this is all such a big damn beautiful gift.
Showing posts with label drawing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drawing. Show all posts
Nov 10, 2014
midway
one of my studio mates is listening to Fleetwood Mac. every now and then, he sings along as he paints. every now and then, we all do. it's monday night. i'm sipping beer from a wine glass and we've all got our doors flung wide. we walk in and out of each other's spaces whenever we want. i can hear the music as clearly as if i were playing it in my own studio. it's like art school but without papers to write. it's like science camp but without bedtimes.
this is all such a big damn beautiful gift.
this is all such a big damn beautiful gift.
Nov 7, 2014
returning/reconsidering
outside the big window, it is snowing. it's the first time in years i've seen snowfall and i don't ever remember having seen it during daylight hours. a part of me somehow believed, like a child, it was impossible for the world to make snow at any other time but night. :)
i'm in Johnson, Vermont as an artist in residence at the Vermont Studio Center. i've been here for two weeks already and, prior to coming here, i thought i'd be back to blogging every day the way i used to, the way i did the last time i lived in a forest. i planned to, actually, and was really looking forward to some time behind the keys, but i haven't had a studio in 6 years and i've never had a studio as large as what i was given here. not nearly. it's enormous. the sound of my fingers clicking across the black keys send a loud echo bouncing back from the high ceiling overhead. a moment ago, it was the sound of my pencil scratching against paper that reverberated against the walls - such a sweet sound. a sound i have long missed.
i didn't realize i missed drawing so much. i thought i would spend my entire stay here working on lace curtains but i've been drawing almost non-stop. it's all i want to do. the idea to write a blog post has found me every few days but evaporates as soon as i realize that would require me turning on my computer. it's been wonderful to check out from the digital realm for a bit, to be totally logged off. it's been wonderful to think only about my work, the scratch of the pencil and the paper below my hand.
the work i've been doing is largely just me clearing my throat, remembering how to wield a pencil again, remembering how to speak this language. and of all the signs and symbols that might have found me, my beloved fences are what came flooding back. i worked with the image of the fence for a few years and i felt as if i'd reached the end of that road about 4 years ago when i stopped making the Territories series. but here it is, suddenly scratching at my heart. this time, the meaning is totally changed, much more overtly autobiographical, much more of an obvious telling of my fears and dreams. the first time around, i was using the fence to try to stake some sort of claim- to my Self, to my life, to my dreams and goals, and to the life i wanted to build for myself. this time around, the fences are very much in reference to what i feel barred from, exiled from, the expanse i cannot cross, the territory i feel ejected from.
the first drawing i made here was a cameo of my mother holding me as a small child. the fence motif across the bottom of the paper was printed about 5 or so years ago when i was first working with this image. i came across this piece of paper shortly before leaving oakland and decided to bring it along.
i've been playing with the idea of drawing a picture of my mother for awhile now but, honestly, it's not the most attractive proposition. i think it helped that i had had a bit to drink the night her image found me here. still, i had to stop drawing every 2 or 3 minutes. staring at the old photograph of her as a young mother was a lot to take. at one point, i had to walk away from the drawing entirely. i was on the verge of tears and i didn't want to cry.
it isn't only my mother's death that is so painful but the death of an ideal- my entire perception and notion of what a family is (or could be) was obliterated when she died. i felt such a deep lonliness... a spiritual kind of homelessness. when she died, i stopped believing in God, i stoped believing in Family. i thought it was all a cruel, sick joke. i thought it was an unforgivable lie.
it's normal to feel this way, i suppose. it's normal to see oneself as so painfully singular when you wake up one day and realize you haven't (for one reason or another) got any parents. it's scary to stare at the world and know you've only got yourself to rely on. it's hard to look toward the future and accept the fact that you've got to build a life for yourself BY YOURSELF. it's hard to turn the blankets down at the end of a long day and believe that someone should be there with you once you finally get used to these ideas. it's hard to not percieve the facts as cold and malicious. the picture is not only of my mother, it's a picture of the type of life i feel barred from. it's a picture of the safety i no longer have and feel i may never have. it's a picture of my belief that i am without family, alone in the world, isolated, as island. it's a picture of a land that i once inhabited and can never walk across again... i can only make pictures from the other side of the fence.
but maybe it's being in love again. maybe it's the beautiful occasion of sleeping next to someone, of knowing and feeling that this other person trusts me to be careful with their body and their heart. maybe it's the beautiful occasion of finally beginning to trust someone else. it's not an easy thing for me to do.
i'm trying to come to terms with the fact that i am wrong about the notions i've held in regard to Family. it's normal, i think, to have felt so alone in light of all that's happened and it's normal to feel afraid about becoming close to people again... but it's scarier to think that i might end up robbing myself of the opportunity to truly know another human being, and to be known as well. and not just romantically. i think of my sweetheart constantly since leaving oakland but i've also been thinking of my grandmother. i want to be near her. i think of her sweet southern drawl and it makes me smile. maybe she would like to have this drawing. maybe it would only make her sad. but it's definitely a piece that should stay in the family.
