Art's Search for Meaning

 

I make a certain kind of art: flat figurative art, painted in watercolor on location, depicting places mostly without people in a simplified somewhat graphic style. I can and sometimes do make other kinds of art, but this is mostly what I make because I love the act of making it. I love being out in the world surrounded by life, experiencing a place as I paint it, often in the company of other artists.  i like working fairly quickly and solving problems on the fly, rather than obsessing over a work during multiple sessions.  I chose my locations and my particular subjects almost entirely because I like how they look. Pleasing to my eyes, interesting, beautiful.  

A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words. And yet, museums and galleries include verbal descriptions, and art marketing experts suggest that art consumers respond to a story, which extends beyond the edges of the painting and includes the artist's life and words as well.  Part of me thinks art should (and does) speak for itself. But honestly, there's a lot of damned complicated art made by some absolute geniuses that I would never understand on my own.  

I sometimes wish I could figure out how to make art that expressed important messages in a compelling and urgent way. I think anybody with a voice and an audience ought to speak up and say what is important.  BE KIND, BE GRATEFUL, DON'T MESS UP THE WORLD, HELP AND DON'T HURT, BE HUMBLE, BE TOLERANT, BE UNDERSTANDING, CONDEMN HATE AND CRUELTY, SPREAD LOVE AND JOY.  

People have occasionally told me that my art gives them a sense of calm and I know a couple of times my art has brought people comfort - or at least the images depicted by my art brought comfort.  I'm afraid though that I'm not making soul-wrenching, life changing art. Which I kind of wish I were.  I will say though I really appreciate (in fact prefer) a good entertaining movie - something not too deep, like a nice little comedy.  I painted this morning at Echo Park. Although the lotus flowers were blooming, I painted some cars and residences across the street, with a palm tree in the foreground. 

Memory and Canada Geese

 Memory is a strange thing. It is entirely your own. People who experienced things with you in the same time and space sometimes don't have the same memories at all. You can hear them tell an entirely different story. Which perhaps isn't so strange, because we know we don't even have the same perceptions and understanding while things are going down. But after the fact, who's to say? Memories, like feelings, belong to you and have a truth and validity beyond verifiable facts. 

Of course, now that I'm old (ish), memories take on a whole other complex dimension. First, there are TONs of them. Second, my brain is getting a little leaky.  Finally, I keep more and more memories for (with and about) people who aren't around any longer.  Old person's game: "Remember when _____" Thanks to the internet, we sometimes get to validate our memories. For a while, I couldn't find anybody else who remembered that diet Dr. Pepper used to come in a blue can. Well? The internet agrees, and there are even pictures. I remember those cans. Blue is my favorite color, and a young man I loved who had diabetes drank diet Dr. Pepper. 

So what does all that have to do my painting of Canada geese? Well. potentially almost anything. The site of this painting's creation is a park in Alhambra called Almansor Park. Named for a street which was named by the same imaginative Washington Irving fan as the city.  I think I remember that there used to be a trash dump on the site. I know that there was a trash dump somewhere in Alhambra (or at least super-close to Alhambra) where I took photographs in 1976 or 1977. The photographs featured a chimney silhouetted against the setting sun. I still have the prints. (I think, somewhere.)  It's not easy (for me at least) to find much information at all about former trash dumps on the internet. Sensitive topic maybe. You can find reference to the fact that Alhambra Park and the adjacent golf course were built on a landfill.  But they were built in the mid-1950s, possibly before I was born and definitely before I engaged in photography. 

Who knows? I like Canada geese, except that their droppings are ubiquitous and messy. I understand, perhaps because I was told, that they originally migrated between cold climates and temperate climates, but migration is difficult, and some of them have permanently settled in more temperate climates. At least for now.  

Actual Developments

 I have a website.  This is it.  https://www.barbarafieldpaints.com

I may move my blogging over the FASO platform too, although I feel some fondness and pangs of nostalgia for this old thing.  

We are months into the Covid-19 pandemic, which has put a hold on meeting with my Saturday outdoor painting group.  I've continued to stay in touch with the painting group, because I want to know how to find them when it's time to go out and paint again with them.  Also the best way not to get resentful about missing out on stuff is to try to compensate with other stuff you can do.  I've been setting weekly challenges for myself and the group so that I keep painting on Saturdays and sharing paintings with other painters.  So anyway, if you happen by here and are interested in joining the Saturday painting group, you are no longer constrained by geography or discomfort about public painting.  Let me know.  You know how to find me.  

Coasters

 Since absolutely everybody reads this blog faithfully and remembers everything I say here, you will of course know that my dearest dream once was to make art for record album covers.  Record album covers (that is cardboard covers for collections of music recorded on large vinyl disks,) have gone largely the way of my dreams.  They haven't vanished, but have become much more rare, and are cherished out of proportion to their value or content.  

