Insurmountable Opportunities

You may be familiar with the quotation from the cartoon character Pogo:  "Gentlemen, we are confronted with insurmountable opportunities."  The quote was elaborated on beautifully by the acclaimed photographer Sally Mann, in her memoir entitled Hold Still.  Mann writes, "It is easier for me to take ten good pictures in an airplane bathroom than in the gardens of Versailles."  So true.

There is something about limitations that forces us to delve deeply into our creativity.  And conversely, there is something about endless possibilities that can be paralyzing.  In fact, I  confronted "insurmountable opportunities" recently on a painting trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Staying at Old Orchard Creek Farm for a few days, there were beautiful sights in every direction. Paralysis almost set in--what should I paint--the distant ridges? nearby apple orchard? charming Victorian house? striking red barn?  I was ready to hyperventilate, just considering the overwhelming array of options.

Thankfully I was able to settle down and focus.  I got a few paintings that were very satisfying.  I just kept repeating my mantra:  "Shapes of Color, Shapes of Color".  And trying to focus on simple shapes, rather than on "things".  But still--sometimes it's easier to make something from nothing, than to face a gorgeous scene that is surely more beautiful than any painting of it could ever be.

I'm illustrating this post with some shots from the trip.  Hope you will enjoy these.  Finished paintings to go up on the website soon...

"Old Orchard Creek Farm"

12 x 12, Oil on Linen

(c) Lesley Powell 2021

The Learning Curve

Every serious painter knows this hard truth:  there are many stumbles on the path to improvement, and you must be willing to fall, and then pick yourself back up and start over. Progress can be sporadic (and that's an understatement). Many hours must be put in. Courage and perseverance are key.

I reflected on this truth while reading an article that discussed how babies learn to walk. Toddlers learning to walk are so determined that they travel the length of about eight football fields in ONE HOUR. During that hour, they fall an average of 30 times. It takes 2.6 million steps for them to become proficient at walking. As the article notes, this failure rate would be deeply discouraging (the article even said "catastrophic") for an adult trying to learn a new skill. 

Toddlers persevere in learning to walk because faster, hands-free mobility is thrilling.  Adults persevere in our endeavors because mastery of a new skill is nirvana. 

Toddlers also teach us that learning is not linear.  They often start to walk, and then revert to crawling for a while. Their progress is U-shaped.  In other words, when learning a new skill, we often get worse before we get better.

Another important lesson from the article is that infants learn best "when operating near the limits of their current skill level."  The takeaway for the rest of us is clear:  Always be "at the edge of what you can't currently do."  

"After Degas"

12 x 10, Oil on Linen

(c) Lesley Powell 2020

I've written about the creative process before, and the example of toddlers learning to walk reinforces some of the notions I explored then. It's a nice concrete example to keep in mind as we start the New Year.  Yes, it's frustrating to be at the edge of what you can't currently do--but oh, the rewards are great when you can push that boundary a little bit further!

Hearing Voices

Portrait of James Lord
(c) Alberto Giacometti, 1964

I know that I'm not the only painter who is pestered by nagging, often negative, voices in my head. As I stand at the easel, the voices might tell me "You'll never be able make this work", or "Nobody will like this".  If you'd like a truly revealing tale of a painter's internal voices, just read A Giacometti Portrait by James Lord. Lord writes about the turmoil expressed by Giocometti as he painted Lord's portrait. To quote from the book: "'Whenever the work is going well he announces, 'Just wait...I'm going to wreck it now.' Whenever the work is going badly he cries in panic: 'Your head's going away!' or 'It's lopsided again!'". 

Detail from Giacometti's Portrait of James Lord (above)

Years ago I heard the painter Walt Gonske confess that when he painted a really good painting, he felt anxious, because he was afraid he'd never be able to paint another one that good. And when he painted a really awful painting, he was also anxious, because he thought he'd never paint a good one again. It's not logical, but I can definitely relate! There is a lot of anxiety in confronting the empty canvas.

Painting by Walt Gonske

Sometimes the voices in my head can be helpful. I recall  sage advice from several mentors, whose words provide guidance in navigating difficult aspects of painting. Simple phrases stick with me, like "Squint down!", "Look for big shapes of color", "Find the pattern of the darks!", "See in three values", "Correct boldly!", etc., etc. 

"Les Bassacs Farmhouses"
8 x 12, Oil on Canvas
(c) Lesley Powell 2018

But the true goal is to be guided by one's own self and one's personal instincts. Philip Guston said "When you're in the studio painting, there are a lot of people in there with you--your teachers, friends, painters from history, critics...and one by one, if you keep painting, they walk out. And then if you're REALLY painting, YOU walk out." Amen.

Keepin' On

A start on some roses...
(c) Lesley Powell 2018

Sometimes I'm really fired up about a subject I'm working on, and I can't wait to rush back to the studio every morning. But then there are other times. Other times when it's a matter of summoning the discipline to "show up", and just keep working. Non-painters sometimes think that art stems purely from a burst of creative energy--but there is always a lot of study, practice and technical development behind the creativity. And (at least for me) it's important to maintain a routine, to avoid a long hiatus in the work, if I want to keep moving the skills forward.

