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Monday, March 25, 2013

Portrait of Julia redux

 There is something poetic about the flu--or whatever it is--that has visited itself upon me, my husband and my favorite male model. It has taken each of us three weeks--give or take--to return to the Land of the Fully Alive. It forced each of us into a cadence we would not have chosen for ourselves, a cadence and meter that would support any number of rhyming variations, perhaps.  For me, it was the most horrific pain in my sinuses I have ever endured. Ever. For any reason. And fever. And aches. And deep, dark coughs. And depression.

For my husband, it was a bit of achiness, a bit of fever...and rivers of mucus such as only a really significant Norman schnoz can hold and issue forth. No depression; my husband is one of those mesomorphs to whom depression is as foreign as being a Pollyanna is to me. Even when sick. In both cases.

For Alex, it seemed to have been a sluggish, achy, chilly, spacey sort of thing. Some depression. Or so it sounded in the retelling.

What sort of thing is this, that could affect us all so differently? Perhaps it was a painting. Yes, perhaps. A poem would mean pretty much the same thing to all readers. But a painting--perhaps something by Magritte--would cause each viewer to come up with his or her own reaction.

But it's done now. I was hoping spring would arrive at its conclusion. A few warmish, sunny days in the past ten or so--during which walks on the beach helped us regain our strength and something akin to hope for the future--convinced me that the next expression of being would be spring.

***
So, one of the coldest days of the year, and several days into spring. I did, finally, spend an hour at the easel and Julia is finally becoming more Julia-like. I didn't want to do it yet, while I'm still investigating the relationships of the planes of her face, but I had to drop in some background for contrast so I could really see the outline of nearly perfect nose, full lips and high forehead. And then it began to take shape. It's based on a favorite photo of her from about five years ago. She was looking out the window of the Bodmin & Wenford Railway during one of their Christmas week carol-singing, scone-eating jaunts. It was a gray day, and not much light came in the window.

Julia and Simon with the crew of a Bodmin & Wenford Railway Christmas carol train.

Julia was wearing a black jersey. All one could see was her blonde hair and her face, surrounded by darkness, with a spill of weak daylight casting odd shadows. I decided it was perfect for an atmospheric painting of a young woman of 20, who has since become a wife and mother. I don't think we shall see that springtime Julia again; she's fully into summer now, balancing kids, home, husband, a future that has increased several-fold since the days when she could just stare out a train window, wondering--perhaps--how her father and stepmother had cooked up this odd adventure. Now her adventures include a toddler and an infant, a dog, sometimes a husband, a big American car, shopping/cooking/cleaning/egad! The summer of a married woman's life lasts a while--about 21 years at last count--and I expect I will paint another portrait of Julia along about the middle of her lifetime's summer, before I hang up my palette for good. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll paint her in the early fall of her life, too.

But we had such a good time the day I took the picture that is becoming a portrait. The railway chaplain, who led the carols, was like something out of a Cornish romance novel, all dishevelled, as if he had no wife to darn his jersey or put a crease in his trousers every now and then. A sweet old guy.

There wasn't much to see in the train's short run, and none of us is particularly fond of group singing. Still, it was a steam engine pulling the thing, and we stopped after for photos with the train crew. By which time, the sherry served on board had worn off, and we headed to the Jamaica Inn for a little warm-up. Touristy? For certain. The whole day was. But it was interesting...interesting to see Julia on the edge of adulthood, pensive, wondering what lay ahead. And to realize the great love I have for her, although I didn't give birth to her, and would never presume to claim her.

This painting...this painting...is filled with things. I hope it turns out well.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Virus as art

By Marcos Girao...I think he perfectly capture the moment for me...

 
As I lay in the bed, sort of cold but not really, sort of in pain but not really, sort of thirsty, sort of hungry...suddenly a little zingy pain shot down one side of a top front tooth. Then it shot down the bottom tooth exactly opposite.

I coughed, a dry cough that send my ribs rattling around like forks in a tin. I lay back.

I DON'T LIKE THIS. It has to change. I have to create something better out of this. It's ugly. But not even ugly enough to love. Not, for example, as ugly as a Chinese crested, a dog one would have to love or ... I don't know what...they're so beastly ugly.



This isn't that ugly. Should I say thank god? Or should I simply call for Simon to come downstairs from his belfry (oh, god, I couldn't take the sight of that mess today) and make me a favored beverage: Pepsi mixed into milk. Yes. That.

Chills begin. Complaining. "I feel AWFUL." He mutters kind things like, "Poor darling."

And, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No. Yes."

He looks at me, kind eyes wondering how long I'll moan about next to nothing this time.

I usually feel good. Really good. Even after too much to drink.

I feel so cruddy. Poor Simon. It's better to live alone, I think, when one is half-sick.

Influenza virus, monkeyed with on Picasa

I got up. And then realized my head was all stuffed up. Feeling out of balance.

AHA! Maybe I should look for a homeopathic remedy for balance. I had to deal with balance in a painting this morning. Balance.

Chills again, but the coughing has stopped. For how long? And do I have any Codis in the house? Codeine stops coughs. It's natural, like (sort of) aspirin. Better than Veganin with one of those chemical things and codeine.

