Spotlight on Gastropods: "Van Huysum's Snails"

Van Huysum's Snail I - acrylic - 2007 - 16" x 20"

Van Huysum's Snail II - acrylic - 2007 - 16" x 20"

I have always been a fan of still life painting, and some of my favourite artists are practitioners of the genre--Cezanne's apples, Morandi's dusty old bottles, Jim Dine's tools, and Wayne Thiebaud's cakes come immediately to mind. But I had never been very excited by the big floral arrangements painted by some of the famous Dutch painters until I learned to look for the creepy-crawlies that lurk in the corners and chomp their way through the leaves.

Dutch realism was a Calvinist reaction against the religious iconography of pre-Reformation art and its continuation in the Catholic countries during the Counter-Reformation. The Dutch painters depicted the real people, places and objects of their world, not saints, angels and cherubs swirling around the heavens. Nevertheless, theology is still implicit in their 17th century art, even in a painting of a vase of flowers. At first glance the viewer sees something beautiful--a floral arrangement at the peak of perfection--but needs to be reminded that in this material world everything passes, fades and dies, and only the spiritual world endures. Apparent perfection is mere vanity, unreliable and transitory, subject to being destroyed or consumed. Some painters included elements such as clocks and skulls to jolt the viewer back to reality. Others were more subtle: they implied the passing of time and the vanity of this world by slipping flies and beetles into their compositions, along with bits of dead leaf and fallen petals.

Detail of Hollyhocks etc. painting by Jan van Huysum

Jan van Huysum lived from1682 to1749, so by the time he painted his floral compositions he probably included his animal elements more for decorative than moral purposes, but he still followed the convention of his predecessors. Leafing through one of my art books one day I paused to have a closer look at a painting by van Huysum called "Hollyhocks and Other Flowers in a Vase." Towards the bottom of the composition, as a sort of visual footnote, there are two snails, a small one crawling up a hollyhock leaf, and a larger, very perky one, advancing purposefully along the shelf. The idea came to me of blowing up two small sections of van Huysum's painting and placing each snail centre-stage.

When an original painting has been photographed and reproduced in print there's no way of telling how accurate the colour is. I may have seen the Hollyhocks painting in the National Gallery at some time, but if so I don't really remember it. Judging by an Internet image I found recently:  www.artunframed.com/images/artmis15/huysum88.jpg  the colours are more vibrant than the ones in my book. For my purposes it didn't matter; I just stayed as close as I could to the book illustration. (Dutch Painting by Christopher Brown, Phaidon, 1993, p. 125.)


Singling out the snails to star in the show is another way of honouring the humble and easily overlooked, a theme that recurs in my work. To a gardener slugs and snails are the animal equivalent of nasty weeds--things that need to be eliminated because they threaten the more desirable plants. But any true depiction of nature acknowledges that everything has its season and eventually dies, and that every living thing has to eat at the expense of something else. Flowers, especially cut ones, may be seen as a metaphor for human youth and beauty, and the snails as a symbol of time, which relentlessly gnaws away at our lifespan. Snails are also often seen as the epitome of ugliness, as expressed in the disparaging nursery rhyme:

Slugs and snails and puppy dogs' tails,

That's what little boys are made of.

Yet a snail's shell is a beautiful object, no less so than the mollusc shells that children of all ages like to pick up on the beach. It seems to me that van Huysum loved his snails. His treatment of the larger one in "Hollyhocks," with its eyes and antennae tips highlighted, shows a marked degree of respect for the despised creature. So perhaps he would understand why someone painting 400 years later might want to present a close-up view of the hungry little crawlers.

