Author Archives: marynees

merry Christmas

The brilliant fall cover has given way to a quieter landscape, as the sun dips lower and lower in our sky. It was only last year that I realized that winter landscapes “send me”. And so I started painting them in large and small ways. Here’s one of the biggest ones I did in January, and it is no longer mine: sold for some guy’s Christmas, bought by his wife as a surprise. I’m not stealing the show here, as they likely won’t be looking in this space (and you don’t know who it is :). But this painting is a gift that keeps giving, for now I have the room in my studio to make more. And you get an early peek at this glorious moment when the snow was melting over the hills.

The great American painter Andrew Wyeth said “I prefer winter and fall when you can feel the bone structure in the landscape—the loneliness of it—the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it—the whole story doesn’t show.”

I like that. I sense that. Merry Christmas!

on art making in a disintegrating time

“Hope is the thing with feathers — that perches in the soul” Emily Dickinson, who penned this sweet line, knew a thing or three about meaningful hope. Hers was a buoyant expression, all the more poignant because she was equally aware of the hardness of her time/place and of her own internal struggle. Her poetry is rich for this reason: real, but outward even as she felt the confines of her tiny upper room.

Any glib optimism about our current cultural future is berated and mocked by reports we hear, and evidence we see daily, hourly. One could go numb, choosing to be unfeeling. One could get frantic with fear (outrage is already exhausted). Or, one could get busy/stay alert doing what speaks to the bigger issues as Emily, and Flannery O’Connor, and Fyodor Dostoevsky, Georges Rouault, and any number of others did in their own disintegrating times. Real honest, counter-cultural artistry comes out of hard ground. Each of theirs was hard, and their work still speaks now.

Real artistry takes the stuff available, even broken stuff, and does something whole with it because there is such a thing as creation and cultivation and hope. We were made for this — under the watch-care of the One who started all this creativity and then got into the dirt with us. (that’s key: He got into the dirt with us). There is real, counter-cultural, reason for hope then.

Taylor Worley, a prof of faith and culture at Trinity Intl. Univ. says “hope does not operate in the abstract. It must reckon with the real material of the disaster. It must start somewhere.” And adds this “We’re reminded once again that hope is dangerous, and yet for that reason immensely prophetic.” The art critic James Romaine remarks “I see art as very similar to prayer. It’s as futile or as powerful as prayer. It all depends on your faith.”

If my faith is in men, or in some idea of political progress or in what I can do with my own hands, I am honestly sunk. But if my faith is cast instead to the One who forms, gives breath, renews real hope and is still at work in this time, in this culture, then I get really energized in spite of what is all around me. What energizes you?

This little 8×10 oil piece is named Tanager, for the flush of color moving from a scavenging but still beautiful bird. It will be for sale at a Holiday event in my town next week.

the practice of digging in

I was in three short workshops this past weekend at a big art ‘Palooza’ and trade show in Raleigh. The downtown Hilton had taped plastic over all their 1^st floor meeting room carpets (!) and all the conference tables were covered with plastic, converting many spaces into studio workrooms. Some of these rooms had 30 or more learners staking out places at tables and unpacking their tools with anticipation.

You should have seen the crowd in this fine hotel: scraggly characters walking around in their paint spattered clothes.

The costs, especially for the supply store, were LOW compared to any discount house, so the gatherings were jammed. About 34 teaching artists, from all over the country, held court in each of these many rooms. Speed dating meets art class I suppose.

Each teacher had to discipline his presentation, highlight tools, gather the crowd for demos, and then let the students do practice sets. I learned some tricks. I bought a lot: new colors, supports to work on etc. But mostly I’m taking this home: practice what you already know and have. Dig in and keep at it. Keep your body moving toward what your heart is after. And don’t take partial as the finish.

What I mean is there were dabblers here at this conference, but also lots of examples from persevere-ers too. You can see the difference. The ones making progress are holding on alertly, curious, and active.

In one class there were so many folks that the teacher really couldn’t take much time beyond the basics, so I stayed in the back, one ear listening while I just worked and worked, turning out 5 pieces in 3 hours. The results were good. Here is one of them. What was the difference then for me compared to staying home and working? I am still thinking about that.

