Welcoming 2019

The passions are a kind of thirst, inexorable and intense, for certain feelings or felt states. To find or invent ‘objects’ (which are, more strictly speaking, relational structures) whose felt quality satisfies the passions,- that for me is the activity of the artist, an activity which does not cease even in sleep. No wonder the artist is constantly placing and displacing, relating and rupturing relations; his task is to find a complex of qualities whose feeling is just right – veering toward the unknown and chaos, yet ordered and related in order to be apprehended.

–Robert Motherwell

What an exhilaration to awake to a 19-degree winter morning on New Year’s Day 2019! With no appointments on the books, I felt a soothing calm as the day presented itself with leisure and books. Reading passages from Abstract Expressionist artist Robert Motherwell put me in the frame of mind to explore drawing with renewed vigor. He defined drawing as a method for organizing space on a two-dimensional plane.

The first day of the new year often witnesses a different trajectory in my art. Currently I am working on commissions, and will begin posting them, but I also laid down a New Year resolution that I would draw more. So . . . a few years ago, I drew one winter tree per day for the month of January, then matted each 5 x 7″ drawing, framed a few, and sold a large quantity of them. This year, I’m not thinking about the sale, only the hope to improve with the careful discipline and repetition of drawing. My intention is to spend January with a focus on drawing nature.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

 

An Andrew Wyeth Kind of Day

In his book Poetry and Experience, Archibald MacLeish uses the most universal terms possible for the two poles of the encounter: “Being and Non-being.” He quotes a Chinese poet: “We poets struggle with Non-being to force it to yield Being. We knock upon silence for an answering music.”

Rollo May, The Courage to Create

Today I took the plunge. I traveled with my mom, sister, and niece south to Fruitland, Missouri to visit the sites where Mom and Dad grew up and I spent childhood visits on the grandparents’ farms. Once we reached the property where my maternal grandparents resided, I visited the relic of their house, which I had painted many times from the past, but for the first time set up my pochade box & camera tripod, then sketched it out en plein air. For ninety minutes as I sketched and painted, memories from my childhood flitted around me with such intensity that I had to brush them away from my face.

In ninth grade, my art teacher Mr. Scucchi laid a coffeetable book in front of me titled Andrew Wyeth and said, “I think you need to take a look at this.” The drawings and drybrush watercolors inside that volume knocked me over, because Kuerner’s farm looked to me exactly like what I saw on the McNeely and Tripp farms. On the next visit, I took my sketchbook and began sketching the houses, barns, sheds and hen houses. Taking them back to school, they drew the immediate attention and interest of the other art teacher, Mr. Hoeh, a skilled and sensitive watercolorist. He encouraged me to continue in this pursuit.

Now, nearly sixty years later, I am finally getting around to it–sketching and painting these subjects en plein air rather than relying on photographs. The picture above may not look like much, but the exhilaration I felt as I worked on it convinced me that I had turned yet another corner with my artistic development. I’m interested in following this thread now. When I return soon to Texas, I’ll join in on the Paint Historic Waxahachie plein air event and push this discipline yet further.

Thanks for reading.

Completed Commission

Completed Watercolor Commission

Navigating time is necessarily more fraught than navigating space, since the dimension defined by the elastic stuff of memory is inherently treacherous.

Miles J. Unger, Picasso and the Painting that Shocked the World

I’m relaxing tonight, having placed the final stroke into a commissioned watercolor that has followed me across Texas, Arkansas and Missouri the past couple of weeks. I’m happy tonight in High Ridge, Missouri, the town of my youth, finding time and leisure now to read and reflect over art-related matters that have accompanied me across the miles recently traveled.

I have already read the Picasso book quoted above, and am now re-reading key texts I’ve underlined and scribbled notes in the margins and journals from my first reading. In 1945 Picasso, by then rich and famous, wished to revisit the studio of his bohemian days, saying “We will all return to the Bateau-Lavoir. We were never truly happy except there.” He told his current lover Francoise Gilot “That’s where it all began.” The sentiment reminds me of that uttered by Robert Motherwell during his closing years. Looking back on his earlier days of creativity in East Hampton–“I did my best work there.”

