Beehunter Creek Series - Failing Faster

© Robin Edmundson, 'Beehunter Creek, gold field 949, watercolor, 9 x 12 inches. 

Framed $300.  

In my day job, we’ve been working on some big projects lately. Learning new things, new platforms, new ways of thinking about things - at the very same time that these same platforms are ‘updating & upgrading’, which means that just as we learn how to do something, it changes. At one point we launched a project and it just wouldn’t work. It was a bit discouraging, but our team has a great mindset and at our next meeting we spent some time talking about the notion of ‘failing faster’.

This is the idea that the object of the game is to blaze new territory, build skills and go where we have never gone before. We remind ourselves that new stuff is…new. There are no crystal balls, you just have to wade in and figure it out. The more you do that, the faster you figure things out and reach your goal. It takes time, effort, and a tolerance for failure and frustration.

This made me think of Thomas Edison’s approach to his own work. You’ve probably heard of his ‘Ten thousand things’ quote. I found the real story HERE.

‘… in 1910 in a comprehensive two volume biography called “Edison: His Life and Inventions”. The anecdote was told by a long-time associate of Edison’s named Walter S. Mallory. Edison and his researchers had been working on the development of a nickel-iron battery for more than five months when Mallory visited Edison in his laboratory.

‘I found him at a bench about three feet wide and twelve to fifteen feet long, on which there were hundreds of little test cells that had been made up by his corps of chemists and experimenters. He was seated at this bench testing, figuring, and planning. I then learned that he had thus made over nine thousand experiments in trying to devise this new type of storage battery, but had not produced a single thing that promised to solve the question. In view of this immense amount of thought and labor, my sympathy got the better of my judgment, and I said: ‘Isn’t it a shame that with the tremendous amount of work you have done you haven’t been able to get any results?’ Edison turned on me like a flash, and with a smile replied: ‘Results! Why, man, I have gotten a lot of results! I know several thousand things that won’t work.’’

In 1921 Thomas Edison was interviewed by B. C. Forbes for American Magazine. Edison described an incident that matched the anecdote presented by Mallory although he did not provide a precise dialog [BFTE]:

‘I never allow myself to become discouraged under any circumstances. I recall that after we had conducted thousands of experiments on a certain project without solving the problem, one of my associates, after we had conducted the crowning experiment and it had proved a failure, expressed discouragement and disgust over our having failed ‘to find out anything.’ I cheerily assured him that we had learned something. For we had learned for a certainty that the thing couldn’t be done that way, and that we would have to try some other way. We sometimes learn a lot from our failures if we have put into the effort the best thought and work we are capable of.’

I love that last line.

It’s true for art as well. This is why we work in series - to explore an idea by putting into the effort the best thought and work we are capable of.

Recently, I’ve been working on a series of paintings of Beehunter Creek. [You can see some of the early versions here.] For each study, I have a question: What happens if I use this brush? What happens if I use these colors? What if I reverse that? What if all I do is pay attention to the edges? What if I start this way or that way?…

It means that I end up with stack of things that didn’t work, but slowly, slowly I collect the things that did work and if I keep going, then some day all those things will click into place and a higher and higher percentage of the studies I do will turn out well - precisely because I will already know what doesn’t work and I’ll be able to focus on what does. [The painting above is the 5th study I did of the Beehunter Creek scene. I’ll continue to explore it - larger, brighter, looser, etc.]

I’d love to know the things that you’ve been working on, that you have stuck with until you know the things that won’t work and the things that will. Drop me a line and tell me about it.

Here's another of the studies I did in this series. 

© Robin Edmundson, 'Beehunter Creek, 948', watercolor, 16 x 20 inches. 

Framed, $575

Deep Woods, Sacred Ground

 

©Robin Edmundson, 'Two Trees, Deep Woods', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches.  $650, unframed.

Someone asked me recently what my personal symbols are. Those things that show up in many areas of life - the way some people have rainbows, or butterflies show up everywhere. I was mystified for a while. I don’t really collect things like that. 

And then one day I looked around the studio. Trees. A forest of them on my walls. Big ones. Little ones. Trees in all the seasons. 

Trees are a potent symbol for me. One of my favorite symbols is Yggdrasil, the Norse tree of life. Often it is depicted with a large beautiful crown - and an equally expansive root system. Balance. Strength [as opposed to power]. Life.

I can see woods from every window of my house. I walk there every day. The woods are my sacred ground. I move through the woods and the woods move through me. It’s an exquisite dance of spirit.

It’s hardly surprising then that trees show up in my work and on my walls. 

I’ve been thinking about ‘sacred ground’ ever since. Mulling over what that means for me, what it means for the woods and how we approach and care for them. 

The woods are a temple of the spirit for me. A place of rest, of peace, of solace. The dwelling place of god. Or God. Or Goddess. Or Spirit. Or the universe. Whatever works for you. 

It’s a good place - the best place - this sacred ground. 

I hope you have a chance to find and tend your sacred ground this season.

Slowing Time

 

© Robin Edmundson, 'Backlit Barn, Early Fall', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.  $375.