But here’s maybe an illustration that cuts to the chase. Eugene Peterson tells the story: the theologian Karl Barth was on a bus in his Swiss town, when a tourist came and sat next to him. Barth struck up a conversation. “You are a visitor, yes? And what do you want to see in our city?” The man said, “I would like to see the great theologian Karl Barth. Do you know him?” “Oh yes, I shave him every morning.” The man went away satisfied, telling his friends that he had met Barth’s barber.

There is joy here in this illustration for me, for I have sitting next to me, whether here or on the road, the One I really want to see and learn from. I just have to keep asking as I work.

palettes

“Our summer made her light escape into the beautiful”*

I’ve been collecting notes in a folder — from photographs taken and magazine tear outs — of color groupings. This is simply data, ongoing practice, recently revved up. For, I use these color collections as prompts into paintings. When I don’t know what to do, color seems to awaken. It’s as if my eyes, directed by a still beating heart, lead the way for my hands.

Last night, near the point of retiring for the day, I opened a small poetry book, a gift given to me in Canada. Therein I found an added bit of beauty between the leaves. Pressed in the pages of this lovely booklet was a singular remnant from a maple. I had almost squished this leaf with my shoe on a walk in Vancouver. My eyes must have stopped me then, but I forgot that I had this incredible thing. The re-discovery near a month later was more delight than I even remembered in the initial find.

Look at this specimen simply for its color: The greens have retreated to the background, allowing in that desaturation such quieter tones of olive. The removal of pigment provides a surprising highlight of pales, tans and muddy yellows, like the translucence of aged skin. This, in turn reveals the markings of veins ever more vitally. And the reds! The stars in this symbol, have their chance to shine now: like the bleeding herald of a great King. It’s the victorious finale! Even the stem has turned its signature to alizarin strength.

Any one of these hues could be matched somewhat closely in a paint store. But what would you have in the dissection? A clinical compartmentalization? It is only in the grouping where the colors dance, and play off each other, where they sing their song again. Even a dead leaf plays it. I am so heartened that I did not miss this.

*Emily Dickinson, #1540 Johnson’s Chronology, 1865

marking time

The floor of a red cedar canoe, in the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia quietly testifies to its own story. Once standing tall and alone in a rain forested wood fringing the Pacific, it was scope-ed out then heavily laid down. Done. Cut off from its nourishment; it was then gouged, steamed and stretched by the hands of others. Soon it was deemed seaworthy, buoyant and bearing. It was now a thing, not a living thing. This lovely tree was un-noticed until it was found useful for the ends of others. It is said that the first nation Indians were careful with trees, making only single slits in bark to preserve a tree’s life.

But what of this tree? Are we to consider it a sacrifice? Are some sacrifices worthy? And by whom?

I could show you other photos: of the carved yokes that adorn the gunnels, of the painted designs: the brands of ownership. But to me these whispered lines of life are the most authentic. It’s a silent recording of the lively passing of years. In these is seen the marks of weather and growth of push and pull when the tree was still responding on its own.

Time is a slow and certain mover. It is gentlemanly. It is more reflective of the Maker of trees than are the hands of many men. In this testament of silent marks I take comfort, even as the tree itself has been laid low. Emily Dickinson resolves the sadness by saying “let months dissolve in further months—and years –exhale in years—“*

I will let this be then, except for reminding us here. For in these marks I see a most particular record of days not forgotten.

*poem #690, Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)

a prayer from Moses

Psalm 90

Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations.
²Before the mountains were born
Or You gave birth to the earth and the world,
Even from everlasting to everlasting, You are God.

³You turn man back into dust
And say, “Return, O children of men.”
⁴For a thousand years in Your sight
Are like yesterday when it passes by,
Or as a watch in the night.
⁵You have swept them away like a flood, they fall asleep;
In the morning they are like grass which sprouts anew.
⁶In the morning it flourishes and sprouts anew;
Toward evening it fades and withers away.