.
i'm in Johnson, Vermont as an artist in residence at the Vermont Studio Center. i've been here for two weeks already and, prior to coming here, i thought i'd be back to blogging every day the way i used to, the way i did the last time i lived in a forest. i planned to, actually, and was really looking forward to some time behind the keys, but i haven't had a studio in 6 years and i've never had a studio as large as what i was given here. not nearly. it's enormous. the sound of my fingers clicking across the black keys send a loud echo bouncing back from the high ceiling overhead. a moment ago, it was the sound of my pencil scratching against paper that reverberated against the walls - such a sweet sound. a sound i have long missed.
i didn't realize i missed drawing so much. i thought i would spend my entire stay here working on lace curtains but i've been drawing almost non-stop. it's all i want to do. the idea to write a blog post has found me every few days but evaporates as soon as i realize that would require me turning on my computer. it's been wonderful to check out from the digital realm for a bit, to be totally logged off. it's been wonderful to think only about my work, the scratch of the pencil and the paper below my hand.
the work i've been doing is largely just me clearing my throat, remembering how to wield a pencil again, remembering how to speak this language. and of all the signs and symbols that might have found me, my beloved fences are what came flooding back. i worked with the image of the fence for a few years and i felt as if i'd reached the end of that road about 4 years ago when i stopped making the Territories series. but here it is, suddenly scratching at my heart. this time, the meaning is totally changed, much more overtly autobiographical, much more of an obvious telling of my fears and dreams. the first time around, i was using the fence to try to stake some sort of claim- to my Self, to my life, to my dreams and goals, and to the life i wanted to build for myself. this time around, the fences are very much in reference to what i feel barred from, exiled from, the expanse i cannot cross, the territory i feel ejected from.
the first drawing i made here was a cameo of my mother holding me as a small child. the fence motif across the bottom of the paper was printed about 5 or so years ago when i was first working with this image. i came across this piece of paper shortly before leaving oakland and decided to bring it along.
i've been playing with the idea of drawing a picture of my mother for awhile now but, honestly, it's not the most attractive proposition. i think it helped that i had had a bit to drink the night her image found me here. still, i had to stop drawing every 2 or 3 minutes. staring at the old photograph of her as a young mother was a lot to take. at one point, i had to walk away from the drawing entirely. i was on the verge of tears and i didn't want to cry.
it isn't only my mother's death that is so painful but the death of an ideal- my entire perception and notion of what a family is (or could be) was obliterated when she died. i felt such a deep lonliness... a spiritual kind of homelessness. when she died, i stopped believing in God, i stoped believing in Family. i thought it was all a cruel, sick joke. i thought it was an unforgivable lie.
it's normal to feel this way, i suppose. it's normal to see oneself as so painfully singular when you wake up one day and realize you haven't (for one reason or another) got any parents. it's scary to stare at the world and know you've only got yourself to rely on. it's hard to look toward the future and accept the fact that you've got to build a life for yourself BY YOURSELF. it's hard to turn the blankets down at the end of a long day and believe that someone should be there with you once you finally get used to these ideas. it's hard to not percieve the facts as cold and malicious. the picture is not only of my mother, it's a picture of the type of life i feel barred from. it's a picture of the safety i no longer have and feel i may never have. it's a picture of my belief that i am without family, alone in the world, isolated, as island. it's a picture of a land that i once inhabited and can never walk across again... i can only make pictures from the other side of the fence.
but maybe it's being in love again. maybe it's the beautiful occasion of sleeping next to someone, of knowing and feeling that this other person trusts me to be careful with their body and their heart. maybe it's the beautiful occasion of finally beginning to trust someone else. it's not an easy thing for me to do.
i'm trying to come to terms with the fact that i am wrong about the notions i've held in regard to Family. it's normal, i think, to have felt so alone in light of all that's happened and it's normal to feel afraid about becoming close to people again... but it's scarier to think that i might end up robbing myself of the opportunity to truly know another human being, and to be known as well. and not just romantically. i think of my sweetheart constantly since leaving oakland but i've also been thinking of my grandmother. i want to be near her. i think of her sweet southern drawl and it makes me smile. maybe she would like to have this drawing. maybe it would only make her sad. but it's definitely a piece that should stay in the family.
.
Jun 20, 2014
gently and gladly
.
there are blessings everywhere. even in this pain. i am reminded of the very first injury- it was then that i picked up my dusty crochet hook and taught myself the bastard stitch. it was then that i began to lean on text and textile rather than oil. it was then that i learned how to be patient- a hard task for such an eager girl. this past week, i had to learn it all over again.
it's not easy for me to be cooped up. for as much as i may enjoy my solitude, it is only because my life is generally very busy. my days careen by in a fantastic parade of images and sounds, a whirlwind of restaurant life, art life, and romantic intrigue. my long mornings at home before work have become so precious to me and i am possessive of them. the hours i spend sipping coffee, writing, and listening to music as i leisurely get dressed are prized. my days off are spent primarily at home. i am stingy with my free time as that is really the only time i have to become deeply involved in my projects. this past week though, i actually had time to read again. i pulled IN MEMORIAM TO IDENTITY by Kathy Acker from my shelf, lay down on my stomach with an icepack on my lower back, and read until the narcotic bliss of the Norco i'd popped swept me away in to a crazy menagerie of chemically fueled dreams. actually quite a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. one must look for the pleasures within the agony in this type of situation. :)
slowly, i'm bouncing back. i could walk today with just a hint of a limp. i couldn't walk at my normal quick clip but i could walk. that's truly all that matters.
now, laying on an icepack again in bed, smiling to myself as i realize it is friday night and most other people i know are excitedly hurrying off to enjoy whatever revelry awaits in this wide city, i am content to spend the evening at home with my work.
