Taking Clues from Nature

Arachne center-stage

She must have been busy all night....

Foggy morning sunrise in Lubec

"The word Arachnida comes from the Greek for 'spider'. In legend, a girl called Arachne was turned into a spider by the goddess Athena. Arachne said she'd win a weaving contest against the goddess. Arachne won, but the Athena got mad and made her a spider, for challenging a goddess."

- Wikipedia (http://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arachnid)

Have you ever noticed how nature can sometimes be the wisest guide of all?

Meteoroligists can tell by weather patterns if a storm or bright skies are heading our way, but on some subconscious level, I think that we all have our own "meterologists" built-in. If open and observant enough, we can decipher the clues around us without any fancy equipment.

For instance, without looking at a printed calendar, we know that Autumn is upon us. The birds are bit less quiet in the morning, apples have fallen into piles to the ground, leaves are changing color, and the air feels crisp. The mornings are dark a bit longer, and the sun sinks down behind the trees around supper time.

This morning, I woke feeling well-rested and like my "change-of-season cold" is working its way out of my system. As I laid in bed, I thought of all the possibilities for today. When the weekend arrives I gobble up as much creative time as possible in the studio, but I am participating in the open studio tour this weekend and yesterday I was busy nonstop with visitors from 10:15 a.m. up until closing at 5:00 p.m. I enjoyed my day immensely but missed my time in the studio. At the end of the day, I spent about an hour and half with a current sculpture project, and that seemed to feed my craving temporarily. Today is day two of the tour, which is typically more quiet than the first day. So, it had me thinking that perhaps (maybe???) I could squeeze-in some personal creative time.

So many possibilities....do I start the next phase of the ceramic sculpture, or throw at the potter's wheel? Sketch some ideas (which seem to be coming faster than the hours I am allotted to bring them into physical manifestation), begin the next sculpture, or...or...or...????

I hauled myself out of bed and walked down the old, creaky stairs, greeted by the semi-stillness of the near-autumn morning. I gazed out the window overlooking the field and noted the pea-soup thick fog encroaching as each minute passed, all the while a ball of bright white sun was ascending from the bay.

Closer to to the door, opening it, and stepping onto the deck, I was awe-struck by the handiwork of Arachne. She must have been up all night working on her tapestry. There were glistening webs woven in several locations on the deck, each connected by a few single strands to one another, leading down from the deck to the lawn area where more webs were formed. Diagonal lines like high-wire lines moved this way or that, and each time my eyes followed them, I saw another perfectly constructed and quite intricate web. Had this one spider spun all these beautiful mazes? Was she inspired to create, or just particularly hungry and waiting for some yummy late-season newly-hatched flies to succumb to her trickery?

Either way, I got my answer. Today I weave.

Go Figure

Artists were intensely focused while drawing from the live model

A medley of my drawings from the two-hour session

The paloelithic era brought us voluptuous figurines such as Goddess of Willendorf. The Greeks offered up their version of the "ideal" body through exquisitely sculpted statues, and Botticelli painted us a modest, long-haired beauty in The Birth of Venus. Matisse collaged paper for Blue Nude, and where would the Sistine Chapel be without the genius figure renderings by Michaelangelo? Andrew Wyeth had his Helga, and Rubens had his Three Graces.

My students, when flipping through the pages of art history books, often ask me "why would an artist paint a naked person?" It's hard for their young minds, who only know the body as something that is required to be clothed in public, to understand why rendering the nude figure is considered an art. Their only knowing of a naked body is that it belongs in adult magazines or in R-Rated movies.

I try to explain that it requires great skill to be able to draw the figure, and that it has been drawn, painted, and sculpted for hundreds, even thousands, of years by many of the great master artists. I go on to say that for these artists, the body is seen as something beautiful, but also a challenge. Furthermore, it is required in art school that students draw from a live model, and that they learn how the body form connects, moves, and works as a whole. How would a fashion designer draw clothing if they didn't have a thorough understanding of proportion? And where would the medical field be without artists who illustrated the figure, inside and out, for textbooks.

I remember my first drawing class at USM with Professor David Schneider. At eighteen years old, I was not yet an art student, and had no inclination to be one at the time. I was merely required to take an arts-related course to fulfill the core requirement. I liked drawing well enough: still-lifes, landscapes, cute little cartoons. It never even crossed my mind, not once, that I would have to stare at a naked person for the duration of a three-hour class and attempt to render the structure of a human figure.

