The Texture of Blues from Palette Knives in a Stormy Year

"Blue Tempest," 5 x 5 acrylic on canvas

I've always admired painters who deftly use palette knives for texture and impact, but never attempted them until recently. along with acrylics, it's a whole new learning experience

There were always palette knives in our house when we grew up. Dad used them mostly for mixing colors, and I've done plenty of that in oils and acrylics. 

Regina's palette knives, Dad's book

 I didn't know how much they meant   to me until I saw and bought the late   Regina Murphy's knives of Paseo   Arts District and other materials   after  her death. They sit here in my   painting room, icons of creativity.   Then I found an old book of my   Dad's How to Paint with a Knife, and   began studying.

 So this week, I picked up about three   of them, began mixing colors and   applying them to the canvas. Since   my favorite colors are blues, and   we're in the midst of  storms--fires, hurricanes, floods, war, ignorance, worsening pandemic and politics  once again, here's the result.  

This is the last day of August and the year is two-thirds gone.  This semi-abstract sci-fi painting with violent  texture matching the moods of our country and world, roughly applied to the canvas, seems to fit.

Calm

"Why Worry?" 5 x 5 acrylic on canvas

"Peace, peace, there is no peace..." --Jeremiah 6:11

In stress-filled times like these as a pandemic and politics rage on, we need calm more than ever, for our mental and physical health, yet it can be hard to find.

Medicine, for blood pressure and anxiety, works some, but not always. I've said for quite a while, not really jokingly, that painting is my therapy. When I'm working on art, the rest of the world goes away as every painting is a series of problems to be solved, to be created.

I've also found other sources of daily peace, daily calm as well. Every morning as I sit down with coffee in an easy chair, I have two immediate visitors in my lap, one on each leg, Snoops and Sophie, our rescue cats.  I have an "equal catortunity" lap. Petting or stroking them, while they purr does wonders for enjoying present tense and morning sunlight, preventing doom  scrolling media.

So today's acrylic painting lesson combines calmness, inspired by Sophie, though she's prettier than this.

Don't take my Kodachrome away

"Kodachrome," 8 x 10ish watercolor, 300 lb. d'Arches rough press paper

When there are blahs, or whatever other names there are, we need bright colors

That was certainly true during this past year and a half of  pandemics  of violence, disease, death and dangers to democracy.

It still is now for many thousands around the world for nations. And as the search for "normal" weighs down the days, also for individuals trying to cope with untold emotions

A favorite song comes to my mind, harking back to the turmoil of the Vietnam years.

"They give us those nice bright colors,

Give us the greens of summers

Makes you  think all the world's a sunny day, oh yeah...

So mama, don't take my Kodachrome away."

--Simon and Garfunkel

Thus today's watercolor, the first in a while, trying to escape the blahs.

 

The Road Less Traveled

"Alone," 8 x 10 140 lb Fabriano Artistico rough press paper

 Art (as a verb)  is a solitary journey.

The deeper you get into it, you keep looking for the road less traveled.

The pandemic has helped us focus  in many ways, and while I have sorely missed interaction and support with friends and family, it has increased solitude, time to think, to brood, the try to bring something creative out of being...alone.

In the early days I found art my therapy, home for my thoughts, my imagination, a fortress against the tragedy. As it has lessened for me, I've notice my art has also been muted.

Today's watercolor, the first larger one in a while, that took a long time to come about in my head and heart,  tells that story.

A viral year, looking back

"Virus," watercolor from March 13, 2020

A year ago today, I painted and posted this watercolor, "Virus." Here's the link to that post: "Going Viral."

It hit Oklahoma in public when the Thunder game was abruptly canceled two nights before. 

Since then, a year of uncertainty, of sickness, death, tragedy, of turmoil, chaos, and ignorance in more ways that one, global cultural and economic and political upheaval and violence, and survival.

