wondering, wandering, wondering...

yesterday, i had the same conversation with three different people about how to define a "body of work". what is the criteria?

materials? concept? aesthetic? serial? a combo?

one friend offered up the word Time as part of her personal approach to grouping work together and calling it a Body- that the work in the collection is representative of a particular time in her life... a time (or era, moment) defined by particular concerns... not necessarily whether or not the work LOOKS a certain way. another friend offered up the phrase "themed accumulation" which i really like. and again, nothing really about the LOOK of individual pieces but rather the concerns of the work. there is freedom in that. i like it. but it also starts complicating my already complicated issue.

my practice is, by nature, full of multiplicity. though i speak to the same concerns in all my work, the voice changes. multiple personality disorder, for sure. and though i joke about that a lot here on the blog, when sitting down to the task of putting things in order, i get lost pretty easily at first.

right now, as i continue to wind my way through all my portfolios, taking pictures and seeing what i've got, i find recurrent themes or modes or LOOKS that guide me in putting all this work in to Bodies... but i also see how these Bodies are really body Parts... and how they relate to one another and how i got from point A to point B, shifting through voices, making the issues deeper, more complex and multi-faceted. like Sharon Olds' book "Satan Says".

i see how i do not stand firmly in either camp: critical vs. emotional. my work is a blend of the two. i care about both spheres equally. i think both are necessary. the union is necessary.

and so... how to group things? since the aesthetic i operate in is so strong - black and white - i have to be very careful when putting things in a line. they all LOOK good together because they are unified by palette. but just "looking good together" isn't enough. we black and white artists run the risk of looking "slick" if we go off looks alone. and, in art-speak, SLICK is not a good thing to be called. it means the work is superficial.

and so grouping work based on looks alone isn't going to work for me.

also, i very rarely stumble in to a "series". when i try to force a series, the inspiration for it dries up pretty fast because i start feeling like i'm just making the same painting over and over and over again and not really investigating anything. i'm much more interested in artists like Banks Violette who create collections of work rooted in concept, who trust the intelligence of the audience, who understand that the audience is entirely capable of seeing (or even making) the lines that connect one piece to another... that the audience can see the corollary between a painting and a drawings and a quilt and a found object thrown on the floor. it doesn't need to be ALL drawing or ALL painting or ALL sculpture. the audience does not need everything spelled out to them that way. to me, it's so interesting to see artists working across disciplines, embracing different modes and means of creating an image or object... giving substance to an idea by whatever means suits it best.

when i was first at CCA, i said that to a teacher and the teacher said "if you attempt to be a jack-of-all-trades, you'll be master of none". at the time, that statement was definitely warranted. definitely. i was all over the place in a very uninteresting way at that point. the work looked amateurish and floundering. and that's a stage everyone spends a pretty big hunk of time in. also, i didn't have any real conception (at that point) of what art is good for, how it can be harnessed, what its Past has been, and what it is up against now (thank you critical theory!). also, i really had no clue what I wanted to use art for... what I cared about and wanted to speak about and wanted to wrestle with. now, i do. and 2 years later, that same teacher totally encouraged me to let a painting be a painting and a drawing be a drawing and YES go ahead and nail a rope to the wall and a doll head and a rope of my own hair and see how these things function together. see how these seemingly "disparate" items speak to one another, see what dialogue arises. and it is so compelling (i think) to work that way. i love seeing other artists take that approach within their practice. it creates multiple layers of meaning. so much meaning that everyone, no matter what camp they belong to, can get something out of the work. it's an inclusive way to work.

the audience trusts the artist. artists who reciprocate that trust, artists like Banks Violette and Kiki Smith and Jordan Kantor, create spaces for experiences that are amazing and deep and i admire that so so much.

and so, as i go through this huge documenting phase, i continue to make new work too, getting inspired over and over again by having artwork spread all over the house. and i see that the lines connecting one piece to another are totally there, that the audience will see them too, and that my job is to not overload the issue... to not appear slick, the keep it sincere and meaningful and to really wrestle with the ideas i investigate by not compromising the work to any degree. especially not by sticking to the easy connections: all drawings on one side of the room, all paintings on the other. it feels false for me.