earlier today, i shipped two crochet pieces to Darger HQ for next month's show and then spent a few hours leafing through old portfolios of my drawings, work i haven't viewed in close to three years. i smiled to myself as their graphite edges dirtied my hands. i smiled and thought, "geez... maybe i am a pretty good artist after all."
all week i've returned, over and over again, to the knowledge that art is truly what my life is about and that i should never allow myself to become blind to or distant from that fact. it's easy to get wrapped up in work and saving money and making plans for the future without stopping to think about the REAL work i do: the art. maybe because i've spent the last 2 years working primarily on the street, it's easy for me to forget the old dreams of attending residencies and submitting work to shows, magazines, etc. it's easy to fall out of that particular loop when one no longer pays any attention to things like deadlines. for awhile, i didn't miss it. in fact, i liked not being a part of it. i liked having a break from all that worry and struggle. it was important to me to separate myself from those ambitions because they had been so intertwined with the life i led in my last relationship. i didn't want to think of those goals and i didn't want to look at the work i made during that time. especially during the last few years. the pain and isolation i felt during that time was too easily awakened. it sat so plainly on the surface of all my drawings. it was so obvious. i couldn't do anything but tuck them safely away in portfolios to be stacked in the back of my closet. i needed to make a new life.
but lately, i've been thinking of those dreams again. i'm excited about next month's show- to have work in a gallery space again, to see how it interacts with the work of other artists, to see how it looks surrounded by white. and looking at my old drawings today made me want to show them too. but more than that, it made me want to draw again.
soon.
soon.
and i look forward to being totally sideswiped by it. i look forward to seeing what images arrive first. tonight, it is enough just to listen to the click of the keys beneath my fingers and the train in the distance. tonight, it is enough to dream again, to hunger after these things. tonight, it is enough to lay in bed on an icepack and crochet. this gentleness is its own type of luxury. quiet and unassuming and hidden from the eyes of the world, i lay below an open window and knot thread in to lace, and feel happy about the future.
.
there are blessings everywhere. even in this pain. i am reminded of the very first injury- it was then that i picked up my dusty crochet hook and taught myself the bastard stitch. it was then that i began to lean on text and textile rather than oil. it was then that i learned how to be patient- a hard task for such an eager girl. this past week, i had to learn it all over again.
it's not easy for me to be cooped up. for as much as i may enjoy my solitude, it is only because my life is generally very busy. my days careen by in a fantastic parade of images and sounds, a whirlwind of restaurant life, art life, and romantic intrigue. my long mornings at home before work have become so precious to me and i am possessive of them. the hours i spend sipping coffee, writing, and listening to music as i leisurely get dressed are prized. my days off are spent primarily at home. i am stingy with my free time as that is really the only time i have to become deeply involved in my projects. this past week though, i actually had time to read again. i pulled IN MEMORIAM TO IDENTITY by Kathy Acker from my shelf, lay down on my stomach with an icepack on my lower back, and read until the narcotic bliss of the Norco i'd popped swept me away in to a crazy menagerie of chemically fueled dreams. actually quite a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. one must look for the pleasures within the agony in this type of situation. :)
slowly, i'm bouncing back. i could walk today with just a hint of a limp. i couldn't walk at my normal quick clip but i could walk. that's truly all that matters.
now, laying on an icepack again in bed, smiling to myself as i realize it is friday night and most other people i know are excitedly hurrying off to enjoy whatever revelry awaits in this wide city, i am content to spend the evening at home with my work.
earlier today, i shipped two crochet pieces to Darger HQ for next month's show and then spent a few hours leafing through old portfolios of my drawings, work i haven't viewed in close to three years. i smiled to myself as their graphite edges dirtied my hands. i smiled and thought, "geez... maybe i am a pretty good artist after all."
all week i've returned, over and over again, to the knowledge that art is truly what my life is about and that i should never allow myself to become blind to or distant from that fact. it's easy to get wrapped up in work and saving money and making plans for the future without stopping to think about the REAL work i do: the art. maybe because i've spent the last 2 years working primarily on the street, it's easy for me to forget the old dreams of attending residencies and submitting work to shows, magazines, etc. it's easy to fall out of that particular loop when one no longer pays any attention to things like deadlines. for awhile, i didn't miss it. in fact, i liked not being a part of it. i liked having a break from all that worry and struggle. it was important to me to separate myself from those ambitions because they had been so intertwined with the life i led in my last relationship. i didn't want to think of those goals and i didn't want to look at the work i made during that time. especially during the last few years. the pain and isolation i felt during that time was too easily awakened. it sat so plainly on the surface of all my drawings. it was so obvious. i couldn't do anything but tuck them safely away in portfolios to be stacked in the back of my closet. i needed to make a new life.
but lately, i've been thinking of those dreams again. i'm excited about next month's show- to have work in a gallery space again, to see how it interacts with the work of other artists, to see how it looks surrounded by white. and looking at my old drawings today made me want to show them too. but more than that, it made me want to draw again.
soon.
soon.
and i look forward to being totally sideswiped by it. i look forward to seeing what images arrive first. tonight, it is enough just to listen to the click of the keys beneath my fingers and the train in the distance. tonight, it is enough to dream again, to hunger after these things. tonight, it is enough to lay in bed on an icepack and crochet. this gentleness is its own type of luxury. quiet and unassuming and hidden from the eyes of the world, i lay below an open window and knot thread in to lace, and feel happy about the future.
.