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Next time (around April 24): Serious Humour: "Designated Driver"

Designated Driver - acrylic - 2010 - 22" x 22"

 

All the Same, All Different: Pets, Pancakes, Persimmons, and other Projects

I have my children to thank for bringing to my attention a principle which underlies some of my art projects and continues to suggest new directions--the principle of "the same only different." When they reached the mid-childhood stage of clamouring for little creatures in cages, my son and daughter had a reluctant and unreceptive mother who had no desire to share her home with smelly creatures that would eat and breed prodigiously and always need cleaning. My objections, however, were overruled, and over the years we accommodated hamsters, gerbils, budgies, guinea pigs, and a deformed fish which we babysat, and which its rightful owners (very sensibly) never got around to reclaiming. I was not a total neophyte when it came to pets. I'd lived with various cats, and was well aware of each one's individuality, and accepted that dogs too had unique personalities; but the idiosyncrasies demonstrated by all the diminutive fauna (even the fish, which once jumped out of its tank and was later rescued, still alive, from the dust bunnies under the bed)) came as a complete surprise to me. The gerbils, particularly, covered a whole range of personality traits, from the bold one who teased the cat through the bars of its cage until it got its face ripped off, to the dogged perseverer who learned to run in the exercise wheel in spite of having no front feet. These mouse-sized rodents were as different from each other as you are from me.


The first time this principle cropped up in an art project was during an intensive summer course in paper-making. We made batches of pulp and were then expected to create something with it. I don't think I had any idea what I was going to do, but I started to produce, at an increasingly frenetic pace, two kinds of object. I twisted strips of nylon stockings and dipped them in the pulp, hanging them up to dry in the sun; and I slapped handfuls of the pulp on to inflated balloons, producing leaf-shaped objects. I had never worked so obsessively in my life. And what fascinated me was that I kept doing the same thing, yet the results were all different. I continued dipping and moulding until time ran short, and then I assembled my whole inventory on a frame. I remember thinking that the pieces were metaphors for human beings--all the same, all different.

Pancake 2 - white china marker - 19" x 21"

In January 2005, while casting around for a theme for my last-but-one term at Emily Carr, I happened to cook up a batch of thin pancakes (crepes.) Watching them  solidify and change colour in the pan, I was once again struck by how each one, though made in the same way, was unique. For the next two months I cooked, drew, photographed, and occasionally even ate pancakes. I began with a series of detailed drawings of the flat discs, showing their ridges, grooves and craters as accurately as possible.

Fish nor Fowl - oil sticks - 15" x 29"

Out of the Frying Pan - oil sticks - 21" x 29"

Next I concentrated on segments and edges, and as I enlarged the markings, concentrating on rendering them accurately, whimsical life forms emerged, as in the examples on the left.

After that I let some of the crepes dry out for a week or so, and documented the distorted shapes that they made as they curled up. These I did not eat. To my surprise they turned into bizarre skull- and mask-like forms.

Crepe-Mask 1 - conte crayon - 30" x 23"

Crepe-World - oil sticks on canvas on board - 36" x 42"

The last step in the Pancake Project was Crepe-World, a large drawing on canvas.

Did you guess what the images I included last week represented? I've found in the past that people's suggestions have ranged from the microscopic to the cosmic--single cells to heavenly bodies!

In 2006 I had a commission to paint something for a newly renovated kitchen. The clients wanted something about 24" x 36" and they liked some of the oversized still life subjects I'd worked on. Since the wife said she was particularly fond of persimmons, I suggested that instead of one painting I should do six small ones, 10" x 10" square, each one of a different persimmon. I discovered, as with the hamsters and gerbils, that each one was unique, with its own rosette of leaves. I also learned how to enjoy eating persimmons, avoiding the astringent fibres that come with some varieties. 

