Figurative-People

Mini Portrait: She Cares, He Doesn't

docsusan — Thu, 25 Dec 2014 21:09:05 +0000

Mini Portrait: She Cares, He Doesn't

docsusan Thu, 12/25/2014 - 16:09

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 8, On the Edge

docsusan — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 03:22:19 +0000

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 8, On the Edge

docsusan Fri, 12/30/2011 - 22:22

Just before New Year’s 2011/12, as I was filing Jpeg images on my computer, I noticed that I failed to post this important work from the Ambiguities and Alternatives series. This work had taken me longer to create than all the others and was extremely painful to complete. Remarkable to think that what I painted was triggered by the grain of the wood. Almost as with a painting by numbers an image emerged from what was already there...

Perhaps I’d wanted to forget it later. Perhaps, I needed time to digest what was in it. Whatever the case, there are, generally, no accidents with the choices we make. Even if they don’t always feel right, it’s good to consider the extra attention they get, as well as possible reasons for it. Timing can be interesting, as can conclusions. So, what is the message here as I see it months after painting?

You (little bunny) are on the edge. Who is there with you? What does your “family portrait’ or “circle of friends/supports” look like? There’s a divide to jump (or not), rushing waterfall below and between. Are others interested or concerned? One closes her eyes. Another looks to the side, protected by a wooden shield. Trunk from an aging tree reveals years of growth, possible roots of concerns—patterns of responses. A little bunny, though on a ledge, has lush grass to rest on and an unknown towering over her, eyes open—perhaps to protect or help, perhaps to monitor what ‘s happening. Bunny looks healthy and composed despite everything. A rushing waterfall may present a way out or obstacle. Does she find ways around it? Could others in the picture do anything (change their stance). or is it all up to her?

Painting of this work directly preceded The Rain and the Pain.

Ambiguities and Alternatives Composite

docsusan — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 12:27:20 +0000

Ambiguities and Alternatives Composite

docsusan Fri, 12/30/2011 - 07:27

Ambiguities and Alternatives (9 works)

This series was painted June - July. After completing the My Blue World series (immediately prior) I’d hoped to move on from process oriented pieces. However, following a critique in which a “reviewer” said that I don’t challenge myself enough (April), my creative spirit was jolted. Even though others reeled about their reviews too, this nudge, at an already vulnerable time, made it hard for me to switch gears and think of anything else... It’s not so much what was said, but how—the prompt to develop imagery more akin to art therapy than fine art. Given that I have come to recognize art therapy as a métier and fine art as a vocation, I am especially sensitive lest the former eclipse the latter. That said, if this series can help others know that they are not alone in in coming to terms with the vicissitudes of the human condition, the pain manifested here (through process and product) will have been worth it.

1. Scary and Scared (18 x 24 in)

I started this piece after seeing a face in the grain of the wood. Initially I began by painting what I thought was my brother, a follow-on from the last work completed in the My Blue World series. As the painting got further along, I suddenly saw my father in it too. The brush strokes became softer and more sympathetic. Pity appeared as well as angst. My brother’s conduct has been scary to me. My father has made me scared through his aging and illnesses.

Viewers of this piece in my studio say they “get it.” It speaks to them in powerful ways. Everyone has someone in their life who causes them SCARE, family member or not. Should we feel sorry for the scary one, or should we feel sorry for ourselves? What does feeling scared do to you, and what does it do to others? What happens when fear and feared come face to face?

This was a one session piece (unusual for me), painted on a very long Saturday morning. I felt horrible when I started painting, but much better once finished.

2. Seeing Red (11 x 14 in)

Even though the first piece in this series left me in better mood, the second gave a jolt. I cannot get over things overheard, uttered by those important in my life. Details included here may be familiar to artists and athletes of all types. They may have been told the same directly:
your heART (the only thing you are good at) is a NONSENSE! If we don’t believe in you, how can anyone else? Get a 9 - 5 job.

