A Shift in the Weather

Like I was saying, the rain forest is a product of rain and lots of it. With the intense heat, somehow I forgot that part.Oh my gosh, even though it's the dry season we have it in buckets. It really feels like home now, sans the wind and cool temps. And just like we do in the Pacific Northwest, people get out in it and go about their daily business.  I confess that it's a bit easier to do it here in shorts and flip-flops than at home with insulating layers, boots, slickers, etc.  But it's relatively the same sort of endeavor. Suddenly I feel like an experienced local...not really, but it helps.

Rain Forests

I am sitting outside our vacation rental in the jungle of southern Pacific Costa Rica and thinking about rain forests.  I live in a rain forest, but northern and cool.  This tropical rain forest has many similarities to my temperate rain forest, but everything  seems to be magnified by at least ten. It's the driest month of the year here so the cicadas are deafening, like summer crickets on steroids. The forest has a palpable presence, a huge organism, mysterious and overbearing. The eerie sound of the howler monkeys floats through the dense growth. It is the stuff of stories and legends, primitive and foreign.

The forest is warm and moist and so very fertile. Life seems to spring from this perfect set of conditions in endless variety. The insects and birds, the flowers, animals and vegetation: all are so flamboyant compared to those in the muted and foggy forests of the Pacific Northwest. I have been here before and I will visit again. Feeling this intensity around me is invigorating and at the same time humbling.
I think I could get used to the forest here if I spent enough time to become comfortable with the plants and animals, cycles and risks.  But today I admit to a healthy caution and respect for the unknowns out my front door.

On Sandhill Cranes

I've been working on a painting filled with Sandhill Cranes.  As I study the cranes I am reminded of my first encounter with them in the Summer Lake Wildlife Refuge.  At first I thought nothing was there in the empty landscape save the dried winter reeds and low grasses, dormant in the icy late winter winds.  And then all of a sudden I saw them, enormous, awkward, yet surprisingly graceful as well, the same bleached violet-brown-gray of the sleeping marsh, comfortable residents of their world.

More recently I saw the cranes at Summer Lake during their mating season. I was lucky to observe the mating behavior of two birds close by my parked car. As the two birds danced and preened in their elaborate mysterious ritual I cautiously snapped pictures through the unopened window, then quietly and slowly eased the car away to leave them to their privacy. Like long distance relay runners, these huge migratory birds carry something with them rare and precious, an unconscious instinct, a seed of survival to sow in the present and pass into the future. Perfectly adapted, the old generation passes on the necessary knowledge to the new.  And the cycle continues.

My favorite memory of Sandhill Cranes is a late summer evening in French Glen, seated on a low hill watching the day dissolve, rosy light giving way to empty blue gray dusk.  Over the Malheur Marsh the whirring calls of the cranes echoed across the wide basin.  Quiet, so quiet, save the bird calls, hypnotic like the ringing of a Tibetan prayer bowl.  Wild, primordial sound in perfect harmony with creation, ancient and timeless. I felt humbled to witness to such searing beauty.

Night skies in the desert

Coming home to the high desert skies.  I forget how big the sky is here, the dry crisp cold winter air, the smell of sage and juniper. Last night I looked into the infinity of stars overhead and gave thanks to the universe.

The power of an image

"Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight."
Orhan Pamuk in his novel My Name Is Red.

I am immersed in the dense mysterious structure and subject of this book set in 16th century Istanbul.  The story centers around the secretive world of the master miniaturists, the painters of the day. They were commissioned by wealthy rulers to paint illuminations of stories recorded by master calligraphers.  The work was painstaking, lengthy, and done by candlelight or available light. When a page was finished it was gilded by a master gilder.  After all the necessary pages were complete they were bound into a book for the commissioner's exclusive use. I am only part way through the book but what strikes me the most right now is the power of an image in the 16th century. It is difficult to imagine from today's perspective with pictures such an ubiquitous part of everyday life.

In a world with little to no imagery, how profound and moving it would be to behold a painting.
It makes me think about the value and power of a great painting.  A painting has the potential to transform and transport, offer solace, and connect with spirit.  It can also disturb, call to arms, motivate and provoke. It helps us figure out what it means to be human.

Another quote from Pamuk:
"All great masters, in their work, seek that profound void within color and outside time."

So true. That brings to mind Mark Rothko's color field paintings... It is powerful to stand in front of such a painting.  You feel it reach inside you.

Pamuk's quote leads me back to the idea of going beyond the limits of time again....
When I begin a painting, I have basic ideas of structure, imagery and palette, sometimes even a vague visual inspiration for the "feel" of the piece. Eventually I reach a point where I believe the painting really begins.  I have to reach outside myself to a place of non-linear thinking in order to proceed. Perhaps that is some aspect of the timeless void Pamuk mentions.  I seek a kind of primal hum where every layer and aspect of my painting works in concert and the piece takes on a life of its own.  To do this requires risk, trial and error, and detours. I must let go of my preconceived ideas about where the painting should go. It is intuitive and there is a lot of tension and fear intrinsic in this process.  But there is pleasure too, and joy in discovery.  The rewards are great, and I have learned to trust it. 

More about time...

It seems to me that memory has to be a factor in understanding time. A smell or a sound can trigger a memory and I am suddenly transported to an earlier time and place. At that moment the past and the present are one, simultaneous.

Then there are the other kinds of memories, not from this life.  Occasionally I have a memory or a dream of something I cannot have known from my life.  I sense my ancestors around me at times. Some call these memories of past lifetimes, but I'm not sure.  Maybe it is something else, a sort of genetic memory. Or perhaps a flaw in thinking of time as linear.

And let's consider stories, lore and mythologies.  From the time the first humans had language, stories have penetrated time and brought the past into the present.

This question of time....It's about perception really. Is what I see what is really there, or is it just an idea? As with the concept of non-linear time, I am compelled to overlap realities in my painting imagery. My fascination is to see what will happen when different stories and points of view are superimposed and forced to occupy the same space.  It's interesting to me to overlap beings with very different senses of time, such as migrating birds or fish with contemporary humans. The overlapping causes the planes to fracture and the space to reorganize into something else, a new kind of unity, altered and provoking.

Without Separation: An exploration of perception

The reception for my show Without Separation was a great success. I traveled through a snow storm to Ashland Thursday with no mishaps thanks to my trusty partner and our new tires!  The show looks beautiful.  The gallery director Chad McGruder did a fine job of hanging the paintings and arranging for the catering.

 

We were delighted that so many people came out to see the show in spite of the challenging weather. I had many in depth discussions about my ideas and the questions I have been pursuing.  Everyone I spoke to seemed to understand and appreciate what I am trying to do with my work, and that was very gratifying. The overall impact the paintings had on people was of special interest to me. For me, a successful painting draws people back again and again.  It challenges the viewer in some way, spurs questions and conversation. I saw that happen repeatedly Thursday evening and I was very satisfied. It is a strong show and a good venue for the work.