Yes, It's Three in the Morning.

Yes, it's Three in the morning.

As I slept, a dream unfolded. I was in a quiet garden, reading a book.

It was a book that doesn't exist.

It was unlike any other book. It was a new book, and in my dream I turned each page, savored every picture.

They were photographs, of places and things I have seen. Not the big tourist objects, these were the tiny hidden and overlooked details that are scattered, like little blessings, all about the City.

Most people don't even notice these minutiae, but in my dream book there they were, photographed simply and unpretentiously, several to a page,  and occasionally a full page, so that every miniscule detail could be appreciated.

They were grouped, not by location, nor by subject. They were grouped into ten chapters, each was about a different colour.

As I reached the end of the book and closed the cover, I woke, suddenly. And I knew that this Book did, in fact, exist. It is tucked away in my mind, long dormant but now beginning to rouse. It is My book, and I will commit the next couple of months to bring it into the world. I am gravid with the Idea of a Book.

Yes, it is Three in the morning. And this is, occasionally, the way inspiration comes to me.

Now, I will leave my studio daily and camera in hand, I will search for the contents of My Book.

I am an Artist, and this is how I make my Art.

Artist at Work.

Art is work. It is a physical, intellectual, creative act of work. It involves time, tools, technique, materials.

Artists work.

How many times have you answered a phone call while you were working, and said "I am working now. Can I call you back later?"

Usually the caller understands. But what is it that they really are understanding? That you are busy, that you are occupied with your art, that you have been interrupted, and will get back to them later? Or is there an underlying nuance that subtly defines for them what you actually do with your time?

Do they understand that not only are you working, but you are at work?  You may not commute every morning, you may not have an office within a corporate community. You may not have a "nine to five" job, but you are nevertheless at work.

My sister-in-law once commented that she wished she was an artist, that it must be nice to play with brushes and paint every day. I was too stunned to make a coherent reply, but later that evening I realized that the tools of my trade were toys to her, art was pleasant hobby to pursue at her leisure. She didn't have a clue of what it is to be an artist.

This realization compelled me to consider my Job as an Artist. I began to observe how frequently I allowed outside interruptions in my work day. If I actually had a corporate job, would I answer casual domestic phone calls and social interactions during my working hours? Would I leave work to do the laundry, to open my household mail merely because it was delivered during my work day? Would I do the grocery shopping, or run domestic errands?  Of course not.

Once, when I was undertaking the intense task of designing a book, I actually made business cards which defined me as a book designer, and listed my phone number and the notice that I was unavailable for two months. I made a similar sign on my studio door, which I kept closed. I gave them to friends and also (especially) to family. They took the hint, and I was able to get the job done. I was able to "put the book to bed" in less than two months.

People in general, but especially other artists, are attracted to the creative energy you have when you are working. There is some invisible but very real vibe that emanates from your studio. The tools and materials of your work become imbued with a creative magic. Other people who glimpse you in your studio as you are working are drawn to you, like children to fireflies. They want to be near you, to watch you, to observe the act of art making in progress. In doing so, they can actually feel the creativity happening.

Some people don't mind being on display. I myself have participated in many an open studio. But my best work happens in the solitude and silence of my studio. I don't mind showing my works in progress, but I really want to be alone when I am working on them.

I am an Artist.

Do Not Disturb.

I am At Work.

A Jolly Winter Festival

The creative life extends to all aspects of living, not just the creation of works of art. Something as ordinary as setting out holiday decorations can be a pleasant outlet for my creative energy.

Did you know that the Latin word for hearth is "focus"? The mantle in our dining room has become a monthly focus of seasonal festivity and celebration. I take great care with my choices to create a special showcase to welcome and delight my guests.

This antique mantle with its oval beveled mirror and pillared overmantle becomes a stage for our favorite Holiday Characters. Vintage pieces mingle happily with modern interpretations. Rock crystal icy branches, delicate evergreen boughs, fine tulle lit by a string of 100 tiny lights and vintage plastic icicles provide a setting for tinsel trees and the cast of jolly revellers. The larger marble bust on the overmantle wears a holly wreath at a rakish angle to join in the festivities.