Oct 17, 2013
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Aug 26, 2013
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Aug 26, 2010
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Jul 19, 2010
advice???
as i go through the portfolios and photograph all the work, a certain dream of mine starts to tug tug tug at my brain. for the passed several months i've been playing with the idea of putting together a book of drawings and i'm thinking the self-publishing route is the best route to take. check out amy king's essay on the subject here. so...
where to start??? and what has your experience been? enjoyable? futile? worthwhile? easy? can a novice do it? and what about templates? any and all experience/advice/critique is totally welcome. in fact, it is BEGGED FOR!
and in the meantime, here's a nice little pair of drawings. :) one thing that keeps happening during this documenting process is i keep finding things that are really great as diptychs and triptychs! it's so exciting!
where to start??? and what has your experience been? enjoyable? futile? worthwhile? easy? can a novice do it? and what about templates? any and all experience/advice/critique is totally welcome. in fact, it is BEGGED FOR!
and in the meantime, here's a nice little pair of drawings. :) one thing that keeps happening during this documenting process is i keep finding things that are really great as diptychs and triptychs! it's so exciting!
Jul 16, 2010
process process process
i am deep inside the documentation end of things and will be locked up taking pictures the entire weekend. whhhoooooweeeeee! i did not realize i had this much work to photograph! most of it is on paper, tucked away in one of my many portfolios that are all over the house, hidden behind the paintings that are leaning against the walls. and as i go through each portfolio and pull the work out, i see how strongly rooted my entire practice is in the act of drawing/writing.
maybe drawing and writing are similar in more ways than simply being on paper? i think so. definitely so.
there's an intimacy in both practices. a very deep degree of Search and Explore. paper, being a common and humble material, fosters an amazing level of privacy. and that privacy, as an experience, encourages a ton of bravery. paper is easy to hide. easy to lock away. and i think the diaristic attribute of that is something so valuable and courageous that, as i go through all this work, i bounce back and forth between opposing shudders of elation and embarrassment. ha! but embarrassment in a good way- a necessary exposure. work that does not pull it's punch and risks humiliation in order to go all the way. and that makes me feel great.
it helps me to see the all the work together. how, in spite of extreme shifts in stylistic approaches, all the work is rooted in the same concepts. whether it be oil on canvas or shoe prints on paper, it all comes up from the same well. it all grows in The Blackland and i think each piece lends itself to every other piece in a very nourishing, substantiating way. a very very VERY interesting conversation ensures when all this work is allowed to rub elbows with one another, for sure.
here's some "diary pages". the more i look at this sector of my practice, the more i like it and the more i want to lean deeper in to it. none of this work is titled yet and i'm not sure what i'll do with it. maybe nothing. maybe everything.
the 2nd one down has been following me around for 2 years now and, originally, i thought of it as some sort of sign for myself. i had it hanging in my studio and it would fall off the wall and i walked all over it a few times because i didn't think of it as art. but i guess getting a few pale shoe prints on it added something to the piece, gave it a new layer of meaning along with the dirt. :) i like it.
the 3rd piece was originally an art poster i got in the mail promoting an exhibition that i quickly redacted.
and the first piece was finished just yesterday. a mono-print of silver blowing leaves that i wrote all over. is it a drawing or a poem or a diary page? having those kinds of questions come up is exactly why i like it and why i like ART in general.
maybe drawing and writing are similar in more ways than simply being on paper? i think so. definitely so.
there's an intimacy in both practices. a very deep degree of Search and Explore. paper, being a common and humble material, fosters an amazing level of privacy. and that privacy, as an experience, encourages a ton of bravery. paper is easy to hide. easy to lock away. and i think the diaristic attribute of that is something so valuable and courageous that, as i go through all this work, i bounce back and forth between opposing shudders of elation and embarrassment. ha! but embarrassment in a good way- a necessary exposure. work that does not pull it's punch and risks humiliation in order to go all the way. and that makes me feel great.
it helps me to see the all the work together. how, in spite of extreme shifts in stylistic approaches, all the work is rooted in the same concepts. whether it be oil on canvas or shoe prints on paper, it all comes up from the same well. it all grows in The Blackland and i think each piece lends itself to every other piece in a very nourishing, substantiating way. a very very VERY interesting conversation ensures when all this work is allowed to rub elbows with one another, for sure.
here's some "diary pages". the more i look at this sector of my practice, the more i like it and the more i want to lean deeper in to it. none of this work is titled yet and i'm not sure what i'll do with it. maybe nothing. maybe everything.
the 2nd one down has been following me around for 2 years now and, originally, i thought of it as some sort of sign for myself. i had it hanging in my studio and it would fall off the wall and i walked all over it a few times because i didn't think of it as art. but i guess getting a few pale shoe prints on it added something to the piece, gave it a new layer of meaning along with the dirt. :) i like it.
the 3rd piece was originally an art poster i got in the mail promoting an exhibition that i quickly redacted.
and the first piece was finished just yesterday. a mono-print of silver blowing leaves that i wrote all over. is it a drawing or a poem or a diary page? having those kinds of questions come up is exactly why i like it and why i like ART in general.