In many ways, America, the so-called "greatest nation," has been hit the hardest, in all those ways. Of the more than 2.6 million world wide deaths, 20 percent--one person in every five--more than 500,000 have been Americans.  Such an ironic epitaph for American "leadership," "individualism," selfishness and stupidity of the free world.

By comparison, in the 1918 Spanish flu, 675,000 Americans died, out of 50 million world wide.

As I wrote on pages 58 and 59 of this year's journal of the plague, the third journal I've kept every day since last April 1, I reflected on all of that, remembering the uncertainties, the fears, the idiosyncrasies, the changes that dominated our lives.

For my record, I started listing what I was thankful for, what were the positives from this deadly nightmare. Then I listed the negatives. I won't go into that, but there were positives

First, was survival, and getting vaccines.On April 1in the first pandemic journal, I wondered if I, we, would survive. It was iffy indeed. I've had a son and my brother get relatively mild cases. I know of many others who were not so fortunate.

Next--the most watercolor paintings I've ever done, about 244 in 2020. I tried to bring some color into the dark world, for others but also for my own purpose and survival. That also led me into developing summary slide shows of my work on the blog and internet, that continue, month by month

Next--those watercolors boosted my almost daily blog writing to a record year, because they forced m to think and write about them.

Day 1, of Pandemic Journal

Then there was the almost daily journaling, key to introspection, a routine, and hope. Counting today's two pages--page 59 total in the 62 days since Jan 1, I've filled 355 pages. Some entries are brief, others more than one page. I've probably only missed five or six days all together, an accomplishment for one who is not disciplined enough to keep a daily diary. 

My inspiration came from Samuel Pepys who kept his famous Journal of the Plague Year in England during the black death of the Middle Ages.

February slideshow--story of a year of watercolors

February Slide Show--turn on volume

This month's 12 watercolors close out a year of paintings during the pandemic pandemonium that descended on us in mid-March, a year ago. 

Trying to learn and survive the unknown, wondering in a daily journal of the plague year, I turned to trying to bring some color into my life and by sharing, to others with art to offset the gloom.

So this month's watercolors --I just noticed that most of them reflect my yearning to start traveling again--bring to 270 completed in this past 12 months. I'm amazed, and thankful, and blessed. 

Some are pretty good, a few are very good, many are just so-so, and others, not so much. But, I pushed myself, took on ideas and subjects I hadn't attempted, and had fun, and therapy. 

When working on art, the rest of the world goes away, and I, and we needed that between the viruses of pandemic, political insanity, racism, hatred and everything else, including violent weather.

I also learned how to put together slide shows of my work, for this blog, and on social media, such as this one today.

The total number of watercolors rescued and  changed my 2020 blog to a record number of posts, the third highest in its eleven years. They also pushed my imagination for subjects, and my writing, as I attempted to pair each painting with almost thoughtful mini-essays.

My annual holiday greeting card tradition boosted the total, with 38 posts in December. Most of last year's watercolors were 5 x 7s, especially in December and in April through July when I was attempting a painting a day, requiring quick work. But many are 8 x 10s as in February--all 8 x 10s except one greeting card, which is dated,  and a few larger.

The first slide show, of 18 March paintings, didn't get online until September. Here's that link if you wish to look back a year. March, 2020 Watercolors, as I caught up. 

Here are the other totals and links, if you wish to travel back in time

April through July--98

August--15

September--31

October--16

November--25

December--38

January--17

Looking for Green

"Looking for Green," 8 x 10 watercolor, 140 lb. Fabriano Artistico fough press paper

                          
The snow has melted. The temperatures rise and fall. The skies change from cloudy to sunny or in between. The ground thaws, with patches of green amid the browns. 

We're among all creatures  looking for spring, especially this year, after a year-long winter of pandemic.

Today's watercolor, with at least visions of trees with green foliage on the prairies of Oklahoma.

Wanderlust

"Wanderlust," 9 x 12 watercolor, 140 lb. Fabriano Artistico rough press paper

"All my bags are packed

    I'm ready to go...."