I must confess, I’m not swept off my feet by these utterances. Both artists were looking back at torrid times of poverty, failure and neglect as they toiled to perfect their art. I myself have kept copious journals since 1985. I would have to say 1987 was the year when I attempted to emerge as artistic and special. And frankly, reading journals from that year now fill me with a host of emotions, none of them warm, romantic or nostalgic. It was a terrible year. Yes, I did some good work, but I don’t think I’ve lost anything special by moving on with my life.

Today I took a long circuitous drive around Jefferson County, where I grew up before leaving home for the university. Ghosts seemed to drift all around the landscape as I surveyed it passing by my windshield. Memories. Some of them good. I’m glad I did it. But I don’t miss the past. And I don’t try to romanticize it. I’m glad to be where I am now, retired, with strength sufficient to pursue my passions of painting, sketching, reading, journaling, exploring. I’m glad to be alive today, and lean forward to tomorrow when I travel south with Mom, Sister, and Niece, to visit the place that produced my parents.

Thanks for reading.

Back to Work, Painting in High Ridge, Missouri

Closing in on the finish of this watercolor commission

[Edward] Hopper’s health was also beginning to falter. His periodic inertia was complicated by the persistent fatigue he had suffered for years. Back in 1938 it had led one of his doctors, who rejected the low thyroid diagnosis, to prescribe what was then the new wonder drug Benzedrine–later known to hipsters as “bennies.” It’s odd to think of Hopper, the laconic Republican in a tweed suit, as an early adopter of the speedball elixir of Beat poets and jazz musicians, but he found it helpful and continued using it into his sixties.

Richard Lacayo, Last Light: How Six Great Artists Made Old Age a Time of Triumph

I am still basking in the warm afterglow of last week’s Plein Air on the White River event. The artists and event organizers were so warm and friendly, and I still feel their aesthetic enthusiasm. I’m staying with my Mom now in High Ridge, Missouri, in my boyhood home, surrounded with the sights and smells I knew so many decades ago. The temperatures now are in the low sixties as I sit out on our carport in short sleeves, nearly needing a sweater. I’ve returned to work on the commission above, and am happy to see it nearing completion.

I wanted to post photos of some of our winners from last week:

Best of Show: Jensheng Song

First Place, Canvas: Eva Haley

First Place, Paper: Christi Patterson

I already miss these artists who competed last week in Lakeview, Arkansas, and I miss the lovely setting of Gaston’s Resort, next to the White River. As I sit in the quite of Mom’s house today and chip away at my own watercolor, I replay the myriad of conversations I enjoyed with that fellowship of artists.

Executive Time

I’ve been away from home an entire week now, and really miss Sandi and the dogs. Our morning routine revolves around coffee, phones, journal and books in bed for an hour or so. We call it “executive time”, excited by articles we’ve read over the years about certain successful CEOs who carve out an hour or so early in the day to focus on reading, reflective, writing, planning. I managed to do that early this morning, and the time was sweet, but I do miss what I know of our mornings back home, and look forward to retuirning.

Dad’s Resting Place, Jefferson Barracks

Mom, Sister and I visited Dad yesterday. We lost him August 11 last year, and it still seems like last week. This is the third time I’ve been able to visit his monument. It was Mother’s Day this time, and the cemetery was overrun with people visiting their departed ones. I was glad to see such a number of visitors.

Of course this is what moves me most when visiting this place. The Mississippi River is nearby, and deer come up out of the woods to rest on soldiers’ graves. My Dad was of native American descent, and I feel that this is truly fitting for where his remains reside.

Thanks for reading.

