Japan Adventures: Asakusa

in
[previously on: Japan Adventures]

Whew! Our first shrine. Tokyo is amazing that way. Amidst all the industrial buildings you can find serene, beautiful temples hidden almost everywhere.

The incense, located at the entrance to the temple, is for cleansing your body and spirit. Move the smoke over your affected parts for healing. (Where do I begin? I went with just a general cleansing.)

 

In Japan, anything written is beautiful.



Gargoyles protect the temple.

The details of each structure were pretty awesome.

On to the next! A kind woman rushed up to us and communicated that we needed to walk around the building to another location to see something amazing. I don't know if she thought we were lost, or if she was just being helpful and didn't want us to miss anything. Given how helpful everyone was in Japan, I'm going with the latter.


Inside the building that you had to enter in order to reach this garden was a museum, housing incredibly old sculptures and paintings. Photography wasn't allowed, so what we saw will remain a secret.




Cherry blossoms have begun blooming across Tokyo. This is just the beginning of the week, so whatever moments of beauty we felt privy to on this day were set to be demolished every subsequent day as the blossoms opened further all around the city. Hanami (flower watching) begins.


 



Japan Adventures: The Streets

in
[previously on: Japan Adventures]


I'm going to be taking you with me on this journey as we go. It's the only way for me to properly process it. Yes, there are a lot of pictures to work through, but mostly I need to re-experience this trip for myself in order to understand what happened. We spent the entirety of our time in Japan at a dead sprint from about 7am to 11pm (at least) every day. I have no idea how many miles we walked.




I remember thinking at the time that I needed to be fully aware as I was going. Eyes wide open. (I'm going to keep saying that.) I knew that we were experiencing too much at once to fully comprehend as we went, and I wanted to take it all in as best as I could with intention to emotionally download everything later. That's exactly what I'm doing. When I close my eyes, all I see are lanterns and powerlines. I feel like my dreams are never going to be the same. They all take place in Japan, at the same frenetic pace with which we spent our time there. My brain is processing through millions of moments and images.



Is this because I'm an artist? Was my brain recording everything for use later? Do my travel companions understand what I'm going through? Is this normal? Is my brain permanently trapped in Japan, waiting for my body to return and get it?

In the meantime, here's what happened next. We were released from the subway onto the streets, left to walk in awe at the totally alien landscape before us. This wasn't even our destination, we're still heading there! Everything in Japan was new to us. Every step was an exploration.





Honestly, it was exhausting. We didn't comprehend how much walking we were doing, and each of us experienced some level of dehydration or physical collapse at one point or another along the way. We all looked a little zombie-like by our last day. I lost five pounds despite eating nothing but beer and fattening food. We weren't getting quite enough sleep, at least I wasn't, but I didn't notice too much during the day. I was running on pure adrenaline and wonderment.





Japan Adventures: Waking Up in the City

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And so our adventure begins.

We'd had an entirely enjoyable 12 hour flight the day before, arriving in Tokyo in the late afternoon. I thought I'd want to knock myself out for the flight, since I can barely stand the 6 hours to Hawaii without losing my mind, but Korean Airlines provided plenty of entertainment to keep me awake. I spent much of the time catching up on a few movies that I haven't had time to see in the last year. Did I mention, personal TVs?? I think there were like 30 movies to choose from. Also, our side of the plane came equipped with the sweetest flight attendant ever, who patiently repeated the Korean words for "please" and "thank you" every time we asked. Perhaps learning Korean on the plane was a bit much to ask of ourselves while trying to remember key phrases in Japanese simultaneously. But, we were eager to be culturally participatory. It worked out either way, and by the end of the flight, we were homies.


When we arrived in Tokyo, I think we were too bleary-eyed and travel-weary to take many pictures. We struggled through leaving our hotel after checking in and asked the nice man behind the hotel counter where he recommended we eat dinner. It was a nice meal, had traditional-style on the floor, and I think it involved sushi, but to be honest, I remember very little of that night. I remember the restaurant was on the 5th floor of a building. After stocking up on pastries for the next morning, we turned in.

Astonishingly (for me, anyway), I sprang out of bed at 5:45am. As soon as my eyes were open, I knew I didn't want to miss a thing. It basically remained that way for the entirety of the trip. Eyes wide open. 






These were all taken from our hotel room window. (Hotel Niwa, if anyone is interested. It was by far the best hotel we stayed in, small but swank, and I highly recommend it. Very reasonable.) It was interesting to see so many windows of residences too. Each person had different curtains, some had balcony gardens, some didn't. It felt a little like glimpsing into their lives. I was very curious to learn about the everyday lives of those in Tokyo. It fascinated me.

