An Illustrated Life

As I mentioned before, I got An Illustrated Life for Christmas from my beautiful and psychic sons. How DO they know what I want? After having read it practically cover to cover on Christmas Day today I decided to go back in and check out each of the artists. So, first on the list, Mattias Adolfsson. He lives in Sweden and draws with grace and humor. Damn I'm jealous. But the best of all, he interacts with his blog so that we get to see a bit of his brain nearly every day. www.mattiasa.blogspot.com The thing I really recommend here, probably because I'm onto this sketchbook thing right now, are the videos of him just paging through his sketchbooks, but don't neglect the bot drawings.

At home, the geese have temporarily abandoned the Knucker Hole marsh. After yesterday's warm foggy bath, they are probably sleeping it off somewhere, unwilling to brave the returned cold weather. I know I am.

Excited about the prospects

It's the day after Christmas. It was a lovely holiday and quite nice to spend time with my loved ones and give and get presents. Now it's time to get back to work. I've been inspired. I got the book An Illustrated Life from my wonderful boys and spent a few hours looking at the sketchbooks of other very talented artists. Of course, this made me want to run right to my studio and start working, which wasn't exactly possible at the time, given that we had guests coming and still had house cleaning and cooking to do.

But today, ah, today, there is no one coming to see the dirty dishes in the sink or to complain at eating leftovers. I am free to create. And I consider this my fresh beginning, blog wise. School is over and I am free to pursue my chosen career. (There is some internal discussion as to what this career should actually entail, but I'm confident that those questions will work themselves out.) Part of the pursuit is the resolve to continue and improve my blogging efforts. To make connections. To become accustomed to the regular production and revelation of my work to the public.

I've been spoiled at school. Assignments assigned and time lines given. Having to do this for myself is much more difficult, and yet, much more exciting as well. Thus I am, and continue to be, excited about the prospects.

Learning how to know what you want

I find myself wondering if Barack Obama and John McCain are feeling a little bit the same as I am today. Here it is, two days before election day, and no matter what the outcome, both of them will find their lives very different than they are today. Are they finding this home stretch exhausting? Are they wishing, in some ways, that they'd never embarked on such a monumental task? Or do they find it energizing to be on the brink of such a large job.

I'm not saying getting my degree in Graphic Design is the same as running for president, but anytime someone commits their life to a project for an extended period of time, I think there comes a time when you wonder if you've made the right decision. Maybe this is fleeting, a moment of doubt or fear during a quiet time, or maybe it persists and causes you to quit, to walk away from this very big task. Moments like these are different for all of us, but I believe we all feel it. As I'm feeling it today.

I know that I'm not going to quit. That's not what this is about. It's about how we work through that. How we get up in the morning and find that energy to keep working on our project, whatever it is. How we keep going back to it, working on it, refining it, shaping it, maybe in spite of odds to the contrary.

One of my instructors brought in an article from a recent New Yorker, about late bloomers. Those of us who are late bloomers understand better than most, the energy it takes to continue working on something with very little in the way of reward. We keep working on our art or our book or our whatever, and it comes out of a place that is completely separate from financial or social reward. There is always the hope that reward will come, but it's by no means a guarantee. And yet we give up much to keep at it.

People who are successful at the arts often say that they feel the same way. That achieving the "prize" isn't really the point. They feel as compelled to do the work as anyone else. The difference, the reason they achieve more, may just be luck, or a better network of acquaintances, or just more persistence.

Talent does not necessarily equal success, and success doesn't necessarily equal talent, but we do, as a culture, seem to think that's true. It seems to me that a major component of success, whether you know early on or it comes to you later in life, is knowing what you want. Sometimes the only way to learn that is to keep trying different things until you get the one that works for you.

Summertime

And, as the saying goes, and the livin' is easy. Which means I'm doing way too much hanging around and not nearly enough stuff. However. That is pretty much my constant state so I won't go on about it here.

Have spent some time this summer organizing my workspace and working on staying in contact with other artists. First the workspace.

I keep telling myself that once I have the studio clean, I can move on to other things. Have now come to realize that that is probably the worst form of procrastination there is. I tell myself I'm being virtuous, by cleaning, when in reality, I'm bagging off and I know it. Shame on me. Still. Some things have gotten done in the name of procrastination. A few projects have staggered across the finish line and some really awful first drafts of work have crept into existence. In addition, nearly 15 years worth (yes you read that right - 15 YEARS worth) of magazines have been reviewed, any relevant articles torn out and the rest recycled. You see what lengths I will go to not to work?

