Monthly Archives: September 2011

Time is flying and book review!

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It is now Friday and life has been so FULL! And I am grateful, it is productive full, panic-y full, am I enough full, and blessing filled full as well. All of it I am grateful for. But a lot of it is preparational stuff, getting backgrounds ready, paintings half finished. Committing to online shops, and still needing to list. Committing to stalls, and still needing to produce goods. And starting this post a few days before day and then not finishing it. :)

Exciting and everyday intermingled, because laundry still needs to be done, floors washed and vacuumed, children packed off to school and kindy and picked up, and friends popping in, and life is crazy busy and full. And good.

And because nothing is finished, or at a stage to be photographed, I thought about doing my first book review. And I chose to do the book that started everything for me.

Wreck this Journal by Keri Smith.

I read about this, and ordered it. Fell in love with it, and bought it for everyone I knew as their Christmas present in 2009. My son who was 6, loved it and I got him one too. And that summer we wrecked our journals. I don’t know where his is, but this morning I went and looked for mine and found it, and as I was taking photos I realised I still had plenty to finish. So I will start doing that again. For fun.

I have always been a book person. To intentionally destroy a book was challenging, but I found as I played with materials and art supplies, that that was where my heart was pulling me. I was so tired and ill and not well, and working through this book gave me a diversion and a chance to breath and reflect.

The first day...ready to mail to myself!

In amongst the craziness like throwing the book of a 100 foot cliff (though I started to climb it, my beloved (who ridiculed the book playfully at every opportunity) said that given my tendency to clumsiness he would climb the cliff and throw it) an where upon it broke in two. I think he was worried about my reaction as I went to pick up the pieces, but wrecked it was as the title said to do, and I made a new binding for it using my old paint rag.

I look through it now, and I see both how far I have come creatively and artistically, and also remember the madness that Sebastian and I shared as we did wreck those journals.

There are pages I want to paint over and do over, and my first face, that I really want to blank out.

Ugh!! First face.

I can’t recommend this book enough. For exploring your own creativity. In any form, painting, drawing or writing or sculptural or knitting. Just exploring. Creating. Having fun, and playing.

My first completed page!!

Learning washable markers actually wash out!!

Made using my hair!! tweezers and buckets of patience!

Second completed face...

Family!

Looking through this now, I see how it sparked ideas for me. And how taking that time to do something for yourself, that is not about completing projects or paintings or anything else but playing could spark more ideas. Refilling the well. Exploring. That is what I would recommend the book for. Using this book I discovered that I loved paint. Loved. And just create. And this book gave me permission to just explore all of that with no pressure.

Mythical magical creatures come calling…

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My goodness.

It is first things Sunday here and I have taken photos and now to get this post up before Amy posts at Butterfly Effect where I am of course linking.

Then on to make waffles for breakfast, because we have a sleepover thing going on and after spending most of ALL day yesterday cutting flowers. And much of the past couple of days…to cut over a 1000, because I had an idea about how I wanted my hydrangeas to look in my head. I am glad they came out how I saw them in my head, because otherwise I would be devastated.

But I am now out to recoup some mothering points so waffles for breakfast.

But first this post!

I first had in my head a Brian Froud type fairy, but I was procrastinating, because the idea terrified me, so I just drew a fairy with my non-dominant hand, to stop obsessing, and then decided to only paint her in watercolours. This is the first “proper” thing I have ever painted ONLY in watercolours.

I don’t have a lot of colours so there was a lot of mixing involved. Including all skin tones!!! I didn’t want to use even my watercolour pencils. I just wanted to stick to watercolour. I have only used them in my journal before now, as part of a background, so this was a good learning experience.

I was going to use some pigments and gum arabic in her wings, but when I went to get them I found my twinkling h20s I had bought of Trade Me (the New Zealand version of ebay) for a bargain.

And so I used some of those in the wings and the grass. I have used them only a couple of times and have not being that impressed with them, but I really like the very subtle shimmer that they left on this. So I don’t regret their purchase completely now.