It's October already.  The leaves are turning and we've had our first frost. This year has kept on moving despite all the upheaval.  

I've been thinking a lot about time this year.   Sometimes it felt as if things were standing still and other times, I blink and it's 3 months later. 

I find myself a little anxious that things are moving too quickly for me and I feel like I'm always behind.  I want things to slow down.

Do you remember the Star Trek movie, Insurrection?   One of the themes is the ability to slow time.  There are a couple of lovely scenes where Picard is focused on something so intently that time slows right down.  

It's that intention, attention and focus that helps me 'slow time'.  

I was in the garden the other day, quickly picking beans, trying to finish and cross that thing off the list, when I looked up and saw a vulture gliding in slow curves on an updraft.  I heard myself breathe deep and as I focused on that beautiful arc of movement in the sky, I could feel time stop for moment.

And I watched.

We talk about time slowing down, but time is a constant.  Time marches on.  Time flies.  In Latin, 'tempus fugit' literally means time flees. It runs away.

It's we who have to slow down.  To stop. Time slows when we slow.  

That afternoon in the garden, it was not time that slowed and stopped. I was the one who slowed, who stopped for those moments with intention, to pay attention and to focus on that miracle of flight.  

That smooth glide through the sky.  

That silent, joyful, gentle spiral.  

Higher. On a breath of warm wind.  

Higher.  

Higher. 

Around in another slow arc. 

One more time.

Higher.

I stopped; time stopped.

The vulture floated higher and my heart rose with it.

I hope, my wonderful friends, that you take a moment to stop time for something lovely that crosses your path today. 

Ease

I've been thinking a lot about ease lately.  

This year has been the antithesis of ease.  Mostly I do just fine, until suddenly I find that I am so very not fine.  Navigating the roller coaster is uncomfortable and difficult.  

Everything seems harder.

Over and over lately I've been repeating the question:  How can I make this easier? How can I make this easier?   How can I make this easier?   What am I doing wrong?   How can I make this easier?

Which begs the question: What is ease?  

For me, ease is the quality of a process that obtains maximum results for minimum effort.  

Maximum results.  Minimum effort.  

Five apricots.  Reference photo.

I'm at that stage in my creative process where I'm painting a lot of stuff that ends up in the dud pile, to be cut up and used for journaling pages later.  It's discouraging.  I'm trying to be focused so that I can use this time to learn, practice, and refine new skills.   But the duds keep coming.   

Piles of them.  

And in my mind the constant refrain:  Why is this so hard?   What am I doing wrong? What can I do to make it easier? 

I started examining my stories around ease.  I have familiar ones:

• Work is good. Good people work. If I work, then I am a good person.
• In order to be a good person, I have to work.
• The harder I work, the better person I am.
• I have achieved some awesome stuff by working hard. Therefore, great achievements only come after hard work.
• I am really good at making things harder. 
• I don't know how to make things easier.   

And I discovered some new ones:

• I feel like I have to MAKE things easier.  
• The more I control things, the easier they are.
• Control = ease.  Ease = control.

What if I changed things up a bit? 

Make it easier.

Make Let it be easier.

Let it be easier. 

Let it be.

What if ease is about letting things be instead of controlling them?

Honestly, I actually have no idea, at all, if that's true or not.

Five apricots.  Drawing.

I am all about the plan.  Getting a specific outcome.  

That requires control.   If I let go of control, I let go of the specific outcome.

New Question:  Is the point of ease to learn to let go of a specific outcome?  

I'm not so sure.

Is that the kind of doctor you want?   The kind of auto mechanic?  The kind of builder?  I don't think so.  Specific outcomes can be very important.

Maybe the point is to understand where it's important to have a plan and keep your eye on a specific outcome and where it's important to let it go and to work with the flow instead.

That feels much more a yin/yang thing, requiring judgment, intuition and balance. [That doesn't sound easy, but perhaps it does fit the requirement of maximum results for minimum effort.]

This begs new questions:  

• What am I doing that requires a specific outcome?  
• What requires flow?  
• What can I learn to just let be?
• What am I doing that needs to change categories? 
• To what extent does 'habit' contribute to ease?
• Is ease a function of one's ability to make something a habit?

Which brings me to art.  It's a perfect place to learn to go with the flow, especially since I'm a watercolorist and trying to literally 'go with the flow'. 

I can't seem to do it. 

There is So. Much. Pressure. to produce photorealistic art, regardless of your medium.  [Look at the gorgeous piece that took Best of Show at the Hoosier Salon:  https://hoosiersalon.org/portfolio/96th-annual-exhibition-2/] 

Photorealism is a specific outcome that requires a lot of planning and work.   Not a lot of flow.  

Even if I decided to shoot for impressionism or tonalism or some other -ism, that, too, is a specific outcome, which by extension, requires planning and work.

So again, I return to the questions:  How can I get maximum results for minimum effort?  How can I make this easier? --> How can I let this be easier? --> Should I just let this be? 

And that in turn begs another question:  What is it exactly that I am trying to make easier?  What is it exactly that I could possibly just let be? 

Am I trying to make each piece easier?