And, as I write about this I'm recommending a book. It's called The War of Art, and it's a beautiful essay on the evils of Resistance (read here procrastination) and the divine nature of creativity. A really inspiring read. The author is Steven Pressfield, who has also written some great historical fiction.

Second, staying in contact with other artists. I have a hard time sometimes, connecting with other artists. It's probably just me, but I get freaky when it comes to making contacts with other artists. Either I love their work so much, I feel unworthy of their friendship (as in "Damn! Now they're going to think I'm a total dilettante. ) or I don't much like their work and would have a hard time being friends because I'm really bad at lying about things like that. And it strikes me that even if I was good at lying about things like that, is that really what a friendship is all about?

But I've also come to the realization, after going back to school in my forties, that I really do need to connect with other artists. There is a benefit to talking with other people who understand at least the language of what you're trying to do. As my friend Victoria says, they get it. And the connection also inspires work. It's sort of like having an assignment, having to report to your friends about the progress of your work. They give you that look when you're bagging off. Doesn't mean that the friendship should take the place of the work, and that's tempting too, but it adds another dimension to working alone. Feedback.

So I'm working on it. I've read several blogs on the creative life this summer, and it seems to me that this is a constant battle with many artists out there. Working alone, versus feeding the well by entering community and getting involved with other people out in the world. It seems like it should be such a simple thing, to balance art and life, but it's really very complex and not altogether fun.

Still. I wouldn't have it any other way I guess. Now it's nearly 3pm and I have to go out and meet up with an artist friend of mine and enjoy this great summer afternoon.

Lists

I'm out of school for the summer now and have prepared The List. The List is a compilation of the things I plan to do this summer. I know, full well, that I won't even get close to completing the list. That actually isn't even the point. I will, however, take great satisfaction in crossing items off The List, and looking at some sort of progress. Last summer I didn't make a list and when September rolled around, I found, to my dismay, that I had accomplished nothing. Well, I'm sure I did something, I just couldn't remember what and had no proof.

I couldn't live without my lists. I make lists to go to the grocery store, which I promptly forget as I'm walking out the door. I make lists of things I should do, things I want to do, things I don't want to do but have to do, and let's not forget, things I will never do, but would like to think I'll get around to. Lists are my memory, my process and my bane. I sometimes find lists tucked into a book I haven't opened in years, and realize that, with a few slight differences, it could be the same list I'm building in my current notebook. Okay, that can suck. But it's also strangely liberating.

Recently I was looking through Gwen Diehn's, The Decorated Page, a really nice little how-to book about creating and using artist journals, when I came across a segment she'd included about Sei Shonagon. Sei was a Japanese courtier, diarist and poet who lived from 966 through 1013. Her pillow book is considered by some to be one of the first and best examples of good writing style. Oddly enough, I had just read another book, a novel called My Year of Meats, and I'm sorry I can't remember the author's name, who had also referenced Sei and her lists, which is why this little segment really stood out to me.

Sei Shonagon wrote in her pillow book, among stories and impressions of her time and culture, 164 lists. Some of the titles were "Things Which Distract in Moments of Boredom", "Annoying Things", "Things Which Make One's Heart Beat Faster", "Elegant Things" and "Things That Have Lost Their Power". Just reading the titles made me think about the nature of lists.

We all make lists. Sunday Morning did a segment on list making a few months ago, and while I put it on my list to blog about it at the time, now it's been so long I can't remember what they actually said about list making other than the fact that everybody seems to do it. As I prepared to write this entry I googled "list making". The best entry was an Onion article (one uncomfortably close to the truth actually - which is why the The Onion is so damn funny) and the weirdest to me was one from the Psychology Today website, that basically gave you five things to put on your list. Things like "Be Happy", "Write a Book" and "Fall in Love". Who knew it was that easy?

And by the way, I was just reading over this last paragraph and I want to reassure anyone reading this blog that I very seldom actually do homework/preparation to write it. But then, you probably already knew that.

So, back to the nature of lists. See, all of my lists are usually in the form of practical, get it done sorts of things. I put on there things like "Reorganize the buffet." "De-magazine." and "Return library books." I had never really even thought about making lists about, oh say, "Things That Are Thought About at 2am When One Has Woken From Sleep and Now Can't Go Back" or "Things That One Wishes One Could Say to the Teacher at Parent/Teacher Conferences" or "Things That Make One Cry in a Sentimental Way". This is kinda fun. How about "Things That One Finds at the Bottom of One's Purse That One Had No Idea How They Got There." or "Outgrown Things." or "Things That Taste Better Than One Thought They Would."

