Permeabilities at Labette Community College.

February so far........ the cultural banality we get used to and stop noticing and the wild places around us.

I'm unsure of how this plant image was created. It seems like an accidental image, perhaps made by the plant getting pressed into the wall, adhering, and then slowly wearing away, taking the paint with it? Just speculating. It's beautiful. Accidental printmaking.

Some thoughts on art education and gratitude:

When I was a kid, I took art lessons from an artist in Fort Scott, Elaine Buerge. She introduced me to all kinds of mediums. Together, we did expressive pastels to music, acrylic still-life painting, mosaics, abstract work, all kinds of things, but most formatively, watercolor. Early on, she seeded the idea that "art is the process, not the product." That phrase was painted on the wall of her studio. I think I’ve carried her influence as I’ve gotten older, working across mediums and always keeping my perspective process-centered.

It makes me wonder who taught that concept to her. I imagine a long lineage of long-forgotten art teachers, their wisdom handed down like an inheritance.

Ann Villamaria was an artist who was also the mother of one of my best friends. She made these gorgeous, stylistically clean botanical watercolors that just mesmerized me. I loved the precision, the color gradients, the lettering, the thoughtful organization. When I saw her work, I knew I wanted to paint like her one day. I also saw her dedication to her family, the hard work of care labor she did for her children, and the generosity and inclusivity that she extended to me as her daughter’s friend.

Thomas Wheeler was my high school art teacher. He encouraged and facilitated my exploration, entered my work in contests, attended award ceremonies outside of contract hours, and tolerated my teenage angst. Most memorably, he taught me that art is poetry.

Jamie Oliver was my painting professor in college. He gave me a solid foundational understanding of formal skills that I return to regularly, especially utilizing color, structuring compositions, and analyzing the conceptual read of imagery. He modeled how to engage with painting as a daily, ongoing practice.

Rhona Shand, another professor, taught me that there are many art worlds, a helpful reframe that I’ve found to be true.

Marianne Evans-Lombe, my women's studies professor, taught me about feminist art. She exemplified artist-life fused with mothering. She helped me learn a vocabulary that gave voice to my experiences.

I am deeply grateful for all of these people, who were so formative at various times.

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I have also had experiences throughout the years with instructors who taught me, unintentionally, how not to teach. The teacher who routinely embarrassed students in front of their peers... the hierarchical subtext positioning those inside academia as the only artists with validity... unprofessional moodiness... To be fair, there have been times when I haven’t been a great teacher myself. I have, at times, been lazy or impatient with my words or said something stupid or misguiding. I haven't always understood how much students are listening, even when it seems they’re not, and how enduringly an older person's words can stick with a kid or young adult.

Teaching is exhausting. It’s constant mental and emotional labor (and when working with young children, it's overstimulating by structural design). Educators are often surviving through our own failed expectations of ourselves and others and the systems we're working in.

Teaching asks for your best self hour by hour, day by day: be patient and compassionate, practice and model empathy, avoid causing harm. I'm far from perfect, but my stamina for doing this has grown throughout the years as I’ve gotten older and become more self-aware of the responsibility I carry. I'm aware of how heavily beliefs can linger, and how convoluted the process can be to unlearn them. Working with young people is a heavy ethical responsibility, especially in the arts, where achievement or perceived failure can be so fused with identity.

I’ve been thinking about how my art practice has an ecosystem-based logic to it. I enter into and interact with various environments/biomes, and then I internalize that experience and spit it out as something else: an attempt to make my perceived experience visible... a record of consciousness moving through different terrains.

First, the ocean: power, intuition, dream states, hypnagogic flow, subconscious. Crushing depth, intricacy, leftover bodies and life emerging out of nowhere. To just be near the ocean is such an ephemeral experience since I live so far from the coast. My short pilgrimages are never satiating enough - only what my spouse and I can afford within a limited spectrum of time and money during a given summer... a 13 hour drive, a rental car, hundreds in lodging and food, traffic, a beach pass. There are so many hurdles to clear just for a brief sense of all-encompassing oneness.

 

Iceberg. Digital drawing.

 

Next, the woods: moisture, texture, rainbow spectrums, wheels of color. Invisible forest energies. Circles and layers and integration. Vines and snakes and fungi and lichens. Mycelium. Slow decay. Death and regeneration everywhere within sight. I have the good fortune of having access to several wooded areas close to where I live where I can hike. This allows me intimacy and repetition with specific natural areas in which I can attune to subtleties in the environment.

 

Night Flight. Watercolor, Ink, and Gouache.

 

Also: the prairie. Sky, expansiveness, a slow circle back to the ocean. Grasses that undulate in the wind like waves. An vague sense of the primordial and the extraterrestrial. Everything on the prairie feels alive, even the dead things. There's a sense of the interconnectedness of everything and a peace that makes the concerns of our human world seem completely silly. 

Long Necks. Watercolor, Vellum, Cyanotype, and Embroidery.

Finally, there's the embodied experience of living within a body, particularly a female body. The fluids we hold and the way these fluids pull with the tides. Humans are such liquid creatures in pregnancy, in menstruation, in the makeup of our bodies. I think a lot about the lived reality of how we are trapped inside fleshy, vulnerable, aging physical containers - a life we didn't ask for but nevertheless get to experience... until we don't anymore.

Villageless. Oil on Panel.

Moon/Time. Alcohol Ink on Yupo paper.

The earth is expansive and so is our capacity for creative channeling and flow. These biomes and ecosystems all contain a different kind of energy and to honor them demands a different kind of attention and response.

Devotion/Abalone. Oil on Canvas.

This painting was a test of my ability to paint iridescence. I also found myself bumping up against the limits of my focus - I had to complete the painting in several sittings instead of alla prima, which is the way I usually approach oil painting.

Devotion/Underbelly. Oil on panel.

Interiority. Acrylic and acrylic gouache on canvas.

Some things.......... Hypnagogic/hypnopompic imagery.

 Missouri is so spooky

I spent my 39th birthday at the reception for "Those Who Can... Teach: The Work of Art Educators" at Spiva Center for the Arts in Joplin. It feels good to be middle aged.