I thought I would dislike the city. I don't like cities. Granted, I've been to few. I don't like crowds is a better way to put it, or noise, or buildings, or hustle and bustle. At least that's what I thought. Tokyo was already beginning to change my mind and it wasn't even 7am. Who knew a sunrise reflected into the glass windows of a kojillion office buildings would look so pretty? We drank the provided Green Tea and gazed out the window for quite a while before realizing that there was a whole (truly gigantic) city out there awaiting us. I couldn't wait to get outside.

With Captain Greg taking the helm at directing us around a maze of subways and trains that looked mind-boggling from the map, we bought our tickets and embarked on our first Tokyo subway.

 

To be continued...

A quick sum up of Japan

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The trip of a lifetime? Perhaps for some. I can see how one might think that, because it was truly one of the best experiences of my entire life, and I must say, minus my wedding in Hawaii, I'm having trouble thinking of something that matches this. It was absolutely, unequivocally, entirely life-changing. Amazing is not nearly a strong enough word. However, it wasn't simply the trip of a lifetime. For us, it was the first of many. :) We don't plan to stop. This is just the beginning.


I have far too much to say, and I'm planning a gazillion in-depth blogs about our experiences, so allow me to simply mention a few key points here.

• Japan is AWESOME. Awesome awesome awesome awesome awesome awesome. Awesome.

• There was not mass hysteria happening, and the cities were full of people. We didn't feel any earthquakes, and the only reason we knew anything was happening was from people in America informing us of it. Tokyo and Kyoto were filled with wonderful, bustling people. Cherry blossoms were perfectly in bloom. There were parties in the parks. The streets were jam-packed with people. Everyone was incredibly kind to us. I will have doubts about American news broadcasts from this day forward.

• Korean Airlines ROCKED. I'm never taking another airline ever again. Well, okay, I wish I could always take them. Personal TVs with a huge selection of new movies? Lots of music? Video games? Korean food? Free booze? Super sweet flight attendants? Yeeeeesh they were cool. I didn't even sleep on the plane because I was so happily entertained.

• I LOVED being in the city. I thought city life would be a downside to an otherwise ancient and serene place. I don't like cities, I don't like crowds, but that was before I was in Tokyo. It was incredible. I loved the power lines, the subways, the crowds, the lights, being on the street with thousands of people late at night. It blew my mind. It felt unquestionably safe. It was invigorating and I could see living there for a few months quite happily. [Hint dropped.] It was beautiful.

• People in Kyoto eat nothing but cake. No, seriously. On one day, we walked for miles and found nothing but cake shops. We asked around for sushi and people looked at us like we were crazy. Sushi? Really? Have some cake!! Just as our blood sugar was about to send us throwing ourselves into the river, we found ramen. Oh thank god, ramen. We tried asking the nice restaurant owner why there was so much cake everywhere, and she took us outside to point out all the different places we could buy some if we had such a hankering for it. Why clarify at that point? We'd been fed.

• There was way more karaoke had in one week than in the last 10 years of my life. There are pictures. Many many pictures. We rocked out. Hard. I even closed my eyes while belting out Eternal Flame. THAT'S RIGHT, SUCKERS.

• Beer in vending machines! And sake in juice boxes! And you can drink them openly and publicly on the street! At one point, we took our beer cans and walked around a zillion-story shopping mall just because we could. Oh, how I love Japan.

• Many thanks to our Tokyo-Homeboy, LT Konishi, for showing us the city the way a local would see it. He provided us with experiences that we simply would not have had any other way. The best food we've eaten in our lives, the prettiest park I've ever seen, the opportunity to meet other local Tokyoites, and see parts of the city our guidebook didn't know existed. He was also a great translator, map, and karaoke rockstar. We met him 10 years ago, but now we call him a great friend. Dude: Nothin' but love for ya. Check out his site, he's also a badass photographer. :)

• We visited every temple in the Kyoto area that we possibly had time for, and WOW. Gorgeous. The architecture in Japan is something I couldn't have imagined. At one point we biked up a huge hill toward Kiyomizu Dera (above) and passed the largest Japanese cemetery I've ever seen in my life. We stopped to take it all in. Cemeteries in Japan are breathtaking.

Alright I'm done for the moment. That was longer than I intended (I have so much to tell you about!) but my jet-lag headache is returning and in order to facilitate the massive plans we have for our future, I have lots of work to begin. Let's just say that we plan to return to Japan sooner than you might think. Between that, our continued intention to move to Hawaii eventually, and our further world travels, it's gonna be a busy decade. :)

And we're off!

Again.


Seems like Hawaii 2010 was just yesterday, but now we're heading further across the Pacific with our travel-BFFs to the Land of The Rising Sun to gorge ourselves on sushi and sake and robots. Well, we don't plan on eating too many robots. 

Oddly enough, the four of us have each separately had a heart-attack inducing 2011 so far, so why not top off the first quarter with the craziest international trip ever? I see no reason not to.