This puts a whole new spin on the list making compulsion. The categorization and documentation of these things is unique and immensely entertaining, in a way that "Potatoes, Rice, Onions, Oatmeal" just can't approach. I mean, my version of "Things That Smell Bad But One Sniffs Them Anyway." is probably very different from yours. Or maybe not. Maybe we shouldn't even go there.

So anyway, I'm adding another item to The List. I'm going to spend some time making non-functional lists. Categorizing and collecting my own thoughts into a journal, that, like Sei Shonagon's work, will hopefully reflect my time and culture. So that when I find the list, tucked into a cookbook ten years from now, I won't cringe that "Lose Weight." is still on it.

Back in the Saddle

I haven't posted in a long time. I know. And I could explain but that would be as boring for you as it would for me. Suffice to say one word. School.

Why I'm writing now is that one of my final assignments for this semester is to create a website for myself. This has been a very interesting process. Similar to having a blog, having a website appears to be a requirement for a graphic designer or illustrator these days. And, as usual, I'm having a hard time deciding what I'm going to look like online. Who would have thought the question would be so hard?

As I cruised the internet yesterday, looking for cool websites, I certainly saw quite a few, the Ames Brothers being one of the best, but while some of them were really cool to look at, they held little in the way of content. (And by saying this I'm NOT talking about the Ames Brothers site!) I do believe that the content is as important as the look, but again, what to say. So now I'm trying to decide what to say and how to say it. Whew. Even more fun. (Is there an "I'm being facetious" emoticon?)

I know I'll get there. I already have some ideas, but I have also been thinking a lot about authenticity. When designers, or anybody, creates a website that looks cool, really cool, WAY FAR OUT THAT'S JUST COOL, but says virtually nothing, what does that say about them? Is it necessary to put some of yourself on the site or is that just intrusive? Is it better to be honest and more transparent, if you will, and say what you think and feel about the work you expect people to buy from you, or have you create for them? Or is it better to just lay it out there and let others interpret what they will from your examples, with little or no comment to guide or inform their opinions?

I mean, on the practical side, as you look for potential customers on the internet, anything more personal, and by "personal" I don't mean comments about your home life, but more insight into your thought process and emotional connection to your work, has the possibility of turning off potential clients as well as engaging them. For this reason alone, I'm sure that there are valid reasons for less "personal". But, at the same time, there seems to be such a movement recently for a more authentic experience from your interactions with others. People seem to be looking for things that have the flavor of having been created by a real person, as opposed to the slick, manufactured look of a perfectly produced Illustrator drawing. I'm seeing a lot of texture and organic form and scratchy, blobby lettering that all says "Somebody made me." And I find that that's what I want too.

In the end, I believe it will all come down to being honest about who you are. If someone wants your work, they know they are getting something you have invested thought and energy into, and even though it sometimes looks imperfect, they will not be disappointed with the results. They know that they will get what they see.

If nobody wants it, maybe you're in the wrong business.

Touring Studios

Last weekend I went up north to visit my sister and go on a Studio Tour. Great idea, the studio tour. You travel around the countryside, visiting artists' homes and studios to see where and how they work. Local galleries and shops put on their best clothes and invite you in as well.

What I liked best about this tour was the beauty of our surroundings. A few years ago I went to California for the first time and drove the Pacific Coast Highway. It was a breathtaking and unexpectedly moving experience. As I followed Highway 35 south from the Twin Cities I found myself reminded of that experience, especially just outside Maiden Rock, on the eastern shores of Lake Pepin. There were the same winding roads, and stunning vistas, with rolling landscapes, and views of trees clinging to vertical cliffs on the left and a shining expanse of water on the right.

Okay, so the cliffs weren't as tall as the California mountains, and the shining waters were clearly bounded on the other side of the lake, no more than 2 or 3 miles to the west, as opposed to the limitless expanse of water you see when you stand at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. But the feeling you got, of straddling some magical line, between land and water, sky and earth, was definitely echoed in this almost hidden Midwestern landscape.

And the towns (it would be an aggrandizement of monumental proportions to call them cities, and even the word "towns" is, in some cases, quite a stretch) are also reminiscent of a deep history. Small wooden houses, most wearing their century of life with weary dignity, cluster together, and for this weekend, show off their party colors.

We stopped first in Maiden Rock. It was a glorious fall Saturday, if a bit too warm (it eventually reached 90 degrees that day - and in Wisconsin, October is usually more like 50 to 60 degrees, with 70 degrees a welcome departure) and being a Saturday in Wisconsin, there was a farmer's market. Two tables. One with the biggest jar of homemade pickles I've ever seen for $10 and the other with a small selection of late season veggies, like squash and some late tomatoes.

