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Note to self: The desert can get cold.  I don’t mean the kind of cold where you can bundle up and do fun aerobic activity in, like ice skate or have a snowball fight.  No, it’s a bone chilling cold that comes from sitting still for hours at a time in front of the easel in a tent that likes pretending it’s a refrigerator.  I was not prepared for this.  I brought one heavy wool sweater and I’m sick of it.  Paint takes on a tar-like consistency that mangles good sable brushes.  Paintings that I expected to set up overnight are still wet and sticky, so I now have six paintings going.  All wet.  That’s not a bad thing, but it makes maneuvering around my abbreviated studio area a dicey proposition, especially since I’m forced to also wear my nice coyote vest over said heavy wool sweater while painting, as it’s the warmest thing I brought. Factor in a pair of heavy sheepskin gloves, and you’ve got a rhinoceros trying to needlepoint.

I’ve been sitting here with a hodgepodge of half blocked in pieces, wallowing in the self-imposed peer pressure brought on by being surrounded by productive artists, and feeling the labor pains of a new style that wants a midwife.  I know we all struggle with our art, we all talk every day here under the big top.  It’s gratifying, in a small, small way, to know that others are struggling too, and I don’t mean that to say misery loves company.  But, being human, we have all absolutely convinced ourselves that no one is struggling quite as much as we are.  Everyone else here looks to me as if they are moving swimmingly and effortlessly along, blissfully turning out canvases like biscuits from a well-greased tray.  No one could possibly be feeling the angst that I am, the utter self-deprecation that cloaks itself in thoughts like, What was I thinking coming here?  Or, even better, in the voice of a certain influential family member, You’ll be selling portraits in Grand Central Station for a nickel...there’s a million artists better than you!   It becomes a bedlam that calls for large doses of Pink Floyd and vodka.

 But, open book that I am, I have confided my existential crisis to a few kindly souls, and relieved to know this twisting agony is not unique nor my own personal neurotic albatross to bear.  It comforts me and lets me continue in the face of struggle.  It also make me think, why the hell hasn’t a European tour promoter come up with a new kind of tour to supplement the mainstream cultural tours of Florence, Rome, Paris?  There’s Al Capone/Gangster Tours of Chicago, there ought to be a new Tours de France: Van Gogh in Arles: Assault of Gaugin and Institutionalized in San Remy.  I’d be first in line.  Just think, the unknown works of the Great Masters: the fits of pique and the holes punched in the wall, broken brushes and rent canvases, arrest records, psychologists’ notes (depending on the century and statute of limitations on patient-client privilege).  I remember withering upon entering the Uffizi, the Galleria dell'Accademia, Museo dell'Opera del Duomo, and weeping over my own paintings later at night.  Oh, what a relief it would have been to this young artist to know Caravaggio was a criminal- a felon!   That Michelangelo’s father was disgusted with him for choosing art as a career and suffered from low self-esteem!  (The Agony and the Ecstasy would have been helpful reading.)  

The artistic struggle that exists within an often solitary work environment can break the budding artist unfamiliar and unprepared for this mine-ridden emotional psychological territory.  From what I can recall from art school days, the most the topic was ever addressed was maybe a fleeting, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”  You might as well tell a teenaged girl that those five extra pounds make her look healthy and the glasses make her face unique.   I propose new classes at the university level:  how would a, say, Psychology of Creativity 101 go over?  Or, The Blank Canvas: You DON’T Need a Straightjacket and Lithium! ? My guess is those classes would be standing room only and there’d be a hell of a lot more well adjusted artists pouring out of art schools telling arrogant gallery owners to stick their attitudes where the sun don't shine.  Perhaps a cooking class: Ramen Noodles and The Food Pyramid? OK, maybe not.  But if we had Psychology for Creative Productivity classes maybe we wouldn’t have to battle the myth of the starving tortured artist so much.  Sure, there’s a bunch of books out there on the topic, self help books, but most of them are written by opportunists with a bent towards self-promotion and prey on us artists desperate for an answer.

Baloney.

No one can tell you the answer.

You just gotta go through it.

I’ve been here almost three weeks, at what some of us are affectionately calling the Fine Art Boot Camp Expo, and there’s no way out but through.  That’s a thought that actually comforts me, much as the Serenity Prayer gives a recovering alcoholic the strength to go on.  Then I can take a Xanax at 3 am and leaf through Georgia O’Keeffe’s abstracts until I finally pass out around 4 and Framer Dude awakens me at 8 with a chopsaw.  Yeah, I’m painting everyday. I’m an artist!  This is the life!  Would someone just get me another sweater to wear?

OK, I’ve fallen behind a couple of days and peeps, I had a couple of hairy nights and Expo had the Gala last night, which I’ll write about in a separate post.  Suffice it to say, I may not have been writing, but I’m collecting a ton of material...onto Charles, today’s Peep!

