Neurons that fire together, wire together

I’ve been using a sea sponge as a starting off point for my ink paintings since late July. It was a simple prop Meesh lent me during class when we were directed to draw from nature. The rocks I’d been using were hurting my eyes with their severe angles. The rotting fruit I held hostage on my window was oozing a plea to be released back to the earth.

The sponge looked appealing with its countless circles.

I still have that sponge. I’ve collected a few others, but I still like that original one which I’ve folded, contorted into a variety of two-forming-one shapes, and studied from all sides. (As if a spherical object could have sides.)

I barely need to look at the sponge these days to complete a painting. It’s become a reference, a touch stone to keep me on track. Circle, circle, hole. Circle, circle, squiggly. Look at the object. Ad a big swath of white paint to suggest an edge. Circle, circle, circle.

The end result is anyone’s guess. And that’s what I love about these paintings. Is it a sponge? Something growing in a Petri dish? An extraordinarily ordinary doodle?

A brain?

As some of you know, I dabble in meditation. And thanks to some inspired people in my life who encourage me on my path, I continually challenge my own spongy brain. Breathe in, breathe out. Circle here, circle there. Here comes a thought…circle, circle, circle. Slowly, I am rewiring my brain and with enough practice hope to someday get to a point where meditation is as effortless as this series of paintings. As psychologist Donald Hebb put it, “Neurons that fire together, wire together”, and I’m doing some remodeling.

So while I’m working to rewire my brain through meditation and “mental hygiene”, the image of a brain starts appearing in my paintings -- especially since I started adding color. Is it just me, or do they look like brain scans?

Above and below are some recent sketches, testing different colored inks. Today for the first time, I searched “brain scans” in Google images. It’s a little spooky.

Three things I wish I could remember

The following is list of three simple things I wish I could remember while preparing for a show. Sadly, I relearn them every time.

1. The work will surprise you in the frame. Sometimes it looks as if it stepped into its formal wear. It cleans up really well. Other times it looks like the contestants on Survivor when they’re back at the TV set. They looked better in their natural habitat, like the artwork on the studio wall. Leave it there.

2. Do more than you think is necessary. This applies to creating more work than you think you need. (See rule #1 because without a doubt something will not be ready for its prime time debut.) It also applies to framing supplies. Inevitably no matter how well you plan, something won’t fit. Or it’ll be broken (because the FedEx man delivers boxes to your door and then stops on them with a pivot as he sashays down the walkway). Or you hmm, surprise, didn’t measure right.

3. Though it may not be apparent during the height of show prep, you did choose to do this show/open studios/exhibition…and in the end you like a good challenge. (Leave that to the psychologists to figure out.)



The third attempt to have 16"x20" glass delivered to the studio in one piece. Cool to look at. Maddening when it is supposed to be in your frame.

try something rainy. go with the flow

Life can't exist without water. I seem to exist surrounded by water. Therefore I exist...?

I spent the month of July in Pont Aven, France studying at the Pont Aven School of Contemporary Art amidst fresh, undergrad faces. And enveloped in a dampness that permeated my skin, clothes, and soul. (I know I've admitted to liking drizzle, but not drizzle EVERYDAY.)

Plagued by a bronchial reaction to chemical solvents and irritated (exasperated!) by the dampness, both my artwork and lungs took on a watery quality. To keep up with the course load, I was forced to make work, any work, without much thought. I had to forget writing/thinking about my work...there was barely anytime to journal...certainly no blogging...and no time to create studies. I was forced to let it flow. And do it quickly.

Back in the states in the day job I thought I had left my little rain cloud in France. No. It came back with a vengeance on Saturday, October 3rd for Try Something New. Or Try Something Rainy, as we've nicknamed the Greenway fall festival. (Props to ALJ for the moniker.) I learned a valuable lesson that day. Actually, a few. One, waterproof clothing from high school is not waterproof 17 years later. And two, you can't fight mother nature...gotta go with the flow.

Since returning, my work continues to be an abstraction from the same source, executed in the same mediums. Though I am trying new substrates like film which is extremely hard to control. The work continues to evolve. It is about coming into, going out of, falling into and dragging yourself out of. It is about this and that, you and me, us and them. I've entitled the series "denouement" in recognition of the unraveling of life in the rain. And sort of optimistically foretelling the rain's final act. 'Cause it's going to start snowing soon...right?

Between conception and translation mode, or why I don’t want to go home

This is the first time in weeks, since returning from France, that I've spent an entire day in the studio without actually making anything. Tired from a draining week at work, I spent most of the day doing administrative tasks (prepping for open studios), practicing yoga and reading. Times like this I know there is some sort of idea percolating and it needs a little space to develop. So I shift from the push, push, push of studio "realizations" to a neutral gear and give myself a little TLC.

Still, not “producing” is an uncomfortable feeling for me and I thus concocted an excuse for my “wasted time” while reading an interview with David Edwards in the latest copy of ArchitectureBoston (Fall 2009).