This is another reason for moving to the UK: codeine OTC. In the US, you need a doctor's prescription for something as simple as a bit of aspirin with a tiny bit of blessed codeine in it. I never left the country without bringing back a bunch. The TSA idiots at airports were, thankfully and as usual, clueless.

There now. I know what to do. This thing has gone from delicate lines, almost not even there, to scratchings of a mad artist...mad in the sense of angry. No strength left for that now. Perhaps a hot bath is coming on.

The funny pains running down the fronts of teeth are gone. My throat itches, though. And my eyes feel hot.

I must have a fever. What does that mean? Not in terms of health, exactly. In terms of cocktail hour. I guess I should not have a cocktail...I don't actually want a cocktail. But I don't want tea, either.

My wanting tea is a sure indication I am ill. I loathe the stuff when I am well. I drink it rarely, usually only at life-drawing sessions. Why? Beats me. It's art. Something outside the normal run of my life...

Missing life drawing tonight. Felt punky early today.

BUT NOT LIKE THIS. This is...  This is...  Well, this is halfway to sick.

That's as far as I want to do. I don't like this picture. I'm going to tear it up and throw it away, that's what.

And start another one tomorrow...after eating more odd things. Today, scrambled eggs, orange juice, coffee. Then toasted cheese sandwich and a small glass of Pepsi. Then part of a chocolate bar. Then two galettes and one slice of pepper salami. Then a couple of palmiers. Then the milk and Pepsi. Then another galette. Viruses make one's palate do odd things....I never eat like that. I could go for some ice cream. There's mint chip in the freezer....

Signing off now. If I stand up, I'll know my head is still oddly ballooney inside. My eyes are sort of dull, but glazed. How would one PAINT that? My kneecaps hurt. Just the kneecaps.

It sure felt good when Simon rubbed them earlier. I think I need to paint a fake Titian or something and flog it. I could use an in-house massage therapist. Or a trip to Greece.

Maybe I should ask for donations. No, really. I'm not delirious. A friend just did to pay for a trip to Sierra Leone. OK. Not a holiday. He's a psychologist and is going to help the nation deal with its PTSD. But I guess that's not at all the same as a painter wanting to go to Santorini to swim in the warm Med?

Meds. I should take meds. Gotta find those Codis now. And have a slice of emmenthal. And take a bath. And paint the first totally abstract canvas I've ever done and call it Virus as Art. Tomorrow. When I WILL feel better.

At one time, most cough syrups had codeine. Ah, for the good old days!




Friday, March 1, 2013

Pushing paint around

First run at the canvas; taking a photo of it in progress revealed exactly where I needed to push the paint next. That was about 2,000 paint pushes ago......

How many times can you push a line or a shadow or a tiny dot of colour two microns from where it is now?

I would estimate at least 4,568. OK. I pulled that number out of the air. But being a perfectionist, it is not OK with me that a subject's eyes look 99 percent accurate. Of course, there is the dichotomy between objective reality, my own filter, the filter of the potential art lover whose requirements hover someplace above my right shoulder.....But still....

I am in the middle of a portrait which will be the second to last I complete before putting up a website of my portraits. I should have painted it back in, oh...maybe December. It's not that I don't want to put up the website and see who walks through the door for a portrait. And I've been paid, in the States, for portraits before. But then, it was just an adjunct to my two main professions, journalism and teaching horsemanship.  It was fun, and fun money. Now I'm getting serious, 30-odd years after finishing art school at the Art Students League of New York.

Now, painting has assumed a much greater importance. I gave up teaching riding seven years ago when I retired my jumper and married my husband. I could have ridden Major Yeats (yes, after the character played by Peter Bowles in The Irish R.M., both being large, no smarter than they needed to be, and handsome) for a couple more years. But I wanted the marriage to start well and go on forever, something the previous two had not done.

My horse looks just like that. Really. Or he would if he could wear a hat....
 
So, Yeats got to go to his retirement home younger than most show horses. He's there still, cared for by a very dear friend, another horsewoman who always loved him and whose husband has a huge dairy farm/small riding academy a mile from where Yeats was born in Virginia, USA. Yeats is happy; I'm a bit less so. I miss him desperately. When we still lived in the US, we would visit him about five times a year; it's a 10-hour round trip from where we lived in Maryland. But I haven't seen him since I landed in the UK on Nov. 20, 2009.

However, back to the easel. How many times can one push paint around? Until it dries, I guess. And if it's not right then, drag out the jar of gesso. And if it's still not right after another go...don't know. Never tried to gesso a used canvas TWICE. I guess the canvas then becomes something else. Trash. A semi-permeable liner for the cat's litter box. Something to put under the leaking lawn mower in the shed.

Meanwhile, time to finish my coffee (Verona, strong, with hot milk in my French breakfast cup...constitutes meal and/or snack), and push paint around for the 4,569th time today.

Major Yeats and me the day of his seventh birthday party (annual fundraiser called...of course...Major Yeats' Birthday Bash)--eons ago, in Virginia.