but tell me- how do YOU define a body of work? what criteria do you use? what assumptions do you discard? and how big must a collection be? could a collection consist of only 4 pieces? can it be small? do writers allow themselves the luxury of saying "these 4 poems or pieces are all it takes. finished!" visual artists do that all the time. if it is cohesive, it's cohesive. does size really matter in that regard? "narrative" will occur no matter what when you put two pieces of art side by side, whether or not they are similar.

so how do you group things? how do you define a body of work? what strictures do you impose? what is your governing logic? tell me. i am eager to learn.

potential

the other day, i was talking to my friend mike about painting- what it means and what it is. and mostly i was just thinking out-loud and i heard myself say: there's a huge difference between maintaining a practice and maintaining a business. i flabbergasted myself with that tidbit. and i am not knocking business. it is a component of all this that can actually be pretty joyful. but that's just the point- it's a component, not the whole. and then i go back and i watch all the videos i posted the other day and i realize that all these people are absolutely right. and it's stuff i already know but it helps to hear it again... especially in low moments when you begin to wonder if you have anything of value to offer. that horrible self-questioning, self-persecution, that i think all artists fall prey too every now and again. but maintaining the practice is what saves me. grounds me. brings me back to a site of such large hope and fiery, self-assured resistance. it isn't supposed to be easy. this is a very hard road to walk sometimes, in spite of how fun and freeing it can be. but when i'm in a painting or drawing or poem, really inside, i have no sadness. i have no doubts. i'm in a land of such sweeping grace where taking the good with the bad is absolutely possible... and is even experienced as beautiful too. and the work is rolling along gorgeously. i'm brewing coffee right now and when it's done i'm heading outside in to the bright, cold morning to paint in the good light. i woke up with such a warm assurance in my bones. and my neighbor who had stayed up all night listening to music (got bit by that bug and just could not turn it off) came down to talk about music and art and ideas and the greeks. a very nice way to begin the day, begin the new week. a week full of potential and hard (but fun) work.

feeling thankful for all the writers and artists maintaining blogs and talking about the struggle of this thing we do...

fear, shame, feeling wrong, feeling stupid...

these are the hitches we deal with. all of us. separately, alone, without a rope usually, without any clue of which direction to crawl in. artists and writers.

my sweet and dear friend who is an absolute powerhouse when it comes to writing, sees me struggle to get at whatever it is i'm trying to get at, and suggested i buy "The Triggering Town" by Richard Hugo. it arrived in the mail yesterday. i sat down on my stoop and read the introduction and first chapter right then. then i closed the cover and went inside and worked on a drawing. scratch scratch scratch, wandering with my pencil over the clean white, thinking thinking thinking. (in art school, teachers are told - ORDERED actually - not to yell at a student for doodling during a lecture. it is a way of thinking.) and i thought about how he said, instantly, right there on the first page, that his hope as a teacher is NOT that he can teach you how to write... but to teach you how to teach yourself how to write... that a student must find out how to write like them self.

i thought about this pretty much all day. it's something i already knew but it always helps to be told again. and i thought that it actually comes down to those hitches i wrote up top... finding a way through those things, but also going beyond the therapeutic aspect of writing. this is something i learned how to do when it comes to the creation of images. the therapeutic is often a starting point for my visual practice, but it is not an end. it moves beyond that. it aspires to more than an act of therapy. and this is a good thing! the image retains that part but it gathers other attributes, other aspects, other functions by the time the image is "completed". but i am having a hell of a time applying this know-how to my writing practice. i think sometimes, i luck out. happen to stumble out of the pen of therapy in to the yard next door- the land of art with a capital A. but it is occasional, momentary, unnoticed even. and it comes down to fear. my fear of saying the wrong thing and seeming stupid. hitch.

and then i read this post by our lovely elisabeth and i thought more and more and more about all these things, all these fears and expectations of writing and how they are inexplicably paired with the desire for love, to be a good person, to be understood, to not hurt anybody, to be fair and even and honest. and this struggle to find a true voice... and then the struggle to find the courage to use that voice...

because honesty is not always fair or kind or even.

that fact doesn't sit well with me either.

but i must find a way around it. it is a hitch.

and so i went back to richard hugo, curled up with him in bed and read read read until it was time to fall asleep. all his insights are somewhere in my brain, baking and turning and steaming.

i hear one of my painting professors voice boom in my head. my esteemed Jack, his face a mirror of robert redford's, and how i came to class all bent out of shape by Theory, and he said: don't worry about it. just keep on taking all the ideas in. you don't need to put them in order. keep taking them in and eventually they will find their way back out. their own way.

and so i go back to that day. that beginning. again and again, the beginning. the site of fresh desire, so rife with confusion and fear, is fertile ground. and trust is the sword.

how do i achieve that? how do i get my hands on that sword? how do i learn to use it, wield it, care for it, polish it?