Touched by Louise Nevelson

Watercolor Commission in Progress

In her seventies, Nevelson’s energies were unceasing . . . . she described her creative life to an interviewer. . . “An artist goes to the studio to work. Not when the spirit moves you; you go every day and work–just plain work, physical work–and you keep right on going. The tools are put away at night, and the studio is swept down, and things you want for tomorrow morning are placed out.” And when you return the next day, she added, “Everything is clean, is nice. You are very happy. You start working.”

Richard Lacayo, Last Light: How Six Great Artists Made Old age a Time of Triumph

I’m tired tonight, as I’ve been every night this past week. But I’ve always gone to bed exhilarated by the progress made on this commission. Plein Air on the White River will end tomorrow afternoon after I finish judging the competition that began Wednesday morning. A host of enthusiastic artists have been out painting daily and will turn in all their work tomorrow morning. I’m looking forward to feasting my eyes on all their inspired pieces.

I am hoping to get my body into shape so I can feel the energy Louise Nevelson felt in her seventies. Thanks to some changes in my lifestyle of late, I have started to feel a significant change this week. The nine-hour drive on Monday left me feeling somewhat drained on Tuesday, but the enthusiasm of the plein air artists made the all-day workshop a very engaging and affirming activity. By Wednesday, I was ready to handle any tasks required of me and found time to work on my watercolor commission when the other tasks were completed. The schedule this week was balanced such that I found quality hours daily to take up what I chose, and I’m pleased that I had the interest and energy to work on this assignment. The commission is due on the 22nd, I leave for St. Louis tomorrow, but I’m confident now that when the time comes for me to return to Texas, this piece will be ready for delivery.

I’m grateful to the White River artists for making this event so inspiring. Time spent with these artists has put a spring back into my step.

Thanks for reading.

Plein Air Painting on the White River

Here are some pics from that beautiful day we spent together plein air painting on the white river.

Working Into the Night With a Glad Heart

Not just the labor of months, that show was the work of a lifetime.

Remark about Louise Nevelson’s solo show at age 60, by Richard Lacayo, Last Light: How Six Great Artists Made Old Age a Time of Triumph

This is my fourth day at Plein Air on the White River in Gaston’s Resort in Lakeview, Arkansas. And the first time I’ve been able to stop and post a blog. The experience has been rich indeed, and I’ll post pictures at the end of this entry. The shot above was from last night, late in the cabin, when I had time alone to resume work on a commission started last week at home. This morning I’ve moved to the bedroom to work at the window seat:

I’ll do my second art demo this afternoon at 4:00. I did my first one Tuesday during the all-day plein air workshop.

I’ve taken delight reading about the life of sculptor Louise Nevelson, finally getting recognition at age 60. And I love the insights of this entire book, about famous American artists in their senior years, still chipping away at their craft, as I do mine. When asked how long it took me to complete a current painting, my general answer is 70 years. I know that I can kick out an 8 x 10″ plein air watercolor in 60-90 minutes. But I really take seriously all that goes into making a single piece. Each of my paintings or drawings is my response to the world I encounter. I pour all my inner resources–my imagination, my education, my curiosity, my attention to detail, my critical faculty–all of this filters what I see as I translate it onto a white rectangle lying before me, waiting.

One of the many perfections of this week has been the space and quiet embracing me every day and night. I haven’t known such quiet and a “slowing down” of the world since my week on the Laguna Madre in 2015 when I worked as Artist in Residence for Texas A&M University at Corpus Christi. This morning, I feel that quiet all over again that I knew and loved in those days of painting. I also knew that yesterday all afternoon and evening till I retired to bed. No sense of time or deadlines or schedules. Just time to paint, to read, to reflect, to journal–all quality time.

I’ve made so many new and wonderful artist friends at this retreat as well. And I cannot express the depth of feeling I experience when I see so many people happily engaged in making art in the open air. I will gladly post many pictures I took of the Tuesday workshop event when they finally arrive on my email. The Wi-Fi here is slow as molasses, and I have yet to receive the photos I’ve transferred for blogging . . .

Thanks for reading.