Six Persimmons - acrylic on panels, each 10" x 10"

Jan. 1

Feb. 1

I have same-only-different projects in progress now, as well. As with the paper-making enterprise, I'm assembling things without knowing what I'll do with them all. For example, a new ritual for this year is taking the same photo every morning as soon as I get up. I'm not rigid about the timing, or about exactly how much of the scene I include, and there will be times when I'm away and there will be gaps in my record; but by the end of the year I should have three hundred and something versions of the view from my living-room window. I point my camera towards the spot where on a clear day I can glimpse Mt. Baker, the 10,000 ft. volcano just over the border in Washington State. I include a bit of the magnolia tree just outside, which is just, belatedly, coming into bloom. The sun, clouds, weather and tree are all variables which ensure that I never get exactly the same picture twice. All the same, all different.

Feb.27

April 10

 

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Next time (around April 17): Spotlight on Gastropods: "Van Huysum's Snails 1 and 2"

Thoughts about Readers' Comments

This week I am responding to some comments from readers that raise questions in my mind, and which you too may have wondered about. I am including images of some drawings that I plan to write about next time--but I'm not giving titles or telling you what they are. See if you can guess! (If you already know, please don't let on!) 
 
The enthusiastic comments about Easel Talk that I have received indicate that many people, from widely differing backgrounds, enjoy reading the stories about my paintings. ( I realize, of course, that unfavourable sentiments are less likely to reach me, if only because people who don't like my stuff will have long since stopped reading it!) Compliments are lovely, and most encouraging, but just as welcome are comments that raise thought-provoking questions, such as this one from a reader who had just read the entry on "Foreign Hotel" (Feb. 14, 2011):  "I found that I wished that I had looked at your painting more carefully before reading the blog, because once you had described the various interpretations I was no longer sure what my impressions would have been."  

The reader had opened my email notifications in the wrong order. I had in fact included a preview of "Foreign Hotel" the week before. Nevertheless, she raised some valid questions:  to what extent do I as the artist want to influence how people react to my work, and to what extent do viewers want to be influenced? Should art stand alone and speak for itself, allowing viewers to form their own impressions? Might a person feel cheated of a spontaneous reaction by having the artist spell it all out? Or does learning about the context of the work and the artist's feelings about it enhance and enrich the viewing experience? Personally, I've always found that some background knowledge made the work more interesting, and enough readers of Easel Talk, including several who describe themselves as not particularly visual, have told me that they appreciate the added dimension--and even compared me to art exponents in museums and on TV!--that I feel justified in continuing. Still, it is important to have an unmediated response first, so please take advantage of the previews. I also invite your opinions on what constitutes the right kind and amount of information.


Related to this issue is the question of titles. I've always enjoyed naming things--as a small child I named vast families of children I dreamed of having when I grew up--and I like choosing titles for paintings. I'm in the process of reviewing the titles I've come up with so far, trying to decide why I settled on each one, and whether it works. The topic arose out of an exchange of emails following my post on "On the Ferry" (March 6, 2011). Knowing that my correspondent had spent vacations in the Cancun area, I remarked that she had probably travelled on the ferry in the painting, to which she replied, "Couldn't it be any ferry?"
Well yes, it could--at least until I identified its location in my blog--and that's why I didn't call it "On the Cancun ferry." I debated whether it was more likely to sell if I left it vague--it might appeal to someone with fond memories of a ferry in Asia or the Mediterranean region--or whether the specific reference would give it a better chance with people who had spent time in Mexico. I've yet to find out! I think my titles are an attempt to pinpoint what is most important to me about the subject. Usually, I have something in mind which is implicit in the painting, but may or may not be perceived by someone else. For example, in the small painting that I called "Quintet", I was thinking of the perky little percussion instruments called high-hats.

Quintet - acrylic - 2010 - 12" x 12"

Titles are especially perplexing when it comes to non-representational painting. Personally I feel let down when I read "Composition" or "Abstraction"on the label, even though that is exactly what the painting is. I like titles, and for me a good one is a kind of mini-poem that enhances the visual aspect. It's not always easy to choose something that feels right, though. Below is an abstract painting that was produced quickly and intuitively, without any preconceived ideas about subject matter. The result seemed to me to have architectural elements, a mystery, and a ghostly presence. I've tried several titles, but none of them really satisfies me. I started with "Haunted House", switched to "Who's in There?" and most recently, "Anyone Home?" Maybe I should just call it "Mystery"?