To my surprise, after the initial embarrassment wore off, I fell in love with the process. My drawings became more free, lines expressive. It wasn't about seeing an arm or a breast. It was about sensing hills, valleys, curves, and shadows. In much of my artwork I am calculating, methodical, careful. When drawing the figure, my arm comes to life and the lines emerge quickly, without thought.

That first college drawing course, where we drew and clay-sculpted the live model, set a foundation that still, twenty-two years later, impacts my work as an artist.

Yesterday I played hostess for a live model session. Eight artists from Lubec and Eastport areas gathered to draw and paint. After the initial frenzy of trying to find enough chairs and supply stands, folks settled-in. The focus was so intent that the only sound heard was the scratching of art materials against paper.

The model was fantastic, leading us through a series of two to twenty-minute poses. What was most impressive was that, with her beautifully-rounded seven-month pregnant belly, she was still able to contort into challenging positions that accentuated graceful lines and muscle tone. The drawing session cumulated into a one-hour pose that was reminiscent of Delacroix' Odalisque Reclining on Divan.

I felt a bit rusty at figure drawing since it had been perhaps three years since I last worked with a model. I made a mental note to self that I need to put-in some time with hands and feet. I patted myself on the back for doing an adequate job with the foreshortening, which I admit, I often avoided in the past. The hub bub of the day's activity began to subside as artists packed-up their easels and drove away. I finished returning the chairs and stands to their appropriate spots in the house and went back into the studio to photograph my sketches.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement. Camera still in hand, I lifted it up in time to snap a shot, though blurry and unfocused, of a fox in the front field. Moments later, a second fox emerged and the two playfully chased each other through the snow before winding off into the tree line.

What a gift that was, after an artistically fulfilling morning, to witness such playfulness and beauty in nature, even on a bitterly cold winter day.

My Addiction

Not to make light of those who face addictions of any sort, but I have often likened my obsession with creating to a drug addiction. If you are an artist, you will fully understand this. If you are not, you may find this statement strange.

I just went back into the studio after nearly four months of no artwork activity.We have been building a new studio and for the past few months my supplies have been in boxes and equipment not accessible because of having to use the barn for building supplies. On top of that, I have simply had no time. Managing a building project has been more of a handful than I ever expected!

As I said, four months no artwork. I had mentally prepared myself for not doing any artwork over the summer. I gave myself permission to focus on other things with the knowing that I would, come the end of August, be moving into a new, better studio space that I could use in the winter months as well. Not a bad trade-off. I could handle the short term.

But two months turned into three and a half months and counting. When away from the clay too long, I get agitated. Little things bother me. I begin to obsess on what I am not getting done in the studio. I get cranky, maybe even slightly depressed. the demands of a full-time teaching job add to the stress and give even more reason why I need my "fix".

I couldn't take it any longer - no more waiting. I told Chris that no matter what, I was going to begin clay work with or without the new studio.

So this past weekend I heated up the barn and foraged through boxes looking for tools that had been put away awaiting their new home. I found enough to get me rolling. Filled a bucket with warm water and wedged about 30 balls of clay. I went to the hardware store and bought plastic tarp to line the barn walls and floor, and with my not-too-strong arms managed to shift the heavy potter's wheel into place. I started with my ritual throwing of mini pots, then working my way up to the larger bowls.

I instantly felt the most relaxed I have in months. All the worries about not having the new space ready, or the follow-up LAA work, or prep for school....just started to dissipate. I was centered, calm, complete. It felt so good, and long overdue. Hours passed in a flash.

As with any addiction, once you start in again with your substance of choice, you want more and more. Suddenly I am again ignoring the basic things that need to be taken care of. All I can think about is getting back into the studio, my hands in the mud. I lay awake in the middle of night thinking about I will make next. I hope for morning to come soon so I can get up and bring my ideas into some sort of visual reality. I remind myself to set limits as to how many hours I am allowed to be in the studio, lest I ignore too many other important things (and Chris lets me know when this is happening!) But eventually, the planned six hour sessions turn into 12 here and there. It is a cycle that is hard to break out of.

On the whole scale of things, an addiction to art is not so bad. I have, however, found myself saying more than once, that it is not an easy life being an artist. It dictates the space you live in, gives you sleepless nights when the mind won't stop inventing, and costs loads of money in supplies with little financial return.

It doesn't feel a choice to be an artist; you are just are. That desire to create is strong, and it has a tight hold on my soul.