Forward, Reorientation

“The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps.” - Proverb 16:9

Work-in-progress shot of a 42”x28” oil on canvas painting

“I was much older then/ I”m younger than that now.” - My Back Pages, Bob Dylan

So much of my life I’ve tried to jump the gun, strive to be older or better than I am. I very rarely considered learning as a treasure; I thought I should just know better. I’ve chanted the mantras “Shoulda known better”, “You messed up, again!”, and “Really, Case?!” so much that the grooves in my brain have had very little resistance to giving up and being overly hard on myself. The notion of being gracious and offering myself second chances seemed not only foreign, but unacceptable. This danse macabre was so well rehearsed that it kept me from exploring, from being curious about my “what” and “why” in this life, and even from playing and enjoying life. It played into my art making on a huge level as well - to equally devastating effects. In my collegiate years, and the decade following, I even had a staunch view of “paint nothing twice”.  What a grave mistake! Adopting a new perspective, accepting my place as a young child in this place, and embracing my role as a student has been the very best reorientation I can imagine. New neural pathways are being formed and fortified with each new step in this direction.

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” - Beautiful Boy, John Lennon

Over the past few years I’ve noticed that my pace has slowed. Not my physical pace, mind you, though approaching 40 has offered new insights to my physical being. No, during this reorientation process  - just as I mentioned in the previous blog - has shown the beauty and power of careful observation, deep imagination, and the effect of internationally drawing upon both to create a painting. Yes, I've simultaneously adopted a larger easel system to create more paintings, but even this has proven a benefit to improve my workflow (batching and production), but also to create greater cohesion (my paintings better inform one another, there’s more synergy in colors, textures, and subject matter). I am able to iterate not only in my sketchbook these days - a practice I’ve adopted in the last decade - but also in paintings. Just as I am struck with awe over the same landscape settings, so too am I more curious how to render it; I am freer and more capable to cradle the impression and paint it. Oh, the joy of exploring that awe and wonder.

The painting pictured above is an homage to this season of reorientation. This piece itself has undergone design changes to better express the main idea originally that captivated me: wandering paths in Texas fields. There are all kinds of paths in fields, especially in North Texas. Some paths are life-saving paths, some are concrete eye-sores in the ever-expanding sprawl, some quiet whispers of child-like jaunts into mysteries yet unrevealed. Equally, this piece speaks as a commemoration to the work I’ve done in rebounding from blunders and mistakes. It used to be that after a fight, miscommunication, or some personal line I’ve crossed I’d wallow in shame and guilt before trying again. But in these past few years I've learned to make new shortcuts. Apologize when need be, but always to press onward, and to be bold in starting anew more quickly. To rebound, not in hubris, but in gratitude and humility. I’ve found my “shortcuts”, my secret paths, to those happy places in my own life. I don’t need to take the beaten down paths, I’ve found my own. And these paths are not only freer, but my steps are firmer. I get to keep exploring the wonder before me.

Not only am I rebounding more quickly these days, but I’ve been encouraged - and even exhorted - to find new metrics for success. Life with four children is a lot to handle. It is a lot to enjoy. And I have been gifted - out of love and not as a test, which i used to think - with an immense wealth. Taking the wins where I can and learning from my shortcomings and missteps with newfound grace and elasticity, I’m able to do well with what I have been entrusted to tend. But more on this tactic and vision-casting in the next blog.

Take care, until the next time.

A New Hope (Perspective?)

“It’s not impossible. I used to bullseye womp rats in my T-16 back home, they’re not much bigger than two meters.” - Luke Skywalker

In the months following me destroying a perfectly good painting I knew I needed some help sorting myself out, so I sought out a new counselor. Finding him was Providential, too. The work we did, the guidance he provided, was impeccably helpful and restorative. And not just to my mind and soul, but to my understanding and imagination. By the end of our nearly two year journey I had the tools and knowledge I needed to shift my perspective about my life and livelihood. 

I was finally able to see more clearly how much my Heavenly Father loved me and how deeply the gift to make art, and to make it the way I do, is powerful and liberating. Sure, it's primarily for me, as I make art I want to see, but by the end of this stint of my counseling journey my counselor expressed how much he appreciated the beauty and power of imagination I brought to our sessions. It fueled the flame kindling in my heart.