Am I trying to make the whole process easier? 

That last one especially resonated.  If I am trying to make the process easier, and the way to 'ease' is by letting it be, then the trick is to recognize what my process actually is and just flow with it.  Accept it; embrace it; go with it.  Even the hard parts.

Part of my process is the exploration phase.  It's the hardest part for me.  

And then this question shows up:  Why is it so hard - What makes it so hard?

Is it because exploration needs an element of play and I'm just not good at playing?

Is it because I am I trying to make myself/my art/my process something that I'm not/it's not? 

There are some big things that resonate for me here.  For the next while I'm going to be thinking about what makes a piece easier and what makes the process easier.   

What does 'ease' mean for you?

Even More Thoughts on Magic

This is another drawing from my class with Ian Roberts.  It's amazing how when you arrange a few lights and darks a certain way, suddenly a scene appears. 

Almost by magic.

I've been writing a lot about this kind of magic.  See my posts HERE and HERE. 

I realized as I looked through my work during the class, that there's still a big part of me that does not believe that I drew that. 

That part of me believes it must have been magic.   Some power outside of me that on a good day I can tap into, but not reliably, not regularly, not predictably. 

That was a surprise.  And then I reminded myself that it's not magic.  It's illusion.   

I got so caught up in the success of the illusion, that I bought into the 'magic' part of it too.  

Doing one of these a week for the next year is the best way I know to really internalize that these are reliable skills, not unpredictable magic bestowed and withdrawn at the whim of the Muses.  

  

Keeping it Simple

I'm taking a drawing class right now and for the next year will be doing a drawing a week like this one.

This time the reference photo was provided by the instructor, Ian Roberts and the exercise was in cropping.   The ref photo was a bigger scene of a French village.   

I'm pretty familiar with simple architecture and roof lines, but this piece gave me fits. I wasn't sure I could do it. I struggled. I fussed and fussed and fussed.  I made many disparaging remarks about French villages.  

In the end, I got the darks and lights in the right places and it looks as intended - like a French village.  

I learned more than drawing in this piece.   I learned that I can do more complicated, fussy compositions IF I remember to leave large areas very simple and to focus only on the details in the focal area.   

I have to keep repeating that to myself .   Keep it simple.  Keep it simple. 

I have a tendency to expect things to be hard.  Part of me wants them to be hard so that when I finally get it, it feels like a huge accomplishment - one deserving of a large reward.  [Which I never give myself, btw.]  It's how I prove my worth.  

However, over the years, this habit of doing hard things has been accompanied by a goodly amount of fear. I am always battling to prove myself. I'm always afraid that this time I won't be able to pull it off.

 

I need to stop.

I keep wondering if there's a way to make things easier and I think this is the key:  Keep it simple.  Keep the harder work just at the focal area.   

In this drawing class we spent a lot of time learning to intentionally focus on the important stuff and to intentionally simplify the rest. 

This is a strategy worth cultivating in many areas of my life.

The Artist as Magician

Art as Magic

An artist is a magician.  After a wave of a brush and a swish of some colored water, she shows you a flat piece of paper and convinces you that you're looking at something else. 

It's all illusion.  

Art is the mastery of illusion.  

Picasso said this in 1923: 

'We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.'

I like that phrase, '...makes us realize the truth'.   In English, 'realize' means both to 'come to understand' and 'to make real'. 

Artists are trying to 'make real' that thing on the paper.   

For example, I take a plain flat piece of paper and with a brush and some colored water, and on a good day, I create the illusion of a bouquet of flowers in a vase on a table.

On a great day, my lie convinces you that the light is streaming in from the top right.  

©Robin Edmundson, 'Zinnias #4', watercolor, 14 x 10 inches.

Framed to 20 x 16 inches. $375

On that piece of paper, there's no object.  No table, no flowers, no light, no leaves.   Just colored water that stained the page and then dried.

Space

On another day I create the illusion of a hundred acres of wildflowers.

© Robin Edmundson, 'Misty Bottomlands', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches.
Framed to 24 x 32 inches.  $750.

Feel the sunshine and the dew?  Can you see that mist way back there?  It's maybe half a mile walk to get back there to that misty place where the little creek empties into the big one.  

And yet this is just a flat piece of paper.  It's not a window to step through.  

There's no creek, no clouds, no dew, no ironweed and helianthus blooming. 

And yet. 

There it is.  A hundred acres of wildflowers.  Somehow.  Fit on a piece of paper that's 18 x 24 inches. 

Story

On another day I stand at the easel and tell a story.

© Robin Edmundson, 'The mailman always brings treats', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches.
SOLD.  Prints available. 

This is nothing more than a piece of paper with a few colors judiciously applied here and there.  No words at all.  Just an illusion.

And yet.  

It tells a story that has touched many people, sparked delighted laughter and dozens of conversations.  

Not everything is an illusion

Those feelings, laughter and conversations are not illusions.  They are real.  They are evidence that the artist was successful in pulling off the illusion.

They are the evidence of the magic that is art.   

A skilled artist magician can carve out space on a flat piece of paper.  Make something from nothing.  