Here is a photo with the flash on, so you can see the very subtle shimmer…

I am happy with her and how she came out. And DAMN happy with my hydrangeas.

Exciting new discoveries

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OH MY GOSH!!!

Plaster of paris is the coolest thing I have ever played with. I have just started playing (thanks to Stephanie Lee and Judy Wise) and I had piece that looked like someone glooped some custard on it, and I painted it gray just as a first layer, because I had some on my palette that needed using, and a bit of plaster fell of the sides of the recycled mdf I am using, and I thought bugger it. I will take it outside and scrape of the sides. And bearing in mind the glooped custard look that was not very attractive, I wondered what would happen if I took my scraper to the top as well. I was feeling this was just an experimental piece, was never going, now I am loving it. Taking away the paint and stripping it back to basics has brought this piece to life for me and I love where it has started to go…maybe not so much just a play piece.

And some close ups to see the glorious gritty texture:

And then I came inside feeling chuffed with myself (though I need a couple of band-aids because my scraper skills are as good as my knife skills) and I saw another piece that I had liked more than the one above, but still was not completely happy. So I took it outside to scrape, just to see what will happen, and again…OH MY GOSH. Plaster of Paris rocks!!!

The scraping and peeling back layers have opened up a whole new world.

I had plastered these a couple of months ago and because I was not completely happy I just left them aside. But they are back front and centre. :)

And I am doing a soul slam course with Amy and I am using a cheap sketch book I had lying around empty. But the cover was uninspiring pink plastic. So with much experimentation and some lessons learnt about what not to do, I plastered the front of the book and now it has a cover I love on it, with my current muse of the moment right in front of me painted on plaster and beeswaxed.

Keeping it Simple

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The other night I was listening to podcasts by Ricë, (I won’t mention how dreadfully far behind I am in listening) and I had in my head that I had to do something while I listened. (Hence why I am behind in listening to them, because I don’t know about other people but I cannot do other things and listen to podcasts at the same tiime. I get focussed on what I am doing and then I catch something I have missed the start off, or I notice ten or twenty minutes have gone and I need to rewind, and it is hopeless frankly. I don’t get any art done or podcasts listened to. I can art while I listen to music or there is other background noise, but to listen actively is not going to happen when I get involved in a piece and isn’t that what we all want, to be involved i our pieces??

So. I was listening to the podcast and heard the voice in my head that asked if that was all I was going to do, and I saw my art journal I made for the elements class nearby and my oil pastels and I thought I would play while listening. Not do anything involved. Or that required my attention. Just play and listen. I have just started to love my pastels, but I don’t think I use them as well as I could. And I thought about how I knew they can be diluted with a solvent, but I hadn’t had a play yet. So I went and got my odourless solvent, and started listening and playing.

And this page resulted. I will admit that I had to rewind, but only once. I just played and doodled and dissolved (what fun) and eventually the flowers starting forming and I went with it. I don’t know if I will do more, for now it feels very spring and nice and simple and I am happy to leave as is. I know whether I prefer dissolving the pastels with a soft rag or a brush, and I played with layering light over dark and dark over light. I like how the “roses” came out so may pursue that in something else.

But I am okay with keeping it simple. I have been looking a lot at some journal pages that seem to be layered just for the sake of layering. And while I am good with that, I love layering, sometimes I think the message gets lost in all the layers. And I read this article and just thought a big AMEN! Sometimes simple is enough on it’s own. You don’t always need a million layers and bits of texture for the sake of texture poking through to give depth. And in fact sometimes that all detracts from what you are trying to show.

And here is the picture I made for my sister’s birthday today. The first picture is the unwaxed view and now it is waxed. The actual shoe is on book text and I am imagining a few of these…sneakers, wedges, strappy sandals, all on different coloured backrounds. I love the ruby slipper nature of these though and I think she will love it.


Zombie love

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A couple of weeks ago I had no idea there was a battle that existed between unicorns and zombies. And if I had known I would have gone for the unicorns to win. I have never been a fan of zombies, I don’t really do the zombie movies, and my children do zombie eyes at me sometimes just to freak me out, and I am not really a zombie kind of gal.