Not long after starting counseling, I joined the Created to Thrive Mastery Program with Matt Tommey. I was already in the Mentoring Program his team provided, and the internal work I’d done before counseling was done through this program, but the joining the mastery level was like a dream come true. Not only was I part of an encouraging and serious community of fellow Christian professional artists, this was another confirmation to continue this endeavor. My wife and I had been praying for the opportunity to grow more deeply and skillfully in my professional career, and I’d mentioned wanting to join this mastery program specifically before receiving the call to join. In that first year of the mastery program I learned a great deal about running an art business, how to adjust my priorities, and how to accept and appreciate my creative proclivities as a professional artist. Again, the image of the campfire in the hazy glade with glowing embers came to mind. The painting was more than a painting for me, and this time I knew I wasn’t in danger of becoming a grumble, nor was I grumbling as much as before. The embers of a grateful heart were glowing more steadily than ever before.

Simplified vision with more natural colors. Not what I envisioned, but this version was great practice.

And it’s those same embers burning beneath the ashes that I saw back in 2023, but this time I’ve got a renewed vision and focus. During those months I resolved to restart the painting “Till the Whole Pile Glows Red and Clear”, so I got cracking on it again. I stretched and primed a new canvas over the same stretcher - it had survived my previous assault - and got back to work. Not long after I began this second attempt I noticed that the same dissatisfaction as the previous attempt peaked its head. This time, however, I remembered my training and accepted that the piece wasn’t going the way I’d envisioned. I also knew that this wasn’t one of those “let the piece tell you what it is” moments either, so I scraped off what wet paint remained and reprimed the surface for the third - and, God willing - final time! 

Closer…but still not quite what I wanted.

This past summer - gosh, can I already say that? - Daniela and I took our four children to Guelph, On, Canada to visit my wife’s family. While we visited with everyone from Colombia, Spain, Canada, and Texas we got to enjoy the natural beauty in the city. For that entire trip I had very little time to paint or even sketch, but I was able to process my work mentally as I took in the sights and collected as many photos as I could while enjoying our immediate and extended family. The richest of these ongoing mental excursions was a growing association between the discipline of Surrender and the textures and colors of this painted vision. I tried to keep this painting out of mind, but I kept hearing the word “surrender” in my head and heart; each time the word became more beautiful, more powerful. And my response became more tearful.

This meditative experience was such a timely, sweet succor and consolation. And the inverse started to occur as well, each time I thought about which brushes and colors I’d need to create the strokes I now envisioned, I would hear, “Surrender”. So I brought that experience back home with me, secured in the most precious container I have, and into my studio. Approaching the canvas this time, I had a new mindset. A new perspective. I trusted the Spirit leading me, and I got to work with a restored approach.

Understanding that the things I see - through observation and imagination - are not only acceptable means to make paintings, but are necessary components of my art-making process. It’s a part of who I am and how I’ve been woven together. And on top of that,the understanding that I’m not making my art for God. I’m making it with Him, in spirit and in truth, through study and growth, in failure and excellence. My worth isn’t incumbent upon my ability to paint, thank God, but my ability and desire to paint was knitted into my being by the One who gives me worth. 

While this newest iteration (pictured below) isn’t complete, it has been a great joy painting this version of this painting. I’ve been more intentional with my brushwork - paying slow, close attention to textures and stroke variations - and my color choices. I am more surrendered to the full scope of my process and in taking the steps necessary to create my work. I am more committed to the process than the product. And arriving to this place has awakened something else - scenes depicting my journey to discovering new pathways while drawing more directly upon local North Texas landscapes, making my practice more genuine and approachable - and I am thoroughly excited to explore and paint. “You’re all clear kid! Now let’s blow this thing and go home!”

There Can Be Only One

Ever start something beautiful and powerful, cathartic even, only to get distracted and way off course? I have.

This was a great painting and I still ruined it….

