This long summer day trails out of sight in a wash of persimmon with a wink of yellow flame, and now the milky pale aqua sky dulls. A chill sends me inside to the Arctic white of my computer screen, a harsh reminder that my 250 words for today are not yet written (unless I count the 62 I have just put down). Goals. A word full of promise and enthusiasm when uttered, untested - a word ponderous, demanding acknowledgment and attention if I dare fold my screen downwards. My goals seem always to be attached to numbers - 20 lbs by such and such... in 30 days...by Mar 15...250 words a day...
Sixteen months ago (is that a goal in reverse?) I began writing a novel. I set a goal. The first draft would be complete by July 1, 2013 in time for the Iowa Summer Writing Festival in Iowa City. The first day I pounded out 15 pages. And, amazingly, I kept at it. Some days I didn't write at all. Others dragged through quicksand. Some fairly flew off the page into some adjacent unseen universe. I finished the draft with 2 weeks to spare, though, of course I knew too well that there was much left unwritten (or merely running loose, amok in that aforementioned universe), characters keeping me awake at night, turing me into a rudely distracted friend and mate who seemed (and was) less than interested in whatever conversation I was expected to take part in. But, the goal had been reached.
The euphoria lasted for about a week. No problem. The workshop created its own exhilaration and that lived on for a good 10 days after I left Iowa. Then the nagging rose up in my head. So, I thought, not too bad. I'll just cruise for a bit and then I'll get right down to work again - get that pesky rewrite done in short order. I set a goal. January 1, 2014. Better get on with that 250 words. And that's not including this post.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Monday, January 30, 2012
She Thinks In Color
In my world of art I do a lot of things. I paint, carve and sculpt, assemble collages from scraps of my paintings, work with mixed media, and time permitting, I like to build memory books for my family. So I am never really surprised when people come into my studio, look around and say, "Is this all you? You do so many things," with a somewhat quizzical look.
Does it all look like me, I ask? They look again. Well...yes. But, but there are paintings and the gourds and pots and....
And all that is true. So what is the unifying principle? What is it that drives my work? By what am I compelled?
Color. All surfaces, all materials, all combinations of media are there for just one purpose - to be brought to life in living, breathing, passionate, subtle, intense, complex color. I dream in color, and am aware of color as I breath, move, talk, eat, think. Pulsating sunsets come on the heels of days full of colors as simple as creamy white milk on silver dusted blueberries, the many hues of ochre and grey walking across the parking lot, the shades of lemon and grapefruit yellows in the glass cylinder on the desk at the show. Then I am mesmerized by the complexity of transparent hues that create the moving sea or air that I find in Adolfo's work. And on it goes all day long, until I head for home while the sun turns the desert air into streams and rivers of striated cadmiums, laced in violets, tinges of lime and all there to burn into my memory for resurrection in my dreams.
So, the next time you look into an artist's studio and see a variety of medium or technique or color, ask yourself what is the thing that unifies the work? Is it the palette, as with my work, or is it something else? Is it subject matter - landscape interpreted in many styles, perhaps, or animals in paintings and sculptures, or abstracts in many colors and materials held together by the shapes used, or is it line that is the common denominator? So many possibilities. Just like with color.
So much experimentation to do. So little time. Back to work....See you soon!
Does it all look like me, I ask? They look again. Well...yes. But, but there are paintings and the gourds and pots and....
And all that is true. So what is the unifying principle? What is it that drives my work? By what am I compelled?
Color. All surfaces, all materials, all combinations of media are there for just one purpose - to be brought to life in living, breathing, passionate, subtle, intense, complex color. I dream in color, and am aware of color as I breath, move, talk, eat, think. Pulsating sunsets come on the heels of days full of colors as simple as creamy white milk on silver dusted blueberries, the many hues of ochre and grey walking across the parking lot, the shades of lemon and grapefruit yellows in the glass cylinder on the desk at the show. Then I am mesmerized by the complexity of transparent hues that create the moving sea or air that I find in Adolfo's work. And on it goes all day long, until I head for home while the sun turns the desert air into streams and rivers of striated cadmiums, laced in violets, tinges of lime and all there to burn into my memory for resurrection in my dreams.
So, the next time you look into an artist's studio and see a variety of medium or technique or color, ask yourself what is the thing that unifies the work? Is it the palette, as with my work, or is it something else? Is it subject matter - landscape interpreted in many styles, perhaps, or animals in paintings and sculptures, or abstracts in many colors and materials held together by the shapes used, or is it line that is the common denominator? So many possibilities. Just like with color.