Jack said: just paint. (for now)

Hugo says: just write. (for now)



okay.

how quickly

i am deep inside one of the maid portraits this morning. oil sliding sliding sliding. i have 3 big canvasses in the final stages that have been waiting patiently for my attention for almost 2 months, breathy sigh and all. i took a long break from my ladies because i realized i was putting too much pressure on them, on myself, to be something they aren't. and so, with all these weeks of drawing, thinking, writing, reading under my belt, i'm seeing them again as they are, as they are meant to be, no pressure, no assumption, no expectation, no ridicule, no mean spirited judgement. and so i go and blend blend blend their skin, their dresses, their aprons. they sigh and whisper under the brush. they bend and nudge and allow their nuances to be found. such love. my lovely ladies. beautiful beautiful.

painting day...

i'm taking a little break to eat strawberries and look at the work of other artists- refresh my eyes a bit so that i can see what's really going on, not merely my intentions, not what i want to be going on. it's a tough thing to move beyond your wishes for a painting sometimes and see where you've side-stepped the opportunity/necessity of risk.

trust.
intelligence.
faith.
patience.
and also a bit of rowdiness.

i have to be willing to fuck up the canvas, turn it to total shit. if i'm not willing to do that, i know i'm holding back, become too focused on the end result not the path, not the learning, not the love, not the need. i've become too precious about the work i've done thus far, not the work i've yet to do. it is a struggle. a good one. a person learns a lot from ruining a work and then finding a way to come back from that- to yank the image out of the cesspool you've created and polish it again, make it golden again.

it's a painting day.

work, work, work

the day is bright already and there is a feeling in it... something in the light that makes me want to take pictures and dress up all silly and become, once and for all, the small town freak. whenever i walk through town (which isn't very often), i get stared at a lot and i think it might be the silver sequined shoes i wear. they're quite blinding in the sun. they're awesome. and i got a new pair of blue sequined shoes but i'm waiting to break them in til the weather gets a bit less wet. they are not puddle-jumping shoes. i need a pair of those yellow rubber rain boots. i've always wanted a pair of them. i'd wear them everyday, all winter long, sequined shoes underneath.

i'm getting ready to brew a second pot of coffee. i've already spent two hours painting. it's the perk of painting in-doors... especially in the kitchen: you get right to it. and, after a few days of looking at the photograph of the most recent painting, i decided it is not done after all. i cheaped out on the background. all that work on the aprons becomes meaningless if i allow myself to take a short-cut somewhere else. so i've been working on the background again and it's already so much more full than it was before. i am much much MUCH more pleased. i just needed a few days away from it, some distance to see what was really going on. it's a beautiful painting and i will do my best to honor it. no short-cuts. struggle, struggle, struggle away until i get it right. winter gives me the time.

addendum...

i went and obeyed The Almighty Jog. i ran. i breathed hard. i paid attention to my body, how it moves, and the landscape it was moving through. they are crushing grapes today and the grapes must be for port because the aroma was so sweet and warm. it smelled like cookie dough almost. one of those wonderful, welcoming, comforting kitchen scents. mama's apron. gentleness. security.

and i thought about my previous post after the clarity of The Jog rushed in. i thought and i turned the words over and i realize that i didn't say what i wanted to say. i didn't say it exactly right. what the problem is pertains to attitude. my attitude. the choice, for however subconscious, to see things in a different way. in this case, a more narrow view than i'd looked at art with before. it isn't that i've stopped making certain kinds of work, it's that my attitude toward it changed. i stopped seeing it as art... even as practice. i gave primacy to painting, somehow believing that the drawings were secondary, not as relevant, not as powerful. and this is completely false. not only false but i've even managed to use it to beat myself up quite a bit. and if there's one thing that stalls a person's practice, it's negativity. because i have made progress. i have done a lot of work. a lot of good work. but my attitude has stopped me from seeing it. i've stopped trusting my own ideas and began chasing the ideas of others- the dominant assessment that the paintings are the best work i do and therefore the only work i should be focused on. this is an idea that has come from The Outside but i made it my idea as well.