Well within my reorientation journey I picked up The Great Divorce by C. S. Lewis for some enlightenment, as there is no one quite like “Jack” (Lewis’ nickname) to accurately and poetically describe the condition of the soul. While every page brimmed with potent imagery, there was one scene that stuck out to me most prominently. Actually there were two, and the other I’m still chewing on to this day. In Chapter 9, Lewis’ character and his mentor and guide, George MacDonald, a 19th century Scottish theologian who Lewis strongly admired, happen upon an odd exchange between a ghost and a spirit. For those who may not know, in The Great Divorce the “ghosts” are the dead who are allowed out of hell into the valleys of Heaven and the “spirits” are those who believed in Jesus and lived in heaven.

This particular conversation was between a silent spirit and a complaining ghost. Through the exchange and MacDonald’s explanation thereof, I felt a profound weight in my heart. In one paragraph from the Scotsman I heard the voice of my Shepherd speaking to me, “ Aye, but ye misunderstand me. The question is whether she is a grumbler, or only a grumble. If there is a real woman - even the least trace of one - still there inside the grumbling, it can be brought to life again. If there’s one wee spark under all those ashes, we’ll blow it till the whole pile is red and clear. But if there’s nothing but ashes we’ll not go on blowing them in our eyes forever. They must be swept up.” 

As soon as I read “one wee spark…” I knew the Voice speaking to me through the text. And I knew that I was grumbling and in danger of becoming a grumble, as the narrative describes. I was in danger of losing myself amid my growing discontent and complaining heart. And in the wrestling that immediately took place after that revelation an image began to develop in my mind. I saw a smoking campfire in a hazy glade; the grass was the pale gold of autumn, the surrounding trees were hidden by fog and seemingly dead, and at the base of the campfire were glowing embers. I understood it immediately, and I went to my sketchbook. After covering several pages - more than several, really - I found my composition. 

 started on the painting not too long after reading that chapter. I collected my surface materials, stretched and primed my canvas over a large (28”x52”) stretcher, tinted the ground, and rendered my image for the imprimatura (the first painted layer). And I started cookn’! I was so impassioned to paint this piece, and I was making serious headway before the message that sparked the image came back to mind. But this time it wasn’t the same voice as before. This time the snippet came with accusation and fear; the accusation wasn’t my voice, but the fear sure was. And the anger that joined with the fear was definitely mine, too.

And instead of fighting the fear with truth, I froze. All of a sudden I couldn't paint, and if I did apply paint I second and third-guessed everything. I was going mad.

hen I got the idea to ask for help. But when I asked for help, I did two things out of order: 1) I didn’t rest with my Father first, and 2) when I enquired of trusted friends’ help, I asked for their input about the art and not my state-of-being. This only exacerbated my frustration and made studio sessions increasingly difficult and demoralizing. That is not what practice is about - yes, there are low days and hard days, but it is not a degrading practice. Rather it is a life-giving endeavor.

After one phone call with a friend discussing the work, my mind went through several rounds of “yes, this is good” and “no, this is shite”...and the next thing I knew I had punctured the canvas with the handle of a paintbrush. 

Well that was all I needed to unleash the well of frustration. I didn't stop with one puncture, and before long I picked up a nearby utility knife and slashed the canvas to ribbons…. I’d completely destroyed something that was so close to my heart, and I did it because I was listening to the wrong voices.

In no way did I blame my friends’ input and help; I even reassured them when they apologized for their words. I took responsibility for my misalignment. I also sought forgiveness and healing for my grumbling spirit, my fear and anger, and for allowing those lies to take root and bear fruit. I knew that I needed some professional help through this endeavor as well, and in a few other areas of my life, so that I could get equipped to overcome these frantic and insecure tendencies.

I also put away the stretcher, but I went back to my sketchbook and iterated this image as I wrestled my thoughts and sought out help.

I was able to keep going forward, and I knew I wasn’t going to be the same on the other side of the journey.

A better vision of things to come. A renewed mind required a reinvigorated studio setup.

To Be Continued. . . .

The Dream

As long as I remember, I’ve had highly detailed and emotionally charged dreams. At times I acted impulsively in reaction to my dreams, even the stress-induced or bad food dreams, and other times I would get discouraged from my dreams not understanding the nighttime narrative.Over the years however, I’ve learned which dreams were pizza dreams, which ones were residue from the day, and which ones were instructive for me.

