Clay Paintings

Over the last year, I’ve been doing a lot of drawing and doodling with no agenda in mind. I’m just letting my brush or pen take me where it wants to go. If I see a line I like, I follow it. If a color jumps out, I swoosh it on my brush and onto the paper. 

I’ll admit, my first art class was a landscape watercolor class at a small local gallery when I was in high school. I was surrounded by very serious people with way more talent and expertise than me. But, I hung in there. I watched. I mixed colors. And my favorite thing was using the wet into wet watercolor technique. 

I’ve taken many art classes since then, which might make its own blog, but here’s the thing: I don’t call myself a painter. Ever. 

Relaxing and recovering. 

When I had my surgery, I needed something to do. A way to create. A way to get back into my playful spirit. Watercolors and gel pens were just what I needed. 

I filled a sketch book with landscapes, flowers, trees, blue skies and sunsets. That’s all. Simple. Easy. Not art with a capitol A. They started to pile up, so I had to find a shelf in my studio to keep them out of the way. 

But I think they had other plans. 

The mystery of art. 

When I threw clay on my wheel, I knew what I was going to make: cups, bowls, and  vases. But that’s not always the case when I roll out a clay slab. Over the last year or so, things began to slowly change. My slabs sprouted petals and leaves and stems. Some were landscapes.

What I didn’t see then is that I’d already made them, I just didn’t know it. 

Down on a bottom shelf in my studio was a pile of papers from my drawing pad. In the pile were flowers and landscapes and sunsets that I’d drawn or painted when I couldn’t do clay. I did them and stacked them on a shelf and moved on. Or so I thought.  

The painted flower 

The tulips

The orchid

All went from doodles on paper to reliefs on clay. 

So I’ve decided to call them Clay Paintings.  

What do you think?

Spiraling Spirals

I signed up for an art gathering on Zoom. There wasn’t a theme or agenda. Just a few people and an artist/leader using whatever materials they had on hand. Watercolors. Inks. Colored pencils. Crayons. 

We were muted so background noise wasn’t distracting. And we could leave our cameras on or off. I turned mine off. 

I had my desk area covered with a variety of materials: watercolor paints, brushes, watercolor crayons and ink. And blank white paper, not the good watercolor paper, just a sheet off a drawing pad. 

Then, I picked up a crayon and started to move it around and around the paper. Lines appeared. Circles moved around and became spirals. Somewhere during the time, I loaded a brush with color and tapped it over the paper. 

Splat. Splat. Splat. 

To me, there’s something so satisfying hearing the sound of the paint hitting the paper. And I love how the already wet colors merged with the splats. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t plan it. And I didn’t consider it ‘art’. 

It felt like kindergarten all over again. Where the easel is all set up with blank white paper, clean brushes, water and a row of paint colors ready to use. 

If the colors mixed by themselves that was even better. I tilted the paper, too. Even more fun!

Spirals spiraling. 

I didn’t even notice the shape or direction of my mark making. I didn’t control the splats. I just let go and let it flow. And I didn’t even notice how many spirals had appeared until the group gathered and we started sharing our papers. 

The artist/leader noticed all the spirals on my paper. She asked if I’d chosen to make them and if it had some special meaning for me. I honestly didn’t realize I’d made so many spirals and wasn’t sure what meaning they had for me.

But I did joke: maybe I’m spiraling? 

Something from nothing: a realization. 

After the meet up was over, I showed my husband the paper and mentioned the artist’s question about spirals and my work. I told him what I told her that it just randomly appeared and I had no idea why. He said I’ve used spirals in and out of my work for years. 

He pointed to a screening mask hanging in the hallway. As you can see above. 

A stamp I made and used on a bowl, a plate and a bird. 

I had no idea it was an ongoing theme for me. I’m not sure what it means. Or why I use it, except I like its shape and swooping curve. So I googled it, of course, and here’s the meaning and info from my online search. 

“Cycles of Life: Across many cultures, including Celtic and Indigenous traditions, the continuous loop of a spiral represents the natural progression of birth, life, death, and rebirth. It signifies that time and existence are not linear, but cyclical. 

