Skill-Building: Thoughts on a Semester of Representation

     Despite the fact that this semester has been primarily about skill-building, I'm moving towards creating completed and fully realized figurative paintings. This semester has caused a lot of my questions to resurface: What is the value of representational (other word: realism, figurative art) art? It often feels one-sided and more about the physical act of making than communicating a concept. 

     I like the process of mastering something. Painting is another outlet for my academic interests and I approach painting the same way I approach a paper on a book I loved in my English class. It's a place to see growth and a physical space for self-actualization (whether I realize it or not)--I'm thanking John Hegel for this one. 

     Although, it's too hard to be therapy--painting doesn't provide the same catharsis for me that it does for others.  But in a pleasurable way, painting provides a space for a healthy amount of self-awareness. I am aware of the physical movement of each brushstroke, each mistake and step forward, and all the intricacies that come with the medium--all with the added relief that my anxious mind is distracted for the time being. 

     So, in its many forms, is representation primarily the personal narrative of the artist? What can it be for the viewer? 

     I don't want to be a figurative artist who refuses to educate herself on the philosophy and values of the contemporary art world. But this education continues to be discouraging--because at the end of the day it tells me that representation no longer has value. This was the resounding voice of my peers throughout college and echoes through the prominent artistic spaces of New York and LA. 

   It is possible that representation acts against a general pull to heaviness and cynicism? 

I'd love your thoughts. 

Corners, February to May 2016

      Last fall, my plans for my Senior year (and my thesis) came to a screeching halt when I finally admitted that I wasn't moving forward. I couldn't teach myself to paint the figure anymore--it wasn't working. Admitting this allowed me to explore other subject matter and ask myself why I find the human figure so compelling. An answer came very quickly: I love the relationship between light and shadow, the saturation and depth of color. But color and light exist other places, don't they? The fifth floor of 808 Commonwealth Avenue took me out of the world of neutral colored walls and revealed an entire world of unexplored surfaces right under my nose. I found my shadows and light there. In the end, it didn't matter if I was harkening to Vermeer or Josephine Halvorson, this project helped me discover who I was as a painter--and that I liked it at all. 

      I started the paintings in late February, beginning with drawings and transparent lay-ins of color. I began with the painting that was first called "The Red Door," that has been referred to as "my crown jewel," but currently has the title of Untitled (Pax Vobiscum). Working between the 5th floor of 808 and my studio across the street, my days grew longer as I followed the light across the warehouse. The goal was to paint three hours per corner, three corners per day. To avoid the morning glare, I would begin with the red door, in the early afternoon I would move to Lunula 1, and around 3 p.m. I would make my way to Untitled (Ruins) in time for the golden hour.  They didn't always have these impossibly obscure names--those names came from the audiobooks (over 16) that accompanied my solitary painting schedule. I didn't feel as lonely when I was hearing about Robin Hood in Wales or delving into Lloyd Alexander's compelling legendarium. This allowed my love for literature to be a part of my art without turning my work into illustration-- no one was the wiser. 

      Out of my painting practice came the concept itself. Corners are a space that require action: one either moves away from a corner (the most socially awkward space), or around it (hoping not to bump into anyone). No one wants to be in a corner: it's the ultimate symbol of isolation, of being stuck. What if a corner could mean something else? Standing in front of these corners, watching light pass over them day in and day out--they are slow places in direct contradiction to the haste of the contemporary world. They are contemplation personified. And with this close observation of overlooked textures and color relationships--I found my love for painting. There wasn't any strife here. 

      In the end, the paintings were a series of five, with the first and last paintings acting as bookends or parentheses ("Lunulae") holding the story of February to May 2016. Because of these paintings, corners I've seen all over Boston, New York and LA have stopped me in my tracks. I still think about them. I still want to paint them. They have a lot to offer me still. Currently, I've started a series of small, detail paintings of the red door and I've gathered photos from corners in these cities; I'd love to paint some for you.