But sometimes...sometimes there are dreams that are more than informational and enter the world of deep motivation and encouragement. Of hope and clarity. Of succor and consolation. A call to adventure. Such was this dream.

This painting is not a depiction of the dream, but a glimpse of the early light I get to see every day. I wake up early to bask in and soak up the Grace afforded me, that I may pour it out likewise onto a canvas.

Everything was bathed in morning twilight periwinkle as I entered a darkened mudroom adjacent to the dimly illuminated kitchen of our house. Our house! I opened the door to the cool autumn air and the crunch of purple gravel beneath my feet as I made my way ahead. I looked up to take note of the grass, garden, and tree canopy about me. Ahead of me on the gravel path was a barn I knew to be my studio. The rest I didn’t see in the dream but understood in my heart that this barn was my art studio rife with my paintings as well as a place to teach other artists. 

I woke up still feeling a bit dreamy, as if what I glimpsed was a tease…but slowly, as slumber transformed into waking, encouragement brimmed.

Before I could completely resign this scene as inevitably unfulfilled, I shared it with my wife. We’d only been married a little while at this point but she was already my closest confidant outside of Yeshua (Jesus). And as I shared this dream with her the hope rose within me with every dreamy description. (Looking back, this dream was even an elaboration built upon a scene I’d envisioned about our future while we were dating…but I still didn’t want to make connections that weren't there.) I wrapped up the narrative and she looked at me in wonder matching my own. Then she asked me a question I will never forget, “Was there a window in the kitchen looking at the barn?”

 

Wait, what did she say?!

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard escape her lips!

And yet, looking back all these years…I couldn’t be more thankful. While we do not currently own any land, or our own house for that matter, and the barn studio remains a distant dream, we endeavor to be prepared for it. We love where we are now, and are faithful with what - and who - we’ve been entrusted. My studio has always been a sanctuary, even more so today than any previous iteration, and I can’t wait to see what dreams may come.

A Converging of Streams of Influence

Above is an early-in-process-snapshot of the third iteration of a painting based off a daydream I had over a decade ago. Through this daydream I noticed that the ripples of my life were weaving into the ripples of another’s life. And for that very reason this image has become an important pillar in my artist excursion. I cannot, and maybe dare not, divulge how many pages this very idea covers in a few sketchbooks over the years. But this is the painting that I’ve known for awhile that I wanted to make the most, and the one that requires the full breadth of my ability. And then some.

Not only does it require all that I can muster, but the fullest expanse of my practice is compulsory. From deep wells of imagination, hidden springs of inspiration, trickling streams of observation, and tributaries of practice. And in the throes of developing this piece, after all of the thumbnail sketches and detail drawings (no, I still won’t tell you how many there are), two failed larger iterations, and this final piece that’s when the notion of “convergence” caught my attention. Alongside the sketches I’ve had to do observational paintings to look at lighting, and to render the figure more believably; the nuances of light and color in the figure and surrounding atmosphere are too much for me to imagine. I’ve also had to study other artists to ponder over their success, looking at compositions and scale, color palettes, brushwork, and layering techniques. I’ve had to brush up on archival processes to ensure a better surface quality. And regular sessions of revivification with my favorite cinematographic films. And all the while the voices of my professors and mentors reverberating the walls of my mind. It has been an incredible coalescence of tributaries.

As much as this painting has been a revelation of what my work requires, it has also shown me how much further I have to go in way of executing the visions and day dreams. I cannot paint without imagination, but those visions and scenes will breadth of my practice. A few months ago this understanding was a heavy weight. But now this understanding is a relief, a benchmark in my journey. And I’m more excited to see what I get to make next.

Building with Layers

Meet Me in the Broken Places, 9”x12” oil on pane, 2020

Finding the majesty in the mundane often requires seeing the beauty in a something as it is, without embellishment. Sometimes it requires the imagination to see beyond, or more of, what is in view. Painters do this all of the time, as editing an image is a great deal of what we do; what we reveal often requires removing or embellishing details to drive the story of the piece. To lead the eye, and the soul, of a viewer across - and into - a painting not a task to be taken lightly.