And then Amy announced her birthday celebration was a zombie vs unicorn paint off. And I thought I was going to join the unicorn side, and then I thought I would step outside of my own comfort zone and go the zombies. And this was settled when I told my son I might paint zombies and he said that any zombie I did would be lame.

Hmmmm, challenge anyone???

And so once I had taken my side, I didn’t want to do scary awful zombie. And so just with that knowledge in mind I started zombie number one. Painting over an old painting that I didn’t want anymore. And then I saw the rough outline of a zombie and I started to play. And then got stopped by my zombie number two, but I went back and have finished it now and I am happy with the layers on this piece and it is certainly much more traditional zombie, then my next one, and you can see how far the piece has come from the initial playing. Some of those layers are still peeking through and I love that.

Running from the City

But later that night I was thinking about something Kelly Rae Roberts had posted on Twitter, about another person having a gallery show with paintings that looked identical in some cases to work by Kelly herself.

And still with zombies on my mind I put the two of them together and thought of a Kelly Rae Roberts zombie, which is one of the most unlikely combinations, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was a stunning idea. And so I got to work. And I have spent hours on this. I did the long neck girl with her head tilted to the side, rounded body, butterfly wings, the patterned papers, pastel-ly paint and bubble wrap and book text, and even the writing and use of graphite. Just the ideas that came to mind when I thought Kelly Rae Roberts, rather than using any of her paintings directly as inspiration and away I went.

And oh my gosh.

I love how she came out. Literally many hours have been spent on her. And even more at the moment as I beeswax her. But Kelly Rae Roberts zombie she is. She is a zombie with love. No twee birds on her, but a raven by her side. I love her butterfly wings. She is a zombie. Lame…quite possibly, but I am no less in love with how she came out. :)

Zombie love

And so clearly pleased with her I took a lot of close ups!!

Both paintings now are undergoing the beeswax treatment. :)

Happy Birthday Amy. xx

And go team Zombie

Taking my slug medicine

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A couple of weeks ago I was reading this post by Pixie Campbell and I thought again about animal medicine and what my animal guides may be (bearing in mind that I consider a lot of this silently in my house, as my beloved would think I was stark raving mad and tell me for the millionth time that I am a hippy).

For the record I am drawn to the wolf, snake and raven, but lately I haven’t really felt any connections to any animal.

But this post had insects as animals, something I had not even considered. And still thinking about that, I went on my way to start preparing dinner. And on my way to the kitchen I found a slug.

I intensely dislike them. I try not to hate anything, and I am not scared of snakes or spiders or anything. But I am terrified of sparrows. And I completely dislike very intensely flies, slugs and ants if they are inside my house.

Slugs are like snails without a shell, and you have to pick them up and they are slimey and ick and their slime is sticky and ick. And we are currently overrun with them. Honestly a few times a week for the past couple of weeks I am removing slugs. And I do not know where they are coming from or how they get in, but there they are in the middle of the floor. On the other days that I don’t actually find them I find their trails. EVERYWHERE.

So I sigh my exasperated sigh, think bad words, possibly say one, and pick up the slug and put it outside. And come back in annoyed with the slug population even more. And then I wondered if perhaps I am in need of slug medicine and that was why I was overrun. And then I thought that I couldn’t imagine anything worse than slug medicine and so I brushed it aside because surely those little slimy ick things don’t have any medicine to impart.

But five minutes later, needing to confirm that they surely had no medicine to impart I was doing a google search and I found some information and thought well, maybe slugs are it for me now.

And I read a couple of different pages and carried on. And as I went back to prepare dinner I found an ant infestation which tipped me over the edge very nearly and I did know that ants had medicine to impart because the post had said. So stuck with the glamorous (said sarcastically in case you are in any doubt) slug and ant medicine, I did some reading later that night and put it aside. Determined to give some consideration to it, but not actually getting very far in the days that have followed.

And then today. I have found EIGHT slugs inside. EIGHT. Unbelievable. And then I step out the front door and there are 12 on our porch. (Yes I counted)

So today 20 (TWENTY) slugs have made themselves known to me.