First day of Plein Air on the White River

Though the alarm was set for 6 a.m. I awoke at 5:30, excited & ready. My watercolor workshop will begin in one hour, but I wanted to post a picture of our view and thank all of you for reading my blog.

Waking Up to Goethe & Friends

I spent the entire day Saturday inside Studio Eidolons, working on a commission watercolor till dark. After dinner, sleepiness descended, I and I decided to turn in. I was aroused at 5:50 by a REM sequence that firmly placed me in the heart of an artists’ event. All I can recall was that everything I attempted in that dream was working. Reaching through the darkness for my smart phone, I began reading posts on my Facebook group “David Tripp Artists’ Cafe”. From there, I switched to my last blog, and was then directed to a January 2, 2023 post. Reading it, I felt the connection with my REM sensations, and have decided to repost the old blog below:

Ideas of the Creative Eros from Goethe and Friends

January 2, 2023

Mysterious in the light of day,

Nature, in veils, will not let us perceive her,

And what she is unwilling to betray,

You cannot wrest from her with thumbscrews, wheel, or lever.

Goethe, Faust

The New Year finds me resurrecting an old practice abandoned some time ago–Julia Cameron’s concept of The Morning Pages. With this practice, you begin the day by writing out longhand three pages of junk as rapidly as possible to prime your mind for the flow of ideas. This task takes me anywhere from 17-20 minutes to complete, and once done, I throw away the pages and start anew with ideas spilling out faster than I can scribble them into my journal. This morning’s activity catapulted me back into my reading of Faust which then led to Heidegger’s essay “On the Origin of the Work of Art.

The Faust quote posted above reminded me of the watercolor I’m now pursuing (also posted above), a blues theme set in Palestine, Texas that has me bemused as I stare into the complex tangle of spring foliage, power lines and deep shadows. The last time I found myself perusing texts from favorite books in an attempt to solve problems involving color, composition and landscape subjects was summer 2015 when I spent a week on the Texas Laguna Madre as Artist-in-Residence. I had taken to the island the essay by Heidegger and was arrested by his quote from German Renaissance artist Albrecht Dűrer:

Albrecht Dűrer did after all make the well-known remark: “For in truth, art lies hidden within nature; he who can wrest it from her, has it.” “Wrest” here means to draw out the rift and to draw the design with the drawing-pen on the drawing board. . . . True, there lies hidden in nature a rift-design, a measure and a boundary and, tied to it, a capacity for bringing forth–that is, art.

The communion I enjoyed with this trio of great minds inspired me to scribble out some new ideas I’m ready to apply to this current watercolor. As I enjoyed thinking and writing out the new theories, Julia Cameron joined in on the dialogue with the following (from her book The Artist’s Way):

Once you accept that it is natural to create, you can begin to accept a second idea–that the creator will hand you whatever you need for the project. The minute you are willing to accept the help of this collaborator, you will see useful bits of help everywhere in your life. Be alert: there is a second voice, a higher harmonic, adding to and augmenting your inner creative voice. This voice frequently shows itself in synchronicity.

Participating in this Great Conversation this morning has energized me. My heartfelt thanks to Goethe, Heidegger, Dűrer and Cameron for caring enough to write out their ideas to share with other hungry, kindred spirits seeking to create.

Thanks for reading.

Working Late on a Commission

“A pessimist? I guess so. I’m not proud of it. At my age don’t you get to be? When I see all those students running around painting–studying like mad–I say, ‘What’s the use? It all ends the same place.’ At fifty you don’t think of the end much, but at eighty you think about it a lot. Find me a philosopher to comfort me in my old age.”

Edward Hopper (interview with Brian O’Doherty published in American Masters: The Voice and the Myth)

Saturday night finds me at my drafting table in Studio Eidolons, where I have spent the entire day, and could well remain the entire tomorrow. I’m working to complete a watercolor commission of a private residence before leaving early Monday for a thrilling week judging, workshopping and demonstrating at the Plein Air on the White River event at Gaston’s White River Resort in Lakeview, Arkansas. All of the above reads as a romance, but in reality, I’m feeling like a grinder, and have felt this all week. But I’m proud of what I do, and grateful for these opportunities.