To be renamed? - acrylic on paper - 2002 - 23" x 30"

I think I did better with "Winter," another intuitive abstract. When painting it I was thinking only of the mark-making, and of economical use of means and colour. It turned out being so suggestive of winter in a cold climate that one woman who saw it remarked, "I'm from Saskatchewan, and it looks just like that!"

Winter - acrylic on paper - 2002 - 23" x 30"

Enough for this week. I have more issues to discuss that have been raised by readers' comments, but will come back to them at a future date.

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Next time (around April 9): All the Same, All Different: The Mystery Drawings!

 

Exalting the Humble: "A Magnificent Weed"

A Magnificent Weed - acrylic - 2010 - 40" x 30"

This is another example of a painting of nothing much. In fact its subject was so humble that until I started to paint it and explain to my studio mates what I was doing, I don't believe anyone had noticed it at all. And yet my magnificent weed was not small: it was between four and five feet tall, and almost as wide! It had branches as thick as my fingers, leaves turning rich shades of red and yellow, a sprinkling of bright yellow flowers, and an abundant crop of ripening seeds in long thin pods. I practically tripped on the thing as I was unloading my car one day outside the building that houses our studio. I gazed in wonder at this powerhouse of nature growing out of the crack between the tarmac of our parking area and the base of the wall. I was lost in admiration for its prolific growth out of nothing at all. In the dry, hot August weather, how could it be finding any water, let alone nutrients? I knew right away that I wanted to paint its portrait.

Through the Crack - acrylic - 14" x 11"

It was not the first time I'd turned my attention to weeds, and asked myself the question "What is a weed, anyway?" In 2008 I'd had the idea of painting the uninvited guests in my little garden, and had started with the bluebells that threaten to take over each spring. I admired their persistence and sheer determination, especially one that pushed up between paving stones. 

Vancouver Bluebells - acrylic - 12" x 12"

Bluebells are an introduced species and were probably once prized for their fragrance and  colour; but they did too well in Vancouver and became pests. That's one kind of weed. Another kind are the wild plants, such as buttercups, that have moved to where the living is easy--nice tilled soil with water and manure laid on. They're weeds because they're in the wrong place. It's in the eye of the beholder, but it's a matter of context, not of beauty. Surely even the fussiest gardener couldn't deny the beauty of a dandelion flower or seed head. But these weeds are far from invisible: to a gardener they are conspicuous intruders that require instant annihilation. Quite different was the situation of my weed, which wasn't bothering anybody but was just an opportunistic squatter, managing to keep under the radar in the urban desert.


A bit of research identified my weed as a Tall Hedge Mustard. I got to know it better as I examined it each day upon arriving at the studio. I also took close-up photos. The painting began to take shape. Then I decided that since no one had even noticed the weed, no one would care if I cut it down and brought it into the studio to model for me. But I kept forgetting to bring a suitable knife. Perhaps I didn't really want to kill it. Then one night a gale blew and dashed it to the ground. The next day I found it crushed under a parked car. An ignominious end . . . but probably by then enough of its seeds had lodged in cracks in the masonry to ensure another generation's survival.


And of course, there's my painting to celebrate its life. I painted it close to actual size and let its spreading branches straggle right off the picture plane to emphasize its luxuriance. Its little flowers shine out like lights on a Christmas tree. My tribute to its magnificence extends to all organisms, whether animal, vegetable or human, that manage to thrive and prosper in the most adverse conditions, and with the most unpromising of beginnings.


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Next time (around April 3): After this TENTH post to Easel Talk I'll pause to respond to some of the questions and comments I've received. I love getting feedback, so please keep it coming! Just click on "Comments" below. You can do it anonymously!