The most skilled artist magicians are the ones who can create the illusion with the least work possible.  The harder we work to push the illusion, the easier it is to spot the trick. 

Artists are acutely aware that their work is that of illusion.   We see every flaw, every alternate interpretation.   And, there are critics everywhere just waiting to expose the tricks and spoil the illusion for everyone else.  

[Don't be that person.  Don't tell an artist that you see something unintended in the piece. It's really rude. And never point it out to someone else.  Once pointed out, some people can't un-see it and all conversation becomes about that one alternative viewpoint rather than the rest of piece.]

I'd much rather have you start a conversation with me about the farm like the one in the piece we're looking at that your Aunt took you to every summer than I would about why you think that tree should not be in the picture [and believe me, I've had people start both conversations.]

© Robin Edmundson, 'Barn in the Woods', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches.

Framed to 24 x 32 inches. $750

How do they do that?

What exactly is the magic?  How can some people create such great illusions?

Most people assume the most important thing an artist needs is natural talent.  They assume that artists are the people, who, as children, sat down and drew realistically from a young age.  

That's not true. 

The most important thing an artist needs is the discipline to practice, to learn, to try new things.

She needs enough 'failure tolerance' to keep going when things aren't going well.  

She needs excellent critical thinking skills.  She needs to be able to look at the tricks she's used to see what  illusion was produced and how it can be tweaked to produce the illusion she's after.  This can mean getting other eyes on a piece to find out how the illusion is coming across to other people. 

This does not mean looking to others for approval.  An artist needs to tune into herself to know when she has said all she needs to say in that piece.  [One look at the history of Impressionism will convince you of the value of that skill.]

Hone those skills and put in the brush miles and the magic is yours.

No Small Pressure

For the vast majority of artists that I know, perfecting the illusion of making something from nothing is no small pressure. 

Their task is to craft an illusion such that it will make real and draw one into a truth. Every time an artist stands at the easel, she wonders if she's got the magic today.    Some days yes.  Some days no.  

I know some great artists who have been painting their entire lives.  They have painted masterpiece after masterpiece and they still have days when they can't make the illusion happen.  

After a few days of no magic, the task becomes about having the courage to continue to stand at the easel and try.

These artists are great because they continue to show up, making that bouquet of flowers appear out of thin air onto the page.   Waving their brush and sprinkling colored water on the page until a vista appears.  Telling stories with nothing but stains on a piece of paper.  

The Best Magic

I know other artists who may never master artistic illusion on the page, but they are so in love with the process that they show up day after day, putting brush to paper, mastering the magic of a joy-filled life.

Now, that's some powerful magic - and every bit as wonderful as creating the illusion of something on a page. 

 

Learning How Not to Say It All at One Time

©Robin Edmundson, 'Frost stops at the edge of the woods', watercolor, 11 x 16 inches.
Framed to 20 x 24 inches.  $400

My boss, Angela Fehr, and I talk a lot about mindset as we approach a piece or series of pieces, or play/exploration.  This week she posted this great thought on her Instagram account:

I think one of the biggest mistakes we make is in trying to say too much, do too much, in a single painting. After hundreds of paintings, I have started to see paintings more like sentences, or even single words in an ongoing conversation. One painting is not a definitive statement of my identity as an artist, and by setting my art free from this burden, I can simply paint as a way of saying, "Look. Do you see what I see?" 

I've been thinking a lot about this, too, for the last few months.  I realized that I paint urgently, quickly, impatiently.

I paint as if it's my only chance to say everything that needs to be said.

Nuance is totally lost with that approach.

I realized this, too:  I have a background in academics and spent 20 years in front of a college classroom. During those years I learned that I needed to say everything in a lecture at least three times, in different ways in order to be heard by everyone and I consciously developed that habit.  I still hear myself do it in important conversations. [I apologize if you hear me do that and wonder why the heck I'm saying things again.]

I know that it is verbal overkill, but my students learned - really learned - the material that way.  I knew that repeating myself in different ways was the fastest way to be heard and understood.

I have used the same approach when I paint. I say it, then say it again, and again.  No nuance, no guessing, no quiet in which to contemplate and form one's own conclusions.   I paint as if I'm preparing the viewer for an exam.

I've been asking myself, 'What if I didn't have to say so much?   What if I relaxed and focused on smaller ideas and relationships?'

Would I be understood?   Clarity has always been very important to me and it makes me uncomfortable to think that I would let myself be misunderstood when, with a little more effort [just a few more strokes], I could make things very, very clear.

It's a dilemma.

I painted the piece above early last fall because all I wanted to talk about was that one idea - The frost stops at the edge of the woods. 

I painted it and then got nervous that everyone else would look at it and wonder why I cut the tops of the trees off.  And I wondered if everyone would understand the rest of what I wanted to say, 'Look how beautiful the contrast is between the frosty grass in the pasture and the green of the grass where the woods begin.  It's gorgeous!  Southern Indiana is beautiful on a frosty morning in early fall!'

You know what happens when you paint it with the tops of the trees intact and a bit of sky showing?  It becomes about the trees in the woods and not about the frost at the edge of the woods.