that idea, to say it plainly, is really just preference. of course some people will prefer paintings to drawings. others will prefer music to the visual arts. and another group of people will say only philosophy matters and fuck every thing else. it's preference. the paths we choose are based on preference... what we're used to, what we know, how we like to move, the map we've got, the lens, the magnifying glass. it's just a preference of one tool over another. and so there's really no right way to proceed. there is no KING, there's just the thing that works best for you or for me or for whom ever.

painting and writing have always been my two big dogs. they always have. and i don't see that changing. but the other work feeds those things in such unexpected, beautiful, necessary, healthy ways. neglecting the other work has made it harder to paint, harder to write.

and this whole diatribe and the diatribe below is a result of noticing the end of the year draw near. i like the ritual of one season ending and another one beginning. i like the ritual of new year's resolutions for however cheesy it seems. i like them. i like to really think about what it is i really want and try to make small goals based on that. last year, the big resolution was to maintain this blog- to write every single day. i've done a pretty good job at that and i must say it has enriched my daily living in some very special, unexpected, unintended ways... all of which i am grateful for. it has made my practice wider and much more thoughtful. it's also made it a bit funnier, a bit sillier; it's made room for FUN again and that's a real blessing.

so i'm gearing up for resolution making, i suppose. new goals, new attitudes, new views. it takes a lot of introspection and it isn't always comfortable but i have to try my very hardest to be honest. i have to see things as they are, not as i'd like them to be, or clouded by all the shoulds and shouldn'ts. presuppositions are dangers.

i'm more interested in faith than dread. i want my day to mirror that.

big and small and all the things in between that drive a person nuts...

lately i've been feeling like i've got way too much time on my hands and not nearly enough time on my hands to accomplish all the things i've got planned for myself. simultaneously, yes. two total opposites (seemingly) experienced at once.

it's a very strange and limiting thing but i think most artists go through this. we sit and stare at all our goals and try to find ways to achieve these things all the while feeling like there's never enough time, that we haven't worked hard enough, OR that we've worked so hard so why are those goals still so far away. it really is enough to drive a person crazy. really. and i noticed i've somehow managed to get wrapped up in that crazy train of thought. AGAIN. geez.

no wonder i feel like there's not enough time when i've wasted hours agonizing over how little time there is instead of WORKING. today i noticed that during the course of the last year or so i've subconsciously imposed some pretty huge and stupid limits on my practice: a painter PAINTS. that one. and that's all fine and good if painting is all you want to do but painting isn't all i want to do. my practice has always been so much larger than that, so much more inclusive and welcoming and interested in different forms, different approaches, different methods. art is art. that's been my outlook and it has served me so well. i'd get some slightly stupid or childish or funny idea in my head and just run with it. i'd try it out. and more often than not, that "stupid" idea would end up being poignant, being something that i was proud of and that fulfilled me. i feel like i've somehow gotten off track with that... gotten too "serious", too limited by genre or form.

i want my practice to be wide-open. why did i start thinking that that was bad or dumb or useless or whateverthehell i thought it was that made me stop approaching my work that way? and i think it's because i put a ton of pressure on myself to reach the goals that come down from The Outside. i somehow fell in to the trap of thinking i'm a failure because i haven't accomplished X,Y, and Z, and that's just silly. that's masochistic. the more i think about these things, the more i realize that maybe i don't want "the dream"... the dream we're told to want. maybe my dream is a bit different, slides a bit to the side. i want to enjoy this life, not constantly chase some ideal that i don't even know i want for myself.

it comes down to TIME- how i use it, how i want to use it, how my use of it satisfies me or doesn't. i feel like i've been trying to cram myself inside someone else's expectations. no wonder i feel out of sorts and that there's never enough hours in the day. i want to paint and i want to write and i also want to crochet and embroider and draw. i want THAT practice. look at roni horn's practice. look at kiki smith. look at annette messager or tracey emin or gerhard richter even.

i don't want to fall in to making some type of antiquated hierarchy about the value of different art forms. painting is NOT higher or more relevant that any other form. that's an idea that needs to be completely scrapped. that's an idea that is self-sabotaging and limits an artists' exploration and investigation and ability to LEARN, to SEE. at least for me it is.