Jun 4, 2010
May 5, 2010
it is not peaceful.
it is because i am the middle-child. text-book that way. secret keeper and all that. learning how to pick battles carefully. learned already. and the great mass of information that i have, quiet and still under the line of the water. beneath. asleep. maybe not asleep. maybe not anymore.
the slow advance.
the cycle of thawing and freezing. melt a little. re-freeze. let the slush find its way back to ice. it is infinite. steady. sturdy. silent. a killer dressed in white. lace at the neck. it only looks soft.
middle child
15" x 22"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010
the slow advance.
the cycle of thawing and freezing. melt a little. re-freeze. let the slush find its way back to ice. it is infinite. steady. sturdy. silent. a killer dressed in white. lace at the neck. it only looks soft.
middle child
15" x 22"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010
Apr 12, 2010
sneak peek
.JPG)
66" x 30"
this is only 1/3rd of what the finished size of this piece will end up being. the finished size will be 66" x 90"... maybe more. WALL SIZE! dang!
Apr 9, 2010
(BIG SMILE)
back on my good grey horse this morning. already already.
it's funny how quickly perspectives shift.
yesterday, a miraculous thing happened: i began a new oil painting. something about priming and sanding and smoothing new canvas made me hungry for it... to revere something. and oil painting is a very reverential thing- the history of portrait painting bleeding through... no matter the subject... it's always a portrait... and they say, in some way, always a self-portrait. i tend to agree with that. all work is, to some degree, autobiographical. even if only in terms of aesthetics. and this is a perfect way to perceive it. a perfect way to proceed. why work on something you're not at all attracted to? that doesn't speak to you? why spend hours deep in the wrestling if you aren't captivated by the image itself?
and this outlook i've given myself permission to cling to - of recognizing, day by day, what image or form or material speaks loudest to me - has unleashed such a rapid love. a quick-moving, diligent, reverential love. and so i slid the black oil all over and kept going, kept going, kept going. and i realized that maybe the thing that has been bugging me specifically about oil painting isn't the material and isn't the image, but rather my handling of it. specifically, my technique. it needed to change a bit. evolve. i had locked myself in to a procedure.
but all the drawing i've been doing has refreshed me... let me see images in a different way... let me see materials in a different way. how painting is an act of honoring. a mode through which we (i) esteem something. and drawing can be that way too, but it's more intimate... full of traces and stains and the sweep of the human hand throughout its entirety. if you look close enough, you will find a finger print. and that's why i am so attracted to drawing lately. the intimacy of it. the imperfections and explorations that are inherent to the media itself.
but yesterday, something shook loose and i remembered that i do in fact know how to paint. that i know how to paint wet-into-wet. that i don't have to stick to the procedure if the procedure no longer aids the exploration as a whole. it was a fast, hard, happy realization and i worked late in to the evening.
it's funny... the things a person forgets. and how frail my ego gets some days. days when i say the worst things possible to myself, convinced everything i've ever done is stupid and pointless and that i'll never get it right. haha! all artists do it. and it feels like hell at the time. but i have to laugh at myself and just keep going.
it is bright and beautiful and green green green outside. maybe i'll paint outdoors today in the good light.
i'll be back later with the poem of the day. i'm enjoying just thinking about painting right now and want to sit with my coffee and look at the canvas for awhile this morning before anything else. it's romantic. :)
it's funny how quickly perspectives shift.
yesterday, a miraculous thing happened: i began a new oil painting. something about priming and sanding and smoothing new canvas made me hungry for it... to revere something. and oil painting is a very reverential thing- the history of portrait painting bleeding through... no matter the subject... it's always a portrait... and they say, in some way, always a self-portrait. i tend to agree with that. all work is, to some degree, autobiographical. even if only in terms of aesthetics. and this is a perfect way to perceive it. a perfect way to proceed. why work on something you're not at all attracted to? that doesn't speak to you? why spend hours deep in the wrestling if you aren't captivated by the image itself?
and this outlook i've given myself permission to cling to - of recognizing, day by day, what image or form or material speaks loudest to me - has unleashed such a rapid love. a quick-moving, diligent, reverential love. and so i slid the black oil all over and kept going, kept going, kept going. and i realized that maybe the thing that has been bugging me specifically about oil painting isn't the material and isn't the image, but rather my handling of it. specifically, my technique. it needed to change a bit. evolve. i had locked myself in to a procedure.
but all the drawing i've been doing has refreshed me... let me see images in a different way... let me see materials in a different way. how painting is an act of honoring. a mode through which we (i) esteem something. and drawing can be that way too, but it's more intimate... full of traces and stains and the sweep of the human hand throughout its entirety. if you look close enough, you will find a finger print. and that's why i am so attracted to drawing lately. the intimacy of it. the imperfections and explorations that are inherent to the media itself.
but yesterday, something shook loose and i remembered that i do in fact know how to paint. that i know how to paint wet-into-wet. that i don't have to stick to the procedure if the procedure no longer aids the exploration as a whole. it was a fast, hard, happy realization and i worked late in to the evening.
it's funny... the things a person forgets. and how frail my ego gets some days. days when i say the worst things possible to myself, convinced everything i've ever done is stupid and pointless and that i'll never get it right. haha! all artists do it. and it feels like hell at the time. but i have to laugh at myself and just keep going.
it is bright and beautiful and green green green outside. maybe i'll paint outdoors today in the good light.
i'll be back later with the poem of the day. i'm enjoying just thinking about painting right now and want to sit with my coffee and look at the canvas for awhile this morning before anything else. it's romantic. :)
Apr 5, 2010
search
yesterday it rained and rained. hard and constant. grey. dim. it felt like evening all day long. and i stayed in my pajamas, drawing and reading in bed, until it was time to get ready for dinner at our neighbor's house.