This year's dining room mantle is a celebration of a vintage winter carnival.

These jolly revellers belie their cold snowy nature. The scale of the smaller figures invites a more intimate inspection. Vintage pieces mix with modern ones. Dennis has an eclectic collection of hundreds of Santa figures, it takes careful editing to choose which pieces will grace this special mantle. The auditions were time consuming, but the results are a joyful combination of old and new, of country primitives and vintage characters. We are privileged to have them join our Winter Wonderland Celebrations.

Here's a closer view of the the mantle piece. The beveled mirror gives more depth to the scene. Three cake stands tiered allow me to showcase smaller figures which might otherwise get lost. It's all a matter of scale and color and light.

Crystal encrusted branches are highlighted by the glitter of this tiny bird cage and the mercury glass bird inside.Vintage plastic icicles from my own childhood Christmas trees suspended from evergreen branches on the overmantle actually have a realistic look here. On the large Christmas tree in the library they become lost in the tinsel, but here they sparkle like the genuine icicles which hang from the porch roof outside the windows.

This winter fairy reigns supreme over the display. Fine white tulle over clear lights imitates an icy overhang.

Larger pieces at the sides and smaller pieces arranged in the middle invite a closer look. The color theme is winter whites. Snowmen predominate, but a few Santa figures and elves bring some festive color to the scene.

Bringing creativity into every act enlarges our hearts. I spent two days designing and assembling this mantle piece. It embodies the joy of my childhood Christmas memories, and I am pleased to share it with my holiday guests. Let the festivities reign!

Committing Art

It is risky. 

It is scary.

It is mysterious and magical.

I still don't understand how it works.

I pick up my pencil, my crayons, my pen, my brush, and the Art happens. It flows out of my hand onto the paper.

My teacher Sarah Reader once said that the mark you make on the paper is the sum total of everything you are at that moment...every input, every influence, every inspiration has been saved inside your subconscious mind and it all coalesces in the moment you make your mark.

That is a powerful thing. 

If people don't like my mark, do they dislike me? 

Of course not. 

They dislike the mark. 

I am not the mark. 

The mark was once me, but I am the moving finger, I have moved on, and now I am someone, something, different. 

Having made that mark, I am something more.

Let go of the need to be liked.

Abandon the desire to be loved.

Lose yourself in your Art.

Allow the Art to become.

Technique is vital to this.
Good materials are vital to this.
A good subject or message are vital to this.

You choose these things.

Having chosen them, you begin, make your first mark, and Commit Art.

It is an act of Confidence.

It is an act of Courage.

It is an act of Faith.

Committing Art is the act of creation, in which you most become like the Creator.

It is Holy.

Creative Acts and Anarchy

So what constitutes a creative act?

When I was a child I used to spell naughty forbidden words in my alphabet soup. It was a minor mischief, that could be easily undone with my spoon if my mother approached. It was thrilling, an act of disobedience, of a sort. I was never specifically forbidden to write bad words in my soup, but I knew I was transgressing an unspoken rule.

When Senator Jesse Helms succeeded in eliminating American government grants to individual artists because he considered some of the funded works to be obscene, I assembled 100 female dress dummies in a gallery, and placed black rectangles of paper over their breasts and groins, reminiscent of old medical journal photographs. The mute message was summed up in a statement in the front of the gallery, addressed to Mr. Helms: You cannot censor art.

Some creative acts are by their nature transgressive. They hold a stark mirror to the viewer. They say, "See, this is what you may think is wrong".

All artists who break new ground risk rejection by the mainstream. To create, sometimes, is to misbehave. We have all colored outside the lines at times.

When I was in Kindergarten, (five years old) my teacher set us the task of covering a circular frame with blue cord, knotting it along the outer edge. She carefully showed us how to make the specific knot. But I was left-handed, and I did it backwards. It looked fine to me, but my teacher took particular pains to show me the error of my ways.  Nevertheless, I continued to do it my own way, because it felt right to me, and the result, although reversed, looked good to me.  She corrected me twice. I ignored her, and for the first time realized that not only can grownups be mistaken, I became aware that my own creative acts carried a strong sense of power.