Charles came into the art world because of a terrible accident which nearly ended his life.  Despite the fact that it ended a very successful career as a high-end carpenter, he says he would “relive the accident a thousand times” because it opened up a new life for him.  One look at his work and you can understand why: these beautiful forms couldn’t come out of a two-by-four! Organic, flowing, full of movement, the wood comes alive, this in purple heartwood and maple:

I wish I could do the wood grain justice with my camera for this mahogany piece:

Although he has patiently explained to me the intricate process of transforming a 2-D drawing into a 3-D sculpture, I still can’t wrap my mind around it.  It looks ingenious to my2-D artist eyes.  This is a piece in the making:

 Here's Charles with his sculptures to give you an idea of the size.

See more of Charles’ work at: envisionsbytaube.com

Post 1/28  29/11

I am pleased as punch to report that I made a rather large sale the other day; however, this is where experience separates itself from just plain old dumb luck. Realize now, that I still am a fairly relative newby with less than three years art show experience under my tent.  So, when a wonderful patron asked me, “And how much is shipping to New Hampshire?”  I played coy and said I’d have to check my book and get them a quote.  Hell, I’ve shipped paintings to Germany!  How difficult could it be to ship a piece to Keene, NH?

Well.

I checked my little book, and recited the quote for the USPS for a piece 36” X 24” and up to 25 lbs to NY for $85.00.  Hey, how much more could a piece 52” X 24” be? A few bucks?  Oh no no no no.  At a certain dimension, the USPS turns its back on you.  At a certain weight, UPS and FedEx just hand you Vaseline and tell you to bend over.  There is a netherworld out there in shipping, where the actual size of a package is eclipsed by its estimated weight category.  This is the best way I have to describe it, and it’s better this way, because my tequila report is interwoven with it.  Apparently, according to one private shipping company (which may be the issue) dimensions and weight cease to matter and become a nebulous area where the length x width x girth is estimated to fall within an estimated weight range, and if your package doesn’t fall within these specifications, they hand you the extra large bottle of Vaseline.  Uh huh. 

“Three hundred thirty dollars.  Plus one hundred twenty nine to build the crate.”

“Two hundred sixty five dollars, and that’s only a thousand dollars insurance.”

“Well, air will insure any amount, if you can prove its value, but ground will only insure up to a thousand.”

Hang on.  I’m getting to the tequila report.

So, after a few hours of feeling like I bit off both ends of my burrito, so to speak, I began to ask other artists which shipper they use.

“Shipper?” many of them inquired with a politely raised eyebrow. “Why would I want to use one of those?”

For the first few days of the show, my booth was peppered with fliers from private shippers advertising “free packing”, “will pick up from show”, “insurance included”.  I began to feel like a college student shopping for car insurance.  I didn’t even know there was a difference between packing and crating.

“You make your own box.”  Upon viewing my completely obtuse expression, my peeps began to explain.

“You go to Home Depot.  You grab a refrigerator box.  They’re always throwing them out, they’re free and they’re heavy duty.  You cutta the box to size.  Now, if you gotta canvas, you gotta getchaself summa masonite and putta thata on the face of it...you builda your owna box...”

Ok, so maybe I’m overdoing the Godfather bit, but it was about as big a mystery to me as say, oh, cannoli cream, cappozella, and Casa Nostra.  So, taking me under their wings, these obliging artists initiated me into Packing Your Own Artwork 101.  “Screw the shippers,” went the first commandment, “they overcharge.”

As Framer Dude is collaterally involved with this adventure, he was adamant that I buy a box from someone: “I am NOT dumpster diving for cardboard!  We’ll go to the shippers and buy a box!”

So, we went to various packers.

“I can order that size for you, it’ll be here Wednesday.”

“A 65” x 30” x 6” is $70.  Yeah, just the cardboard box, lady.  We gotta pay to freight it here.”

“You need a crate for that size.  Mine are $129.”

Uh huh.  When a shipper charges more for a box than I paid for a painting to go to Gemany, I start to get the idea that maybe I’m being played and taken for the rube I am.   I don’t like that feeling.  I retreated into my wounded manic artist persona in the truck home, feeling about as stable as nitroglycerin.  Seriously, one decent sale and I shoot myself in the foot and eat my profits with the shipping? There’s got to be a better way.  Maybe I don’t have all the money in the world, but if I bought a painting for say, 2 grand and then was told I’d have to pay 500 in shipping, I’d balk on principle and rent my own damn uhaul and driver for less!

Framer Dude suddenly changed his tune when another boothbuddy pointed out all our frigging tools.

“Can he build a crate?  I mean, it’s kinda like building a frame...I got a painting I have to ship next week, and I’d pay you to make it rather than one of these vulture shippers.”

 MacGuyver Dude pipes up.

“I can build a crate.”  

Today I saw the covert looks towards him with visual vocalizations of “Crates” along with fingers pointing.  He may be leaving hot dog heaven soon.

So, having been deflowered by the packing and shipping companies, one of the veteran artists who has taken me under his wing, gently tugged at my sleeve at Happy Hour yesterday and offered me a consolation/congratulation: homemade tequila by a compadre of his from Mexico.  A bit of law and trivia (are the two even mutually exclusive?): if you make your own tequila in Sonoran County, you are not allowed to call it ‘tequila’; this was called Baccanora, or something like that.  I took French and Latin in high school, what was I thinking?