So much experimentation to do. So little time. Back to work....See you soon!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Recommended Reading
I want to take a minute to suggest a site for thoughtful and gently provocative reading - William Kenower at authormagazine.org. I am very unclear as to why his name isn't readily obvious on the posts or the home page of the site, but in any event, when you click on the Twitter button on the site, it will lead you to him. Follow him on Twitter. Follow the mag. He is skilled and if you are a writer, he will stimulate your brain. If you are a reader, he will soothe you, lead you, open you by opening himself without sentimentality. Look through the archives for June and find Gift of the Night - remember and go forth into your day refreshed.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Distinguishing Value/Original vs. Reproductions
NOTE: I'm posting this piece again because it doesn't appear in my stats. Anyone reading it?
Following up on a comment left on my last post by Liana, let's continue the conversation about price and value of an art work. Liana injects the subject of original work versus reproduction, so let's start with a couple of artists, Griselda, who sells only original (one-of-a-kind) work, and her sister, Prunella, who sells reproductions of her originals. For argument's sake, let's give them the benefit of the doubt and say that they are regarded equally in the art world, both sought after and collected. Let's also paint them as on equal financial footing in regards to their work.
So, what is the difference in actual value of the work, in perceived value, and in the mystical "Vision" value, which I suggested in the last post.
Is the "actual value" the price set or the price paid? Does "perceived value" affect "actual value" (of either type)? How does the "vision value" affect actual and/or perceived value? Hmmmm. I sense a snake pit.
I see Griselda coming from her studio now. Gris, I know you've considered these questions over the years. Could you give us some insight based on your personal experience?
Sure, Whitney. I've been painting for a couple of decades. Painting is both my job and my love. It excites me to think and work in new and fresh ways, and, for me, painting versions of the same piece is not satisfying, and ultimately is not stimulating for my clients. So, I sell only my original work.
Yes, I can understand that feeling of excitement about new work, but, Gris, you do a lot of work. Do you mean to say that each and every painting is a new idea? How can you keep up your output if every piece has to be an absolutely new idea? And what about the stress of selling those expensive pieces, when reproductions can be sold for much less and with little effort on your part?
Perhaps we need to talk about what "original" means. If I paint a particularly exciting piece - a piece that, in the process of painting, generates several more ideas, I go with it, and it becomes a series, perhaps following a theme or a color palette or form, but each one furthering the original thought. This series may be, for example, about movement. To the viewer, it may appear to be the "same" painting done over and over with very small changes. To the artist, it may be movement itself. You paint, Whitney. How many paintings could you do about "red"? Would the viewer say, good grief, does she ever paint anything else?
OK, I get it. But, what about the issue of money and the increased income you would, or could, have if you sold reproductions of your work?
Mmmm. Another bird altogether. First, I am fortunate that I don't have to make any more money than I already do. My financial needs aren't great. If they were, perhaps I would consider selling prints. Until then, I believe that reproducing my work lessens the value of all original work, not just my own. Philosophically, I believe it is better to buy bad original work than to buy a reproduction of the best painting ever done. Art, in its purest form, is a communication between artist and viewer. A reproduction, no matter how skillfully marketed, is nothing more than a facsimile, an impersonation of that. In effect, it is a counterfeit, an ersatz conversation with the artist. The subtleties of experience, which Liana mentioned, cannot exist other than in the original piece. Here comes Prunella. She thinks quite differently than I. Pru! Come give us your insights as an artist.
Prunella, what's your view on selling reproductions of your work?
I sell a lot of reproductions. Some are good. Some less good. But I have a huge audience because of the affordability of prints. I believe my work is good. It has been validated in the appropriate circles. I have collectors who buy my originals. And, because I sell reproductions well, I can actually have time to do something other than paint. I like to swim and hike, play a little golf. Unlike Gris, I think it's important to get good art out to as big an audience as possible. That way, there is good contemporary work available to look at, right beside the ubiquitous Monets and Picassos. And, if the artist is in the very early stages of a career, reproductions can gain an audience much quicker then if he sells only his originals.
It seems, then, that we are facing a wide philosophical gap. How is the audience of potential buyers to make an informed decision? Obviously, there are as many answers as snakes in that pit, and some of them are just as slimy.
Many have experienced the fallacious marketing of print editions of 10-20 years ago. People were duped into buying prints from "limited" editions of 5000, and sometimes that meant 5000 in each size offered of the same print! Then the naive buyer would try to sell his "limited edition" print only to find it had no value at all. Very sad. Very bad! For the buyer, and for all artists doing reproductions, be they honorable or not. Next came the early giclees, many of which had terrible integrity of material, fading almost immediately. After that, prints were touted with the "artist enhanced" moniker.