⁷For we have been consumed by Your anger
And by Your wrath we have been dismayed.
⁸You have placed our iniquities before You,
Our secret sins in the light of Your presence.
⁹For all our days have declined in Your fury;
We have finished our years like a sigh.
¹⁰As for the days of our life, they contain seventy years,
Or if due to strength, eighty years,
Yet their pride is but labor and sorrow;
For soon it is gone and we fly away.
¹¹Who understands the power of Your anger
And Your fury, according to the fear that is due You?
¹²So teach us to number our days,
That we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

¹³Do return, O Lord; how long will it be?
And be sorry for Your servants.
¹⁴O satisfy us in the morning with Your lovingkindness,
That we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
¹⁵Make us glad according to the days You have afflicted us,
And the years we have seen evil.
¹⁶Let Your work appear to Your servants
And Your majesty to their children.
¹⁷Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And confirm for us the work of our hands;
Yes, confirm the work of our hands.

look out

Yesterday in studio I worked up a palette of hues in oil, building from a photo I’d saved of an arctic scene in National Geo. You can see that here if you look closely at my messy table. I mixed up a set of replicated hues, pleasing together, and then added notes of my own with them, before I had any idea what I would do myself with this color grouping.

Then I took several prepared papers, and one rubber brush and started making marks. My angled rubber tool is pretty cool for I can switch easily from hue to hue by just quickly wiping it down. This gives me a brief freedom. I can vary the stroke widths by the angle, and modulate the intensity of the laid down paint so easily that exercises with this tool become play. For me, quick work like this gets better at what is deeply inside me than labored more planned out attempts at perfection.

The artic quiet of the original image had me captivated, the skies in that photo looked foreboding. And that’s maybe why I selected it. The skies outside my window were carrying ominous hints too as hurricane bands are moving our way. But things move slow. And it’s in the slowness where I live. Things that matter take so much time! I ponder this and my soul is impatient to the point of unease. That’s maybe also why quick work is so cathartic to me. And so I purposed to just make marks, to let my arms work it out, to try to outline it, as if prompting a resolve. This work is like prayer, it suddenly occurs to me. It happens only because things are not right. It’s productive, learned and practiced because there is felt need. I’m looking out, but “we’re not there yet.”

The Irish writer Josephine Hart said “there is an eternal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives.” And Jesus praised those who hunger and thirst for the things that matter most. I think this is why I keep articulating the contours of horizon.

broken bits and an emblem toward the Restoration

This past weekend our University Art Museum was opened up on an off day so that a grieving family could gather in the space. The woman being remembered, was a unique local artist of incredible talent. She would take found objects, broken discards, scraps of fiber, bone, clay and make assemblages that could reach deeply into your soul. Her work spoke, and I was so privileged to know her. This is an image I shot from a juried show in 2016 where I was first introduced to her.

But in these last months she was not in good health, single, very private, and she sadly died alone. The family and community are heartsick. So, folks brought in things this artist had made and given away: One was a book of mixed media type quilt scraps with words of direction as if these were signs on the underground railroad. A tall wood pillar, with a house top roof, had a book within it and objects depicting Jesus’ story of the parable of the sower. Another set of notes were for women recovering from trauma in which the artist encouraged one “You know when the final piece is complete” she said, “it will result in a thing of beauty…”

I thought of how she herself is complete now, the real her, not what stayed behind. All the material bits found around her were vestiges of the unfinished, but her soul is safe, beautiful and certainly now intact. “for the spirit of man is the candle of the Lord, where He searches all the inward parts” Proverbs 20:27. I thought of words we shared, reminding each other of the promise Peter gave in the 1^st century to believers: assuring that such a developing Jesus follower would not be “useless nor unfruitful”. And I expect she died just as she lived, holding onto the One she was following.

This same week I found a fascinating article about the Japanese method of repairing broken clay vessels. The ancient practice continues where cracks are filled with a lacquer-like glue, then carefully sanded and finally coated with a cover of gold. The resultant piece, with its particular history of brokenness, shines with that same jagged brokenness made beautiful. And I thought again of my friend. And I thought of the broken edges in my own life too. And I thought of what Peter says: that the proof of one’s faith in the promise of Jesus is more precious than perishable gold. And Paul said that we hold these truths in broken vessels that the surpassing greatness might be apprehended as coming from God Himself. “Therefore we do not lose heart, but though the outer man is decaying, yet our inner man is being renewed day by day.” So the clay pots pieced back together are a sign of something that broken souls long for. If it were not true, it would not resonate.

public/private/public/private

Some recent discussions in our town have highlighted the strategic importance of public and private partnerships. The potential result (after the hard work of collaboration) can be synergistic, meaning, the combined effect can be greater than the sum of the agencies involved. That’s creativity. And I’m reminded of something I witnessed this summer from another place and time that exhibited just this.

