charcoal on canvas board, 20×20

Cheers!

Pat Abrams, Artist

Live on an Island

Bonaire Sunset II

In my twenties and thirties I longed to live on a beach. I saw myself taking long, solitary walks along the shore and being in tune with the rhythm of waves. I would find beauty and inspiration by looking out the window. When I found a real estate ad with the headline “Live on an Island” I hung it in my office. My make-believe future of living on the edge had been elevated to being my own, self-governed nation.

I should put this in perspective. Between the ages of 19 and 39 I gave birth twice. I moved five times to places not of my own choosing. I became a single mom when my children were 9 and 7. I started and completed a Bachelor’s Degree. I got a job that was highly meaningful but left me qualified for food stamps (my pride prevented me from using that benefit). I got a different job that enabled me to almost make ends meet. I kept two warring adolescents alive. And then I saw them graduated from high school and off to college. Trust me when I say that the idea of living on an island held great appeal.

So here we are, living on Bonaire for three weeks. We are not here as tourists; we have responsibilities as house/cat sitters for friends. Except for some snorkeling and flamingo spotting (essential eye candy), our daily routines are familiar. Sally is working (a little), I am painting and writing (some). We have momentarily traded our beloved EKG-like terrain for the flat line of an oceanic horizon, our fall colors for fifty shades of blue, and urban black bear for herds of wild goats and donkeys. It is balmy, breezy and picturesque with a distinctly un-quickened pulse that induces stillness.

The native Bonaireans are easy going and friendly. The transplants, mostly from Holland and the States have great stories to tell about getting to paradise, about choosing the island time lifestyle. Is it my dream come true? The truth is, that life on an island is no longer my dream. Bonaire is a lovely place to visit, but I no longer wish to live here.

Getting Connected

Bonaire, one of the Dutch “ABC” (Aruba-Bonaire-Curacao) islands just off the coast of Venezuela, is a magical place with calm blue waters and cool(ish) breezes. It lies well below the hurricane belt which is fortuitous when you are invited to house-sit for three weeks in October/November. Still, we arrived on the island to a torrential downpour and learned that a freak lightning storm a week earlier had fried many of the electronics in our friends hillside community, including their modem. This is an island, under 20,000 total residents, no traffic lights but plenty of wild donkey and goat crossings. It is a place where nearly all consumables and durable goods arrive on a weekly freighter. Need a new modem? Maybe it will be here in a week.

Our friends are resourceful though. A new SIM card popped into one of their iPhones and voila, internet access for the Apple tribe. I however am “i-less.” No connection for me. I do have options. I can go into town to any of the local bars or cafes. But I can’t think of a reason that I need to be connected. The news is regularly broadcast by my surfing companions and Sally keeps me abreast of social media outbreaks. It’s as if I have my own personal news feed, 24/7.

It’s been a week now and still no modem. And our friends have departed with their hotspot. For the past seven days, while my mates have been tethered to their devices, I have been staring at big white clouds being tumbled across blue skies by trade winds. I have practiced long periods of stillness (motivated as much by the heat of the day as the lack of e-distraction). I have napped and traded reactivity for relaxation. And I have marveled at how much of my time has been freed up for more creative pursuits.

Last night I caved though. In town at a restaurant I surreptitiously logged in and downloaded my accumulating emails. Mostly junk, a few from family wanting to know how our trip is going. Nothing needing my urgent attention. But now there’s a postcard written and waiting to go out. There’s some family business to attend to. Wait… the brown-breasted parakeets have landed on the cactus just beyond the pool. They are squawking at us as they flash their brilliant greens and yellows. Gotta go!

Bonaire Sunset, Pat Abrams 2018

 

The Other Woman

It seems Alexa has moved in with us. Sally is somewhat smitten. I am not. It was pure happenstance that we were introduced to her; we needed to replace our obsolete Apple TV device and ordered an Amazon Fire TV stick with Alexa remote. The “reviews” recommended the Echo Dot to go with it for hands-free TV operation. It was only after attempting to install and pair the two devices that I understood the advantage the Dot provided: I would no longer need to lean forward to pick up the remote. Am I missing something here? “Send it back,” I said. “We don’t need another device.”

