I recently came across this photo that I took while walking on the grounds of Berry Hill Plantation, in VA. and have begun a painting of it. I love the anticipation of starting a new work on canvas—its like starting a journey.

I have a fascination with abandoned barns from an earlier era, as they are like relics from another time and way of life. I find a lot of symbolism in a structure that was used as a storehouse for what was once important to harvest and save. Whether it was used to keep the hay crop dry, along with the tractors and plows.

Hay was a vital resource for this farm, and a lot of toil went into gathering it and keeping it. “Keeping” barns dotting the landscape all over the South resemble this one.

I like the symbolism of “keeping” and storing what is important to us. Americans do a lot of gathering and keeping, as illustrated in the incredible number of storage facilities being built seemingly overnight in our communities. I may even have a storage unit or two! But, if I’m being honest, only some of what you will find in my storage is actually important enough to save, while much of it needs to be donated.

Whenever I see one of these empty. Barns, I can’t help but wonder about what I store up and keep in the storehouse of my heart. Treasured memories of course…but what have I held on to that is not worthy of keeping? I am thinking about doing a heart-inventory to see what I may find that needs to go that isn’t life-giving, or vital to my emotional and mental health. I will need curiosity and probably a dose of bravery to let go of some things I am holding, but I think it will ultimately free up space for the things I want to cherish.

I invite you to stay tuned for a post of the finished canvas!

My sister took this gorgeous pic while in Maine. The juxtaposition of the trees on the shore with their reflection on the water separated by a soft line of mist caused me to think about the delicacy of life. At some point we have probably had to come to grasp the fragility of life—but I think rather that the moment captured in this scene is delicate.

The mist hovering over the water probably quickly dissipated, and the light heightened in the sky so that the reflection on the water became lessened.

A fleeting moment quickly passed.

And don’t we all sense our lives as fleeting as a mist on the water, with moments we want to grasp onto longer but can’t? We are left holding a memory—the memory a reflection of the past moment.

I cherish many of my memories, but I know that they are shadow of what I want to hold on to and are probably different than what I had really experienced. To me, this begs a question…

What if this life is actually the delicate reflection that hints at a more full and more glorious other reality that we only see in part? What if the beauty in the world and in our lives is a reflection of a different reality that reveals the fullness of beauty, and not just a shadow of it?

Dare we hope?

Psalm 62:5

My husband and I have recently graduated to “empty-nesters”…for now, anyway! Happily for us, our young adult kids live less than an hour away. I must admit, though, I have found myself giddy with excitement over all of the various possible art workshops I can now attend and immerse myself in, held by very talented artists!

In April this year I went to Connecticut to participate in a workshop held by Artists Rising, and led by one such talent—mixed media artist Joan Fullerton. From Colorado, Joan travels throughout the year to share her gift of instruction, energy, positivity, and process with anyone who is a “maker” and likes to learn and discover new ways to do so. I felt like a kid in a candy shop during her workshop—gobbling up her teaching, insights, and encouragement as I applied her techniques to abstract mixed media. So much fun to spend a little time with Joan and learning and making with the other artists in the studio at the Connecticut River Valley Inn in Glastonbury, CT. Abstraction is going to show up in some of my work this year.

Joan Fullerton Fine Art
Joanfullerton.com

This piece is 12x12”, acrylic, papers, and mixed media on birch panel.

A while ago I visited a farm I had heard of in Granville County North Carolina, where the family raises Angus cattle and sheep. I can never resist going to see cows up close (such benevolent creatures, doing the one job they were created for, which seems to be chewing grass for hours on end and not much else. I envy the simplicity!)

Occasionally, I will paint a scene just as I see it, often from a photograph. Most often I will need to edit or simplify what I am looking at to try to get to the essence of what I want to depict on a canvas, so I will do a very simple sketch on any scrap of paper that happens to be nearby when the impulse strikes.

Many artists will draw several sketches and even do some color mixing before putting anything down on their painting surface (I probably should do that too.

I am too impatient. I like to spend time thinking about what a landscape is saying to me, then I think about what, from that, I might want to share. After that I am ready to pick up a brush and get going!

Someone can look at my paintings and decide they are simply depictions of pretty scenery— and I’m fine with that.

I’ve always known that I paint for my own growth, like journaling on canvas. If you were ask me to stand up in front of a group of people, for instance, and speak, I would rather die! I lose my words.

All I really need is an audience of one, because when I’m painting, I feel closest to my Creator.

But…

because God gives and shares and speaks through Creation, I feel a kinship between us when I do that too.

It’s really about participating in an ongoing greater conversation—

and we are all invited to join in.

This describes how I have been working in my studio the past several years—making new work and yet choosing to stick with what I know and am comfortable with in the choices I make of materials, subject matter, my routine and approach when starting a new canvas.

Ritual and routine, consistency, can be considered good habits for an artist, as well as anyone who wants to be productive.  But...it has been keeping me in a place of comfort, rather than exploration.

Watching my horses gave me an “aha!”,  in which my eyes were opened to good habits that have become limiting.

Gong into the studio the next day I grabbed whatever materials were on the shelf and started making marks on the paper, tentatively at first and then freely, boldly.  And it felt SO GOOD.  Working over the next few hours became exploratory, interesting, exciting, invigorating, playful.  Playful?  After painting for over thirty years?  Well maybe I can discover some new tricks after all!

I’ve discovered the enjoyment (and for me, some trepidation) of attending workshops around the country led by inspirational artists who are great at teaching, for me, all new techniques and with new tools and materials, held in unfamiliar locations that are very different from my studio and therefore challenge me on many different levels.  Often the group of workshop participants take meals together, share conversation and ideas and if someone forgot to bring something needed, we share our stash of supplies.  At the end of the week we share our work on display, open to comments and in this way we are vulnerable.  We learn from each other and maybe make  a friend.

Staying safe is important for a horse, as they are prey animals.  Unfamiliar places, situations, routines… all are something to beware of; as an artist, however, staying safe is often at the expense of growth, of fresh perspective, of new discovery and energy.

I have made some attempts at making that have turned out to be awful; some have been a pleasant surprise.  It requires a letting-go of control of the process and trying a new way; and then doing that all over again, each time getting a little more comfortable with being...uncomfortable.  And uncomfortable feels surprisingly good!