Time passed. Giclee printing improved. Texturing became possible. The quality of reproductions has gone sky high. Marketing them is an art in itself. But, in the end, the buyer must remember that it is still only a reproduction of the original painting. The value to the buyer must be that he is able to own something done by his favorite artist that he would otherwise not have been able to afford. The current reproductions are not hand pulled lithographs, or monographs, or true limited editions (usually not more than 25). They are facsimiles - likenesses of the original.
I have absolutely no objection, either philosophically or commercially, to selling reproductions. I do categorically object to implying to a potential buyer that this reproduction is, in any way, an original. Hedging words is misleading, and in a world of false and misleading advertising, we owe it to our clients, whether they spend $100 or $100,000, to be crystal clear about what they are buying. A client may indeed be thrilled with the fact that you have reproduced his $20,000 painting so that he can say, "I have the original!" But would that client be so thrilled to hear that his secretary bought "an original hand embellished limited edition" version of the same painting for $100? Perhaps not.
In the end, it is an issue of personal ethics and communication. These are large concepts coloring every part of our lives as artists, parents, teachers, employers and employees, mates and partners, medical professionals and politicians. We have only limited opportunities to consciously confront them in an academic way - a way in which we might better understand what ethics are and how to communicate. It is up to us, individually, to continually ask ourselves the important questions - to not simply fall in line with the current market fashions of white lies and partial truths. It is up to us, individually, to embark on civil discourse about matters which affect us all. Through the discourse, we achieve clarity - even if we only become clear about that which is unclear!
And, by the way, thanks to my fictitious friends, Griselda and Prunella, for joining us.
Following up on a comment left on my last post by Liana, let's continue the conversation about price and value of an art work. Liana injects the subject of original work versus reproduction, so let's start with a couple of artists, Griselda, who sells only original (one-of-a-kind) work, and her sister, Prunella, who sells reproductions of her originals. For argument's sake, let's give them the benefit of the doubt and say that they are regarded equally in the art world, both sought after and collected. Let's also paint them as on equal financial footing in regards to their work.
So, what is the difference in actual value of the work, in perceived value, and in the mystical "Vision" value, which I suggested in the last post.
Is the "actual value" the price set or the price paid? Does "perceived value" affect "actual value" (of either type)? How does the "vision value" affect actual and/or perceived value? Hmmmm. I sense a snake pit.
I see Griselda coming from her studio now. Gris, I know you've considered these questions over the years. Could you give us some insight based on your personal experience?
Sure, Whitney. I've been painting for a couple of decades. Painting is both my job and my love. It excites me to think and work in new and fresh ways, and, for me, painting versions of the same piece is not satisfying, and ultimately is not stimulating for my clients. So, I sell only my original work.
Yes, I can understand that feeling of excitement about new work, but, Gris, you do a lot of work. Do you mean to say that each and every painting is a new idea? How can you keep up your output if every piece has to be an absolutely new idea? And what about the stress of selling those expensive pieces, when reproductions can be sold for much less and with little effort on your part?
Perhaps we need to talk about what "original" means. If I paint a particularly exciting piece - a piece that, in the process of painting, generates several more ideas, I go with it, and it becomes a series, perhaps following a theme or a color palette or form, but each one furthering the original thought. This series may be, for example, about movement. To the viewer, it may appear to be the "same" painting done over and over with very small changes. To the artist, it may be movement itself. You paint, Whitney. How many paintings could you do about "red"? Would the viewer say, good grief, does she ever paint anything else?
OK, I get it. But, what about the issue of money and the increased income you would, or could, have if you sold reproductions of your work?
Mmmm. Another bird altogether. First, I am fortunate that I don't have to make any more money than I already do. My financial needs aren't great. If they were, perhaps I would consider selling prints. Until then, I believe that reproducing my work lessens the value of all original work, not just my own. Philosophically, I believe it is better to buy bad original work than to buy a reproduction of the best painting ever done. Art, in its purest form, is a communication between artist and viewer. A reproduction, no matter how skillfully marketed, is nothing more than a facsimile, an impersonation of that. In effect, it is a counterfeit, an ersatz conversation with the artist. The subtleties of experience, which Liana mentioned, cannot exist other than in the original piece. Here comes Prunella. She thinks quite differently than I. Pru! Come give us your insights as an artist.
Prunella, what's your view on selling reproductions of your work?
I sell a lot of reproductions. Some are good. Some less good. But I have a huge audience because of the affordability of prints. I believe my work is good. It has been validated in the appropriate circles. I have collectors who buy my originals. And, because I sell reproductions well, I can actually have time to do something other than paint. I like to swim and hike, play a little golf. Unlike Gris, I think it's important to get good art out to as big an audience as possible. That way, there is good contemporary work available to look at, right beside the ubiquitous Monets and Picassos. And, if the artist is in the very early stages of a career, reproductions can gain an audience much quicker then if he sells only his originals.