Nature and Creation: The spiral mirrors patterns found everywhere in the natural world, from hurricanes and seashells to galaxies and the double-helix of our DNA. It acts as a visual metaphor for the generative forces of the universe. 

Wisdom and Progression: Moving along the curves of a spiral represents advancing through life's lessons, returning to familiar situations with higher levels of understanding and clarity.”

I do have a Celtic heritage, so maybe it’s coming from there? I know many people refer to ‘spiraling’ when they’re anxious and we are living through difficult times. Or maybe, just the opposite, it’s something my spirit finds calming especially right now? 

Maybe I don’t have to know the ‘why’ but instead just embrace it as part of my life and, obviously, part of my art.  

An Ode To My Wheel

 

At first, I was afraid of you just a little bit. I’d taken classes to learn how to use you, but I wasn’t sure you’d act the same as the other wheels. I mean, everything has its unique rhythm and character. Right? But slowly and quietly with a little soft instrumental music playing, we became friends. 

Sometimes, especially at first, I rushed you a little too fast and, well, the clay slipped off you onto the floor. Shocking, yes. But not your fault, obviously. I had to get to know you and learn to lean into you and trust. When I turned you to the left to center a ball of clay and turned you to the right to shape a cup or bowl, it was magic. 

We made many, many things together. Big bowls and small ones. Teacups and mugs. Even small sculptured “Party Animals” who helped get me through Covid. 

It’s not you, it’s me. 

I still love clay. And I’m still making clay sculpture and vases and other pieces using the slab method. But abdominal surgery made it too painful for me to sit with you and throw. Bending forward and pressing to center just didn’t work the way it used to anymore. 

But still you sat there stalwart, waiting quietly in the garage for me. Ready to move into action the moment I plugged you in. 

You’ve been there for every change I’ve gone through in the last 20 plus years. 

Helping me. Delighting me. Calming me. And most of all giving me a chance to right a wrong that happened all the way back in high school art class: when my ball of clay spun off the wheel and hit the wall behind me. You never did that to me. 

Now it’s time for me to let you go. It’s time for you to move on. It’s time for you to find someone, like me, ok maybe someone with more experience, to turn you on. It’s time for you to help transform chunks of messy mud into beautiful things again. 

Thank you for all the messy, gooey, luscious fun we had together.

Sigh. I’m going to miss you. 

Something from Nothing

I’m just going to write today. I need a way out of the downward swirl. I want to feel good about something and stay away from all the bad out there. If I were my eight year old self again, I’d be sitting in the corner of my closet with a book. 

Reading saved me as a kid. It was an approved way to spend my time on a hot summer day. Sitting in the shade, on the neighbors porch, reading Nancy Drew. It still helps me, reading a ‘cozy’ mystery. You know the genre’, where the female character solves the mystery, maybe with the help of a few friends, the criminal gets caught and they all go out to celebrate. 

Oh, how I wish the world really worked that way all the time. Don’t you?

Now instead of escaping into my closet or the next door neighbors patio, I walk. I take my grandson to the park to play.  I lean on the trees in the woods nearby. I bake with my husband. I make things out of clay. And I crochet with no pattern. 

Right now, I’m in the ‘finishing’ phase in the studio. This is the part that makes my nerves all jangled. It’s not just that it’s the end of the making, which I love, but it’s the beginning of the booming inner critic’s voice. You know what I mean?

“Oh this will never sell.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Who is going to want a sunflower with a face?”

“It’s not a perfect flower, you know.”

“This is does not look even close to a real bird.”

Yeah. My inner critic is a nasty bitch. I really should fire her. 

Believe me, I’ve tried. 

But she just keeps coming back to work. 

And she gets even louder when I’m filling out forms to enter a show.  

That’s my next step. One I dread, too. Filling out the application form. Downloading the images. Hoping that my iPad will cooperate with the venue’s computer. Then, of course, is the wait. Acceptance or Rejection? It always feels like I’m putting myself into a revolving door over which I have no control. 

Sigh. Why do I put myself through all this, you might ask? Good Question. 

 I love seeing things in the sky, the trees, the flowers and letting my imagination flow.  

I love clay. I love painting. I love making something from nothing.  

I do it because I love what I see. 

And, I want others to see what I love. 

And I think we all need to see more love around us.