Many years later, as I may or may not have mentioned here, I settled on a new dream of doing art for beer packaging.  I quite like beer, and I have observed that beer labeling and packaging often displays art that is  delightfully colorful, whimsical and evocative.  I read stories of amateur artist friends of microbreweries designing beer packaging.  I even imagined names for beer which I might illustrate.  All amounting to naught, at least so far.  There are also coasters for beer.  One of my sons started collecting beer coasters, and I learned that traveling firefighters also liked to collect them.  Beer coasters became free souvenirs of my travels and drinks.  

I eventually learned that there is an art show that features art done exclusively on coasters; I believe it has given rise to a few other such shows.  Starting last year, I participated in the coaster show.  I will do so again next month.  What is very cool about the show is that it's this kind of no-holds-barred show, with art of every ilk - cute, raunchy, figurative, abstract expressionist, what have you.  The only thing the pieces have in common is that they are the size and shape of beer coasters.  And there is a ton of them.  I mean, when ever can you see a gallery show with between 700 and 1000 individual pieces of art?

A plug for Gallery 30 South, 30 S Wilson Ave, Pasadena, CA 91106, Coaster Show 2020, running October 5–30, 2020, to coincide more or less with Oktoberfest.  

Encouragement

If you make art and it's halfway decent to look at,  you're going to get some embarrassing praise.  "I love your art.  You're so talented."  Soon after, you will be treated to tales of personal failure.  "I have no talent.  I can't draw a straight line (or my way out of a box.)"  You might hear stories from the same people about how they loved to draw and paint and make things when they were little kids, and then someone ruined it for them.  The someone was probably a perfectly well-meaning parent or teacher.  Perhaps the art was compared unfavorably to some else's or was misunderstood.  Perhaps the youths were rebuffed for using things not intended as art supplies.  Or for wasting time.

I don't want to be that person who ruins art for someone else.  What I want to do here, in fact, is to give my reader tools not to be that person either.  I have taken plenty of art classes as a child and an adult from a wide range of instructors.  I've weathered a lot of criticism of my work, some very valuable and some entirely unwelcome.  I have done many hours of artwork along side many children of widely varying interest and capability.  This is where I have collected my ideas.  This is intended primarily for people speaking to children about their art, but I find it works with adults as well.  It may also work for areas of human endeavor other than art.

Do not give unsolicited critiques or opinions.  If someone shows you their work, you may assume they are soliciting your opinion.  Never assume someone is seeking criticism or suggestions unless they explicitly ask.

When you give your opinion of a work of art, be sure that it is your opinion, and not a value judgement. Do not say it is "good" or "not good."  If you like it, say so.  Elaborate on what you like.  "I love your colors. . . I admire your bold lines. . . Unicorns are my favorite things."  You can talk about how it makes you feel, whether a picture feels peaceful or has a lot of energy.

Feel free to ask questions, except "what is it supposed to be?"  You can say, "Tell me about what you painted" or say, "it looks like buildings to me.  Where is your scene taking place?  Is it from your imagination or something you have seen?  Who are the people and what are they doing? Does it express something you are feeling?"   I think it's okay to ask, "How do you like it?  Are you happy with it?"

Acknowledge effort.  If it looks like someone is very skilled, acknowledge that it is clear they have put a lot of practice and effort into honing their abilities.  Saying people are talented not only discounts the effort they have put into their art, but can be discouraging to others in the same space.  Efforts  in a particular piece of art might be speed  or it might be the considerable amount of time that was put into it.  You might note the looseness and freedom of the technique or the precision and detail.

Do not tell any artist, particularly a small child, that they have to sign their work, unless you are paying for it, or it is to be handed in to a teacher.  Whether or not an artist signs a work is entirely up to them, and a signature is an element which they may or may not wish to add.  It is like telling the artist to add clouds or the color red, which you also shouldn't do, unless the artist asks you, "what else do you think I should add?"


Discourage frustration and feelings of failure.  You can quote Bob Ross, "There are no mistakes; only happy accidents."  Discourage people from wadding up drawings and throwing them out.  Point out that mistakes are part of practice, and practice is how you build skill.  You may suggest they try to rework the rejected piece into something they are happier with. Or that they keep it for a while to see their progress and improvement.

Acknowledge choices.  Creating at all is a choice.  As is what you create - the size, shape, color, medium, composition, subject, abstraction.  Every single element of a work of art is the artist's choice.  If you tell a young artist, "I like how you grouped the bright colors and oriented the paper lengthwise," you are also letting them know that they have power and agency, at least in this place, and that their possibilities for creation are infinite.

This post is delightfully illustrated with pictures made for me by Ruby, Chris, Nayeen, Angie and Anonymous.