It seems, then, that we are facing a wide philosophical gap. How is the audience of potential buyers to make an informed decision? Obviously, there are as many answers as snakes in that pit, and some of them are just as slimy.
Many have experienced the fallacious marketing of print editions of 10-20 years ago. People were duped into buying prints from "limited" editions of 5000, and sometimes that meant 5000 in each size offered of the same print! Then the naive buyer would try to sell his "limited edition" print only to find it had no value at all. Very sad. Very bad! For the buyer, and for all artists doing reproductions, be they honorable or not. Next came the early giclees, many of which had terrible integrity of material, fading almost immediately. After that, prints were touted with the "artist enhanced" moniker.
Time passed. Giclee printing improved. Texturing became possible. The quality of reproductions has gone sky high. Marketing them is an art in itself. But, in the end, the buyer must remember that it is still only a reproduction of the original painting. The value to the buyer must be that he is able to own something done by his favorite artist that he would otherwise not have been able to afford. The current reproductions are not hand pulled lithographs, or monographs, or true limited editions (usually not more than 25). They are facsimiles - likenesses of the original.
I have absolutely no objection, either philosophically or commercially, to selling reproductions. I do categorically object to implying to a potential buyer that this reproduction is, in any way, an original. Hedging words is misleading, and in a world of false and misleading advertising, we owe it to our clients, whether they spend $100 or $100,000, to be crystal clear about what they are buying. A client may indeed be thrilled with the fact that you have reproduced his $20,000 painting so that he can say, "I have the original!" But would that client be so thrilled to hear that his secretary bought "an original hand embellished limited edition" version of the same painting for $100? Perhaps not.
In the end, it is an issue of personal ethics and communication. These are large concepts coloring every part of our lives as artists, parents, teachers, employers and employees, mates and partners, medical professionals and politicians. We have only limited opportunities to consciously confront them in an academic way - a way in which we might better understand what ethics are and how to communicate. It is up to us, individually, to continually ask ourselves the important questions - to not simply fall in line with the current market fashions of white lies and partial truths. It is up to us, individually, to embark on civil discourse about matters which affect us all. Through the discourse, we achieve clarity - even if we only become clear about that which is unclear!
And, by the way, thanks to my fictitious friends, Griselda and Prunella, for joining us.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Finding Meaning in Texture, Giving Texture to Meaning
This painting is one part of a group installed as a large horizontal installation (though spaced individually about 6" between each). Because I paint from texture and color, I depend on those elements to give me the information I need to develop meaning, or theme. Some would say image, but since my work leans to impressionism or expressionism, I discourage the sense of finality that "image" conjures for me. "Image" comes from the click of the digital camera, the slick magazine page torn out at the dentist's office, the picture our minds make because that is our ocular-cerebral function. I have never spoken with anyone blind from birth, but I would like to know how they describe what they "see", or "imagine" when presented with a physical object. That may be where "image"(likeness) reverts to its origin "imagine"(to picture to one's self) and retains a floating, ephemeral quality, not needing to be crystallized (unless of course the object presented to a blind person is something like a knife which would need to retain some mental impression of possible danger). If, in fact, this is the way in which blind people see, I can "imagine" an exciting working relationship between sighted artists and blind wordsmiths co-creating visions tossed back and forth like weightless dandelion heads till, scattered, they grow into a new kind of experimental verbal/ocular garden. For me, then, to stay in the realm of "imagine", I need to push "image" aside and find the birth of idea, theme or meaning, another way. Another way, and by no means the only way, is via texture and/or color.
Recently I signed on for an Essay class taught by Andrea Collier, a member of my new favorite group, SheWrites. Among a list of questions posed to each student was "what do you see as your biggest obstacle in essay writing?" I answered that it was in not knowing where I would end up, or less vaguely put, the obstacle looked like a brick wall, behind which hid the answer, the conclusion, the "image" that an essay needed. I can see the meadow of a general topic; I can see the path of personal experience, the atmosphere of a wider implication of the experience; what I cannot see is the clipped image, the 8 x 10 glossy of the conclusion. So, I do not begin.
Happily Ms. Collier told me that I do not need to know. I need only to begin. We chatted about my art process and the curtain parted; easily visible was beginning with the kernel of concept and then, in the writing, both distill and clarify with texture and color - rather like the opposite of how I paint, but viscerally acute. I begin.
Check back for progress and for other notes on art processes and musings (voices from the Muse)http://www.whitneypeckman-painter.com
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