        --John Denver

My bags aren't packed but I'm sure ready to go...anywhere.

Pandemic prisons, winter weather woes--it's been so long since we've traveled the open road.

It is indeed "Wanderlust" these days. Thus today's watercolor, something different. Two brushes, random color, spur of the moment emotions.

When it's time for Green

"Green," 8 x 10ish, 140 lb. Fabriano Artistico rough press paper

It's time for some green.

Long ago, when we lived in Iowa and headed south in a lime green VW bug in the spring to visit family, we could see the landscape gradually turn green, the farther south we came.

It was warming. Even when we lived in Central Oklahoma, and drove south in springtime to visit fam in Texas, by the time we got to southern Oklahoma and Ardmore, the greenery, the flowers were remarkable.

After what we've been through this year, with pandemic, politics, ice storm, snow and cold storm, what we need now is some green.

I know, spring is officially three weeks off...but this year, we need some green, the color of renewal, of life, of warmth.

Today's watercolor.

Stormy Solitude

"When skies turn red," 8 x 10 watercolor, 140 lb. d'Arches rough press paper

Skies turn red on the Great Plains, usually at the crack of dawn, or just after sunset.

Add a spring thunderstorm, usually in the evening, and the drama of the landscape, the skies and the colors  speak of the vastness of nature, and the solitude of geography.

Solitude is more rare than ever these days, when we need it most, to think, to create, to breathe, to recover. It's not  being quarantined or sheltered or lonely because of the storm of the pandemic, but because we need the space of the Great Plains and individuality in this culture of conformity, lies and noise to be human. 

Thus today's watercolor.

After the storm

"This weird, colorful journey," 5 x 7 watercolor greeting card

Sunlight, snow melt...spring's not here yet, but our second terrible storm in five months is over.

The way things have gone this year, we'll probably have another, but for now...

I'm thankful for friends and family and fortitude in this weird, yet colorful journey.

So today's little watercolor.

Summer dreams and valentines

"Talking All Morning," 8 x 10 140 lb d'Arches rough press paper

Cooped up.... 

Pandemic one. Quarantine two. Bitter winter storm, three. I don't want to know what four is.

So, thoughts of the good old summer time--warm sunny days, green grass, lush leaves, lazy river, good friends outdoors.

Today's little painting is a "study" because I'm trying something different, something to learn, to push myself, because I feel in a rut.

This is inspired by a little black and white photo, "Talking all morning," taken alongside a river in Ireland by poet David Whyte, that I found in his book "Essentials," given to me for Valentine's Day by Susan. I won't show you the photo, and I'm not trying to duplicate it. It's pretty rough and I'm not exactly happy with this, but enough to share.  If the next one is better, I'll post it.

I saw it and my imagination started adding color. Remember wanting to talk all morning with someone, pre social media, when everything just "clicks," one thought leading to another, no time-table, only the gentle rush of a river, grassy slopes, maybe a picnic lunch?

The Open Road beckons

"The Open Road," 8 x 10 watercolor, 140 lb d'Arches rough press paper

"Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose."

            --Walt Whitman

The open road beckons these  winter days, especially this year.

Cooped up not just because of the weather but hunkered down trying to avoid the pandemic makes travel all the more enticing, whenever  and if ever we can take to the open road.

We spent time this weekend in conversation about hoped for road trips later this year--Maine, Oregon, New Mexico, Colorado, seashores, mountains--and also looking at maps. The roads beckon.

I couldn't help but think of Walt Whitman's "Song of the Open Road"  as I struggled to find inspiration to paint during the dark last days of January.

"What's the story?""What do you feel?" I didn't want to just paint a "pretty picture, " but something from inside,  where inspiration lives. 

Whitman provided it, though it took several efforts at composition sketches and color experiments to answer.

Thus today's watercolor, "The Open Road," where I'm traveling in my imagination.

Pandemic journal, five months survival

Today closes the pages, 127  of them, written over the last 154 days since August 1 when I began this second pandemic journal, wondering if I'd survive.