3. Leap of Faith (16 x 20 in)

This is one of those pieces that I might never have painted had the image not emerged from the grain in the wood. Truly representative of where I was at at the time—hoping for a big leap of faith—I meditated on this while painting. Later, when photographing the body of work to which this piece belongs I forgot to include this one. I believe there are no accidents, in art or life. A higher power drives circumstances and the best laid plans might not happen. I rediscovered this missing piece months later, at a time when faith was challenged once again. The stretch was huge, and making it to the other side of the pond (literally and metaphorically) would make all the difference.

4. How High Can You Climb, How Low Can you Fall? (18 x 24 in)

This piece was guided by the grain in the wood and was possibly a reaction to a piece created a little before, Seeing Red. “How high can you climb, how low can you fall?” That’s what seems to have wanted to come out here. It was early on a Friday evening when I started painting and the sun shone into my studio. I kept thinking it's Friday night (the Sabbath), I shouldn’t be painting. I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things, but...

Keeping the rules hasn’t worked, so if I now paint on the Sabbath is that really a sin, or is it telling me something more—how the faith has made less sense to me over the years? Judaism, as I have discovered, as a single, is a family religion and if you haven’t made a match and been fruitful and multiplied, there is little to make you feel welcome—at least in community settings. Others may believe differently—I can only speak from personal experience... Friday nights can be painful when alone and Shabbat Shalom (Peaceful Sabbath), the common Hebrew greeting is not being mocked. I am just choosing to share that my Sabbaths don’t really feel peaceful, no matter how hard I have attempted to have this as goal over the years.

Climbing Kilimanjaro, I made it to the top. I was alone in my perseverance, but not on the journey. With sherpas and co-climbers, there was a sense of belonging, one that felt nurturing, if only then. When we climb high, or fall low, we reach out or have others reach in to us. The little brown character off to the side, whose appearance was also provoked by the wood grain, has outstretched arm. His/her/its pit in the stomach as well as heart in eye are significant too.

Even when the look of paintings changes, my recurring symbols may not. I started to paint the next piece before finishing this one. It was just too difficult to do it all in one session. Pausing and stepping back matters more to me than racing through.

5. Dog is God. Poodles are Heavenly (48 x 36 in)

Without my Poodles, I don’t think I would have got through most of the challenges of the last 14 years (Lev is 15 Feb 2012). When there is no constant (human) other in your life, Poodle pals, at least for me, provide the love, care, and wisdom necessary to survive. They are the burst of light and hope that guarantee safe passage to the next day. They lick tears from face and coax to walk. They keep secrets and show responsibility and purpose when there seems no point. I painted this piece with some delicacy. This time, I wasn’t following the grains of the wood, but my own brush strokes. I needed the soothing to begin—magic to happen. It came on gently and softly, at first without plan, then the Poodle face appeared. I went with her, her curls and noble nose. I didn’t want to push her too far, or make her too obvious. Likely, I didn’t... Those visiting my studio have seen other images in this piece. One neighbor noticed the torso of a woman with substantial chest (not me!), head held up and back, mouth wide open as if about to scream. Projection can be interesting...

6. wHOLE in the heART (30 x 30 in)

Those who have have been lucky enough to bear a child may not be able to relate. Those who have longed for one, but never had the opportunity, live with a void. a void that cannot be filled. As I was completing this piece, the Today Show was playing in the background and gave the statistic that one in five American women, today, don’t bear children. It also said that for some this has been a choice. I find this hard to fathom. For me, there are no substitutes for the gift of real life motherhood. Not even the two best dogs in the world...

This piece emerged spontaneously. The first thing I saw in the wood was the eye. Before I detailed its form, I built around it and coaxed a heart form to emerge. Hearts are my thing! As I started to fill the heart, an area off center remained blank. At first I thought it was starting to look like a heart within a heart. Later, I realized that it was, probably, something more. This form has appeared in earlier pieces. I didn’t want to acknowledge it, but had to.

With everyone else’s problems being more important than my own, there has been little air time for my mid-life crisis and the pain it gives, not momentarily, but constantly. This piece, I realize, is painted in tribute to the wonderful single women friends n my life who are in similar positions. Our lament is huge, talent enormous, and recognition lacking. We would have made finer mothers than the many out there who make a mockery of that role with offspring as accessory, inconvenience, or object of abuse...