I recently read a saying attributed to the great musician Artur Rubinstein. He said , "If I don't practice the piano for one day, I know it. If I don't practice it for two days, my family knows it. If I don't practice it for three days, my public knows it." There's a lesson in this for all of us!

In Madeleine L'Engle's book Walking on Water, she reflects on the process of making art. L'Engle notes that the moment of inspiration does not come cheaply, nor to those who fail to work hard for it. She comments on the "strange paradox:  your technique must be practiced until it is as close to perfect as you can make it, and then, and then only, are you free to let go, to let yourself get out of the way." And that's when the magic happens.

"Yellow Roses, Footed Vase"
16 x 12, oil on linen
(c) LEsley Powell 2018

This very same point is made in a totally different contact in the book Golf is Not a Game of Perfect by Bob Rotella. Alas, I don't have a copy so I can't find the exact quote. But the concept has always stuck with me: the great golfers practice ceaselessly, until their club choice, swing, judgment, and strategy are second nature. Only then can they walk onto the course the day of the tournament and relax, rely on instinct, feel the game, and win. I hope that some day I can bring this same level of instinct to the canvas! Meanwhile, practice makes perfect. Here's to Keepin' On!

A Numbers Game

It's that time of the year again, when I clean out my studio for the Holiday Open House. This is without doubt the most thorough cleaning that my studio gets all year! The first step is to put away all of my scraps of fabric and still life props (see below). These things have a tendency to multiply--I rationalize that I never know when I might need a certain color, or certain size object, to complete a composition! The next (and hardest) step is to select a group of paintings to show at the event--and to store the rest of the paintings out of sight. The idea is to create a well-curated display, and to eliminate distracting clutter.

Because my storage space is limited, this is a good time to purge a few paintings that just never made the mark. Some of the paintngs are old ones, that I have held for years. They often have a small passage that I really love, which keeps me from throwing them away. I have harbored the hope that the rest of the canvas could be brought up to snuff. Alas, that hope is almost never fulfilled So out they go.

I am not alone in destroying old work. You can read about some creative approaches to destruction here. Sometimes when I look at the discarded canvases, I lament the wasted effort. I feel frustrated that I could not make the paintings "work". But I remind myself of the  very wise words that I read in the book Art & Fear. The authors wrote, "The function of the overwhelming majority of your artwork is simply to teach you how to make the small fraction of your artwork that soars." They noted that even the failed paintings are essential. I might say that ESPECIALLY the failed paintings are essential. Why? Because in one's failures lie the lessons that lead to future successes. 

I think of this as another version of the 80/20 rule: Eighty percent of your work serves as a foundation for the other twenty percent that really soars. Or in the words of an esteemed painter friend, "Some days we produce; other days we learn." And so we carry on...

Falling Up

I recently heard an interesting story about a rock climber. Even though this rock climber was an award-winning champion, he noticed that other climbers were improving faster than he was. He sought the advice of a coach. The coach watched him climb, and immediately saw the problem. Diagnosis: "Your problem is that you are trying to avoid falling. You can never get better if you are tying not to fall." 

"High Flyer"
Oil on Canvas, 20 x 20
(c) Kim Barrick

There is definitely a life lesson here, and one that applies to painting (as well as to any other endeavor, I suppose). I was reminded of this lesson when I saw the title of a painting workshop being offered at Warehouse 521. The instructor is Kim Barrick, and the title of the workshop is "Fearless Painting". Kim writes, "Taking risks is essential to developing your unique artistic voice." Agreed--but it sure is easier said than done!

I have been thinking about this concept as I prepare to attend a painting workshop this summer. I always try to take advantage of workshop situations to spread my wings and try new approaches. This kind of experimentation is best done in a workshop setting, where there is an instructor as a "safety net" to catch you when you fall. Notice that I said WHEN, not IF, you fall. Trying new things makes falling inevitable. But it's the only way to learn and expand your reach.

You can't say I didn't try...

The downside of experimenting during a workshop is that you will fall in full view of other people--people whose respect you would like to gain. So we must try especially hard not to let fear or embarrassment stop us. I think I will print the coach's words on my sketchbook for this summer: "You can never get better if you are trying not to fall."  Courage!!

A New Year's Ritual

Happy New Year, everyone! Who doesn't love to open a fresh calendar, smooth the page open to January, and start a new year?  To make the transition even more enjoyable, I have a special year end ritual at the studio: I destroy old paintings that have never been finished to my satisfaction. It's very cathartic! Getting rid of these old clunkers makes way for new inspiration--both literally and figuratively.

"Reflections and Rooflines"
16 x 24, Oil on Linen
(c) Lesley Powell 2016
Available

What happens to the old clunkers? If they are painted on the very expensive Belgian linen that I love so much, I often remove the varnish, sand them down a bit, and paint over them.  The linen is just too precious to waste! It's actually fun and helpful to have a counter-image

Slash 'n Trash

I was recently asked by friends about the practice of destroying paintings. My friends were shocked that a painter would destroy a canvas that he or she had labored long and hard over. They begged me to explain how such a thing could happen. Hmmm. I immediately remembered what they say about professional photographers: The difference between the professional photographers and the rest of us is that the pros only show us a very small percentage of the photos they actually take. in other words, ruthless editing is essential!