He is quoted as saying, “The hallmark of creative people is that they try to shock themselves. They try to go back to that state where they’re throwing themselves into an unknown environment.” He goes on to describe how he crosses back and forth from the artistic to the scientific environments, “like jumping into cold water”. (Like purposefully getting lost in East Boston? Or taking the primitive hiking path instead of staying on the beaten trail?)

He goes on, “I think that creative people are very sensitive to their dependence on environment, both the human, or architectural, environment and the intellectual, or creative environment. So they tend to put themselves in stimulating environments. Creativity seems to fall into phases: a starter or conception mode, a translation mode, where we’re developing an idea, and a realization mode. We gravitate toward the environment that supports those phases.”

So soon I will leave this tranquil studio and return to the cold waters of Boston where the frenetic pace of work and urban living feeds the fire of creativity. Hopefully while traveling between the two worlds tonight, I'll slip into "translation mode" and understand what comes next...

when life hands you rain

I love the rain. Especially a light drizzle. I even like it inside, while I'm shopping. Or while wandering around Chelsea at night.

Tuesday afterwork I stopped in the Art Store for a few last-minute supplies for my France trip only to find the entire building surrounded by fire trucks. Truth be told, I paid no mind to the trucks, flashing lights, or sirens in the parking garage. It only vaguely registered in my brain that Panera (my ritualistic pre-art store bio break) was closed at an odd hour. I was in a blissful state of anticipation. Art supplies! France! Alone time!

Once inside mecca it did finally dawn on me that the entire shopping center was, or recently had been, on fire and sprinkler water was swiftly and naturally finding its way through all possible means to the basement -- the Art Store.

"Oh whoops. Sorry. I can see I'm not supposed to be here," I said to the tattoed clerk as he put down a grossly undersized paint bucket in a vein attempt to catch a deluge coming from the HVAC pipe. "Oh, it's no problem. Just shop at your own risk".

That's all I need, a challenge!

It turned out to be one of the most fulfilling shopping experiences ever. Not only was it a thrilling adventure to figure out how to get to the brushes I wanted without getting my paper wet, but it was also inspiring to watch the staff (all artists) calmly figure out what supplies they could use to stave off and sop up the water that was coming in at an alarming rate. (I was horrofied though, to see yards of canvas being sacrificed to sop up water. Use the stupid Learn to Manga books! And really, don't you have a mop!?)

And to my utter amazement I was asked not once, but twice, if I was finding everything I needed. Um yeah. But you have a bigger problem in here than me not knowing which paper to buy!

So tonight I find myself listening to the familiar sound of water falling on concrete and metal. I am locked out, hudled under my condo porch... and loving it! I took a stroll around Chelsea in the drizzle. Found a cute pink polish at the drug store, fastened a set of toe seperators out of a few mini pads, and gave myself a pedicure complete with suntan lotion foot massage. Cute little pink toes and some unexpected free time. Lovely.

Bring on the rain!

An evolving work

One June 2nd, I finished the hair drawings of East Boston and Chelsea sidewalk cracks and soaked them in the river.

While they were still wet, I pinned them in a shadow box and sealed it with tape. I didn't exactly know what would happen, but hoped for some condensation or funk to grow. So far it looks like the only change/reaction has been some tightening and shrinking of the paper. The East Boston drawing has pulled off the pin in one spot.



Come see for yourself this Thursday from 6 - 9 pm at the opening of Connective Tissue, a collaboration of twenty eight artists from Chelsea and East Boston. Growing out of a desire to foster a stronger sense of community between the artists in East Boston and Chelsea, the organizers arrived at the theme “Connective Tissue” to represent that which holds us together, both as individuals and as groups.

Gallery @ Spencer Lofts
60 Dudley Street
Chelsea, MA 02150
www.galleryspencerlofts.com

final image courtesy of John Kennard

that which connects us, also divides

I went on a mission this afternoon to photograph sidewalk cracks in East Boston and Chelsea, preparing for the Connective Tissue collaborative group show. (Showings June 11 and 28 at the Gallery at Spencer Lofts, Chelsea, MA)

On my daily commute, I walk over dozens of big spidery sidewalk cracks so I thought it'd be easy to cross the Chelsea Bridge and find similar ones in Eastie. No. Someone has gone and resurfaced every formally decrepit sidewalk. Go Menino.

I did finally find some on a big cement plaza in front of Umano Middle School and other areas where sidewalks meet curb cuts. And I assume a plow every once and a while? Like I'd hoped and assumed, the cracks are similar and unidentifiable as being from one city or the other.

Next up, I'll make hair drawings of the cracks using hair collected from participating East Boston and Chelsea artists. Later, I'll place them in the Chelsea Creek which separates East Boston from Chelsea and document the process of un-connecting.

That which binds us together also makes us unique?