Unplugged but Much Travelled: "The Bathtub Voyeur"

Photo of disc

Even at my busiest times as a working mother I somehow always found half an hour or so to relax in a tub of hot water. Now I'm retired I rarely fit this luxury into my life, and make do with quick showers, but at the time I moved to my present house I was still a sit-down bather. Since there wasn't much to look at I would find myself studying the plumbing hardware, in particular the chrome disc to which the plug chain was attached. It always reminded me of a little face, with the two screws for eyes--and one of the eyes was winking at me. I filed this notion away for a possible future painting.

In early 2010, at a meeting of the Arts Connection in West Vancouver, I heard about a venture called the International MiniArt Exchange, which was calling for submissions of paintings featuring faces. Here was an incentive to paint my perky little bathroom friend.

The Miniart Exchange is the brainchild of a Brazilian artist called Clara Pechansky. Clara's idea was to assemble a collection of small paintings that would travel the world and give people an opportunity to see a wide variety of international art. The first Exchange took place in Brazil in 2003, and has since spread to galleries and institutions on four continents. The paintings are not put up for sale, but circulate in batches among the venues. You can read more about the project and see lots of examples at www.miniartex.org

The Bathtub Voyeur - acrylic on board

The twelfth international exchange was to take place in 2010-2011. First the paintings would be exhibited in Porto Alegre in Brazil, in the summer of 2010, and the following year they would be brought to the Ferry Building Gallery in West Vancouver.The show was open to anybody--there was no jury-- but the rules were strict and the process felt like a bit of an obstacle race. All the works had to be exactly 18 x 15 cm, and painted on canvas board. There were several deadlines--one for receiving the painting in Porto Alegre, one for payment of an entry fee by Pay Pal (which I'd never done before) and one for emailing a digital image to Clara for inclusion in the catalogue. I produced my little painting and sent it off feeling as though I were firing it into outer space. It did get there, however, and was even included among the works featured on the brochure for the exhibition.There was a hitch resulting in a delay in Brazil, but the show did eventually take place, and the return match in West Vancouver is scheduled for July of this year.

As I wriggled around in the bath doing my research on the winking face, I realized that the reflective chrome was also acting as a distorting mirror, and that my own face and part of my torso were visible in the disc. I decided to include these in the painting. I don't think anyone would recognize me from this nudie self-portrait, but it made my submission doubly qualified to be in a show of faces. There is even a third, very tiny face, which doubles as the nose of the Voyeur, but this one is pure fantasy: there is a little circle there, part of the manufacturer's trade mark, but in reality it doesn't resemble a face at all.


Long after I'd sent the painting to Brazil it dawned on me that if I had really painted it while reclining in a tub of soapy water as in earlier days, the little chain that drapes decoratively around the "head" and disappears off the picture plane at the top would have been heading straight south to the plughole. I'm not sure if that would have made for a better composition, but I think I'm happy with the jewellery-like effect of the chain. It also makes the context clearer. In any event, unplugged as it is, my little voyeur is seeing the world, and might even be retitled "The Bathtub Voyageur." 

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A Magnificent Weed - acrylic - 40" x 30" - 2010

Next time (around March 27): Exalting the Humble: "A Magnificent Weed"

Painting in a Wet Climate: "The Rhythm of the Falling Rain " and "Hanging in the Rain"

In "Dancing Garbage" (Feb. 27, 2011) I described my discovery that subjects for paintings could be found in the most unpromising material. Two more recent  examples of this approach are "The Rhythm of the Falling Rain" and "Hanging in the Rain," both painted in 2009. They form 
part of an ongoing series of paintings on the theme "In Praise of November."

The Rhythm of the Falling Rain - acrylic - 20" x 20"

The former depicts raindrops pelting into a leaf-choked gutter. The rain was so heavy that the impact caused bubbles to bounce up, sail briefly down the street, and make patterns of ripples when they burst.