There is a comfort in knowing that you are not alone in a circumstance with which “outsiders” cannot identify, but this doesn’t help make it any easier.

Other works that have emerged earlier on a similar subject include:  
Mother and Child: Dream or Reality (2005)
 Mother/Child Unraveled (2006)

7. Long Face and Big Back-Side of Burden (16 x 12 in)

When things aren’t going well, we show it, whether through the face we wear or the weight we add. Internal stress has external signs. And you can’t turn your back to it. This creature is picking head up and contorting body, ready to make a move—get back on track. That’s all we can wish for her. But, she cannot do it alone! Some may say that this creature isn’t scary or ugly. She doesn’t have to be! I have a tendency to paint pretty pictures even when life isn’t. An innately positive person wants to shine through.
Visitors to my studio have remarked that some of my work has a bit of Chagall in it. He is one of my favorites, and this is flattering feedback—especially when painting more difficult themes.

8. On the Edge (24 x 18 in)

Painting of this work directly preceded The Rain and the Pain.

9. The Rain and the Pain (16 x 20 in)

Rain has different significance for different people. It can bring mood down or lift it up. When painting this piece, my mood was low. I was throwing paint at the wood and watching it trickle down—relieving and releasing pain. The magic of the process—drips made and how they ran thickly or thinly had me waiting and watching. When all was dry a few weeks later and I added a layer of varnish the clumped masses shone.

Secrets

docsusan — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 14:19:50 +0000

Secrets

docsusan Wed, 12/28/2011 - 09:19

At Art Battle To, participants are given 20 minutes to create an acrylic work live, audience members voting for most popular. This painting was created when practicing at my home studio the afternoon before the event. Its message: "Secrets we all have, but few share: heART helps." Whether working on belabored series, or a quick semi-spontaneous rendering, my mood was definitely pensive...

Love: 1, We

docsusan — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 14:37:09 +0000

Love: 1, We

docsusan Sat, 12/24/2011 - 09:37

We is set on Toronto Island. As many days as possible of summer 2011, we cycled there, doggies in bicycle basket, or running alongside. They were like pups and kept me going, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Just to see them enjoy the moment was uplifting. So much to learn, so little time... Our canine companions know what matters and how to fit it all in.

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 6, wHOLE in the heART

docsusan — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 14:14:02 +0000

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 6, wHOLE in the heART

docsusan Thu, 07/28/2011 - 10:14

There is a comfort in knowing that you are not alone in a circumstance with which “outsiders” cannot identify, but this doesn’t help make it any easier.

Other works that have emerged earlier on a similar subject include:  
Mother and Child: Dream or Reality (2005)
 Mother/Child Unraveled (2006)

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 5, Dog is God, Poodles are Heavenly

docsusan — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 14:06:08 +0000

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 5, Dog is God, Poodles are Heavenly

docsusan Thu, 07/28/2011 - 10:06

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 1, Scary and Scared

docsusan — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 12:51:35 +0000

Ambiguities and Alternatives: 1, Scary and Scared

docsusan Thu, 07/28/2011 - 08:51

This was a one session piece (unusual for me), painted on a very long Saturday morning. I felt horrible when I started painting, but much better once finished.

My Blue World Composite

docsusan — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 16:54:49 +0000

My Blue World Composite

docsusan Sun, 07/17/2011 - 12:54

As art therapist, I make extra effort to not have confession or catharsis be the raison d’être for my fine art I creations. However, critiques just prior to pasting this series were provocative. My depictions had been described as bland, bothersome for lack of technical skill, and not edgy enough in subject matter. Ouch! I had also been told that I don’t challenge myself enough. Double ouch! Unfair ssumptions like these seem to condone in an instant, no evidence of any desire to delve deeper or really understand. Critics who, themselves, don’t have the courage to pick up a paint brush have no right to deliver some of the feedback that they do. Constructive and sensitive criticism is great. There are ways to say things, and some things are better left unsaid.

Coming to the unsaid, I have lived a quiet torture for more years than I care to admit. Being shushed into silence and denial by close others who could have responded differently has me reeling. It, also explains, perhaps, why professional bashes by those who don't care to know what makes me tick prove disturbing. Ironically, the “pretty pictures” I create that critics so disdain empower and motivate regular folk. They end up on walls in healthful community settings, not galleries where shock appeal appears main attention driver.

