Join Dori for her next Creativity and Awareness Workshop at Embody Practice Center, Birmingham, AL. Held Saturday, July 28, 2018, this day of gentle introspection and creative exercises in various media will be the best way to take a break from the heat. Embody is a yoga center, and will offer opportunities for diverse […]
Tag / courage
My first drawing was of a man. His body was a big, round, wobbly circle and his limbs stuck out like the rays of the sun in all directions, with crooked circles for hands. He was smiling. I still have that drawing, and ever since then I have known I wanted to be an artist. I still have a faded sheet of paper with a list of questions I answered in a first grade quiz, one of them being, What do you want to be when you grow up? I wrote Artist. Fast forwarding many decades finds me still loving making art, as well as teaching it, selling it, and singing the praises of it. I have led a life of non-stop creativity, so I have plenty to say about it. A painting about it seemed impossible, but I gave it a shot.
I looked up ideas online for an animal that might represent creativity. When the spider repeatedly came up as a possibility, I was at first taken aback. Creativity is joyful and often associated with beauty. Spiders are mostly feared and squish-worthy in our culture. But immediately on the heels of my cultural prejudice was the obvious, unassailable, awe-inspiring, perfect fact that spiders make gorgeous art all the time. I was easily converted to a spider-lover. Out of all the fascinating types to chose from, I chose the jumping spider simply because it caught my eye. Ironically, the jumping spider makes no web, but does make a cozy little tent to hide in at night. Because my paintings veer far from reality on a regular basis, I saw no problem in setting my new friend on a web.
I like to think I’m an accepting person who treats people without prejudice. But this painting came about when I caught myself being cynical and judgmental in spite of myself. Even as I admitted that I was being judgmental, a thought-string of excuses trailed close behind, hoping to erase the idea of examining my mean habit too closely. Everybody does it, the excuses said. It’s normal, it’s human nature. I went forward with the painting anyway, because whether everyone does it or not, it was becoming uncomfortable for me.
I started to become aware of how I sometimes pretend it’s fine to be annoyed with others. Not only did I sometimes feel disgruntled thoughts about people, I often entertained others with explanations about my observations and opinions. I can make an art out of relaying clever stories about people who annoy me, complete with funny imitations and a didactic punch line about the way “good” people should do things. This encourages listeners to add their own story about a similar experience so I can feel validated in my mudslinging. In the South we often use the phrase “bless her heart” (or his) which follows a badmouthing rant, implying that we mean no harm, and we wish the person well. Most people giggle after they say it, knowing that it really means “you can let me off the hook for saying these things, but that person really is a jerk.” I usually follow my badmouthing with a humorous chastisement of myself for being so judgmental, a feeble attempt to excuse my behavior.
A few years back, with my recent status of Empty Nester, I had the strange and wonderful experience of having (what seemed like) unlimited time, energy, and space at my disposal. Like other newly free moms with whom I spoke, I decided the best word to describe it at the time was Weird. I didn’t hate it but I didn’t love it either. I knew intellectually that there would be an adjustment period, but my equilibrium took it more seriously. I felt shock, ecstasy, and confusion all at once, mixed with an inability to sit still and a constant feeling that there was something that needed to be done when there really wasn’t anything that needed to be done.
I didn’t want to fill the void with the first impulses to come along. I wanted to leave the time and space empty for a bit, hoping that a new direction would radiantly unfold. I had a sense that just about anything could be next for me, that a whole new world was up for grabs, and I wanted to be as open as possible about which new ideas and prospects would take hold in my life. This painting asked to come to life, a representation of all the possibilities at my feet.
When I was a girl I wanted to be a princess. I had stacks of coloring books, and I would only color the pages that depicted lovely ladies in ornate gowns. I drew pretty women all day long, including during class at school. I wanted to go as a princess every Halloween, and would have preferred we lived in a time where evening gowns were a regular part of our wardrobes. My definition of good fine art was the frilliest Rococo paintings with delicate ladies on swings reaching their pointy toes in the air to reveal a bit of their ample petticoats. At the time I lived in a small mountain town where almost everyone wore jeans and t-shirt every day.
This painting was a throwback to my days of being enthralled with princesses. After years of drawing and coloring them, I felt I owed it to myself to paint one. And then I gave the princess the head of a tiger cub. Even though I adored fanciful girl stuff, I was also an outdoorsy athlete, and a brain. In the time I grew up I would have never made a good, well-bred princess for real. The tiger is roaring (or maybe meowing, at that age) with a manner unfitting for her apparent station. In the background are power lines, an indicator that her indoor set-up might not be lodged on the grounds of a grand palace. She looks uncomfortable and off-balance in her chair. She tries hard to play the princess part, but she can’t escape the fact that she’s based in reality. The shadow she casts is stiff and pointy, not in keeping with her flowing surroundings.
This painting shows, among other things, the contrast in my life of having been encouraged to express my old-fashioned womanliness in a time when Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman Hear Me Roar” was playing in the background. On a deeper level the painting offered me reflection on how my characteristics can contradict each other and befuddle me, especially until I learn to free myself from over-identifying with them.
Join us for another Without a Net Workshop at Red Dot Gallery on July 1, 2017. A full day of getting artsy and getting real with ourselves will be the perfect mid-summer day away from the same old stuff. Each time I offer one of these days of creativity and introspection I find more new […]
When giving a talk about my paintings, a member of the audience saw this piece and said, “ You’re not fat. How does this mind state pertain to you?” Before I could speak up, another person called out, “It’s about over-indulgence in general,” making me wish I had a co-explainer with me at all times.
While immoderation comes in many forms, I focus here on eating because it is one of my go-to pacifiers. I did another painting that portrayed food, as in cupcakes, but it referred to the concept of temptation. The hippo here has already succumbed to temptation. And has kept going.
In this painting there is a big round animal in the middle of a pile of food. This is one of the most literal paintings I’ve done, so there’s not much explanation needed. I wanted the overpowering pile to engulf the figure, so the food does not realistically recede into the background around the hippo. The perspective is skewed so that the food is as big and front-stage at the top as it is on the bottom. Looming, I wanted it to be.
When I have lapses in my blog posts, it’s because I’m not in control of when writing inspiration hits me. With painting I can sit down at any time with no prompt and get going. I’ve never had a moment of artist block or blank canvas syndrome in thirty some years of being a visual […]
Some time after writing or painting a work, I can look at my piece with more objectivity and freshness, almost as if someone else made the work. Whether I like the work or not is not nearly as interesting as what it feels like to hear/see myself as an outsider might. Even more curious is the idea that I am seeing the work not as just any outsider, but with my own personal way of seeing art. I’m usually surprised that the writing reads more coherently than I expected, or that the painting has some subtle weirdness that I’m kind of proud of. Once in a while I’ll think, “Damn, that’s good,” and other times, “What crazy inner editor let this pass inspection?”
Eudora Welty wrote the following words about her experience with this phenomenon, revealing how vulnerable even the very accomplished artist feels when sharing her vision and seeing her own creations as if for the first time.