The subject of the second painting was just as improbable: a cement bucket, viewed through the filthy window of my former studio, making its lonely way through the downpour to an unfinished apartment tower.

Hanging in the Rain - acrylic - 18" x 24"

"In Praise of November" now numbers fifteen works, and each year I collect a few more images. The whole project stems from the "something from nothing much" idea. November is perhaps the least attractive month in Vancouver, when for days or even weeks on end we slosh around, shoulders hunched, intent only on getting home and dry. The sky sits like a massive grey lid just above our heads, and the storm drains fight a losing battle. It's easy to become depressed in these late-autumn weeks, so four years ago I decided to create an antidote for myself by seeking out striking images--anything that stood out against the gloomy backdrop. Initially I planned to take at least one photo per day with a view to using them as the basis for paintings. I lasted about ten days, but that gave me enough material to make a start on the series.From the outset I visualized a whole roomful of November paintings, and found this to be a refreshing way to work, less stressful than agonizing over each individual piece.


Starting with the November stereotype in mind, I was pleasantly surprised by the variety of weather and colour effects that the month had to offer once I really looked. My collection of images soon included snow-laden trees, a spectacular rainbow, remains of autumn leaves and berries. This past November, when we again had an early snowfall, I added images of vivid pink light, reflected off roofs and hillsides at sunrise or sunset. Nevertheless, the most characteristic feature of the season is the relentless rain, and I had to include it. 

The photos I took of the gutter looked dreary in the extreme, but as I worked on the painting the bubbles and ripples took on a jaunty aspect, and the murky grey colour gave way to shades of blue-green. I became aware of a lively movement and rhythm that suggested the title I chose. I have received many compliments on the painting, a gratifying surprise considering its bottom-of the-barrel starting point.

The suspended cement bucket and skeletal building were if anything an even more dismal subject, but in this case too the painting acquired colour as it progressed. The bucket became a metaphor for the isolation of human beings in a rainy climate. We scurry along with heads down, and scarcely interact with anyone in the street until the sun comes out and we suddenly remember how to smile. It's the reverse of the street scene we associate particularly with the Mediterranean countries, where the serious socializing takes place outdoors. 

When I had finished "Hanging in the Rain," I was reasonably satisfied that I had expressed what I saw and felt that dark afternoon when I took the photo, but I thought the subject might be too depressing for anyone to want to look at it. I was therefore particularly pleased when it was selected for the "Window Views" exhibition at CitySpace in North Vancouver in 2010, and sold a few weeks later at the Eastside Culture Crawl. Several people commented that the painting captures the essence of Vancouver in November, but I'm still a bit startled that the couple who bought it were so enthusiastic that they just had to have it in their apartment! One thing I have learned, though, is that I can never predict what will appeal to people, either collectively or individually. At exhibitions and sales, a dozen people may walk past a work with scarcely a glance, but then the thirteenth stops abruptly and moves in for a closer look. And just occasionally, for that person the painting is a must-have. "The Rhythm of the Falling Rain" is still waiting for that thirteenth person!

The Bathtub Voyeur - acrylic - 18 cm x 15 cm

Next time (around March 20): 
Unplugged but Much Travelled: "The Bathtub Voyeur"





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Travelling Hopefully: "On the Ferry"

On the Ferry - 32" x 24" - acrylic on canvas

Of all my paintings so far, "On the Ferry" has received the most exposure and acknowledgment. It has been included in two juried group shows, and featured on the poster and brochures for the 2010 Burnaby Artists' Studio Tour. I am curious about the painting's appeal to a variety of viewers. I think it has something to do with the forward movement implied by the composition, and the eager anticipation expressed in the body language of the three men at the front of the boat. Perhaps people make metaphorical associations with pursuit of a goal, seeking a better future, or progressing through life. Certainly there is a feeling of energy and enthusiasm suggested by the way the men are leaning out and scanning the horizon, where their destination is faintly visible. At the time, though, what appealed to me was simply something about the arrangement of the four heads in front of me. I photographed them surreptitiously, holding my breath in case they turned around and wondered why the grey-haired foreigner was taking their picture. Fortunately the wind and engine noise drowned out the beeps of the camera.