It's the editing-out of the unnecessary that makes the focus possible.   I've discovered that - for me - when I start a new series, first I need to decide what it is that I want to focus on.  Otherwise I try to focus on everything. 

Delicious, loose paintings happen for me when I selectively focus on a form or relationship - and let the rest of it be unsaid.

This. Is. Hard.

Really REALLY hard for me.

I'll keep practicing.

In the meantime, I've been looking for glimmers of this in my recent work and found a few pieces from the last year where I can see this starting to work.

Goose Pond, 529

Four Dancing Echinacea

Mossy Tree

Black Eyed Susans

Daffs & Muscari

Tulip Poplars and Sumac

I like this direction and I like the idea of developing a new approach for myself - as a sort of second language, to use to communicate in a different way when I need to.  And I like the idea that I don't have to belabor a point anymore.  I can speak quietly and let those who are ready to hear me, listen and understand the work.  That feels good.

Creative Process

I would love you to believe that all of my creative experiences look and feel like the pic above. 

Serene.

Beautiful.

Fresh.

Colorful. 

Candlelit.

They don't.  

My creative process never looks like that.  

It does look a lot like this:

That pic was taken last summer, but my painting corner right this minute looks pretty much the same, and I've painted more than a hundred pieces since then.  

A hundred pieces.   

The vast majority of them ended up in that bin under the table on the left to be chopped up into art journal pages or used for firestarters.   

It's all part of the process.

Artists think and talk a lot about the creative process.  We need to be aware of it so that we're working with it and not against it. 

Discovering my Creative Process

The creation of art from conception to framed piece is a messy process, internally and externally.   

Over the last few months, I've kept track of how I work through things, what is satisfying, what isn't.  I'm identifying the reality of my own creative process and where the gaps are.   My goal is to fill in the gaps with things to help me bridge the parts that I have a hard time with or with things that help me feel more peaceful about the process.

I've been searching for a routine.  A ritual.  A structure to hold onto when the creative process dictates that I need to let go of so many other things.     

The ideal structure for me would be broken down into easily identifiable parts, so that I know what part I'm in, what part I need to do next and what parts I need extra support for because they scare the hell out of me.  This way I can stack the deck in my creative favor.   

This is what I discovered.

Robin's Usual Creative Process

• Get an idea and jump right in and paint, paint, paint.
• Fail a lot.  Learn a lot.
• Get frustrated and feel like a failure a lot. [A lot.]
• Accidentally produce something pretty good. 
• Feel like a failure because I have no idea why that one turned out so well.
• Wonder if I can ever do another one.  A lot.
• Feel bad. 
• Frame the good one and feel pretty good about it.
• Hang a show and be grateful to the people who come, are lovely and who don't say how mediocre my art is, even though I know it is.
• Come home and panic and start painting a lot.

Why do I keep doing this? 

Why do I keep painting when I feel so bad about it so often?

Because now and again, I can tap into that flow where my brain feels great - working out the creative issues that arise in a piece. 

Also, I love learning and I'm learning a lot as I study painting. 

Also I've painted enough decent pieces now that I am almost convinced that I can do another nice piece, eventually, even though I'm on draft #8 and it still looks like crap. 

Also I've learned to believe that 'a breakthrough is right around the corner'.   

Even so,  I want to move from being a 'sort of promising' artist to an actual 'accomplished' artist.  If I can get out of my own way, and find the right teachers and put in a million more brush miles, I am confident that can happen.    

Part of getting out of my own way is to outline a new and improved process.  And I have found one.

Robin's New & Improved Creative Process  [The 7 P's]

• Pause:  Be still and just think about the work in general.  Let things float and sink in my consciousness.  A quality 15 minute meditation to some nice music is good for this.  I don't have to plan any work, I just have to be still with it. [Note: Even though I know this works, I almost always skip this part entirely and jump right into painting.  I am terrified of inaction and feel such an urgency to paint Something.  Anything. Painting horrible art is better than doing nothing. It will take discipline to make this Pause an anchoring part of my practice.]

• Play:  Try some new brushes or paper or other materials.  Get messy.  Get to know some new colors.  No product or goal in mind.  No judgement.  It's play for heaven's sake.  I need to have this stage because I need to allow 'purposelessness' now and then. [Note: I skip this stage, too, because I'm all worried about wasting time or materials or that it's not 'serious'.  Being 'Serious' is important. I have a long history of being very serious and earnest about things. One Must Have a Purpose. Those skills have paid off in important ways, but it's time to give over to play.]  

• Peruse: Look through reference materials [I have sooo many].  Don't stress.  Trust that the next subject is there.

• Pull out:  Select a few of the ones that spark my interest.

• Plan: Sit down with the reference material and Do The Plan.  Composition sketch, color test, notan, whatever.  [Note: This *always* pays off and is actually quite enjoyable, except I often rush past it to start another draft.]