i read the introduction to Vitamin D- an artist bible if ever there was one... especially for those of us fond of working on paper. and the essay said everything i've been thinking about lately. ideas of mapping and charting personal environments... a "bedroom art" loaded with intimacy. what a perfect mirror. i eventually find myself drawing in bed at some point everyday. and today will be no different. there's just something about it, as an art and as an act, that fits so seamlessly with my interests right now. oil painting feels so final to me at present... a closed system... grand. and i don't want to do anything final or grand right now, i want to explore. if need be, get it wrong. i want to feel my way around, not worry about definitions... or anything definite. i want to crawl through the grass and pick up the fragments, stick them in my pocket, and feel around for more.
i'll move back to oil painting eventually. and probably sooner than later. but for now i need the intimacy of paper, the common attribute of it, a humble pencil in my hand.
it's the path toward "the right word" we've all been talking about so much lately... a truer language for me at this point in my life. the blacked in areas of my scratching, the white blankness that signifies loss or the unknown, the skipped over, the nexus of ALL COLOR.
and i know there is no "right word". but it is the search for it that counts. the hunting down of an honest mode. the defeat that must be overcome. persistence and honor and striving and finding. maybe these things are more important than "knowing".
Words
Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echos!
Echos travelling
Off from the centre like horses.
The sap
Wells like tears, like the
Water striving
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock
That drops and turns,
A white skull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I
Encounter them on the road-
Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
While
From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars
Govern a life.
-Sylvia Plath
(from Ariel)
i read the introduction to Vitamin D- an artist bible if ever there was one... especially for those of us fond of working on paper. and the essay said everything i've been thinking about lately. ideas of mapping and charting personal environments... a "bedroom art" loaded with intimacy. what a perfect mirror. i eventually find myself drawing in bed at some point everyday. and today will be no different. there's just something about it, as an art and as an act, that fits so seamlessly with my interests right now. oil painting feels so final to me at present... a closed system... grand. and i don't want to do anything final or grand right now, i want to explore. if need be, get it wrong. i want to feel my way around, not worry about definitions... or anything definite. i want to crawl through the grass and pick up the fragments, stick them in my pocket, and feel around for more.
i'll move back to oil painting eventually. and probably sooner than later. but for now i need the intimacy of paper, the common attribute of it, a humble pencil in my hand.
it's the path toward "the right word" we've all been talking about so much lately... a truer language for me at this point in my life. the blacked in areas of my scratching, the white blankness that signifies loss or the unknown, the skipped over, the nexus of ALL COLOR.
and i know there is no "right word". but it is the search for it that counts. the hunting down of an honest mode. the defeat that must be overcome. persistence and honor and striving and finding. maybe these things are more important than "knowing".
Words
Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echos!
Echos travelling
Off from the centre like horses.
The sap
Wells like tears, like the
Water striving
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock
That drops and turns,
A white skull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I
Encounter them on the road-
Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
While
From the bottom of the pool, fixed stars
Govern a life.
-Sylvia Plath
(from Ariel)
Mar 1, 2010
first again
today is a strange grey day. the cold has finally set in and the sky never really got light. this first day. this new month. and march is the signal that the new year is not so new. i find myself in the day-to-day but, this march, i am not beaten by it. i worked, back and forth, on karen's second portrait and a large drawing of an iceberg. both will take their time. both endless greys and whites and blacks. both a collection of sly shadows and haunts. both entirely fascinating and my hand is cramped now from drawing all day. pressing hard getting the dark parts as dark as they can go. the house is silent and i listen only to the sounds of the street. the cars and the dogs. the sirens every now and then. i sip my coffee. i shave the pencil. i scratch my eyes. i rub the burn in my shoulder blade.
i've been trying but i can't figure out what song would match this day.
i've been trying but i can't figure out what song would match this day.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 24, 2010
this morning...
grey again. and as the rain came down, i pushed my graphite in to the white expanse and i finished her portrait. she is leaning against the wall, strapped to her board and smiling. we are both satisfied. but it is only for now. there will be another portrait of her. and another. and another.
a strange culmination of events and ideas... the art i've been looking at and the things i've been reading and all this twisting study... a prior version of myself has woken up. a stronger, more daring, less indecisive, less fearful version. and i push the graphite in to the white expanse until it is black and slick and reflective. an embrace. an acceptance. very much a locking together of the past with the present- an unapologetic view... something unashamed.
i want to be vague a little while longer. i don't want to get ahead of myself and share this work yet. i want to keep this dance between myself and the black i skid and push and end up wearing all up and down my arms, all over my face, within the length of my hair, and across the thighs of my jeans. just us. just we two. just me and you. dance. dance. so slow. warm. and breath beginning to quicken.
a strange culmination of events and ideas... the art i've been looking at and the things i've been reading and all this twisting study... a prior version of myself has woken up. a stronger, more daring, less indecisive, less fearful version. and i push the graphite in to the white expanse until it is black and slick and reflective. an embrace. an acceptance. very much a locking together of the past with the present- an unapologetic view... something unashamed.
i want to be vague a little while longer. i don't want to get ahead of myself and share this work yet. i want to keep this dance between myself and the black i skid and push and end up wearing all up and down my arms, all over my face, within the length of my hair, and across the thighs of my jeans. just us. just we two. just me and you. dance. dance. so slow. warm. and breath beginning to quicken.