During drying times in the watercolor process, I have been reading up on Edward Hopper, one of my guiding spirits in painting. I posted his quote from the closing years of his life, and recall the first time I read it when I was in my fifties. I have come to agree with him. And as for seeking counsel and comfort from a philosopher on the aging thing, I have in recent years enjoyed more and more the intimate connection I feel with the likes of artists Edward Hopper, Andrew Wyeth, Robert Motherwell and Mark Rothko. What those aged men shared with interviewers has been left as a veritable gift for myself and others who seek something positive about living out our senior years. I lack one chapter finishing Last Light: How Six Great Artists Made Old Age a Time of Triumph. This book too, is proving a remarkable treasure.

Hopper poked fun at the young artists scurrying about “studying like mad.” I still do that, and love the lifestyle of research. I completed graduate school in 1987, but still feel the urge to research, think and write about the creative process. I’m still hungry. And though I’ve recently turned seventy, I’m picking up some of the “bad” habits from those earlier years in libraries, classrooms and studios–I just brewed a pot of “cowboy coffee” and am drinking it tonight with delight (honestly this is something I rarely do at this age, at this hour).

I frequently come up with one-word descriptions of how I regard myself as artist of the moment, sometimes Explorer, sometimes Scholar, sometimes Grinder. This weekend, it is certainly Grinder. But I like it. Decades ago, I hoped to gain fame as an artist. I don’t know when I stopped hoping for that. All I can say in these senior years is this: I’m grateful to have lived this long and experienced all that comes with living a creative life. When I had my last birthday, I thought “if I could just have ten more years.” I’ll try to stop thinking that thought. I’m just glad to have what I now have, and hope other creatives can feel the same measure of gratitude and joy. There is no life like it, as far as I’m concerned.

I’ll say Good-night now, and thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Staying up Much Too Late

Work on a new commission

. . . whereas [Norman] Rockwell was an indefatigable workhorse, [Edward] Hopper was slow, methodical, given to self-doubt, and long periods of reluctance to try a new canvas.

Gordon Theisen, Staying Up Much Too Late: Edward Hopper’s NIGHTHAWKS and the Dark Side of the American Psyche

This is so unlike me, being up at 2 a.m., working on a commission. But it is due by the end of the week, and I’ll travel to Palestine later today to put our Gallery at Redlands back together (after taking much of the furniture out of it for last weekend’s art festival). Saturday will find me back home while Sandi manages the Gallery at Redlands and sponsors our gallery artist Kathy Lamb during the monthly Art Walk.

My sentiments at this hour are reminiscent of years spent in graduate school, and later teaching. Those earlier days frequently found me up all hours of the night working on a lecture or assembling work for an art show or festival or gallery event. I rarely do that now. Tonight is just a matter of sticking with a deadline.

I posted the contrast of artists Norman Rockwell and Edward Hopper above because I have been in both pairs of shoes throughout my life. And right now, I am somehow wearing both pairs of shoes: I am working tirelessly into the night, yet frequently laying down the brush or pencil to cross the studio, read, reflect, journal, blog, and look up from time to time to stare across the room at the emerging painting, hoping to sharpen perspective and decide how to proceed from here. I have reached a conclusion that I do better work when I take frequent breaks to let the painting breathe, and allow myself to take up something else for awhile in order to put fresh eyes back onto the painting and resume the task. Though the hour now is late, I feel that it is one charged with quality.

I wanted to share one of my recent watercolors just framed today. This was the only one I did not take to the Dallas festival last weekend. As it turned out, I sold the other four snow scenes. This is the only one remaining in my portfolio, and I really want to take it to Colorado for the Trinidad Art Fest in July. Hopefully, I will create a few more snow scenes to replace the ones that have recently been purchased.

Time to resume the commission. Thanks for reading.

I create art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.