Surely that is a sign.

Or we have an overwhelming slug population ready for birds in spring (?)

Just in case, I am going in the direction of slug medicine for me.

So resolving to do some more research and reflecting tonight,I came across another ant invasion. So yes, thank you ants for reminding me, I am adding you to the research pile as well.

Yay. Slug medicine. There is a saying that the medicine that is the most horrid/bitter does the most good, or words to that effect, so I am taking my slug medicine.

And am off to do research and reflect on icky make my skin crawl slugs.

And ants. :)

Saturday Morning Confessions

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I am addicted to art books. And art classes. But I have put a stop on both for now. Because there is only so much I can read, and only so much I can watch other people do art. I need to fit in some doing art myself as well. Not that my wishlist is getting any smaller, so when my book buying hiatus is over there are already some top candidates to get.

I am putting it down to my constant quest for new knowledge and expanding my own boundaries :)

But to make myself feel better and justify the purchase of all my art books (see photo above and note that I have noticed some were missing, like Traci’s Stamp Lab book, which is possibly on my art desk, and a couple of others that may be in the stack next to my bed! :)). I am going to do some reviews. And work on some of the projects in the books and show the results with the reviews.

And start to review art classes that I have taken.

Because not all books are created equal. And some are must haves. And some are good to haves. And some would be good to get from the library or borrow because you will only use them once and never look at them again. Some are laden with techniques, and some are laden with inspiration and really it depends on what you are after in any given time as to whether the book would be good for you or not.

Though I see art and book and my pulse starts to quicken :)

Street Art and the Butterfly Effect

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There have been some changes on the blog, and more coming gradually as I realign it slightly.

This is the canvas I painted for the Butterfly Effect’s theme of the week “Street Art”. There have been some big, exciting changes over at the Butterfly Effect, and I think everyone should go and play. It is a great way to play and connect.

This painting was first mentioned here. And then a great big chunk of life hit me over the head. In fact within 2 hours of the first post, life came and knocked me around for a bit. Still. Going back to this painting, I ruined it 6 times I think. You can’t see under the top layer, all the layers where mess was taking over and I thought more than once about painting the whole thing gray and starting again. I know they are there and it did feel very graffiti like painting and covering and taking away and painting again so it went with the street art theme.

I feel like I have crossed a precipice this week and I am embracing it and taking chances and going along in the energy I feel and seeing where it takes me. I have reached out and taken chances and I am feeling good about where I am.

And remembering girls on buses and making a difference.

Giving birth and realisations

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One of my all time favourite artists is Emily Karaka.

I was 17 when I first saw one of her works hanging up at an art gallery. And there were world famous artists whose works were also been exhibited, but I can’t remember any of them. I started around with the rest of my class, and then needed to go back. And I didn’t finish looking around the gallery.

I was drawn to her wildness, and rawness, and truth-telling that was pouring off the canvas. It was two panels of canvas, hanging at the top with a wooden lintel. I still remember the awe when I first saw it.

The red circles telling a truth of their own. I actually have tears thinking back to that moment. And that young 17 year old who questioned for the first time whether she wanted to go to law school or had gotten herself backed into a corner of letting that decision to go to lawschool at 6 define who she was, or who she thought she was. Hanging on to that decision for dear life, because without that she had no clue anymore about who she was.

And I think back to that 17 year old, who had no idea about any of that. Who thought she had deserved everything that had happened to her, and knew nothing.

And I remember her goosebumps when she first saw that piece of art hanging up. The colours and energy pouring over her. She wasn’t the abuse, or anything else, at that moment she was connected at a level she couldn’t understand to a work hanging in a gallery with dutch masters, who people were very excited about seeing.

That 17 year old me tried to leave to look at other works but the yellows and greens and pinks and reds kept drawing her back. In a way she couldn’t comprehend. She spent the trip to the gallery pretty much rooted in front of one painting watching a woman give birth.

And on my canvas this morning, as I am painting. And trying to get a piece to work, I realise the woman wants to be pregnant.