Feb 22, 2010
oh man
the weekend when by in a fast grey blur of drizzle and graphite.
a drawing marathon ensued and i just couldn't stop.
the only time i did stop was to go to the art store and buy more pencils and a new big portfolio to contain them in. other than that, it was eat, sleep, draw, eat, sleep, draw all weekend long. and during this race through graphite, wonderful philosophic conversations about art with my sweetheart. and common sense conversations too which, sometimes, are actually the bigger help- the "keep it simple" mentality is a rich and surprising one. i've become a fan. and a big time fan of artist Banks Violette this weekend too. his work reminds me of what i was moving toward when i was in my last year of school and getting ready to graduate. not that my work looked like his... but the impulse was very much the same; the desire, the "voice", the narrative that the audience creates with just a few hints from the maker of all these seemingly disparate images...
the life story.
the back-story.
the autobiographical nature of this whole enterprise.
and i looked at his work and read his interviews and studied, studied, studied and drew pictures. i sat in bed with a big board on my lap, big paper on top, pencil in hand, and sharpener to my right. i worked and explored and the only criteria, the most important criteria, was that i move forward with images that truly captivate me RIGHT THIS SECOND. i choose to abandon all concern of whether or not the images have anything in common or how they would work together and blah blah blah. they have me in common.
sometimes the conceptual framework for a body of work comes at the end. it comes after the work is done and you lay it all out together across the living room floor and all the ideas, all the desires, all the fascinations rise to the surface. that is how i proceeded in school. fearlessly. unrestrained by rules and just ran toward what attracted me. i let myself gravitate toward images that i had a deep, emotional response to. i drew and painted what i cared about- nothing else. and that's why i could spend 10 hours in the studio at a stretch without a break. that level of commitment, being able to sustain that kind of focus, achieving that degree of dedication, only happens when you are truly captivated by the image. and so i have to say, in all honesty, that my struggle the past year has come from the fact that i have been searching searching searching for captivating images and sometimes i've come up short. sometimes i've found a dead end. that's just the nature of this thing. that's the nature of exploration. that's the nature of a maze. and then suddenly, here i am, on a path that lets me wind around again, meander through the tall dark trees and see my life and my past and my needs and my hopes...
and they are not all sweet.
they are not all nice.
about a year ago i got the urge to do sylvia likens' portrait but i just wasn't ready. not even close. and so i wandered off in a different direction and got lost. that's just how it goes sometimes. but there was something about Banks Violette's work and reading the poetry of Aase Berg and all the blogs i read and looking through Vitamin D (an artist's bible if ever there was one) and thinking about myself, who i've become through the trials of the last few years, the massive depression and fears and all the journals i've filled, all the words words words, and the reaching, crying, searing hope that burns through me daily to find something honest. and i thought of elsie and i looked at The Good Daughter portraits hanging on my bedroom wall. i starting thinking about ghosts and rituals and acts of mourning. i starting thinking about honor and courage and saying "THIS IS RELEVANT AND I DON'T NEED ANYONE TO AGREE WITH ME". and i thought of seances and vigils and anniversaries and the need to commemorate something... something, anything, everything. and then it happened... i became, in that instant, ready to do her portrait. large and in graphite. extreme contrast, dark and light, the binary, the right and wrong, the beauty and the horror, the longing and the anger and the surprise at the unbelievable strength and fortitude of such a young girl. the naive and beautiful belief that her suffering could protect someone else.... her sister.... and it did. it did. she took the torture and it spared someone else. and in her photograph she has the sweetest, most innocent, happy smile.... the whole thing shakes me to my core. the whole thing breaks my heart. the whole thing makes me writhe and i wonder... what can i do?
i can do her portrait. i can do as many as it takes. it always has hurt me that we know that names of murderers but we don't know the names of their victims. it is a sick honoring of their "work" that we, as a culture, keep their names and not the names of those who suffered under their hand.
and i think of value. what i value. and i know the paintings i did for JonBenet creeped people out but it was important work. it is important to keep some candles lit. it is important to remember.
sylvia's portrait is almost done. it will be done and done again as often and as many as it takes. a vigil. an honoring. and i am honored to be doing it.
a drawing marathon ensued and i just couldn't stop.
the only time i did stop was to go to the art store and buy more pencils and a new big portfolio to contain them in. other than that, it was eat, sleep, draw, eat, sleep, draw all weekend long. and during this race through graphite, wonderful philosophic conversations about art with my sweetheart. and common sense conversations too which, sometimes, are actually the bigger help- the "keep it simple" mentality is a rich and surprising one. i've become a fan. and a big time fan of artist Banks Violette this weekend too. his work reminds me of what i was moving toward when i was in my last year of school and getting ready to graduate. not that my work looked like his... but the impulse was very much the same; the desire, the "voice", the narrative that the audience creates with just a few hints from the maker of all these seemingly disparate images...
the life story.
the back-story.
the autobiographical nature of this whole enterprise.
and i looked at his work and read his interviews and studied, studied, studied and drew pictures. i sat in bed with a big board on my lap, big paper on top, pencil in hand, and sharpener to my right. i worked and explored and the only criteria, the most important criteria, was that i move forward with images that truly captivate me RIGHT THIS SECOND. i choose to abandon all concern of whether or not the images have anything in common or how they would work together and blah blah blah. they have me in common.