• Proceed to Paint: Do the drafts. I always edit and refine and do another draft. Just like I never expect my first session of writing to be the only one I need, I don't expect that my first painting of a subject to be the best one.  I allow and will do as many drafts as necessary.  I keep records of this process: the number of drafts, sizes, paints, what I liked, what I didn't.  [This is the stage I get stuck in.  It feels 'productive'.  There is plenty of evidence that I am *doing* something.  See that pile of duds?  I've been busy doing. It helps me justify the time, effort and resources spent in this pursuit. That pile of duds may be evidence that I'm a crap artist, but at least I'm busy working on it.]

• Put final touches on:  Sign, Photo, Record, Mat, Frame and Share.   [This is my favorite part.  I love framing.  I love photographing. I love recording the details on Artwork Archive [record keeping software.] I love seeing the pieces all dressed up and finished and ready to hang.  I love sharing: web, social media, blog.  I love all of it.  But as soon as I get it done, I get anxious and start to panic.]

And then...Because I'm afraid of inaction, I usually jump right into the painting phase again.  

That's right.  I skip phases 1-5 and just start painting.  Out of fear. 

This is when I need to remind myself to begin at the beginning and plan for and allow that sacred Pause.  And then Play.

I need to allow an ending and a beginning.  This means I need to stop panicking at the end and jumping back into the middle.   I can honor that transition from ending to beginning instead of pretending it doesn't apply to me. 

If I can learn to allow that, to stop rushing, I will increase the peace I feel about the whole process, which in turn should help me have greater insight and do better work.

In addition, I can lean on this structure.  After the Pause, I know what I'm going to do next.  Play.  And then I know that I will Peruse.  And Pull Out.  I know this process works because I know what to next. 

That's my plan.   I'm going to stick to it for the rest of this year and see where it takes me.

What does your creative process look like?

Creative Wounds

Creativity is a dynamic thing.   It ebbs and flows.

When you're in flow, it's awesome.  You're creating great stuff  - or learning great stuff and you don't care that the finished product is less than stellar.

A creative ebb is not so awesome.  Staring at the blank paper, brush in hand, wondering if every successful thing I've done before was a fluke is not my idea of a good time.

I was talking to an artist friend recently about what causes creative block and we ended up talking about the notion of 'creative wounds'.

Since then I've been thinking about the things that have caused creative wounds for me.   Wounds serious enough that I just don't want to try any more.

The most serious wounds for me come when I come face to face with my mindset problems.  And they almost always center around Expectations. 

• Others' expectations that my work should be better.  More original.  Less colorful.  More urban.  Less rural.  More sky.  Less sky.  More floral.  Less like me.  More like something else. 
• Others' expectations that they are the gatekeepers of beauty and they have the right to judge my creative output. 
• My expectations that my work should be better.  That it should be easier.   That I should be able to do things faster.  That I should have better composition, or color harmonies, or subject matter, or something.  That I should get into more juried shows and that if I don't, it means I'm a bad artist.  That someone else gets to decide what 'good' is and if I can just figure that out and spend 24/7 practicing, then finally I'll be 'Good'.  
• My expectation that all efforts that aren't great [frameable/sellable] are a waste:  of effort, of time, of materials.  And that all waste is evidence of a deep character flaw.
• My expectation that my worth is completely and totally tied to the worth of my final product - and that is determined not by me, but by Others.

Geeze.  It hurts just thinking about it. 

The only way to get over these types of wounds is with a lot of care.  Creative Therapy, if you will. And that's going to be 90% deciding how to think about things differently and 10% practice reminding myself to think about things differently.  These are my current mindset shifts:

• My opinion of my work [and my life] is more important than anyone else's. [I'm going on a juried show hiatus for a while.  I'm generally just fine when I get rejection letters, but this summer I want a break from that.]
• All great artists do the equivalent of piano scales for.ev.er. before they get great and those resources are not wasted, but merely stepping stones to a more satisfying-to-me place. 
• My worth is completely independent of my creative output.   A stack of 'bad' paintings is evidence of practice, nothing more, nothing less. 
• Learning and experimenting can be fun.   Actually fun.   I'm good at learning, not so good at fun, so I have given myself the task of learning how to have fun.  [Which makes me laugh, so I think I'm on the right track.]  I think that will involve a lot of paper and paint and exploration and experimentation and stacks of things that will never see a frame.  

And I'm Ok with all that.   I can feel my Creative Wounds beginning to heal already.  

No More Goats

One of my loveliest friends was telling me about her 5 year old daughter, who is learning to deal with her older brother's teasing.  Her brother knows exactly what buttons to push to get a reaction.  My friend explained to her daughter that he was just trying to get her goat.  Even so, teasing continued, goats were got, and the 5 year old's exasperation would result in screaming for him to stop.

One day, the teasing started, and my friend heard her daughter scream at her brother,  'I  HAVE NO MORE GOATS!'...

I'm still laughing.

You guys, this is exactly how I feel sometimes.  I want to scream at the universe: STOP!  I HAVE NO MORE GOATS.

No more goats for the people who complain instead of ask intelligent questions, or who complain instead of try to understand.  No more goats for people who twist my words.  No more goats for the people who tell me not to feel my feelings. No more goats for the people who don't want me to be who I am.  No more goats for the people who don't want me to change.