For such a small town (I think the population was around 300) it had an amazing variety of art galleries and shops. We went to two. The first was a little converted house with beautiful contemporary art. Drawings of huge flocks of birds juxtaposed with interesting multimedia stuff. I can't list too much because as we were looking around the owner had to close for a few minutes. So we wandered up the street to a place called Basil's. This old house clings to the sidewalk like a little old lady clutching her purse and as we went in we were bombarded with stuff. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in paintings of vibrant blue trees against orange skies and villages with jaunty red roofs and multicolored doors. Tables in the center of the room were heaped with leather purses and birdcages, holiday decorations for every holiday, not just the one coming up, costume jewelry antiques and retro boxes, all ready to slide off into your possession. Cabinets lined the walls and the open doors were hung with feather boas and beaded wire strands. As we picked our way through the plethora of stuff the owner cheerfully confessed to us that they'd already had avalanches.

Reluctantly we left. It was 11:30 and we'd only been to three places and only one of those was actually on the art tour. Before leaving town though we stopped at the Hungry Pelican. This was a bakery with some mouthwatering goods, like sour cream and green onion foccacia cooling on a table behind the counter and raspberry cheesecake pie. We had stopped to use the facilities and loved the look of the food, but we reasoned that it was early and the line (10 deep) was a tad too long to get something to eat already, so we moved on, once again passing on the $10 jar of pickles. (One of the drawbacks to a tour like this. You either have to have an impressive bladder or be willing to cajole your way into a bathroom. Another option, which we chose not to exercise, is to pee in the woods.)

Only later did I stop to wonder why a bakery in the middle of Wisconsin was called the Hungry Pelican. More on that later.

The next town was Stockholm. I won't go into detail here. I mean. I could. There's details. But the problem is, I'm blogging, not writing a novel. Here's the skinny. Great art. Great shops. Very cool look. Cooking shop!!! Small campground on the edge of Lake Pepin complete with pelicans. Still at this point (and it's 1:30 now) have only gone to 4 out of 12 proposed sites. Time to pick up the pace so we went on to Pepin.

And ate lunch. Really nice little cafe. Not amazingly good, but certainly better than many MANY a small town cafe, and great Scotcheroos. In Pepin we saw giant bamboo and tissue paper fish made by many people in the community in workshops put on by a local artists, as well as a video about an event they had held earlier in the summer, where they built a Viking ship out of scrap wood on the shore of the lake and then lit it on fire. I began to wonder just how much time these people have on their hands. And, in at least one part of my mind, I had to ask "Why don't they do this where I live?" And don't tell me, I know the answer to that. Because I'm not out there organizing the giant Viking ship burn. Well, not yet at least.

At this point we turned up into the uplands of Wisconsin, and as we wandered through two lane country roads that dipped in and out of steep crop-lined valleys, rising periodically to ride the crests of ridges, we drove past the birth place of Laura Ingalls Wilder without even realizing it until we'd gone completely past. We realized that we could easily come back after our next stop, billed as an artist who does sculpture, so we decided to go forward.

So, you're in the middle of nowhere. The last town you drove through had a population of 4. You turn at the instigation of a small orange sign and start driving down a gravel road that goes on, up and down over hills for a few miles, until you pull into a farm house driveway where you are greeted by an enormous stone sculpture, in progress. We were delighted to find that this charming artist, Stanton Sears, was also, along with his wife, Andrea Mykelbust, responsible for bringing in the artists who orchestrated the big Viking ship burn. Sears is the creator of some stunning public art that is both architectural and oddly organic. I put their website on the list. Check it out.

After this, we went back to where Laura Ingalls Wilder was born. The thing is, they had this cabin there, and there's nothing that says that this isn't the original cabin, until you walk in and realize that there's never been a fire in the fireplace or furniture on the floors. It's a little disappointing. Kind of like realizing that those tantalizing desserts on display in the restaurant are really fakes. I mean, you still get the gist but the perfection is false.

After this we really headed into the sticks, winding down gravel roads to ramshackle houses charming decorated as only artists can, to see pottery, painting and prints. We fell in love with most of the work and all of the sites. Cooing as much over artfully planted gardens, found art sculpture and the fall of sunlight through poplar trees as we we did over hand carved figurative sculptures (Dave Ekdahl at Nopointink also on the list), stone rattles (Nancy Liedl) and landscape painted tiles (Margy Balwierz, also at Nopointink) , we wandered until even we were too tired to do anything more than turn the car north again and head home.

And that was just the first day.