Creating positive surroundings for others, when unable to do so for oneself is a survival mechanism that I won’t have put down. A raw nerve was touched at the wrong time. My Blue Truth is intensely private, but I now feel prompted to share it. I deeply regret if others are exposed through image content and/or descriptions. However,at the point of painting there appeared to be no other way to sort things through.

When goodness goes under-appreciated and dreams and natural milestones are quashed and lost, then what? May 2011 was full of anger, pain, and disappointment, and I wasn't able to hide this anymore. For one week, as this awful month came to an end, I gave myself permission to paint whatever came out. When there was nothing else to be done, I came face to face with images swirling in my head and from the unconscious.

Though it had incubated for a while, the entire series was painted in one week, a sleepless and memorable week. While my circumstances are deeply personal, I think the final work, B(r)other Paint(ings) (as well as series) holds universal messages and meaning. If one other person can be comforted in their pain and know they are not alone, so as to be able to move forward, my sharing, and the agony experienced in so-doing, will have had appropriate purpose.

Comfort Blue  ( 12 x 16 in, oil on birch, 2011)

A Tuesday afternoon. The agony was great. I hadn’t painted for a while. Didn’t think I’d be able to. Picked up paint brush and blue paint, just one color. Picked up small canvas, less ground to cover. I could do it.yes! Patiently and carefully, I became engaged, an engagement I hadn’t had for a while. Flowers started emerging. Flowers have always comforted me. Once they started to appear, I went with them, adding different shades and shapes. So many flowers in my head. My father instilled in me a love of gardening. I am preoccupied now with his twilight years.Things he has enabled and things he has not. I want to go back to when things were good, fleeting memories of flower picking... Eight hours of painting and contemplating. I am surprised by my ability to make something appealing when feeling so awful.

Devastation is Blue  (42 x 36 in, oil on birch, 2011)

Wednesday afternoon, the storm is losing its force and so am I. Nothing seems to work. Everything has been turned upside down and inside out. I have confessed, appealed, cried, begged. Stopped out, shut up, helpless and hopeless, I don’t like that state, but we all go there at some point. We never know quite when it will come on, what remnants will float around afterwards, where it will take us next. This piece came out quickly and provided much relief at the time. Looking back, I am peaceful when I see it. It enabled me to go where I had to next. I knew I had to paint some more, trust that answers of some kind would come in subsequent work—and they did.

Blue Torment  ( 24 x 18 in, oil on birch, 2011)

I painted this self-portrait Wednesday evening through Thursday morning and did some tweaking on Friday. It wasn’t in my planning. Just as for Devastation is Blue, I hoped that brush and canvas could guide me somewhere. Because I’d be performing in an Art Battle the following week, I thought about practicing: creating a face within 20 minutes (the time I’d have to perform). 20 minutes up, I realized that the face was starting to look like me. So, I grabbed a mirror, kept on working. Working and crying and seeking soothing. This painting, and the process of making it became pacifier-like. The more I painted, the more real my pain became. The more acute the pain, the greater the desire to paint and to get it right—make the best piece I possibly could. I looked at myself and myself looked at me. Not a self-portrait that I would really want to share or be proud of, but a self-portrait that had to emerge for the messages and truths it held--a reminder of horrible times before, as well as horrible times now, and ahead. Another tortured soul, but one who had given up, came into thought. In 2003, the morning after my sister-in-law killed herself, I painted my first self-portrait. It combined aspects of her and aspects of me. It was now hanging in a room adjacent to my studio. I put the two works side by side and gasped with quiet knowing. The person common to both our lives was the agony generator behind my painting (and pain).