No more goats for the part of me who is never satisfied with myself.  No more goats for the part of me that is always on high alert. No more goats for the part of me that catastrophizes.  No more goats for the part of me that says, 'yes' out of fear - and the one that is afraid to say, 'no' because it might upset the boat.    In fact, I have no more goats for the boat. 

I am getting out of the boat and I am getting my goats back. 

I've spent a lot of time thinking about Recovery this year.  Recovery is part 'from' [recovery from trauma] and part 'of' [recovery of what I have lost, which is my SELF]. I will recover my goats as I recover my self.  The big question is how does one recover Self? 

For me, there will be more No's and better Yeses.  I will spend more time honoring myself and less time trying to make other people happy.  I will start asking myself what I am doing out of fear, and what I want to do out of curiosity, excitement, learning, creativity, joy. I will listen to my Mind, Heart, Body and Soul. I will give myself all the permissions I need.

When I get my goats back, I will find new ways of keeping them.   It will probably involve a lot of No.   No I won't be able to do that for you.  No I am not interested in participating in that.  No I do not accept your treatment of me.  No I do not accept your view of me and I don't care what you think I should do.  No I will not drop everything to fix this for you.  No I am not afraid of your feelings, and I won't protect you from my feelings.  No.

I can hear my goats coming back already.

Play

I've been thinking a lot this year about the importance of Play. The key thing about play is that it can only happen in the absence of self-consciousness.  If you're going to play you need the freedom to do the thing without anxiety about being 'too' anything - too loud, too messy, too bold, too wasteful, too wrong, too blue, too big, too small, to many mistakes, too spread out, too 'me' or too not what someone else likes.   And without anxiety about being 'not enough' - not perfect enough, finished enough, efficient enough.

This year I've been practicing doing things un-self-consciously.  I try to do things without following patterns, with no thought about a finished project, without worrying about doing it wrong.  I'm not very good at it yet but I have been able to get to know a long neglected part of me again - the messy, inefficient, irresponsible part of me that is brave enough to try some new things and break new ground.   That's where growth happens.

Chaos

Color play: Golds, Bt Sienna, Ultramarine Blue & Dioxazine Violet

For the past year I have been doing a daily online course through DailyOM - A Year to Clear.  It's a lovely slow drip that helps people learn to tackle the mess. Soon you see that the real treasure it offers is this:  It guides you, in equal parts, to put in order your outer life and your inner life.

It's been enlightening.

I'm on day #337/365.  I realized this morning that even though I started this course to find a way to deal with the chaos of a huge, several-years-long house remodel and the never-ending mess, that in addition, what I needed to learn was to *allow* chaos into certain parts of my life. 

I need to let my studio stay messy - so that I can see the things that inspire me and so that it's easy to maintain a creative practice. Because I could not impose order on the house, I had imposed too much order on the studio. I have found a better balance now: There is one area of neatness and visual peace, with another area behind me that is a working space where I can leave the supplies and inspirations out and create on the fly. This has helped my creative practice enormously.

But there's more.

As I explored more deeply, I found that 'chaotic' was a part of myself I have kept punched way down and locked away. This class was another attempt to eradicate it from myself completely, when really what it needed was to come out and play.

Messy

I've been doing some art journaling this month in the style of Amanda Grace.  It's been a strangely addictive and satisfying process.

At the beginning I felt an equal amount of pull and resistance to the idea.   I had  a strong feeling that this was something that would be healing for me and an equally strong fear that I wouldn't do it right and that it would be ugly and reveal how ugly I am inside [which is why journaling is not something I do much in the first place]

I decided to yield to the pull, so I got some white and black gesso, some crackle paste and a set of  acrylic paints.  Everything else has come from my collection of materials for scrapbooking and altered books.

The first page was terrifying. I posted it on Amanda's facebook page just to have someone else witness that I'd at least tried... and bless them, they witnessed.

As I work on the pages, I find that I dive in with my fingers, testing to see if things are dry, smearing the gesso and color around, getting glue stick all over everything.   I don't like messy, sticky fingers, and I wash them a lot, but two minutes later I find I'm finger-painting yet again.   It's a bit like meditation, I suppose - the mind drifts, then you keep coming back to center.   I realized that 'messy' is the center I need to keep coming back to for now.

My intention for this journal is to explore my anger and though I find it very unattractive, Amanda suggested that I just explore it and leave the 'unattractive' label aside for now.   She gave me permission to go there, explore and express without judgment and I am taking her advice.

For now I do the messy work of getting to know the nuances of that part of myself and in doing so, I find that I am creating a refuge for myself.

It turns out that 'messy' can be very healing.   

Transformation

Happy Halloween!   Halloween was set on the traditional date of the old Celtic celebration, Samhain [pronounced SOW-en].   It's the season of shadows and spirits and transformations of all kinds.

I've been reading Thich Nhat Hahn's book, You Are Here, in which he talks about exploring our shadow self, the darker, less socially acceptable parts of ourselves that we are quick to hide and slow to acknowledge.