Sunday painters, with their careful realism, never break the rules. Entire genres of how-to books are written for them, so they can be assured of knowing the right and proper ways to paint. They are taught how to "correct mistakes".

It is important to know the rules, to apply composition, perspective, color theory, brush techniques.

But it is far more important, once you know the rules, to know that it is permissible, even desirable, to break the rules.

It is a powerful thing, to break the rules of art. Only by doing this are we able to be truly creative.

Portable Studio

I've been accused, and rightly so, of over-packing my art supplies on my travels.

So this year, embarking on an annual trek 750 miles away, I have endeavored to limit my watercolor art supplies to what I consider to be the absolute bare minimum.

It was actually a really soft lovely leather bag that enabled me to do this. It is taller than it is wide, so I have the ability to put in it my long landscape sketchbooks. It is  commodious. It is large enough to contain what I consider my essentials, but small enough to easily carry.

Here's what it contains:

My antique Cadbury candy tin containing a half pan of every watercolor color I like.

A pencil box full of my favorite brushes and pens, including mechanical pencils and extra leads.

A plastic container that doesn't leak for water.

A tiny bottle of gesso.

A bottle of ink.

Five sketchbooks I am currently keeping.

Paper towels, and a tiny container of brush cleaner.

For me, this is the absolute minimum.

I feel somehow freed by this very contained portable studio. Not having access to my great hoard of art supplies constrains me to focus my creative intentions.

Now, I must admit I also packed a very large tote bag of my favorite inspirational books. And my large double tray tin of water soluble crayons.

Having limitations and boundaries can be very freeing, especially if you're the kind of artist that works on many projects. It forces you to concentrate on one type of work, one set of tools and techniques. Your creative mind knows that the focus is specific. 

You are working with self imposed limitations.

And the best part is that no matter what, wherever you are, a very quickly assembled studio is immediately available.

Waiting for Rain

There you have it: The Idea.

You're sitting in front of your sketch pad, turning page after page after page, drawing, drawing, drawing. You add a bit here, you take away a bit there, you move this to the bottom and that to the top.

Perhaps you're working from some physical reference in front of you. You stare at it so intensely that your eyes are burning through the object to the other side. Or maybe you're working from something that doesn't exist in this physical universe: it's some thing you have inside your head, a shape, a color, a line.

You draw, draw, draw, you paint, paint, paint, or whatever it is that you do when you pick up your  tools. It's starting to come together.

Maybe you have no clue what it will look like when you're done, but at this moment, what you see in your head and what you see on the page in front of you are starting to coalesce, starting to look like the same thing.

It's starting to look like, well, The Idea.

Something intervenes. The phone rings, the dog barks, you stretch your back and go for a cup of coffee.

When you return to the page, something is different. The momentum you had just a moment ago is gone. That intangible something which you had in the palm of your hand has vanished.

What do you do?

There is a point in the life of every gardener when the seeds have sprouted. They have been fed, they have been weeded. They have been carefully cultivated. All that remains is to wait for rain.

Waiting for rain is hard to do. It never seems to fall quite when you want it to. Irrigation is a luxury, not everyone can afford it. Most of us are stuck in our studios at times like these, fiddling with tools, shuffling papers, waiting, hoping that the magic moment when the idea was a very real thing will happen again. We wait for rain.

What do you do at this point?

Do you keep working at a process that is standing still, refining and rearranging, hoping that incremental changes will bring about the results you desire?

Do you walk away from it and dip your hands into another task, hoping that you will transplant some creativity?

Do you pick up a book to escape, certain that your journey away from your piece of art will lead you back at the end of the chapter?

Do you prowl through a magazine, hoping for inspiration to strike you again?

Do you get involved in some totally mundane mindless task, to keep the rhythm of working?

Do you leave the studio all together, planning to return when the rain begins to fall?

As you probably realize by now, there are no correct answers to these questions. Every artist, over time, and with much experience, develops techniques, little tricks, to restart the process. 

For some artists, and perhaps you are one of them, simply staring at the piece of paper for a long enough period of time is sufficient to seed the clouds of their souls so the rains may begin to fall.