“You’ll get the hang of it,” he assured me as he expertly daubed finishing touches on a commissioned painting.  What, the shipping?   “...don’t take it like a shot, just sip it.” Oh. Oops.

Sippin’ tequila.  This stuff had a smoky cactusy burn to it, complex and oaky and flowery, that would have made it a venal sin to mix it with anything.  Well, after a water glass of this pure cactus heaven, I stumbled back to my RV, only to find Framer Dude and another peep engaging in another consciousness-altering substance.

Feeling suitably invincible now, I acquiesced to this peep’s generous offer as well.  Which is why this blog post was not published last night, as originally intended.  Beware of artists bearing gifts.

Keith caught my eye with his gently evocative scenes of places he has visited which hold a special place in his heart.  From his home state of Utah, to sunny Italy, his scenes reflect a quiet spirituality, even the bears he photographed himself at Yellowstone:

This trail winding through the woods of Utah really intrigues me and I would love to follow it.  It reminds me of the Long Island I used to know, peaceful and unspoiled (without the mountains though!)

Keith has been one of the troopers here through this spate of unusually cold weather we've had here (30-40 degrees under the tent),  on site painting at the Expo quietly working away on several new pieces armed with coat, mittens, and hot chocolate.  I think we should get like, Purple Paintbrushes or something.

See Keith's work at www.keithdabbfinearts.com

 I think it’s fair to call Lauren Queen of the Sky. She captures the sweeping, dramatic desert sunsets here in the Southwest in vibrant impressionistic strokes; I am psyched to see that someone else has noticed that at a certain time during some twilight skies there is a green streak:

When you stand up close and look at Lauren’s work, her brushwork is loose; step back about ten feet, and these large canvases turn into crystal clear scenes. I was reminded of Chuck Close.

I have the privilege of seeing her start and complete a commissioned piece, from sketch to underpainting to final layers. Once again, I am reminded of my own goal: learn to paint faster. I am learning much by watching my peeps!

Visit Lauren’s site at http://laurenknode.com

Lori, an oil painter like myself, lives here in the Phoenix area, and the first work of hers to catch my eye was one of Kaibab Path at the Grand Canyon, a dramatic scene of this winding path that descends to the floor of the canyon.  This really captures the claustrophobia of a narrow mountain pass contrasted against the vertigo of a sheer canyon drop: 

And because the glare was so bad, here's a detail:

I also really liked her handling of the architecture and the light shining through in this piece,

The first thought that struck my mind was that her scenes remind me of the Mediterranean, with her use of color and play of light; as it turns out, there is no need to go abroad to capture beautiful light: many of her scenes are of California and the Southwest, and her scenes are well known to locals.  Her work feels warm and inviting, like a Southern California summer day.

See more of Lori’s work at www.lorimyers.com.

Post from January 10, 5 pm after switching driving...

Well, days and 875 miles into the road trip and Framer Dude and I haven’t killed each other yet, that’s a good sign.  But we have 1,200 miles left, 800 miles of it just through Texas alone, so there’s a lot of tread left on these tires, so to speak. 

I hate interstates.  They take the fun out of a road trip, but for the sake of expediency, they’re a necessary evil.  Coming home I will do secondary routes.  There’s so much out here to see and I don’t want to become cynical, too “been there, done that”, too old in the mind.  That’s one thing that is vastly different between my road trips in my teens and now, and I touched on that in my last post.  I had Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever album (HA!! I just showed my age!!) playing as I left Louisiana and blasted into Beaufort, TX.   I reminisced that I had first bought the cassette tape for a road trip when I was 18 and taking a road trip on I 90 west with my college buddy Warren, when I was the only one in my dorm with a car (my great-aunt’s 71 Maverick, 3 on the tree, no heat, no ac, no power brakes or steering, and a gas gauge that worked intermittently).  We would get a hair up our butt to just “go west” into cow country out of Albany, NY to see what there was to see.  I still remember that sense of adventure, the excitement and we and maybe a few other clueless 18 year old piled into my car and headed west.   No particular destination, just wanted to see what was around the next bend.

I miss that feeling.  Sure, I’m excited as a little painter can be, going to the expo across the country, quitting a 40K steady job to do it, how much more ballsy can you be?  But I want to be that adventurous kid again.  I want to wonder what’s around the next bend, be wide eyed at the mystery and beauty of it all.  I don’t want to be a staid middle ager reluctant to leave the security of my GPS and next clean pair of socks.  Going on a road trip used to mean you definitely weren’t going out there to be sure there was a Walmart within 10 miles.  I know my fellow RV’ers out there know what I mean, and most of us artists too, because that’s what we do- create from a place that inspires us, and try to pass that along. 

But for the moment, time is of the essence, and here I am on on I 10 weaving my artmobile through Houston’s rush hour traffic. I am always a little awed by the sweeping concrete overpasses that crisscross each other around cities, I suppose in the same way that Edward Hopper was when he painted his cityscapes.  There is a kind of industrial beauty that Art Deco was fascinated with.  I may try my hand at painting one of them if I ever get bored of rocks.  I guess if you think about it, the overpasses are a kind of rock...maybe.