Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Writing about art begets picking up a brush

This past Saturday started out like many other muggy mornings, the sliding glass door fogging up at the bottom and the coffee too hot but desperately needed. But it ended as no other Saturday had before it -- with my own oil painting drying on the table!

After many years of admiring the artist's process, I finally got the chance to put a brush in my own hand, and it was a wonderful experience. For me, the morning was much more about the experience of painting with a great teacher and great classmates Holly Thorpe and Mona Floyd, than it was about doing anything "wrong" or even "right."

Karen Hagan was a wonderful instructor with practical tips that broke down the creative process. And to see how she lays out a painting composition was reward enough, but when we got to the palette itself, I was able to put some of her tips into practice. The bonus was being able to smear, mix and fill my brush with the saturated colors on my palette. I was all about the palette.

And, of course, we all want to paint again. I am dreaming of Karen's fall workshop at Lake Garda. There are still at least four spots left ...

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The End of the Beginning

It is time to admit something -- I'm not nearly finished on the fiction project.

This is a big deal for me to say, because in October 2009 I proudly typed "the end" and announced that I was ready to send it to an agent. The agent said that she would still take a look at it, so I formatted away and hit "send." And then I waited.

(Now, please note, I didn't use this time to just paint my nails and take up woodworking. I was still writing a slew of freelance magazine and newspaper articles, moving, and, well, trying NOT to think about the fiction project.) I didn't open the file again, I didn't try to tweak characters or improve plot lines, I simply let it sit, as it was FINISHED.

Boy was I wrong.

You know what happens next, right? That's right. The agent passed on the project, a few months ago after reading the full manuscript, and I still waited. I looked for other agencies, sent other queries, anything except open that file.

But over the past few weeks, instead of dreading the file, I started to miss my characters. And I started to think about the writing itself, that maybe in my work I had tried so hard to write a subtly nuanced story that I nuanced myself out of much of the story. There was a lot more there to explore that I had left untouched. I realized that that October day was just the end of the beginning.

I am thankful, thankful that the agent took so long to respond, thankful that I am not abandoning the project, and thankful that at least the beginning of the next stage is finally illuminated.

So the file is opened. The quintessential red pen is out and I am happy to visit the setting and see my characters again. If I want to read it again, maybe someone else will too.

Friday, July 2, 2010

You wanna be a big shot, do ya?



I remember my first reaction at seeing Warhol's work, in this case the iconic Campbell's soup can. It went something like this:

*dialogue in my head as I listened to a lecture in college* OK ............. he just copied the can, right .... and he made more than one ???

Of course, after years of schooling and many art openings and such, I started to respect the fact that while, it wasn't "that hard" (common dismissive artspeak), he was the first to think of it. That really still seemed to be a cop out.

But after writing this week's cover feature in Go Triad about the Weatherspoon's exhibit of Warhol's Polaroids, well, I am getting it. And I am liking it.

I'd always imagined Warhol flippant, a man who knew how to use the media and who was more style than substance. That's the image he often portrayed, the type of people with whom he surrounded himself. But as for art, this man was serious. He did really breathe art, weaving together all parts of his life into an artistic web. His film fed his art that fed his celebrity that fed his image that fed his photography and around the horn again.

It was weird to a lot of America, still is, really, and it was very much a Studio 54 New York Thing. But I think I'm starting to get it. I might not be on that 54 dance floor, but at least I'm in line behind the velvet ropes.