sometimes the conceptual framework for a body of work comes at the end. it comes after the work is done and you lay it all out together across the living room floor and all the ideas, all the desires, all the fascinations rise to the surface. that is how i proceeded in school. fearlessly. unrestrained by rules and just ran toward what attracted me. i let myself gravitate toward images that i had a deep, emotional response to. i drew and painted what i cared about- nothing else. and that's why i could spend 10 hours in the studio at a stretch without a break. that level of commitment, being able to sustain that kind of focus, achieving that degree of dedication, only happens when you are truly captivated by the image. and so i have to say, in all honesty, that my struggle the past year has come from the fact that i have been searching searching searching for captivating images and sometimes i've come up short. sometimes i've found a dead end. that's just the nature of this thing. that's the nature of exploration. that's the nature of a maze. and then suddenly, here i am, on a path that lets me wind around again, meander through the tall dark trees and see my life and my past and my needs and my hopes...
and they are not all sweet.
they are not all nice.
about a year ago i got the urge to do sylvia likens' portrait but i just wasn't ready. not even close. and so i wandered off in a different direction and got lost. that's just how it goes sometimes. but there was something about Banks Violette's work and reading the poetry of Aase Berg and all the blogs i read and looking through Vitamin D (an artist's bible if ever there was one) and thinking about myself, who i've become through the trials of the last few years, the massive depression and fears and all the journals i've filled, all the words words words, and the reaching, crying, searing hope that burns through me daily to find something honest. and i thought of elsie and i looked at The Good Daughter portraits hanging on my bedroom wall. i starting thinking about ghosts and rituals and acts of mourning. i starting thinking about honor and courage and saying "THIS IS RELEVANT AND I DON'T NEED ANYONE TO AGREE WITH ME". and i thought of seances and vigils and anniversaries and the need to commemorate something... something, anything, everything. and then it happened... i became, in that instant, ready to do her portrait. large and in graphite. extreme contrast, dark and light, the binary, the right and wrong, the beauty and the horror, the longing and the anger and the surprise at the unbelievable strength and fortitude of such a young girl. the naive and beautiful belief that her suffering could protect someone else.... her sister.... and it did. it did. she took the torture and it spared someone else. and in her photograph she has the sweetest, most innocent, happy smile.... the whole thing shakes me to my core. the whole thing breaks my heart. the whole thing makes me writhe and i wonder... what can i do?
i can do her portrait. i can do as many as it takes. it always has hurt me that we know that names of murderers but we don't know the names of their victims. it is a sick honoring of their "work" that we, as a culture, keep their names and not the names of those who suffered under their hand.
and i think of value. what i value. and i know the paintings i did for JonBenet creeped people out but it was important work. it is important to keep some candles lit. it is important to remember.
sylvia's portrait is almost done. it will be done and done again as often and as many as it takes. a vigil. an honoring. and i am honored to be doing it.
Dec 8, 2009
good morning, indeed!
already the little one crawled out to say hi. just a quick little drawing, all in pencil.
there is no better way for a day to begin.
Alpha (study 4)
15" x 11"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2009
there is no better way for a day to begin.
Alpha (study 4)
15" x 11"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2009
Nov 25, 2009
off to a good start...
i've been attempting the 'drawing a day' resolution, trying to get prepared and build up some steam for the whole thing and, let me tell you, this will be no easy task... but i'm game. and already i see it works! not just to get my juices going, but also just to lighten my mood. i can't tell you how wonderfully it kick starts the day! i highly recommend it.
anyway, the first few days of it i made pretty crappy drawings. i expected that and also expect it to keep happening. there's really no way around it. but you've got to get the crappy drawings done and out of the way to get to a good one, right. and so...
,+11x7.5,+mixed+media+on+paper,+angela+simione+2009.JPG)
untitled (sisters)
11" x 7.5"
water soluble graphite and gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009
round two of this particular image. and it definitely won't be the last. there's just something about those white socks and black sandals. some sort of nostalgia or longing or painful expectation, assumption, requirement...
i don't know, i just like it. i'm excited to see where it will go. and me along with it.
soon, i'll be heading over to my neighbor's house to devise a plan of attack for thanksgiving. we are joining forces and i am so excited! she's got the turkey, i've got the ham, and there are tons of potatoes (sweet and not sweet) and brussel sprouts and deviled eggs and cranberry sauce and on and on and on. and this will all be for 5 maybe 6 people. hahahahaha! gluttony! about this time tomorrow, i'm sure i'll already be wondering why the hell i suggested this and will promptly begin feeling disgusted with myself. until then (and even after), i'm going head first.
anyway, the first few days of it i made pretty crappy drawings. i expected that and also expect it to keep happening. there's really no way around it. but you've got to get the crappy drawings done and out of the way to get to a good one, right. and so...
,+11x7.5,+mixed+media+on+paper,+angela+simione+2009.JPG)
untitled (sisters)
11" x 7.5"
water soluble graphite and gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009
round two of this particular image. and it definitely won't be the last. there's just something about those white socks and black sandals. some sort of nostalgia or longing or painful expectation, assumption, requirement...
i don't know, i just like it. i'm excited to see where it will go. and me along with it.
soon, i'll be heading over to my neighbor's house to devise a plan of attack for thanksgiving. we are joining forces and i am so excited! she's got the turkey, i've got the ham, and there are tons of potatoes (sweet and not sweet) and brussel sprouts and deviled eggs and cranberry sauce and on and on and on. and this will all be for 5 maybe 6 people. hahahahaha! gluttony! about this time tomorrow, i'm sure i'll already be wondering why the hell i suggested this and will promptly begin feeling disgusted with myself. until then (and even after), i'm going head first.
Nov 23, 2009
amends...
amends (1)
15" x 11"
ink and gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009
amends (2)
15" x 11"
gouache on paper
angela simione, 2009
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