Friday, September 09, 2016


It's hot. I don't mind feeling the heat much though. Not today. The weather seems to add to the work I do. Working alongside Hades. So it is hot. Recycled homemade paper is being tested out with paints and inks and collage and thread. Will they be bound together later? I don't know. Framed? We'll see. For now, it's just the action that's enough.

Okay, I'll admit it. My art is often inspired by who ever I'm noticing at the moment. Erin Faith Allen's work has been my focus lately. Having signed on for Metamorph accounts for much of that interest. I'm often honed in on other artist's process ~ how they get a line, how they spread, brush, splash paint, what they do with collage. I love watching how they work. I've observed Erin and Orly Avineri working their art in videos. Both artists have gotten a near-painful response from me, visceral, wincing. Why would she rip so much of that image? Why would she cover it over again and again and again? Why that mark-making tool? My word, what is she thinking?

And, really, I'd never get an answer to those questions. Besides, it's none of my business. Their work is their process. I don't like it when I'm questioned either. So. Shhh.

I've got one of Orly Avineri's books. I love looking through it (for the same reason I love watching the video). I'm drawn to her handling of pages and books. Her process of creation/destruction/re-creation intrigues me. I'm easily lost in the images Orly has created. I've just received Erin Faith Allen's The Underneath: A Pictorial Memoir, and dived into it hungrily. I'm tired of referring to certain journaling practices as "shadow" or "dark," when, in fact, it's the most enlightening work for any artist to undertake. In Erin's book, there is truth, honesty (yes, they're two different things), sandpaper, feathers, raw nerves, silk, words. Some of the words are hard to read, but they must be read because it is one artist's journey and you can't dabble in the pretty bits. The entire story matters and you're not allowed to turn away. Life is meant to be used and the stains add to the Beauty.

Yet here I am. Just me. Not particularly an angst-ridden person. There are things I may suffer, but nothing like I've heard or read or dreamed of. And so I gotta ask: Does that still make me an artist?

It probably does, but I had to ask.

Playing with a bit of that recycled homemade paper . . .

and another larger bit.

More "Me" stuff.

Dear Art Journal . . .

I am here.

1 comment:

Ashling said...

It's a sad myth that art/creation requires angst and suffering. You create art, therefore you are an artist.