Anything Can Happen

I'm sitting here on the cusp of a new year and a new decade.  I'm as willing as the next person to infuse this moment with meaning.  I haven't been in these parts for a good long while.  So the last day or two, I've seen a lot of stuff posted on social media and heard some right from the mouths of humans that 2019 was a hard year, and let's hope 2020 will be kinder.  Yeah, I could echo that sentiment, but 2019 coughed up some really nice moments too.  On a personal level, I experienced two lovely weddings of family members, traveled to Iceland and Tulsa, Oklahoma and points in between.  I read good books and did good works and made art.  A few friends have made it through some big health challenges.  In some of my favorite bits of news, new baby tortoises were born in the Galapagos, and AI is being developed into prosthetics for little kids who otherwise couldn't walk.  And I've remembered that anything can happen.  Which is both good news and bad news.  I've passed the middle of my life, and my expectations trend toward the reasonable.  You know, it's nice just to be here.  But it is solidly within the realm of possibility that 2020, or some other year that hasn't yet happened, could be my best year ever.  It could even be all our best year ever.  However it shapes up, let's pull some good things out of it.  

On Time

This is the only painting I have of Union Station in Los Angeles which was not previously posted.  Which tells me, among other things, that I should schedule painting at Union Station soon.  It's a pretty good place to paint in all weather, because you can be inside, outside under shelter, or in one of two or more courtyard gardens.  Like rail travel 20 or 30 years ago, Union Station practically went out of business.  Then came a boom in light rail and commuter train construction and travel.  So Union Station too has made a big comeback.  It is a busy bustling place now, as a train station should be.  And in addition to an infusion of humanity, a whole bunch of money has been pumped into Union Station's revival.  It has always been beautiful, but now it is restored to its original shiny glory.  The downside (because isn't there always one?) is that you now require an actual train ticket to sit in one of the leather upholstered art deco seats in the waiting area.  Those seats used to be free for the taking.  There is a piano inside the station, which is available for the use of all.  I have heard some really wonderful musicians there; it's worth pausing to listen. I think this is only painting I've made of the clock tower, although it is always in view while I wait outside for my train or bus.

Grinding

This is a picture of San Marino's Old Mill - El Molino Viejo in Spanish.  I've painted this old mill several times before and since.  Some of my efforts were posted here.  I think I've previously said most everything I have to say about the Old Mill, except this.  When I was a kid I visited someplace far from home, and there was an old mill there.  Which I found quite surprising.  I thought we had the only one.  But in reality, they are all over the county.  Flour is something that an awful lot of people use, but it takes a lot of power to mill it.  There are real economies of scale to employing a source of power greater than elbow grease - such as water or large animals - and to making a bunch of flour at a time.  I'm guessing that since there was kind of a public interest in mills anyhow, it was easy to transition them to museums and interpretive sights when the means of production advanced technologically.

If our civilization hangs around for another hundred years, I wonder what enterprises we will celebrate with museums and interpretive sights.  I believe video stores have already vanished.  Maybe there will be convenience store museums, demonstrating the old methods of cold beverage delivery.

In order to catch up my blogging to my painting, which matters not at all, I'm aggregating a few images of the same subject.  I think it makes more sense then combining unrelated images that happened to be painted around the same time.   Although it will be harder to keep track of.  The last picture is the most recent one, but a different view.  The picture with the chuppah set up for a wedding is the oldest; it was taken before the vines were taken off the building.  I thought the Old Mill might look much less interesting without vines, but it doesn't look too bad and it's easier to paint in the bargain.

Not Counting

I'm a little obsessive compulsive.  I know better than to talk lightly of mental illness. I can handle a reasonable amount of mess, clutter and dirt, but sometimes I just need things to be straight.  Pictures must hang level and yoga mats must align.  I count.  When I'm waiting for someone, I count cars or people that pass.  I count to fall asleep sometimes.  I count while I water my plants.  I've intentionally lost count of somethings, like how many lovers I had.  How much I ate.

I've been going out and painting for a few years now.  Since early 2010.  Almost every week.  So?  More than 400 paint outs?  A lot of painters.  A lot of places.  Not too many miles.  Less than 10,000 hours.  No regrets.  Some paintings.

Span

I'm still posting paintings that I painted a year ago, because I slowed way down on posting to the blog, and meanwhile I've picked up my painting pace.  The reality is that I may never catch up, even if (as I have,) I skip some of the paintings. I thought the next painting up was a different painting of the Colorado Bridge.  I've painted said bridge two or more times since I painted the image shown here.  Catch up?  Who am I fooling?  There is no obligation here, and not even much of a method.  Since I had whole other ideas about what I was going to say about the other view of the bridge, I have nothing planned to say.  

In that vacuum, I'll offer my most important life observations.  Here.  The most important decision you make is choosing who you listen to.  It's a noisy world with 7.6 million opinions.  The people you listen to will guide your values, your beliefs, your tastes, your actions and your experience. Your parents, your news sources, your friends, your teachers, your spiritual leaders - those people.  Your choice.  The other observation is that things pass.  Some of the most precious and rare things and people and moments you encounter in your life may seem quite ordinary.  And they may seem like they will always be around and always be the same.  It's okay that things change and pass.  That's just the way of time.  What I would suggest as a hedge against time is only to live deeply and completely in the present.  Capture those moments in all their vividness with all your senses.  That's what I know.  

Here are photos of a scruffy mockingbird and a prickly heart.