There All Along

For as long as I can remember, my approach to making art has been to find the spark of an idea and run with it. Fast and furious was my motto, and this established a routine of working on multiple pieces at a time, all inspired by a specific theme. A quick glance at past portfolios shows work inspired by travels to Tokyo and Cuba, text-based concepts, an ethereal female character with one especially large eye, the color turquoise, and wings. For a time, organizing shows and gatherings to share this work was my primary occupation, which gave me an opportunity to collaborate with many of my favorite people.

As I began to focus more on writing and facilitating retreats, making art became something I did in short bursts, and most of those small collections were sold online and individually rather than at large shows. All of this was happening while we were living in California. When we decided to move to Wisconsin, I also made the decision to return to my art in a more intentional way, and I looked forward to seeing how our new home and environment would influence the work. I was also excited about finding a new community and sharing whatever it was that I was certain would emerge in my studio as soon as we got settled.

It ended up taking nearly five years before I was able to really get back to it. Part of that story is right here. The surprising twist was that I always felt OK about this delay in my plans, which probably had something to do with the fact that I still managed to write and publish two books during this time. I was still creating and sharing my work, but all the while my longing to give birth to a new body of artwork held steady.

When I finally reached a point of being able to begin this work, I went into it with an entirely different attitude—one of patience, curiosity, and exploration rather than fire and unbridled energy. I had an idea for a concept, which I really loved, but my intuition told me I needed to follow the example of the butterfly rather than the hummingbird.

After months of trying this and that, I have meandered my way to an entirely different artistic landscape than the one I started out in. This has me wondering what other ideas and possibilities have been hovering in and around the general area of past creative pursuits. And it feels slightly miraculous—to realize that the seeds that are just now beginning to bloom have been there all along, and could have very easily remained dormant had I not made the conscious decision to allow more space in my creative process than ever before.

So from precise, image-based compositions arranged in hexagon patterns I have found my way to loose, abstract designs, and no one is more surprised by this than I am. The path is emerging more each day—one drip of paint, one stitch, at a time.

On Time. And Space.

It has been a minute, as they say. For nearly a year now, my website has been sitting on the sidelines, collecting dust, as I began the process of creating a new body of work in earnest last spring. This was kind of a necessity, as it has taken time to build up enough finished pieces and concepts to justify a whole new website. Until that happened, any updates wouldn’t have really accomplished much, hence the dust collecting.

In many ways, this has had me feeling like I’m getting to be an Artist for the first time in my life. Which is not to say I don’t believe I have been an Artist during all the years leading up to this, but that I am now enjoying the gift of being able to try something entirely new on every level. These are new materials that require new skills. I am also experiencing the benefits of a slower pace, one that requires a commitment to patience, exploration, and thoughtful consideration. After being an Artist for most of my life, I am still discovering entirely new methods, tools, and expressions.

Someone recently asked me, “Why now?” as in, why did I decide it was time to dive back into studio work, build a new collection, and have another show? The most fundamental answer to that question is because I can—because I am alive and healthy and breathing. And I am an Artist. Beyond that, it has much to do with the decision we made almost exactly six years ago to uproot our life from California and transplant it to Wisconsin.

In leaving California, I had to let go of many (maybe most) of the circumstances that made my work possible and relatively easy. I was close to many in my creative community and had access to all kinds of spaces for shows, retreats, and gatherings. California was also a desirable place for people to visit; it wasn’t terribly difficult to entice people to the land of near-constant sunshine and blue skies. Simply put, it didn’t take much to tap into a network of people, opportunities, and energy that offered all kinds of possibilities for creative projects and endeavors.

Before moving, I looked forward to establishing myself in a new place and bringing my talents, skills, and artistic experiences to a new community. While I have written and published two books since I got here, I don’t feel like I have really provided what I was envisioning when I imagined myself in our new city. I still have a deep longing to create an experience that centers on a body of work—something that is equal parts ephemeral and tangible, a unique and memorable gathering that centers on physical works of art.

I have held on to this vision for more than five years now—through the move and getting settled, through my dad’s illness and death, through Covid. And I have trusted it. When I was able to enjoy short bursts of activity in my studio during this time, I always went in with the same intention—to experiment, to play, and to trust that all these small efforts would converge at some point in the not-too-distant future and provide the springboard to a new, more in-depth artistic adventure.

Why now? Because it is time. And while I have time, I aim to use it in the best way I can.

Lost. And Found.

I worked in my studio today—hands covered in paint, new splotches on the drop cloths. With a stack of blank sketch paper and a limited selection of colors, I proceeded to create more than thirty rapid-fire compositions, each one an experiment with brushstrokes, motions, and smooth sweeps of a palette knife. I spread thick globs of paint like butter on toast. I dabbed layers with a tissue as if mopping up a spill. I never stopped moving.

When I first moved to California more than twenty years ago, one of my first purchases was a nine-foot surfboard. There was a tiny surf spot within walking distance of where I lived, and I spent many mornings in a wetsuit, paddling out to the waves, by 6:00am. One of the experiences I loved most about surfing was the way I felt afterward, when I had the sensation that my entire body was sparkling. I felt simultaneously exhausted and energized, enlivened by the saltwater froth.

In this moment, after my time in the studio, I am experiencing something not quite the same, but close. I feel tired. I am full of energy. Something deep within is awake.

It has been tempting to look at the past few years and say, “I lost myself.” Between moving across country, reconciling with my dad after our estrangement, and then dealing with his almost-immediate small cell carcinoma diagnosis, my attempts at creativity were piecemeal at best. For three years the majority of my time, attention, and energy was spent showing up in other areas of my life and in ways I’d never experienced. I was letting go, calling in, and growing up in a whole new way. On some days I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. On other days I believed something else was happening—that I was becoming more of who I was meant to be all along.

I will say this: I am not who I was three years ago. That much is certain. But does that mean I was lost? That I abandoned some core part of myself when I left California, reached out to my dad, and then pushed aside so much of what was precious to me in order to spend as much time as I could with him before he died? In all of that, did I go astray from my artistic soul?

Even though it is mid-April, fat flakes of snow are falling outside my window. They are gathering in clumps along the branches of the thirty-foot pines. They will most likely be gone within 24 hours. Watching them flutter downward, they almost look mirthful—twirling and floating and letting small gusts of wind come along and swoop them in their currents. They are oblivious, these snowflakes, showing no cause for concern that they will soon be on the ground and, from there, gone.

Are these like the moments of my life, when unexpected blasts of wind sometimes come along and carry me in an entirely new direction? Is it inevitable that I lose some part of myself along the way? Or is it part of the process of moving closer toward my soul’s deepest longings? If this is true, what are the parts of me that are steadfast and immobile, so solidly anchored in my bones that it isn’t possible to leave them behind no matter what happens?

I am making art again. It started today, in a way that feels more resolute than it has in a long while. I am trying things that feel familiar and venturing into new territory. I am a scientist in my laboratory, a chef in her kitchen. I am following crumbs and peeling back layers. I am weaving together experiences from the past three years with the mysterious artistic yearnings that are starting to bubble up. Whatever this work becomes, it will tell a story. Of then. Of now. Of the mystery on the horizon.