Barcelona’s National Museum of Catalonia has a collection of Romanesque murals that is unmatched by any museum in the world! Room after room gives one almost a time-machine opportunity to enter spaces that were situated in humble towns in the Pyrenees Mountains of Eastern Spain. These murals and sculptural pieces were then carefully removed to be preserved in the museum (imagine the public and private involvement to carry that feat out). Arranged in chronological (therefore stylistic) order, the spaces reveal the emerging imagery from small churches of the medieval period (11^th-13^thcenturies). What’s available then is a visualization of homegrown private conviction which was developed then displayed for public engagement. What was once internal became publically shared and what was then public becomes privately better understood. And this then down thru centuries for others to consider. Past into present. Imagine that ripple effect.

Here is a wooden altar panel I especially loved for its graphic punch, simplicity, and pattern. It’s a typical example of Byzantine flatness. Yet the abstraction of forms were rendered with human differentiation and quirkiness. The viewer of the time would have been able to relate. And the viewer now is carried into another world’s way of seeing, even if just catching a glimpse. What was private conviction of the artist became embedded in his public context, what simmered inwardly became visible for others to be able to look and see.

Here is an excerpted contemporary example (from a long but wonderful poem) I just came across from our own time. A. Underwood wrote “A Weight on Each Shoulder” after listening/learning/being in a church space in NYC:

It’s been veiled in plain sight
Big as all of our stories
Deep as mankind’s full plight
And as high as its glories

It’s the “veiled in plain sight” out-calling that keeps me looking/listening/working.

public art

If you are local, this Friday night the Johnson City Public Art committee (JCPA) is holding a “pop up gallery” at ETSU’s Tipton Gallery space downtown on Spring Street.

This is a first time event and already there are over 100 pieces of 5×5 inch originals from regional artists. Drawings, sculptures, photography, oil paint: the pieces are varied in media and expertise, each framed and ready to be shown.

Excitement is building but best to arrive right at the opening (5:55 PM) for what you’ll view there will only be on sale that night, and each piece is only $25! These small beauties were created for this event alone as a donation to both the Public Art Committee and also the Boys and Girl’s club of JC. We’re accomplishing exposure for the artists, excitement in the community, and funds to do more. So, come on down, the red “sold” stickers will be flying!

Speaking of Public Art, here is a blog post I recently submitted for our community organization, which offers more on why Public Art exists in our town and in other creative municipalities. The arts make visible what has been seeded in the soil.

one year out

Today is the 1^st year anniversary of my book: published and seeing the light of day. Pictured here is an analytic that Amazon regularly updates. My little book has a heart beat: alive and doing well. In one search category last week I was #10 among 8 million books! Amazon provides another graphic which shows me where sales are happening. The areas where I’ve lived and know people are best represented, but the surprising thing is that places like New Haven, Minot and Reno (where I know no one) are showing up with sales too. Was the 7 year journey to see this happen worth it? Maybe so.

But books have a short life, I’m told; and marketers keep reminding you of titles because readers have shifting attention spans toward the next jazzy thing. It’s a chasing game, and it can be wearying. I entered this learning curve from its impetus to finished copy for the same reason that I make art: there is something important to get down on paper so others can see. I didn’t write to be a writer. I don’t paint to be a painter. I am a recorder, a responder, a translator of sorts who is hopefully becoming more fluent.

It is an earnest and deep-seated Wonder before the biggest matters that keeps me working. It is needed Humility that keeps me fit. And beyond my own natural chutzpa there is a Courage I count on and ask for from the Spirit who made the world, who made me. Perseverance is the last bit I have to own, and own again. (These 4 aspects–I gleaned out of the Creation account in Genesis–are a sort of working prescription; that’s why they are written big, with growing notes on my studio wall).

When young and spry, I used to be a competitive swimmer and taught lifesaving. Now I’m a grandma with even bigger aspirations. But a lot of days I feel like the water is deep, the shoreline is way out past where I am, and my nose is just above the surface. Am I complaining? No, just taking a tread while I size up my position. Thanks for looking with me.

Mary Barton Nees

Conceptual Landscape