The first book, begun April 1, which ended July 31 at 169 pages covering 122 days, missing only one day.

I've never been disciplined enough to maintain a daily diary, though I'm pretty good on journals of trips and so forth.

But this was different. I missed only two or three days in the last five months, and obviously wrote more some days,  than others. Some entries are longer, up to two pages, while others are mere fractions of pages. 

 I've gotten in the habit of getting up early, recording my weight and outdoor temperatures and weather. I keep track of paintings, and books read, and comment on every day life, including family happenings, a trip to Colorado, and the pandemic news. 

There's not much on politics, but it's hard to ignore in this crazy election year with the unstable nut in the White House trying to become a dictator and overthrow the election. 

And I still wonder if I'm going to survive--the question I asked as I began both journals. The new more contagious variant is here in the US., I am aging, and wondering if I'll get the vaccine in time.

I do see personal value in this. I go back and read the earlier pages, a few at a time, marking them up, thinking. It's like reading a personal history book, reminding me of things I'd already forgotten.

Will I continue this journaling? I'm aware I'm following the example of Pepys journal of the plague year in London, though mine is not as bleak, yet.  Probably, but my handwriting is getting worse, and I'll have to find a new book to write in. This one, a journal given me earlier this year when I did a writing workshop for the Oklahoma Pork Council,  has only a few pages left.  

Splintered year, and paintings of a year

"Splintered Year," 8 x 10 brushless watercolor, 140 lb Canson cold press

 The brush pile from the October ice storm----splintered trunks,  twisted branches, decaying leaves--still looms in our front yard, and will probably for at least another month, as it will all over Edmond.

It seems an apt metaphor for 2020  around the world, and especially in America, as I close out this year in painting.  The pandemics of disease, outright hatred and violence, intolerance, fear, and political chaos  from a wanna-be dictator have splintered this country more than ever, since the Civil War.

Today's watercolor, 8 x 10, closes out a prolific  year for my painting, which for me at least has been something positive out of the mess we're in. I think this painting is probably about 244 of those attempted since January. 

"Dance," a 3 1/2 x 5 favorite from July, teenage memories

Most have been small, most haven't been very good--and that doesn't include the many attempts I consider failures--but they've all helped me cope and survive quarantine, stress, worries and the splinters of this country. And they don't include numerous sketches.

The number of paintings has certainly been boosted by about a little more than 100 greeting cards during the holidays and for special occasions. 

There has been a lot of experimenting on my part--including painting with sponges--as with today's. I've developed monthly slide shows. I've read and watched videos from watercolor masters, and tried to adapt. 

January had the fewest paintings, five. December, the most at 39, followed by July (World Watercolor Month) with 32, and April at 31. These were days when I was determined, almost daily, to bring some light and color and joy into the world to offset the darkness.

I hope they helped. They did me...including today's.

End of the line, in 2020

"End of the Line," 5 x 7 watercolor Christmas card

As the pandemic year ends, and my annual greeting card project, there's one final card to share.

I've long been a fan of, actually fascinated by #cabooses--since childhood actually-- and have written about, photographed  and painting them many times. And I got to ride in one a few years ago near Park City, Utah.

I wish I lived where I could buy one, put it in the back yard, make it a studio. Search the word on this blog and you'll find plenty of examples of previous posts.

So it's more than fitting, and symbolic, that today's Christmas card is for a fellow train buff, great friend and his wife, my former colleague and good friend, Roy and Jill Kelsey.

Favorite blog posts this year

 As I look back over this tumultuous, largely negative year,  the pandemics have helped rescue this blog, though I didn't realize it until recently.

"Te Ata portrait," back in January

I began going back, month by month, to choose my favorite posts, which in some ways was like reading a diary, a journal of a plague year, where I found, painted and wrote about much of the beauty still here. It became a purpose, a cause, to provide color and thought to offset the horrors. 

