Night Fictions, statement

"She had been walking a long while. Her senses were wide, straining against the night and the snow-covered stillness. As she walked, the air cooled her waking thoughts and her mind wandered..."

These paintings are fictions.  If written, many of their stories could begin this way.  In them, the viewer reads the story of our protagonists.  Their mental states are alluded to by facial expression, gesture, and mark. The characters are as unaware of each other as they are of audience; each is lost in a world of the senses, absorbed within their own thoughts and emotions.  Of course, we can see that their situations are remarkably parallel. There is a temptation to place the stories into sequence where there is none. Let me assure you that there was no preconception to be illustrated, no didactic intent.  The stories are built out of the painting process itself.  Paintings are an inefficient means of direct communication, or simply making an image.   They excel at oblique inference and reveal themselves slowly over time. Similar to writing fiction, I use painting as a participatory experience with the viewer, to pose questions without desiring an answer.  Painting, writing, and viewing are all acts of discovery, of revelation. 

Stare hard enough into the dark and you will begin to see things.  What I see is guided by expectation, by my own nights of wandering in winter snow.   Thematically, the series speaks about longing, the love of being lost, the excitement and apprehension of what might be found in the dark. Winter, wilderness, night are all metaphors for the unknown, the Sublime. Our age of immediacy and information stokes a new longing for slowness, introspection, and experience beyond reason.  A trip to Pompeii showed me that figures could gain meaning through half-existence, beauty through destruction.  The Villa of Mysteries' decorative murals would be less curious if they were still intact. If the path to them were less steep, the climate less hot, the city less remote, the experience of witnessing them in person may be less valued.  In this sense, the subject of my work could also be seen as a literal reflection of pilgrimage, or the arduous journey as an end unto itself. 

My process reflects my belief that art is richer when discovered rather than imposed. I use a variety of sources:  I've carried a tripod in the snow, photographed and sketched; yet, memory is my primary aid.  I open my eyes wide at night and try to retain the experience. In the studio, these elements are pieced together, yet I rarely begin with a specific image in mind. Each painting begins with a vague mood that is brought forth by color.   As forms begin to emerge and take shape, I try to name and articulate the image.  The light is theatrical, a device to allow us to witness what transpires. Some of the figures are then paired with a reference but many are completely invented. Detail ebbs and flows; if a figure becomes too explicit or banal, I'll work back into it to find something more.  I work wet into wet paint, wet over dry, scrape and rework until the surface achieves its own interest for me beyond an image.

Peek into the Woods

Here's a look at what I'm working on lately for the February show. It's 58x87 inches, and will most likely stay a landscape.   After reviewing everything that's likely to go in, it seems like I will have a pure landscape in every medium.   Pretty radical for me, since I identify as being a "figurative painter."  The landscapes act as punctuation for the other narratives, creating a space for rest.  They could be the view of the characters themselves, but they also act as point of entry for the viewer to become the protagonist.

Solo Date Set

The date for the SMFA opening is set for Friday, February 5th, 2010. Note it's a month later than the earliest projection, but we're all but guaranteed that my fictions will match reality.   So mark your calenders, and place your snow boots by the door. 

Had a very good studio visit with Susan Maasch today.  It seems the hardest decision to make for February is what paintings to include.  Having too many to choose from is a good place to be.   Tentative estimates include 6 or seven framed works on paper, 6 linen panels, 4-6 large panels, and probably both of the very large canvases. This week we'll be selecting images for the show announcements by Friday.   If you'd like to be on my mailing list, send me an email (leaving in blog comments field is not recommended) and I'll mail you one personally.

Minor Adjustments

I've shown these two before, and the changes may not be obvious past this point.   They are nearly finished, barring perhaps some more minor adjustments. 

Two Starts

Here's a couple more of the linen panels in the works.   There's no figure in the bottom panel yet.

Another Fall

I had this bit of woods on the wall for a while, and was long considering a figure in the clearing.  Inspired by the recent accident, we see another fellow with his ear to the ground.   Taking a nap in the winter usually is not a good idea, so he may just be listening to the snow.  Sometimes the ground just calls you. 

Shrinking Jogger

You may remember this one.   A night scene, waiting for someone to come for the longest time.   Suddenly, a young woman comes into the foreground.   I really liked the figure actually, she was loose and had just that touch of almost-Fraggonard in places that made made her something to keep.   However, I did not like he placement.   It really felt like a cop-out to keep her in the same plane as the tree.   I added snow to the tree as I had intended, but it was no solution.   Among other desperate thoughts, I considered cutting her out and keeping her under my pillow.   (It's on paper after all, and I am spending way too much time on these paper pieces.)   Consoled by the permanence of digital record, I told myself that I'd always have an image to reconstruct her somewhere else.  (Yet, it was the paint itself that made the hoodie so nice. ) So, keeping some of the same place (and paint), I projected her into the scene. A much better story is the result.  The writing rule of "kill your darlings" certainly applies to narrative painting.