This landscape is not far from my home, and the barn within was recently demolished for a new neighborhood, and has been a regular delight to observe. Early morning has been the most common view for me in my passing, but it has most profoundly struck me in the Autumn and Winter. This is actually the second piece I’ve painted of this space. I’ve often pondered the history of this barn and the sprawling copse around it. I could almost feel the echo of its memories from the days it was a useful storehouse. And in its aged and broken down state, its facility and beauty were still apparent to me.

In painting this scene, starting with a warm under painting - which you can still see hints of in the thin washes and scratched areas - helped me enliven the wearing cold of winter. While I built up my layers of ever-increasing layers of cooler and bleaker color and value, I was drawn to a place of intimate melancholy. Not merely a sadness, but a reverie of my own state in relation to this scene. Who is willing to investigate me in my brokenness or my decrepitude? Who will see the years of toil and burden? The memories of rigor and strength for a greater purpose? Who might seek to restore and reinvigorate me for the joy ahead? Outside of my bride I can only think of One.

“What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time.” - Ecclesiastes 3:9-11a

An Invitation to Build

Ner Tamid, 15”x24” oil on primed paper, 2020

I remember most of the steps that saw this painting come to fruition. It was painted within same stretch of time as the previous piece but the idea for this one came first. I had been inspired by the foggy wintry scenes around us as well as soundtrack for “The Revenant” which was on heavy repeat in my studio. Thinking over the greys of our Texas winter and the imagery from the film got me thinking about my own frigid forest, and that’s when I caught a glimpse of the above scene.

I’m not sure if it’s from reading Tolkien or watching sci-if and fantasy films, but every time I walk through the woods I hope to come across some mysterious ruins or ancient artifact. This time, however, even in traipsing my mind’s forest, I found something more than I could have wished. Much like in the church scene from “The Revenant” where DiCaprio’s character was briefly reunited with the ghostly visage of his murdered son, what I beheld was a place where grief, deep desire, and a sense of purpose could abide. Hidden in the dense wintry woods I found the ruins of an old synagogue abandoned and overgrown since its apparent destruction save for the area around the bimah. And just above the ark…the ner tamid.

And it was that exact term, “ner tamid”, that spoke to me most clearly. It is a beautiful phrase to say, and is Hebrew for “eternal light”; it is also a small lamp with a living flame used in synagogues as a representation of the Menorah from the Temple. The light was a reminder of God’s eternal presence amid His people Israel. Most traditional churches have something similar near their altar as well, taking Yeshua (Jesus) as the Light of the World. A small, ever-burning lantern to represent His eternal presence. So too in my painting it is a tiny reminder of His presence amid all of the desolation and bitter cold. A brilliant appeal to draw near.

Indeed it seemed an overture to something more beautiful. This scene struck me as an invitation to build again, to refortify my studio practice and reinforce my creative endeavor. Remember, this was one of two pieces that came out of a personal challenge to get into the studio every day of February 2020, so once this image came to mind I began to feverishly scribble iterations of this scene in my sketchbook. After [more than] a few thumbnail sketches and value drawings, I had my composition. Deliberating over materials and processes to realize my vision was reinvigorating down to the marrow! I felt like an artist again. I felt like my efforts and my work had purpose.

A Hidden Place

Almond Branch, What do you See? 15”x24” oil on primed paper, 2020

This painting…this painting came to me right at the start of the lockdowns in 2020. I was in the midst of a studio challenge I’d set for myself to be in my studio daily for an entire month, so I was also on the hunt for inspiring music to accompany my task, when I discovered James Newton Howard’s original score for “A Hidden Life”. Once again I found myself overcome by the beauty of a musical score for another Terrence Malick film. I should have known that something was going to swell within me.

It was only a few tracks in when I noticed the title “Surrounded by Walls” and an image seized my attention. The shutdown was all too fresh across the globe as well, but I didn’t feel shut in. I knew this was going to be a real chance for me, even catalyzing my studio challenge goal, to focus on my creative space within my own walls. What could have easily felt like a prison instead became my secret place.