Dove and Ghost  ( 16 x 20 in, oil on birch, 2011)

Friday afternoon/Saturday morning, I became obsessed with a little dove. I didn’t plan on painting her, but she wanted to come out. My canvases for this series are made from wood and when I looked at this one's grain before starting painting, a bird’s head spoke to me, “Please paint me, make me central to your piece.” No reason not to, I thought. Birds aren’t my forte, but what was one more challenge now?! As I started to paint, I thought of what has been shared by others about doves. Picasso’s doves have come to symbolize peace, when, in actual fact, they can be quite cruel creatures. My dove gave me quite a struggle. A certain ambiguity began to emerge with her and I found myself fighting against it. That she was looking more ghost-like than dove-like was as apparent to others as it was to me. Friday night, I left her in ghost-like condition. Saturday morning, I brought more dove back in. Afterwards, her background seemed to transform itself from blue wash to being heart-filled, and, I thought, a little more hopeful. I felt a sense of composure when looking at the final piece. It was like nothing I’d ever painted before.

Open Wounds and/or Light at End of Tunnel  (24 x 24 in, oil on birch, 2011)

Later on Saturday and through Sunday, I tried moving on from blue, attempting to paint a more upbeat piece—red and yellow roses someone had brought to cheer me up. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t do it, kept feeling my rhythm interrupted. There was more to emerge in the blue series and I needed to keep on going. Sunday p.m. I was too tired to paint, but the incubation didn’t stop. I had at least two more works in me that would be able to surface in the time-frame I could reasonably give myself. The first, Open Wounds and/or Light at End of Tunnel popped out Monday p.m. This was not what or how I’d planned to paint, but it was what wanted to be there. Things will never be the same, and sometimes there’s no fight left. I am no Jackson Pollock, but splashing paint onto wood felt right at this time. Red for blood. Pale blue between the red. Wood showing through creating interesting effect (and affect) between the drips. I would have liked to go on, but I realized, quite quickly, that it was time to stop. Points had been made and were very clear, as well as open to interpretation. The title came later on reflection. Like Dove and Ghost, another ambiguous piece.

B(r)other Pain(tings)  (12 x 24 in, oil on birch, 2011)

This piece had been incubating all week, and much much longer. By Monday evening, I was ready to commit it to canvas. I had never created anything similar and felt concerned as to who might view it and how upset close others could feel. I was tiredbof covering up the truth: terrorism and a legacy of hate passed to the next generation. Ever my priority: what others might think when my own life was in tatters and at risk. Irony and shame!
The statement that is central to the painting emerged spontaneously and concisely, summing up the key issue:

Dear B(r)other, You may not want me to exist, but I still do. The secret is out! My paint(ings) are in response to your terrorism. No, I am not your “problem!” Truth” You have been everyone else’s.

I am not a Scientologist, but, through the week, had found comfort in E. Ron Hubbard’s manual on Repression. When an anti-social personality comes up against a social personality there is a lot of danger and collateral damage from contamination. After a week of painting through the pain, I could finally admit that I won’t be victim anymore, and nor should anyone else.

My process in creating this piece was as interesting as the work that emerged (for me, at least).The final work might look a little regressive and child-like: have the appearance of chalk board writings or graffitied school desk. Some words are scraped out (with brush shaper). Others are highlighted in what could look like teacher’s chalk (but is actually paint). I am both tentative and outspoken in what I share. In bold: brother = bother, paintings = pain. The secret is out!. What I am more afraid to publicize, and is the crux of the matter, is a lot fainter. Viewers will have to look more closely to notice it: You may not want me to exist, but I still do. This image is a fear response. The reality: No, I am not your problem! Truth: you have been everyone else’s. 

My Blue World: 3, Blue Torment

docsusan — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 14:05:40 +0000

My Blue World: 3, Blue Torment

docsusan Fri, 06/24/2011 - 10:05

The more I painted, the more real my pain became. The more acute the pain, the greater the desire to paint and to get it right—make the best piece I possibly could. I looked at myself and myself looked at me. Not a self-portrait that I would really want to share or be proud of, but a self-portrait that had to emerge for the messages and truths it held--a reminder of horrible times before, as well as horrible times now, and ahead. Another tortured soul, but one who had given up, came into thought. In 2003, the morning after my sister-in-law killed herself, I painted my first self-portrait. It combined aspects of her and aspects of me. It was now hanging in a room adjacent to my studio. I put the two works side by side and gasped with quiet knowing. The person common to both our lives was the agony generator behind my painting (and pain).