I explained to my friends that painting is like any other enterprise in life--a lot of practice is required in order to make progress. You've got to put in the mileage. And along the way, there will be paintings that are just not up to snuff. You might stick them in the closet, thinking you will re-work them later. Or maybe you don't want to admit how flawed they are, so you hope that when you pull them out later they will be better. (Wishful thinking). Alas, my storage space is not infinite, and so eventually the new works crowd out the old, and the old works that never passed muster must be destroyed.

The phenomenon was described perfectly in the book Art & Fear. The authors wrote, "The function of the overwhelming majority of your artwork is simply to teach you how to make the small fraction of your artwork that soars." They noted that even the failed paintings are essential. I might say ESPECIALLY the failed paintings are essential. In one's failures lie the seeds of future successes. 

As we can see from the original score above, even Beethovan struggled and made mistakes. But we don't usually see the score, which reveals his struggles--we only  hear the beautiful music of the finished symphony. I wish that were the case with visual artists, but alas our mistakes are more tangible. At least until they hit the dust bin!

There is a real sense of catharsis when the old, failed paintings are destroyed. Getting rid of the failures makes me  feel so light, so energized, and so open to new ideas. It's a great New Year's ritual--what better frame of mind to start the New Year?

Doubt

"Shrimpers"
Oil on Canvas, 24 x 36
(c) Colin Page

I have been following the work of Colin Page for quite some time. He is an extremely talented artist who lives in Maine. You may recall that I have written about another Maine artist, Connie Hayes, and I believe that Connie has been an influence on Colin. In the world of perceptual painting, it seems that everybody's "bloodlines" cross somewhere!

"Secret Island"
20 x 36, Oil on Canvas
(c) Colin Page

I was perusing Colin's blog this week, and came across this quotation. Though it is long, it is worth sharing in its entirety. It captures perfectly some of the ups and downs of the painting life. Colin was responding to a question whether he was pleased with his paintings, and whether they had become what he was striving for. He answered thus:

Sometimes I am struggling with every part of a painting and I get in such a funk that I don’t think anything I have painted has any value, and other days I feel like I can do no wrong while standing at the easel. Of course it feels better to have a good day, but they are rare. Usually I am seeing things I want to get better at. Even though it is frustrating to constantly see flaws in our work, that is the only way to improve. If we don’t see flaws in our paintings, we become repetitive and uninteresting. To push painting to better results we always have to be a little disappointed in our work. We have to know that we can do better, and even though the painting you just finished may be the result of your most sincere hard work and effort, we have to know that the lessons from that painting will help do the next painting better. The painters whose careers produced the highest quality work were all searching for something just out of reach and doing everything they could to capture something fleeting. It may drive you crazy and be disappointing. But look at your earlier work and the improvements you’ve already made and imagine how much further you can go from here. A creative life is a constant battle between the disheartening and the hopeful.

Don't you just love that?! "A constant battle between the disheartening and the hopeful". Sometimes, at least in my case, the pendulum can swing between those two in a matter of hours. Or minutes!

"Around the Bend'
(c) Colin Page

Colin went on to share this quotation from Robert Hughes:

“The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is given to the less talented as a consolation prize. Indeed, the idea that doubt can be heroic, if it is locked into a structure as grand as that of the paintings of Cezanne’s old age, is one of the keys to our century.” 

"Masonic Street"
18 x 24, Oil on Canvas
(c) Colin Page

It's good for me to keep in mind, when my own pendulum has swung to the disheartening side, that the struggle is universal. And that every painting is a springboard to the next, informing the next and allowing you to move forward. As Connie Hayes says, the path to improvement is not linear, it's spiral...

The Blank Slate

We often hear the expression that someone or some thing is a "blank slate". Being a blank slate is viewed as a positive thing, because it means that anything can be written, and that all options are open. When it comes to painting, every canvas is a blank slate--literally and figuratively. And sometimes (maybe always!), stepping up to the blank canvas can be frightening.

Twyla Tharp writes in The Creative Habit about the empty white rehearsal room--the blank space waiting for the dance to be choreographed. She says it symbolizes something "profound, mysterious, and terrifying: the task of starting within nothing and working your way toward creating something whole and beautiful and satisfying." She talks about how hard it can be to get started. No wonder that people can become paralyzed with terror when confronting the blank slate.

As is the case in many things in life, experience and hard work can help overcome the terror of the empty room. Tharp has worked as a choreographer for many years and has a long track record of outstanding dance pieces. Many successes. As a result, she now enters the white room feeling not only trepidation, but also peace and promise. Now that's the attitude we all want when we confront the blank canvas! I doubt I will ever achieve the mastery of a Tywla Tharp, but I hope I can gain the confidence to face the blank slate with her sense of peace and promise.