The first image that came to mind was one of hope and I’d built upon that first imagination, but I knew it needed to grow into something more full. I knew that I needed to explore this idea more deeply, to investigate the details of this inspiration. In that same few days of iteration in my sketchbook, exploring a picture of hope, the verse Jeremiah 1:11 came to mind…and that’s when I knew what I needed to paint: clinging to hope in a desolate place. And I knew I needed to incorporate that particular imagery into the piece, especially as that verse contains a beautiful play on words. That’s when my approach to this piece became more measured and methodical, and not simply reactive as is sometimes my wont. This scene required a convincing architecture to bear its substance.

The crucible of this challenge was drawing up all kinds of lessons from my university days, building an enormous stellated dodecahedron with my freshman art classmates - even trying to mathematically map its internal shadows in our drawings - and feeling the weight and power of reality. I also recalled the first lesson in my first oil painting class, building an architectural maquette for still life practice, exploring how light moved through an interior space. I found myself building a model based on my drawings and adding a dedicated light source to find the effect of light I required. I even brought in a small trig to help construct the light play around the almond branch. Working with this structure gave me the liberty to add details as needed, and to create an inhabitable space to encounter hope.

Gathering Thoughts

Cultivate an ever continuous power of observation. Wherever you are, be always ready to make slight notes of postures, groups and incidents. Store up in the mind... a continuous stream of observations from which to make selections later. Above all things get abroad, see the sunlight and everything that is to be seen. -  John Singer Sargent

Inspiration, imagination, and ideation are major competences by which I create my art. But I would be without focus and real confidence in my art-making without the power of observation. I believe this true gift of any creator as it is the ability that equally compliments and enriches the labors of inspiration, imagination, and ideation. 

What’s amazing about it is that as it becomes part of my rituals of art-making I can more capably create my inspired ideas. 

It is through observation that I learn to perceive the majesty in the mundane. I don’t mean “mundane” in the dull humdrum sense but, rather, in the everyday earthly sense. This practice helps me not only to see incredibly beautiful instances and things that are often overlooked (which itself is a noble method), but it empowers me to discern the very nature and character of God, the master artist, and all of His attention to detail in everything. It deepens my trust of who He says He is. For me, there is no greater reason to paint those investigations.

Having this real knowledge is incredibly powerful. Studying the nature of light, for instance, is one of my chief concerns in making art. Taking copious notes of how light actually affects a physical space through varying shapes of light and dark, chasing after nuances of reflected light on various surfaces, and capturing the mood within a room are great joys for me. These studies of light in a room facilitate painting a real presence. Without serious observation the depth of emotion, meaning and truth of the beauty beheld is lost. 

As J.M.W. Turner once said, "My business is to paint what I see, not what I know is there."

 

Developing Greater Flexibility

There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.

- Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Is it always the way that when we find some liberty in our lives then Fear rears its hideous strength? A force that wants to keep us entrapped and cowering. The greatest projectionist, fear is. And Fear doesn’t hold back, it doesn’t hold any punches. It does not want any of us to go forward, to grow out of its grasp. 

And that is the perfect response - to get out. To outmaneuver the volley, and not merely by a show of force or even a compulsory tête-à-tête.

Such a deft response to the fear of failure requires a solid foundation and the resolve to press onward. 

It requires flexibility. And I am thankful to have found some versatility in my approach to painting - through further exploring those elements I most appreciate about art-making: deepening my affinity for natural lighting, developing tonality, building atmosphere with layers, and creating a presence in my works. I abided in the crucible of taking risks and making “mistakes” with my artwork. And I embraced the newfound malleability by investing in better tools and materials to help me push my technical and creative bounds. 

And these motivations have only made supple and enriched my endeavor to generate the art I’m most moved and compelled to create. To build a body of work that examines the Majesty in the mundane.

This painting came from my musing of my first winter in McKinney, absorbing the beautifully grey and rainy patches of open land near our home. I used thin washes of paint with a severely limited palette to capture the cold and damp atmosphere enshrouding the dormant trees. 