somewhere along the line i managed to cram myself back in that box where painting became king and if i didn't spend everyday painting and instead wanted to crochet or write or draw i felt like i was fucking up. but i know better that THAT! way better! and i don't know why i looked away from this knowledge... maybe i've been distracted and worried and just wrapped up in other things to notice that i stopped feeding my practice with the very things that makes it thrive: variety, curiosity, playfulness.

the gratitude fridge helped me realize this. it really did. i used to do kookie things like that left and right and had absolutely no problem calling it art. i noticed i had a problem referring to that project as art. and so i'm going to correct this. it doesn't take much. it takes reading a bit of Roland Barthes and paying attention to what the work is actually saying instead of imposing outside desires on it. looking at the work of artists who have embraced a more inclusive, wide-open practice is also a good move. basically, trusting the work again. trusting the road, the practice.

it's a life's work. when i look at that fact i realize there aren't a whole lot of rules about how to do this. there aren't any shoulds or shouldn'ts, there's just living it. time. ways to spend time that are honorable and gracious and ways that aren't. that's the better choice rather than wondering if it's "right" for me to spend some time crocheting today vs. painting. it's all art. it's all necessary.

what do you call yourself?

i woke up early early after a long night of strange dreams... most likely provoked by the movie i watched last night- 7 pounds with will smith. it is probably one of the saddest movies i've ever seen and will smith is such a fine actor (i don't care what anyone says) that when he cries, i cry and that movie just ripped me to shreds. but it is a wonderful story- full of heart-break and compassion and the human urge to seek redemption... and how maybe we go about finding that redemption in ways that no one else can understand or agree with... a definite tear-jerker but that phrase seems so reductive. the movie is profound. in spite of being able to see what the next twist in the story would be, i found the acting and writing of the movie to be stunning. absolutely heart-wrenching. and beautifully done. sad, sad, sad. you are forewarned.

and so, i had strange dreams. none of which i can remember. i got out of bed and made coffee and by 6am i was scribbling, scribbling,scribbling in my notebook. no stopping until 7:01 when i finally looked up and saw that the night was finally gone and that icy-blue was pouring in. traffic was moving on the 2 lane highway and the birds and zany squirrels where moving too. and me, out on my stoop, head and hand crammed in my notebook, feeling as twisted up as all the branches above me...

first thing, i worried that somewhere there's a rule that says i have to pick one or the other: painting or writing. i know this isn't true. no where close to true but it seems to be that a person generally favors one practice over all others. and this morning i realized that i've gotten to the point where painting and writing seem like the same thing to me. they are indistinguishable in terms of practice. they function so much the same way (to me) that i started, stupidly, worrying about titles: Writer. Painter. which one am i? can i be both? is that allowed? can i call myself a writer even though my writing is largely secret? can i call myself a Writer just because of my love for the craft? or does it take more than that? and if i call myself Writer, does Painter suffer for it? can't i just be a regular ol' artist with a big ol' umbrella that all the things i lay my hand to can fit under?

why i started worrying about all this, i'm not sure. and i know it sounds like a silly concern and that i must be wearing my crazy pants today... but if i just say it out-right, if i say it honestly, my concern is this: i don't want to be bad at either art form. i want them both. and i want to be good at them both. no one wants to be bad at something they love.

i think all artists feel this way at times. it isn't insecurity, it's the weight of concern for something cherished. i want to protect these things. i want to protect my practice. and sometimes i worry that i'm floating and i just grab at whatever comes closest. that i am not strict enough. that i am not diligent enough. that i have too many ideas and that satisfying them all means i'm a "jack of all trades, master of none". a fear born in me during art-school. this is the dominant mentality there. if you are a painter, you paint. if you are a writer, you write. don't stray. hone your skills at one thing or you'll be bad (mediocre) at everything. and i fought against that mentality the entire time i was there. the entire time. art school is a wonderful, wonderful place and it's where i learned how to really, truly care about ART. it's where i built my stamina. but this fear was born there as well and i've wrestled with it, off and on, ever since... even though i don't agree with it. my favorite artists are artists who take a multi-disciplinary approach to their work, who aren't limited by genre and let the art, the idea, take whatever form is best. those are the artists i look up to. they are fearless and they trust their practice endlessly. i am trying to leech some of their bravery and just keep going. keep chipping away. keep learning. gain strength. they are the elite. they shine. they are gold.

i hope, one day, to find myself in that lineage of artists who did what loved and didn't second-guess a thing... least of all, their own eyes and hands.