Before I could repackage her and get her out the door, Sally brought her upstairs, into the part of the home we actually live in (except when we’re watching TV). Suddenly our home was filled with conversations with her. “Alexa, turn on Pandora.” “Alexa, what is our weather for tomorrow?” And yes, “Alexa, tell me a joke.” The most popular command in our home is, “Alexa, set the timer,” followed by “Alexa, how much time is left on the timer?” Oh how I long for the days when we set the timer on the microwave (located directly over the counter where Alexa sits waiting) for all to see. Alexa has created other divides. Sally doesn’t like the way I speak to her; “Alexa, stop music.” I’m too stern she says. Sally is always more mannerly with please and thank you, though one time after thanking her Alexa responded, “Sorry, I don’t know that one.” Ha! I was vindicated.

I have a theory that Alexa was created by extroverts for extroverts. She is a ready listener and will respond immediately no matter what, never lost in her own thoughts or focused on something other than the speaker’s desire. Introverts, at least this introvert finds it disturbing that there is yet another entity in the world waiting for my words to be said out loud. For now I’ve agreed to tolerate this other woman. But for the record, the bedroom is off limits.

Majo’s Poems

There used to be an older gentleman who worked as a cashier at my favorite grocery store. He greeted every customer with the question, “So what are you looking forward to today?” If I shopped on Mondays he’d ask if I qualified for the wisdom discount. He was very excited when he was allowed to get a dog and also pleased when he got a roommate that he liked. I sensed he didn’t have complete freedom to make these choices on his own. I would wait in his line, even if it was backed up, knowing that the experience would make me smile all day.

The past few weeks, he hasn’t been there. Maybe he’s having a vacation I thought hopefully. Then last week as I was leaving the store I saw him sitting at a small card table set up just outside the door, possibly close enough to feel the cool blast of air conditioning every time the doors slid open. He’d set up an ancient typewriter and a cardboard sign reading, Ask Me For a Poem. Someone stood before him waiting for their poem to be finished.

I haven’t published a postcard in a couple of months and some of you have been asking for a new one. Thank you loyal readers for your encouragement. I’ve looked back at my history: I first published 37 months ago and have put up 44 posts! And if you’ve been reading along, you know that I shifted my creative energies more towards painting back in October. I’m pleased to report that I am working with a mentor, taking classes when I can, and painting almost every day. I enjoy the process of discovery and progress.

One thing that I’ve learned along the way is that painting, unlike writing, is an “out of head” experience. The non-objective expressionism that I am pursuing requires me to go deep into my intuitive bays where words, especially the judgey or even merely descriptive ones, are not my friends.

I think about Majo and what a challenge it must be to write poetry (or postcards) on demand. I’m hoping to see him again soon so that I can ask him for a poem. I’ll let you know what he says.

Playing with Abstraction (and the non-objective)

It was a simple question. Predictable even given that I’d just explained to the young woman that I needed clear easel vision; from 2 – 7 feet away from the easel is where I spend a lot of my time these days. She got to work and the comforting sound of her clicking keyboard lulled me into that happy place of being nearly invisible while she searched for the best solution for me. Then…

“So, what do you paint?”

It hit me in the solar plexus. It is a question that begs to be answered with the familiar: landscapes, flowers, nature, dogs, any thing.

“I paint abstracts,” I said, hoping for a speed bump in the conversation. It worked.

“Squirrel in a Tree” Cash Becker (2017)

Abstract painting should be easy, right? No real rules, no pesky references to realism. Just throw some paint at a canvas Ala Jackson Pollock. Any 6 year old can do it. Of course six year olds can do it; they have not yet internalized that stay-between-the-lines critic. My grandson, Cash is a master of abstract art.

 

“Coneflower” Pat Abrams 1994

When I first started painting, 20-some years ago, I produced some pretty realistic and acceptable versions of flowers. I bored of them quickly.

 

Now, working with my mentor Gwen I am focused on finding and expressing the essence of things; painting not the rock, but rather the rhythm of the rock, the energy of the space where that rock resides. I am compelled by the forces (non-objective) that have taken up residence in my life these past few years and want to explore those with color and texture, line and shape.

inspired by a rock at Bondi Beach (unfinished), Pat Abrams (2018)

So, what do I paint?