Realigning my Sight

There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after. - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit, or There and Back Again

When I stepped into this portion of my journey back in 2017, I thought I knew what the general path - or the outline of that path - was going to be. I thought I knew exactly what kind of painter I was going to be. I am thankful that I hadn’t an inkling of a clue to what was in store. The natural challenges of life arose, and I [eventually] found ways to meet them. Each step forward came in a new season for our little family: in moving to three new homes, bringing  three children into the world, and cultivating better ground for my creative endeavor. 

This endeavor found the most stability and the greatest step forward I’ve experienced in over a decade… right as the world shut down in 2020. My interests began to converge, and I gave myself the space to craft imagery in my head, my sketchbook, and even on new surfaces. I am thankful for this exploration, because it helped me rediscover what interests me and brings me joy. The piece below was the first in my renewed exploration. (Cabin in the winter wood)

With the potent encouragement of my wife, and the well informed guidance from a dear friend and brother, the journey forward through the wilderness started to look like stepping stones. My dreams and musings became sources of inspiration, and my observations of the world around me became the fuel to see my dreams come to life.

I found the path I was looking for. 

Every Frame a Painting

Have you ever watched a film and thought, “I need to paint that!”? Or, at least, thought that each shot could be a painting?

There are some films that are so wonderfully shot, and each scene masterfully composed, that I, as a a viewer and a painter, am deeply moved to paint it. And it is always a shot of something mundane, too! The compulsion to paint it is a means to comprehend the suggestion of time and space within the frame. Even in copying it, like copying from a master painting, it helps me cultivate my ability to compose. But it always comes from a sense of awe. A sense of a specific time and place, and a wellspring of memories and familiarity.

What’s tricky about that process is finding what exactly it is that moves me about the cinematography. Most of the time, it is the progression of the scene - a collection of frames moving in time. Other times it’s is finding the precise moment where the objects within the frame exemplify the mood best. Again, I’m wrestling with time, or timing perhaps, and I haven’t figured out 4th-dimensional painting yet. There is a prayer in Judaism that helps me mediate the process of time and space, and it begins with “Baruch HaMakom”. It translates to “blessed is G-d” but infers G-d as our place, our place throughout time.

Through my own practice and meditation on this prayer, I’ve found that most paintings are a collection of cinematic frames anyway. Most paintings are an amalgamation of observations - even if it is of the same location, at the same time, day to day - can make for quite the compelling image. One could paint the same spot every day and never paint the same place twice. Conversely, one could paint the same sense of place in a hundred different locations. Painting in a way that suggests this eternality, searching for the majesty in the mundane, brings me back to that sense of awe I find in the very best paintings and films.

"Study without desire spoils the memory, and it retains nothing that it takes in." - Leonardo da Vinci

Filling in the Blanks

“There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.” - Paulo Coelho

The great monster. The preposterous taskmaster. The fear of failure, for me, has been the most intrepid beast to slay. It has turned some of my best intentions and plans, and even some of my quietest hopes, into debilitating burdens. At times a great dragon guarding a hoarded treasure that I want (or think I need), at other times a cunning serpent deterring me from exploration of possibilities, or even still the surreptitious parasite to wear me down internally.

What does this creature have to do with filling in the blanks? When I fill in my own margins? I’ve found that my typical assault on the fear of failure is always “more”. More planning and analysis (Where did I go wrong? What should I have done?). More thinking and deliberating (often through obsessively repeated sketches and footnotes). More roundabout action (working on other paintings, scrolling through social to compare my work with others’ work). And when there is an abundance of these patterns, there, too, is a complete void of rest and reflection. Avoiding failure - attempting to avoid failure - only feeds the cycle of being overcome.

By accepting my failures, and dialoguing with those I trust most, I am learning to be resolute in the face of the dragon, to brave the unknown paths despite the serpent’s presence, and to be humble when I am wearied by the parasite. Failure becomes a challenge to meet and to rise above.

From the Ground, Up

"The artist should not only paint what he sees before him, but also what he sees within him. If, however, he sees nothing within him, then he should desist from painting what he sees before him" - Caspar David Friedrich

In the previous post I partially divulged my thoughts on my own creative nature, and from where I derive my fuel to go forward in my artistic endeavors. But knowing is only part of the whole process. Without effective skills to explore and realize such a nature it becomes impotent and withers.

