Category Archives: my own work

hidden and plain view

Like me, you’re probably metering out what you’ll make visible, and what you happily keep to yourself. Social media has us all learning and adjusting in this balancing act of exposure vs. privacy. And visible international reach offers so much more exposure too, for good and for ill. I can see the stats on who views this page and it is worldwide. So, here I’ll just say “hello!” to those of you who read this out there in the great beyond.

I highlight today a piece I made several years ago. It’s sister is in a big current show in our University museum. But this is the quieter of that duo and I want her to get some time in the electronic sun as well. For you see, this piece is visualizing something hidden yet promised.

I am digging through the book of Revelation, that last book of the Bible where the recorder is told to write down “the things you’ve seen, the things which are and the things which shall take place”. This book has me and I’m paying particular attention of late to Jesus’ words to the historical church. He has warnings, direct rebuke in specific cases, and words of penetrating comfort in others. Jesus knows the score. He is the coach. And He is about to end the game in time, “I am coming quickly.”

After the rebuke words, there is instruction and promise given to the “overcomers” who hold fast in their particular struggles. Jesus, with eyes of flame, promises in one case to give certain overcomers “some of the hidden manna”. What in the world is manna? Exactly. Manna literally means in its original Hebrew “what is it!?” Manna was a historical miracle of provision for the tribes of Jacob in the wilderness of Exodus. The stuff came down from heaven, landed like dew, and fed them continuously for 40 years. Now, in that case it was a public feeding, everyone went out and gathered it.

In Revelation the manna being promised is hidden, and it is given individually. For Jesus addresses a singular “He who has ears to hear…to him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna”.

This much is clear from both instances of manna’s provision: The stuff is mysterious and it is given to sustain. It comes from God to us. In this later case of Revelation it is a private provision and very precious. The receiver would likely keep it that way.

But I am making this known, by displaying this beckoning visual. Did you know there is such a thing as manna available from God? Here’s the upshot about it from the text in Revelation: such a thing as manna is promised to certain ones. Jesus is the one who promises it. Such a thing is real and on the table; it will be fulfilled by Jesus. And whoever is fed by this will be sustained in the times to come. This is a picture of private assurance.

tangibility

8 pieces from the image collection on this website were selected by some alert curators-in-training out of our University Art Department. The show they’ve put together is up and open at the Reece Museum on campus. You can read about it here.

My work is placed there within a stable of other regional artists working to make tangible/observable that which is of the spirit. This is ephemeral work, solitary. So, when it gets some further articulation, broader visibility, each one of us is gratified. The range is diverse.

There will be a panel discussion in one of the two openings for this extensive and thoughtful show on Jan.31st and another opening of more work at the Tipton Gallery downtown on Feb.1st. The essay composed from the thoughts of each artist will be as worth your time as viewing the work, for the images are rooted in thought and practice.

near and far

My interest in landscape, or more specifically “what is out there!” began very early. Before I had much language or even any life experience I was captivated and heartened by what I could glimpse out the window from my nursery. Doubt me if you choose, but I have a visceral memory of this. The years have only reinforced this sense of ‘the beautiful bigness beyond’. I recognize, now in hindsight, that this memory is early indication of some kind of spiritual quest.

My mature work is driven by an informed and sorely tested confidence in the promise laid out by the maker of the horizon, the maker of the warming sun, the maker hidden behind all these things. And these ‘made things’ speak forth deeply through their substance.

As the year turns (and 2018 has been such a big one for us) we don’t have much idea at all about what 2019 holds. We can see some near things, but not what follows.

So today I’ll highlight here an oil sketch I did this past May. I love so the horizon in this piece: so dimly suggested but sure — though some distance beyond the entire articulated foreground. That’s why I will keep this one, for the contrast between the known and the yet unknown is a symbol to me. What is just over the next rise is what draws my attention. And because my heart has learned to rest in the capable hands of my maker, I am not afraid.

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.

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.

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.

bookkeeper

Another sketch from my Vox series, here illustrated is one verse from the very last book of the Hebrew collection. The prophet Malachi had some blistering words to say to his hearers, as well as a couple reassuring promises.

Any current assumption that spiritual giants “just need to be nice” are blinding themselves to alot of rich material. Moses, Joshua and Jeremiah were not known for being nice. John the Baptist was a firebrand; Jesus was a spiritual revolutionary and if either of them had just been “nice” we would never have heard of them again.

Piercing words function like an alarm clock to those who need to be jolted awake. Here’s just one example from Malachi’s short treatise: (the prophet speaking for God in chapter 1) “I am honored all over the world. And there are people who know how to worship me all over the world, who honor me by bringing their best to me. They’re saying it everywhere: ‘God is greater, this God-of-the-Angel-Armies.’ All except you. Instead of honoring me, you profane me. You profane me when you say, ‘Worship is not important, and what we bring to worship is of no account,’ and when you say, ‘I’m bored—this doesn’t do anything for me.’ You act so superior, sticking your noses in the air—act superior to me, God-of-the-Angel-Armies! And when you do offer something to me, it’s a hand-me-down, or broken, or useless. Do you think I’m going to accept it? This is God speaking to you!”

I would call that a verbal alarm clock. It sounds like the words of an angry parent. In the next chapter, vs.17 is this critique: “You make God tired with all your talk.”

But the verse in this small 3 chapter book that I selected to illustrate was one of promise toward the end of Malachi’s warnings. That promise melts my wavering heart. Chapter 2 actually sets the context by reminding the listeners (whoever is still listening) that God is a covenant keeper. And what God has promised will stand though others will not stand in the day of His sure appearing. After more warning words, God challenges “Test me… I will defend you.” vs.10-11.

And as if it is a follow through response from that call-out “Then those whose lives honored God got together and talked it over. God saw what they were doing and listened in. A book was opened in God’s presence and minutes were taken of the meeting, with the names of the God-fearers written down, all the names of those who honored God’s name.” (This is the same verse 3:16 that I illustrated in the image, set in a contemporary paraphrase called The Message.)

I’ve often thought of that promise when speaking quietly with others. I take His words literally just as I see He does ours. And when we gather and speak of Him, He lets us know that He’s a bookkeeper.

“Look for the Pass”

I am delighted to highlight a piece I made this winter which has been selected along with a small collection of other pieces by Dr. Noland, ETSU’s President, for brightening office spaces on campus.

This was made using a brayer for the initial mark making, then sandwiched through an etching press to facilitate the texture. After the inks dried I enhanced the foreground with pastel worked on top.

Narrow views, whether in vertical or horizontal formats, interest me as a way of beckoning the traveler. It’s as if we’re looking through a clarifying peephole, limiting the extraneous. The horizon is often the real point for me, even while the foreground is captivating. In this case, my idea is of lifting the eyes to where that pass-through lies. Then the steps through the tangly foreground know the way going forward.

Mary Barton Nees

Conceptual Landscape