I'll totally get all those show pictures up when we get back. BEST. SHOW. EVER. 

I wanted to do it this week, but then getting rear-ended on the freeway and having my car totaled on Monday kind of got in the way of my schedule. I'm fine, by the way. But not my car. And not my patience for talking to auto-insurance people. 

But the BEST SHOW EVER and an awesome trip are plenty to keep my spirits up. I'll be posting pictures as I go on my twitter account.

P.S. Our hotel has beer vending machines. I'm just sayin.

Sayonara!

Rising (An Ode to Japan) . 40x30 inches . 2011

in




1. natural lighting
2. artificial lighting
3. artificial and UV lighting combined
4. UV lighting only
5. no light

Ingredients: acrylic, beach sand, candle wax, crushed glass, phosphorescent pigments, varnish, water & light on canvas.

Oh, Japan.

You've been on my mind for decades. I always knew that one day we would meet. I've admired your style, your history, your food, your people for so long now. I feel like I know you, yet I haven't actually seen you for myself. I just totally dig you. You're shiny and neat and I want to introduce myself, up close and personal.

Things were so much simpler last month.

It's heartbreaking what you're going through. It's devastating to watch. You're all over the news. People are saying some pretty intense things about you. It's difficult to weed through the hype to find the truth. Some people feel we shouldn't meet just yet. They want us to wait. We've waited my whole life, and they think we should wait longer.

Sometimes it just takes my breath away to imagine what you must be feeling right now. So few of us can really imagine. This is an unbelievably awful thing you're faced with.

I believe in you, Japan. You're ancient and wise and I trust your ability to come through. You're more capable to handle a situation such as this than anyone else.

Although I will be hundreds of miles from the affected areas, my heart is with all of you. It will be an honor to stand with your people and support those who are facing disaster right now. I hope and pray that my presence in your land shows you how much those of us in my country support you. I am not afraid.

One day this will all be a memory, and your Greatness will shine even brighter than before. You will rise up. You will conquer tragedy. You will stand as a beacon of human perseverance and strength.

I'll be seeing you next week. The cherry blossoms are coming. I bet they'll look more beautiful this year than any year before it. Though my personal sadness over the last month cannot compare to yours, I hope this time can be a renewal for us both. Let's hold hands and take one step forward together. We might just rise higher than we ever dreamed.




I love the gritty, sandy, crackly texture. This painting is deceptively colorful. In the sunlight, there's hints of blue and yellow and orange, almost shining straight through the darkness. It sparkles in the light, oh-so-subtly.

I'm proud of this painting.

Though I normally donate 10% of all money made through art to Acres of Love, I'm donating that percentage of Rising to The Red Cross, to help with the disaster in Japan, or wherever else in the world needs help and funding for disaster relief. There's certainly no shortage of countries who need the help. Sometimes it seems as though the planet is just cracking in two, doesn't it? I hope this artwork can serve as my hope and prayer for all those affected by such disasters. It would be impossible to overcome if we weren't all working together.

The final image, glowing in the darkness, is what I believe for the future of Japan. A peaceful sky, a full, rising sun. Light. Hope. Beauty. I have no doubts it will be so.

This is my final painting to be shown in my Studio C Artists Collection. The show is tomorrow night, March 26th, from 6-10pm. One night only! I truly hope you can make it. Many of these paintings have already sold, so there will not be a second opportunity to see (most of) them again.


Make a night of it. Get dinner in LA, and stop by for a bit to have a glass of wine and look at some art. There's beer too! I'd love to talk with you. It's kind of like a party. :) Here's where you should go:

Studio C Artists
6448 Santa Monica Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90038


View Larger Map

There's parking on the street, and a couple of lots nearby.

I'm really excited. It's been an interesting month! I'm looking forward to celebrating all the work I've done, seeing friends, meeting new ones, and then resting briefly before we embark on the biggest trip of our lives. Quite a time to be alive. I'm feeling grateful for every moment.

Joy . 24x30 inches . 2011

in ,




1. natural lighting
2. artificial lighting
3. combined UV and artificial lighting
4. UV lighting only
5. no light

Ingredients: acrylic, crushed glass, phosphorescent pigments, Joey's Love, varnish, water & light on canvas.

During the last week of Joey's life, I cleared the downstairs of everything and stopped working. Nothing, no show, no trip, was more important to me than Joey. I wanted him to have full reign of wherever he wanted to go. He spent a lot of time sleeping in the sun. He would stand in front of the screen door and seemed to be looking outside. He was quite blind by this point, so I'm not certain what he was looking at, but it was clear the sunlight appealed to him.

This particular painting was closest to the outside, and I realized he spent quite a bit of time next to it. I let him. Whatever he wanted to do. He and I would lie next to it together, talking, napping. I stroked his face while he slept, telling him how much I loved him, how beautiful he was.