And those skills need a place. They require a means, a set of materials, to produce what I see within and before me. (I might discuss my place in the tension between observation and imagination soon.) And in my studio I have found a maturing procedure that aligns with my theology of making. This process is nothing I’ve invented, but is one passed down from my predecessors and the masters of old.
Simply put, I begin with a ground - a primer - on my painting surface. As of recently, I’ve used an oil-based primer on hardboard panels, which requires sealing my panel surface before applying the ground. This foundation allows me to use my oil paints more effectively from the beginning.

A rather rough drawing in burnt umber over a wiped layer of the same color.

A rather rough drawing in burnt umber over a wiped layer of the same color.

Once the ground is set, I can start covering the prepared surface. And I like to start with a very rudimentary first layer drawing, or imprimatura, to craft my composition and locate my focal point before blocking in my color. (I will add that without a vision, and source material, I fall flat at this point.)

Drawing is crucial at this point. If I do not have a solid drawing I will not have a solid composition, and my painting will suffer. And then I’ll suffer a little bit…. Below is an example of my blocking-in stage; this stage helps me visualize the color, temperature and overall value of the painting. This way of painting requires a few layers of paint to build and magnify the image as a whole. No succeeding layer is [necessarily] better than another, as each one requires the preceding layer.

Blocking in my painting can be exhilarating; however, this skill is far from mature in my studio practice.

Blocking in my painting can be exhilarating; however, this skill is far from mature in my studio practice.

It is written that “desire without knowledge is not good….” Through many years of excellent education and brave exploration I’ve found a trustworthy process to help me build paintings that I see before me and within me. And this ritual is one that blesses me even as I work through it, knowing my works from beginning to end.

Until the next step.

The Divine Nature of Creativity

"We must be careful not to exhaust ourselves 'waiting for inspiration' when we could have been working." - Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way

As long as I can remember, and gleaning from stories before memories formed, I have always made art. I don’t think there has been a time when creating something wasn’t vital to my being - my well being - anyway. And through my years of education, turmoil, sickness, and profound healing I’ve intimately investigated and embraced what being an artist means to me. And it isn’t always - closer to rarely - about grandiose visions and perfectly painted images.

My wife and closest friends can tell you with certainty that if I lapse in creative endeavors, that I become less myself and far less lively and enjoyable company. The inverse, however, is exponentially truer, I think. When I buckle down and focus on creative endeavors, I am more aligned to whom I get to be. To whom, I believe, God made me to be. And it’s in this journey that my making finds it greatest purpose: to delight in the one who made me creative. Whether I am sketching ideas and dreams, building my own studio furniture to further my work, playing with and mixing colors, or painting scenes observed and imagined, I am seeking my Creator.

As a college student in the throws of “finding inspiration”, my dad once exhorted me with this, stating, “Inspire something to be.” I’ve come to embrace, and even treasure, this exploration as the foundation of my creative journey.

The title of this post comes from chapter two in A Theology of Making Art + Faith by Makoto Fujimura. Makoto starts this chapter saying, “…part of experiencing God in our lives is appreciating the importance of our creative intuition and trusting that the Spirit is already at work there, often working in between established zones of culture. Our creative intuition, fused with the work of the Spirit of God, can become the deepest seat of knowledge, from which our making can flow.”

And until those visions and “perfect” paintings escape my head, heart, and hands, may I be found making.

Here is the wall-mounted easel and palette I built for my studio practice. I can’ wait to build the next iteration.

Little by Little, one travels far.

Meet Me in the Broken Places, Matt. 6:19-21, 9x12 oil on panel, 2020, SOLD

The painting above was completed on the last morning of the year 2020. Finishing this piece was a relief and a joy, which, I think, is an acceptable way to end any year.
While this painting was my last for the previous year, God willing, it will not be the last image to come from my meditations and meanderings from 2020. There is so much to be shared; may faith, hope, and love abound in all of us.

”I hate darkness. Claude Monet once said that painting in general did not have light enough in it. I agree with him. We painters, however, can never reproduce sunlight as it really is. I can only approach the truth of it.” - Joaquín Sorolla y Bastidas