the wage...

hmmmmmm... it could be too soon to jump into her diaries. yesterday, i spent a pretty hefty chunk of the day with them, off and on between projects, and by 4 in the afternoon i was beginning to feel more than slightly disillusioned and sad about life. no good. but the writing is just so beautiful and i can run around in it because i know these things she's describing... and reading her work makes my writing better- more intricate, more subtle, more meaningful. i don't want to back away from her art just because it might make me sad. my work does the same thing to people sometimes and i've always counted that as a good quality... that the work can be responded to emotionally, intensely... not that i am comparing my paintings to a Plath poem, just that the experience of sadness isn't something i should use to run away from good work- work that sparks and flies around the room and makes you look at your own life from a new and different angle... work that makes your own work grow and turn.

i will have to take the diaries in doses though, i think. they're pretty intense. the last time (the first time) i read them, i was in my last year in college and had other things to read so it took me about 4 months to read them all. i read it on the train to school and back home everyday. i read it on the weekends after my projects were satisfied. sometimes i even left the house to do "errands" so that i could sit somewhere and read them without any interruption or outside expectation. it's when i started writing again. seriously writing. my love of poetry woke back up because of this collection and i've been hot for it ever since. it's a slightly painful form of inspiration, i will admit. it takes a lot out of me. i've always thought that poetry is harder than painting. a landslide harder. a piece of writing seems to ask more from the person with the pen than a painting does. paintings seem to have an outside opinion that, at some point (for me anyway), i can relinquish control to and the work becomes itself. it stops being my work. it's its own work.

in the end, the work takes care of me... not the other way around.

new day...

ever since i mailed the grant application off, a nice warm calm has spread over my days... even though i'm assuming i'll receive a rejection. but putting the work out in to the world (in whatever capacity) is a wonderful act of letting go, come what may. besides, i've got a fairly thick skin at this point when it comes to art rejections. the critiques at CCA got to be pretty dang brutal at times and i've got an entire folder of rejection letters here under my desk to remind me that the point is to just keep trying. pay your dues and get them out of the way. everyone must, and that includes little ol' me. in fact, the more rejection i suffer, the easier it gets and the probability of finding the proper channels and avenues for support and exposure for the work increase. i'm ruling things out, looking for better, more fitting opportunities, and thinking critically about my own practice and where i'd like to go. the rejection letter, in a round about way, helps to steer me in the right direction. there's always an upside and i've got a lifelong habit of straining to find the silver-lining in every single situation. all this to say... yesterday i painted with such pressure-less freedom and poise, it was remarkable. i didn't worry about the time or when the canvas would finally be done or when the issues within the composition will get worked out. i sat and stared and drank my coffee and saw what needed to happen next- piece by piece, inch by inch, shadow by shadow. i was fully myself and in the work. i'm proud of the maid portraits. as proud of them as i am the 'anonymous girl' series. i feel so close to this body of work and it feels important to me. i love these ladies, i truly do. i've got Lineage 4 hanging in front of my bed right now and waking up to them has been such an honor, such a humbling moment. it sets a good tone for the rest of the day. humility is a good ingredient in the studio, for sure. i will miss them endlessly when they're gone.

and so it continues...

geez. round 2 through my portfolios. it is never-ending, i swear. when will i see the bottom of the art pile? the massive problem of storage and archiving and yadda, yadda, yadda. the major issue here is that i'm just at a total loss as to what i should do with all this work. the vast majority is work on paper. and the vast majority of it is good work too. but it just doesn't fit with my current portfolio at HANG and it doesn't fit with the current inventory at black fence. where to send it? where oh where oh where? it's too good to toss in the recycle bin, that's for sure. but storing it has become such a big, sticky issue that i find myself completely overwhelmed within minutes of trying to find a solution. maybe the only thing to do is go through it all, piece by piece, photograph it, and try to compile some sort of "new" portfolio of work and find another venue for it to be available through. maybe. but even the thought of that is daunting. we're talking about no less than 8 huge portfolios of work here. i am not counting the closet full of little paintings on canvas i still need to contend with. any insight in to this problem is completely welcome. entirely welcome. in fact, i am begging for advice! any system at all that you may have had even the smallest success with i am willing to try. except for burning it or something like that. 'no fire near the artwork' is definitely a commandment in my household and shall not be broken. anyway... help.