I wonder how intense bee-keeping is? Maybe I'd do better just sticking to planting and caring for pesticide free gardens filled with flowers they like.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Bee Season
First bee of the season. What it collects honey from at this time in Iowa I fear I don't know.
I wonder how intense bee-keeping is? Maybe I'd do better just sticking to planting and caring for pesticide free gardens filled with flowers they like.
I wonder how intense bee-keeping is? Maybe I'd do better just sticking to planting and caring for pesticide free gardens filled with flowers they like.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Rest Stop
Working, working, working...
At this point in a book project, I think I've arrived at my own personal Death Zone in that Climbing the Illustrative Everest analogy. The enthusiasm is all there, but mind and body are beginning to weary. Hallucinations must be close.
For a break (and to work out some technical printing issues I'm having), I worked on a composition from last year, a little piece inspired by a rest area we stopped at outside of McMinville, Oregon. The Douglas Fir towered above me and my fellow travelers (I didn't exaggerate the human scale here!). Taking a stretch under the dappled summer light offered complete restoration before continuing our journeys, back into Subarus and CRVs.
Haven't had time to color it, but thought it might be interesting for you to see what value does in between all those tree trunks, before and after I add color and shadow. It looks chaotic now, but there is a pattern in there! I'll post the color work when I finish.
Rest. Stop. Go.
At this point in a book project, I think I've arrived at my own personal Death Zone in that Climbing the Illustrative Everest analogy. The enthusiasm is all there, but mind and body are beginning to weary. Hallucinations must be close.
For a break (and to work out some technical printing issues I'm having), I worked on a composition from last year, a little piece inspired by a rest area we stopped at outside of McMinville, Oregon. The Douglas Fir towered above me and my fellow travelers (I didn't exaggerate the human scale here!). Taking a stretch under the dappled summer light offered complete restoration before continuing our journeys, back into Subarus and CRVs.
Haven't had time to color it, but thought it might be interesting for you to see what value does in between all those tree trunks, before and after I add color and shadow. It looks chaotic now, but there is a pattern in there! I'll post the color work when I finish.
Rest. Stop. Go.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Of restoration and uncertain harvest
Just had a week in the Pacific Northwest, a nice break from work and snow. All the spring flowers were out there and I long to draw and scratch some, but the book is beckoning to be finished.
The mudslide in Snohomish county, WA (about 45 minutes north of Seattle) has me grieving for the community. Washingtonians are made from tough stuff; keeping up on the news of recovery has me daily inspired. The clean-up is grim though; indeed, they have uncertain harvest in their future. One victim described the devastated area as not even a junkyard, but more like a landfill.
This morning, I pause to hear the hope of spring in our birds and send strength to those in the search efforts.
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
—Robert Frost, excerpt from "A Prayer in Spring"
The mudslide in Snohomish county, WA (about 45 minutes north of Seattle) has me grieving for the community. Washingtonians are made from tough stuff; keeping up on the news of recovery has me daily inspired. The clean-up is grim though; indeed, they have uncertain harvest in their future. One victim described the devastated area as not even a junkyard, but more like a landfill.
This morning, I pause to hear the hope of spring in our birds and send strength to those in the search efforts.
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
—Robert Frost, excerpt from "A Prayer in Spring"
 |
| Wild cherry, Oregon grape, rhododendron, taken on the University of Washington's campus |
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Spring preview at Urbanity
I'll have a few new spring things at Urbanity in Iowa City this Friday, March 7, on the gallery walk. Birdies on twiggy wreaths, framed robin art, cards and prints. Join us between 5pm to 8pm! Friends Tom Langdon (photography), Kay Irelan (painting), and Kathy Hayslett (jewelry) will have new work as well.
Urbanity, for those not local is located at 511 Iowa Avenue, Iowa City, Iowa; the Midwest; United States; North America, Western Hemisphere; Earth; The Milky Way Solar System; The Universe!
(I think I may have liked "Gravity" too much!)
Urbanity, for those not local is located at 511 Iowa Avenue, Iowa City, Iowa; the Midwest; United States; North America, Western Hemisphere; Earth; The Milky Way Solar System; The Universe!
(I think I may have liked "Gravity" too much!)
Friday, February 21, 2014
Scratching Into the Wilderness
My picture book is based on painter/illustrator (1882-1971) Rockwell Kent's last century stay in SE Alaska with his son 9-year-old nine Rocky. Kent's own journal in book form (Wilderness: A Journal of Quiet Adventure in Alaska) is a close resource in my research. Written in diary entries, I occasionally turn to it for illustration detail and quick inspiration. The Kents were on the island during the winter months, so it's interesting to see what they were doing on any given day, even the same calendar day I am working!
Final art began this week. All goes well enough so far. Each illustration starts as a puzzle. Questions of blade stroke, white space, face emotion, light source, landscape and historic detail all have to be answered now and this can be difficult and time consuming to solve. It is like entering the wilderness, many unknowns around each bend of the trail.
I am at the black and white scratchboard stage. I am working with x-acto blades and to-size pieces of scratchboard. After transfering my sketch with white chalk to the black surfaced scratchboard and scratching away, I will scan each finished scratchboard, clean the lines up a bit in Photoshop, then print on to watercolor paper. I like to complete a few scratchboards consecutively, then have a watercolor party with about of six or so pieces at a time. So I can't really say I am done with X, until all these stages are complete. Every medium has its stages.