His advice was elegant.   Allow yourself to witness the shadow parts of ourselves.  Just notice and witness.  There is no need to banish them, because they are an important part of who we are, and all things can be transformed.  He says,

'In Buddhist meditation, you do not turn yourself into a battlefield, with good fighting against evil.  Both sides belong to you, the good and the evil. Evil can be transformed into good and vice versa.' 

Transformed. You do not have to destroy part of yourself, you only need to find a way to transform it.  The energy is still there, but changes form.  Shape-shifting energy.  And as it changes shape, it can do different things. 

I am taking today to witness my shadow self and then identify those areas that can be transformed into something more useful.  For example, I have been witnessing in myself a lot of anger.  Instead of being upset with myself for harboring so much deep anger [nice people aren't supposed to be angry], I am simply noticing it.  All of it.  I asked myself what that anger can be transformed into that would serve me better and after considering it for a time, I realized that my anger is an excellent tool for reminding me where my boundaries are or ought to be. 

Today I will honor my anger and turn it into a tool for helping me establish and honor better boundaries - something that has traditionally been a weak area for me.  This way I can witness my shadow self without being ashamed and without becoming a battlefield.  I honor my anger and I honor my boundaries.  That feels really good.

Happy Halloween!   Blessed Samhain!

Re-Entry

We had our retreat last weekend and It. Was. Spectacular. 

These women are incredible.  We had hours of conversation, insights, and laughter as we explored big ideas, journaled, played, walked and created.  Retreats like that are so useful because they take you out of your everyday habits, which lets you get out of your everyday thinking.  There is time to just sit, write, think, and consider things a different way.   There is time to rest and let the busy mind settle for a while.

We considered what our Best Lives would look like.  What needed to be released.  What needed to be added. What the next steps would be.  What kind of support we needed.  How to change our thinking.  It was magical.

And then we hugged each other good-bye, and headed back to our daily lives. 

Sometimes re-entry into daily life can be rough.

This is what my re-entry was like:  Clean up and pack all the boxes, food, table, etc. from the retreat in the cars in the rain.  Go home.  Realize how little sleep I got over the last week and how tired I was.  Alternate feeling joy at what we accomplished and guilt over the mistakes I made.   Realize that the Construction Fairies had not come while I was gone to finish the huge house remodel we're doing.  [Neither had the Dusting, Sweeping, Dish Washing or Laundry Fairies.]   Help with homework.  Fall down the stairs [just the last few, but ow.]  Realize that my brain was fried.   Feel like a totally terrible example of living my best life now.   Veg out on couch for 6 hours.  Stay up until midnight helping with more homework. 

Re-entry was not magical.

But in the spirit of dealing with the realities of my life with grace and compassion for myself, I decided not to beat myself up over the rough re-entry.   Transitions always begin with an ending and in this case, something wonderful ended and it would take time to adjust, to pick back up the rhythm of home, work, relationships.   That's normal.  It's OK that there was some turbulence on re-entry.  I'm back now.

The only way I can change my life is to live it.  If I'm going to live My Best Life Now, then I start today dealing with what's in front of me.  Release what no longer serves me.  Do things that do serve me.  I have a choice.

Shameless

Winged Sumac, October

I was at a circle the other night and during the opening meditation, a couple of cell phones buzzed loudly.  I felt a flash of annoyance.  When the meditation was over, the hostess laughed and said how awesome it was that you could feel the vibrations through the floor. She asked whose they were, and no one spoke up.  She laughed and said, 'There's no shame here.  Those phones made the funnest sounds, didn't they!'

There's no shame here.  

That phrase echoed in my head for the rest of the night. 

A place with no shame.   

I had never considered such a thing before.  And that's when I realized that I carry shame with me Every. Where.  I. Go.  

Shame is something I learned early.  It was used as a weapon in many places in my life.  Somewhere along the line, I got really good at it.   I could shame myself better than anyone could shame me.  I knew every single tiny error that I made every single second of the day and I shamed myself for every single one.  I knew that if I admitted to myself where I screwed up and felt remorse for it, then I couldn't be surprised or manipulated by anyone else trying to use my mistakes against me.  

This strategy successfully allowed me to dissociate from certain types of controlling personalities in a way that prevented me from be victimized. 

However, it undermined my confidence in every area of my life.  In situations where the person was not shaming me, I doubled down my self-shaming efforts.  I could never enjoy any relationship, interaction, achievement or success, no matter how small, because I was so very aware of every error and I felt remorse for it.  Shame was my constant companion.  I took Shame everywhere.  

It's time for me to let that go.  I'm sending Shame to live in a beautiful house on a beach somewhere where she can spend her time criticizing the grains of sand for not being perfect, the beach water for being smelly, the weather for being unruly. When she takes her proper place as Conscience instead of Shame,  I may call her occasionally to check in about big things, but she is not coming with me everywhere anymore.   

I will spend more time enjoying my achievements.  With my new endeavors, I will celebrate every single baby step in the right direction and all of the fun field trips along the way.   I will love more fully in all my relationships and that will compensate well for the inevitable missteps that happen between people.   

And in time, I will be able to say, 'There's no shame here.'