And I think back to that time when I saw that woman, hanging on raw canvas. and the colours and brush strokes. And not knowing the artist’s story for the piece, but knowing what I saw in that moment. She was not a realistic portrayal, very styalised and tribal and primal and raw, but more true than anything I had ever seen.

And I feel tears even now bubbling just below the surface, when I think of it.

And I feel I am on the edge of a break through, a transformation. A precipice of change. And while the deeply personal seems to be getting an airing here lately, for today this is where it felt right to share.

Where I am sitting around chaos with four art journals open and paint drying and wood panels on the go.

Thinking of that 17 year old and where she had to go, to get to where I am now, and grateful I saw that piece by Emily. Grateful I studied it into memory so that the 34 year old me can appreciate it with the benefit of some life experience. I wonder how much the reality is different to the picture in my head. And I wonder what it would mean to me to look upon the work now. A me who is doing the work, has done the work to know who she is. And more importantly who she is not.

Processing the moments

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Unexpected post right here. I don’t tend to share super personal things here. Not for any specific reason, I just don’t.

But I just had one of those life changing moments and am having trouble processing it. And so I have come here to blurt out and maybe not even publish.

On the bus, there was a man, heavily tattooed and his girlfriend who got on with their grocery shopping. And as they sat down I thought I heard him swear at her. I looked up, and thought I must have been wrong and looked away again, only to then hear him start ranting at the general uselessness of women, and especially her. At how we don’t show our menfolk respect unless they pay us or punch us. And he generally berated her, everything about her.

There were others on the bus, but everyone else seemed to be looking out the window. And so I stared at him so that he would know I heard everything. As his girlfriend sat there nodding her head, looking at the ground, fidgeting, at all her described failings, and saying to him he was right to hit her. She deserved it.

And I was going to say something then and he looked at me and raised his fist to me and I lost all power to speak.

One moment I will regret forever, that I went back to when I was that nodding girl, and I lost all ability to even think. And I acted as cowardly as the other people on the bus staring out their windows. Leaving her to deal with his wrath or fists alone. I got off at the next stop, my stop and I did just stop literally. Fumbling through my bag for my phone.

Phoning my beloved in the tears that had now started, standing on the side of the road, watching the bus leave. He consoled me that I made the right choice, but I know I didn’t. Not one that I can live with anyway. And not one I will make again. That could have been my daughter and I left her alone. Fists or not, next time I will find my voice again and speak.

It reaffirms for me my decision to donate 10% of everything I sell to the Women’s Refuge at my first show in December. For her. For that girl on the bus, not able to look at any of us, not that she would have seen many people looking at her, but she would have seen me. I saw her. And I still am barely away from tears. I saw her.

And I did nothing.

And that will not happen again. To the gutless coward who raises his fists at me and her and other women, I can assure you that next time I will stand up anyway.

Because once I was that girl. Who was fed those same lies that everything was my fault. And I believed it. And I stayed. And no matter what he did. I stayed. And then I was alone with a son and I began to heal eventually. Still am. But once I was her.

And I am thinking about the sexual abuse I suffered as a child, from 5 to 9. And how I have always blamed myself a little. Because when I was 7, and I pretended to be asleep, he went to wake my little sister and I sat up and offered to go. I have always thought that that probably indicated to him that I enjoyed it. Despite my tears and begging.

And now as my daughter approaches 5. I think actually no. Actually nothing I could have done would make that right. I see myself not through the guilt I have always carried, but through the eyes of a mother and I look at her and think I was not the one to blame. Not at all. Not for any of it. Not for the sexual abuse. Not for the abuse. Not for the abuse in my relationship.

I have my own responsibilities in there, but I own them. I don’t own everyone else’s guilt.

And I see how important it is for my role as a mother to tell my daughter how loved and adored she is. How wonderfully precious and valuable she is. So that she knows. So she knows she is worth more than that. So she has the strength to say no and walk away when it matters.

So she always knows her worth.

More than I did.

More than the girl on the bus did.

Lest I forget.