My posts and paintings helped the blog set a record. More on that tomorrow. But I also found that the more I painted, it spurred me also to write about the art, leading me to more reading, and more metaphor and thought. I painted more than ever, spurring my learning, as I put together slide shows of the work.

So here are some of my favorite paintings and articles, month by month. Scroll through them for a look back in time.

January--My first portrait: Te Ata

February-- Trees ; Manners

March-- The virus

April-- A new word ; Magic tree ; OKC bombing

May-- Pandemic journal-1 ; Granddaughter's graduation ; Edmond Sun execution (one of five editorials/sketches)

June-- Pandemic poetry ; Bitter icing on Edmond's cake

July-- Pandemic journal-2 ; Rocking & Rolling watercolor

August-- Pandemic poetry ; On the Llano ; Fort Reno chapel

September-- Art show ; Chimayo

October-- Back roads poetry

November-- Americans voting ; Uncle Mike

December-- Truchas inspiration ;  Truchas dreams

Pandemic antidotes--a year for poetry

It's been a year of poetry in my pandemic reading, as I look back over the 49 books attempted.

Seven of them were complete books of poetry, with selected portions of other books.

Ray Bradbury said to read poetry every day because it stretched muscles not ordinarily used. I didn't make every day, but this has been a year of quarantine, or stress, trials and more, when stretching muscles, especially mental  and spiritual muscles, is essential to mental health.

Four of the books are from three friends and Okie poets. The most recent was a rereading of Benjamin Myers' Black Sunday, a collection of sonnets, no less, and a short story, all about a few Okies surviving the Dust Bowl. Stories of people with grit, applicable today.

Two new ones by Nathan Brown are like reading a day-by-day diary of the pandemic. His Pandemic Poetry Project contains a poem a day, by date, beginning in March, suggested by sponsored prompts from his readers. 

In the Days of Our Seclusion  (March-May) and In the Days of Our Unrest (June-August). One poem in the second book was my prompt, "back roads." It's about a lonely highway in New Mexico. But most are wrenching reality and insights into our 2020 journeys. You can buy them direct from him, $15 plus shipping. Brownlines

He has two more books continuing the series forthcoming. You can listen to him reading from the poems in his periodic "FirePit Sessions" on his Facebook Page. 

Ken Hada's Sunlight and Cedar. I reviewed in August on this blog. You can read about that earth-deep poetry here. A Geography of Pandemic Poetry

Actually, you can order from Ken and Ben directly as well. Contact them: Ken Hada or @BenMyersPoet on twitter. Or at bookstores of course, but if you want yours inscribed....

These are all mind- and soul-stretching antidotes for the messes we're in this year.

The other books: Mary Oliver's Devotions; Mary Ruefle's Dunce and Charles Bukoski's Betting on the Muse.

The partial readings? A closing poem in Wendell Berry's The Art of Loading Brush--a collection of agrarian writings, and then skipping around in The Big Red Book by Rumi, and another poet I know you've heard of, David, in Psalms.

A door opens--3 days 'til Christmas

"Opening," 5 x 7 watercolor Christsmas card

 Solstice is past. 

The "great conjunction" of Jupiter and Saturn, has lapsed, as is this year. Christmas nears.

Stars are doors...doors of creation, of dreams, of direction, of imagination...of increased light.

Red and green and turquoise door and adobe and snow...to me are  all the same metaphors and realities.

Today's watercolor, metaphors for rebirth.

When Darkness Closes In--5 days 'til Christmas

"If Winter comes," 5 x 7 watercolor Christmast Card

"If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"--Shelley

When darkness closes in, as it has throughout this year, and the shortest day of the year looms, we need more light and warmth, especially mentally and emotionally.

Light and warmth are vaccines for survival in such dark, isolated times--if we accept them. Look at the stars, at the Christmas decorations...enjoy the brief moments of interaction with polite, kind people.

Treasure each moment, each memory, knowing that after tomorrow and as the year ends and a new one begins,  after medical vaccines and political changes, the light and warmth of sunshine begins to return, even if slowly.