It had been an odd sort of day. My travelling companion and I were returning from Isla Mujeres to Cancun, where we were spending a week. We had decided to alternate our time between lazing around the beachside gardens sipping margaritas, and making day trips to places of interest further afield. We included Isla Mujeres because a former colleague owned a house there, and although we knew it was rented and we would not be able to go inside, we hoped to see its exterior and location. We set off early on the public bus into town, with only a hazy idea of how to get to the ferry terminal. Before we reached our bus stop, however, the weather, which had so far been Caribbean-perfect, suddenly changed, and a torrential downpour turned the streets into watercourses. Not wishing to start our offshore excursion soaked to the skin, we scooted across the road and piled onto a bus going the other way, back to our hotel--another 40-minute trip. By the time we got there, of course, the sun was shining and everything was dry. Nevertheless we picked up rain gear and set off again. This time we made it on to the ferry and to our destination, where we found our friend's house, had lunch nearby, and wandered around a bit. There was no more rain, but the day remained moody and unsettled. Because of our false start in the morning, it was soon time to head back to the ferry. For me the sea trip itself was the best part of the day.


That I was in the area at all was something of a miracle that still seems improbable. I'd been in Mexico several times before, but never on the Caribbean side. Then, in 2006, I received a phone call telling me I had won airfare and a week's hotel accommodation in Cancun. I was convinced at first that it was one of those telephone scams one hears about, but the prize turned out to be genuine--and I hadn't even been aware of entering the contest! Apparently I'd bought some sponsoring product at Canada Safeway that had put me in a draw. The woman who called expressed surprise that I didn't know about it, because, she said, the winner was announced on television. But since I never watch Canadian football, I had missed hearing my name!


While waiting to receive the package with details about my prize, I said not a word to anyone, and agonized over how to invite one friend to go with me without hurting and offending all the others. Finally I asked the one I'd chosen, and she squealed and leapt in the air most gratifyingly. Meanwhile I did some research on Cancun, about which I knew nothing, and was appalled to read that it was just the sort of place I'd always avoided. It's an artificial town, created some 35 years ago specifically to accommodate tourists. All the visitor amenities are housed on a long skinny barrier island, the zona hotelera, while the "real" people live in the nondescript town across the lagoon and the shanty towns some distance away.

Cancun Conversation - 24" x 24" - acrylic on board

Still, you don't look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, and my friend and I thoroughly enjoyed our week in the tropics in mid-February, the best time of year to escape Vancouver. Our hotel was very civilized and located well away from the garish bars and souvenir outlets. The weather, apart from the Isla Mujeres day, was glorious. We swam and relaxed and sampled local dishes, and there were bonuses such as the large lizards which shared the hotel grounds with the guests. Later I painted two of them (a waiter assured us they were father and son, though how on earth would he know?) and my travelling companion now has "Cancun Conversation" hanging in her home. It's a reminder of our holiday and of the battered old warrior that liked to sit under her chair when he wasn't chasing off his reptilian rivals.


Perhaps it's not always better to travel hopefully than to arrive. In the case of Cancun I travelled somewhat dubiously, and being there was much better than anticipated. If "On the Ferry" has metaphorical significance for me it lies in the renewal of hope and energy each time I tackle a
new painting. It's always a challenge and learning experience, and the possibility that this will be my best work ever. Maybe it'll even bring me fame and fortune . . . though I'll settle for just proving to myself that I can meet the challenge and make it work.  There's always a horizon beckoning.

Next time (around March 13):
Painting in a Wet Climate: 
"The Rhythm of the Falling Rain" and "Hanging in the Rain."





Please see also:
www.MyArtClub.com/judith.fairwood