Back to scratching!
Final art began this week. All goes well enough so far. Each illustration starts as a puzzle. Questions of blade stroke, white space, face emotion, light source, landscape and historic detail all have to be answered now and this can be difficult and time consuming to solve. It is like entering the wilderness, many unknowns around each bend of the trail.
I am at the black and white scratchboard stage. I am working with x-acto blades and to-size pieces of scratchboard. After transfering my sketch with white chalk to the black surfaced scratchboard and scratching away, I will scan each finished scratchboard, clean the lines up a bit in Photoshop, then print on to watercolor paper. I like to complete a few scratchboards consecutively, then have a watercolor party with about of six or so pieces at a time. So I can't really say I am done with X, until all these stages are complete. Every medium has its stages.
Back to scratching!
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY NINETEENTH, 1919
...here, we have found ourselves— for the wilderness is nothing else.
- Rockwell Kent
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Starry starry life
Snow was again falling outside the window as I woke up yesterday. Perhaps this is why something colorful caught my eye on the book shelf: Van Gogh: Letters from Provence (selected by Martin Bailey, Collins and Brown, 1990). Yes, I decided, today I would take a trip to the south of France and bathe in the sun palette of Vincent Van Gogh.
I bought this book a few years ago and had only flipped through it. But something nudged me to read it carefully. Once absorbed into the correspondence so thoughtfully presented by the editor, I could not leave Van Gogh's words until the final letter was written, folded into a shirt pocket, and taken to that God-forsaken wheat field.
Some things I learned:
All of Van Gogh's greatest paintings were created within the last three years of his life (in his final 18 days, he finished 11 paintings...11!) It was a phenomenal rate of work. If you read his letters, his mental state was so frail at times, I don't know how he channeled the strength.
His brother Theo was one of the most supportive brothers ever to be documented.
Van Gogh's letters are fluid and descriptive even as he dips in and out of illness. He sees the world of color vividly. Here is an example from a letter to Theo, describing a canvas he is working on:
The town is blue and violet, the gas [house light] is yellow and the reflections russet-gold down to greenish-bronze. On the blue-green expanse of the sky, the Great Bear [star constellation] sparkles green and pink, its discreet pallor contrasts with the harsh gold of the gas.
Van Gogh copied several of his paintings, to make duplicates to sell and give away, an interesting discovery, as I think of these masterpieces as being singular.
The wealth of personal story these letters record... if texting had been around then, we would not have anywhere near the detailed insight into his inner struggles. Imagine:
Theo: U OK?
Vincent: IDK.
He certainly would not have been able to paint without writing the letters; they were a spiritual life-line. Theo often sent financial support in letters, as well.
The book comes, of course, to it's sad finale. Van Gogh, after struggling probably all his life with mental inbalances, shot himself at age 36. What a collection of work he left us with though, pieces that turn white into gold, night into day, winter into spring. I don't think I'll view a Van Gogh again in the same way.
I bought this book a few years ago and had only flipped through it. But something nudged me to read it carefully. Once absorbed into the correspondence so thoughtfully presented by the editor, I could not leave Van Gogh's words until the final letter was written, folded into a shirt pocket, and taken to that God-forsaken wheat field.
Some things I learned:
All of Van Gogh's greatest paintings were created within the last three years of his life (in his final 18 days, he finished 11 paintings...11!) It was a phenomenal rate of work. If you read his letters, his mental state was so frail at times, I don't know how he channeled the strength.
His brother Theo was one of the most supportive brothers ever to be documented.
Van Gogh's letters are fluid and descriptive even as he dips in and out of illness. He sees the world of color vividly. Here is an example from a letter to Theo, describing a canvas he is working on:
The town is blue and violet, the gas [house light] is yellow and the reflections russet-gold down to greenish-bronze. On the blue-green expanse of the sky, the Great Bear [star constellation] sparkles green and pink, its discreet pallor contrasts with the harsh gold of the gas.
Van Gogh copied several of his paintings, to make duplicates to sell and give away, an interesting discovery, as I think of these masterpieces as being singular.
The wealth of personal story these letters record... if texting had been around then, we would not have anywhere near the detailed insight into his inner struggles. Imagine:
Theo: U OK?
Vincent: IDK.
He certainly would not have been able to paint without writing the letters; they were a spiritual life-line. Theo often sent financial support in letters, as well.
The book comes, of course, to it's sad finale. Van Gogh, after struggling probably all his life with mental inbalances, shot himself at age 36. What a collection of work he left us with though, pieces that turn white into gold, night into day, winter into spring. I don't think I'll view a Van Gogh again in the same way.
 |
| The Chicago Art Institute has this Van Gogh in its collection, called "The Poet's Garden". I often dwell by it when I visit. He painted it during the very fertile time frame described in "Letters from Provence". I never knew what the title referred to. It is the view from Vincent's yellow house in Arles, a small community park that Van Gogh, a huge reader, personally named in honour of Francesco Petrarch, a fourteenth century poet from Provence. ''And I live on, but in grief and self-contempt,Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374) |
Friday, February 14, 2014
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