I knew we were destined for each other from the first moment I saw him. I spent years wanting a dog, and months looking for the "right" puppy. I saw many, many litters of them. But the first time I laid eyes on Joey, I knew he was the one. It was fate. Magic.

He was a very special dog. He was the happiest soul I've ever known. Just being around him made you feel like life was awesome. He was thrilled to be alive, every moment of his 15 years. He seemed to look at the world and find it magnificent. You couldn't help but have his joy rub off on you.

A long time ago a friend commented that, "Every moment is the BEST moment in Joey's life." If only we could all live like that.

Our BFF and Best Man Joe, who proudly shared his name with Joey, said this: "As a breed of shepherd, Joey would often gently nudge me from one end of the apartment we shared to another, in accordance with whatever byzantine organization known only to him. Most pet owners tend to project a personality on their pets, but Joey projected his demeanor on you. I was fortunate enough to know Joey, and I cannot stress enough how much of an effect he had on everyone who knew him, even curmudgeonly "non-pet" people. His was as noble a soul as I have come across."


I told Colin, after Joey's passing, that the one thing I wanted to take with me most was the pure joy that Joey lived his life with. He was so happy, and it made me happy to experience it. I tend to be a cynical, sarcastic person myself, but Joey showed me what true happiness was like. If nothing else, I want to remember how joyful he was about everything. Everyone. I still have much to learn from him. His very spirit will change my soul from this day forward, and has since the day I met him.

I'm keeping this painting.

I'd still like for you to come see it this Saturday, though. Not just to appreciate art, but as support for me and an honor to Joey. He was, and is, my hero. If I can achieve even a fraction of the joy he had for life, my entire existence will be a success.

Adrift . 30x24 inches . 2011

in




1. natural lighting
2. artificial lighting
3. combined UV and artificial lighting
4. UV lighting alone
5. no light

Ingredients: acrylic, beach sand, crushed glass, phosphorescent pigments, water & light on canvas.

Making my way through the month. It's strange to have such awesome things and such sad things happen simultaneously. It's not a month I care to repeat, but I recognize that with success comes increased activity. It's hard to schedule the sad, unforeseen circumstances in. As I get older, I'm learning to assume they'll sneak up occasionally.

I'm starting to feel an overall calm in my life, mostly because the alternative is scary. I have no choice but to surrender my anxieties and allow life to happen since I can't control all aspects of it anyway. I want to enjoy my show. I want to calmly enjoy my trip to Japan. I want to remain lucid and awake, observing and experiencing everything. I want each step to be purposeful.

I'm working on it.

Adrift will be on display at my show this coming Saturday (!) March 26th, from 6-10pm.

If you'd like to reserve this painting before the show, contact me for details. *UPDATE* This painting is now sold!

Studio C
6448 Santa Monica Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90038


View Larger Map

Very much hope you can be there. :)



Two paintings left to unveil!

Joey

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We said goodbye to Joey on Saturday, March 12th. He was at home, in our arms, with my forehead pressed up against his, kissing his nose and his ear, telling him how much I loved him and how important he was in my life. It was incredibly beautiful and peaceful.

I am devastated.

It was time. I've known it for awhile, and I knew it in an immediate sense a little over 2 weeks ago. I've been crying for weeks. Months, actually. I feel total despair.

We spent his last week showering him with affection, attention, and love. We home-cooked all his favorite foods. I sat with him for hours every day, just sitting. I never really left his side. I didn't leave the house for almost two weeks. We even camped downstairs and slept with him, where he was most comfortable. He took naps next to all my paintings. I talked to him endlessly about what I was feeling. I told him how fully, how deeply I adored him.  I kissed him a million times.


He was very, very sleepy.

The silence is the worst part. I'd give anything to hear him softly snoring in the background. I feel sick every time I pass by an area he should be in. We haven't yet picked up his floor mats and bowls. I've been carrying his bed around the house with me. It doesn't replace him for the hugs I crave, or the feeling of my face buried in the soft fur of his neck.

Absolutely everything reminds me of him. I'm 31 now. I brought him home as a puppy when I was 16. It's been a very long time we've spent together. It feels like he has always been with me.

Joey turned 15 on January 3rd of this year. He had a long, happy life. I named him Joey because he reminded me of a baby kangaroo as a puppy. He liked to jump around. He was the most awesome dog I could ever have wanted. He learned every trick I could think of to teach him. He knew how to bring me the TV remote. He was first in his Agility class. He was an athlete. He loved playing ball. I didn't teach him to play fetch, he just knew. I also didn't have to housetrain him. Somehow, even at 8 weeks old, he just knew what to do. He never barked, unless we told him to. When we asked him if he "needed to go out," he answered with a soft bark or a sneeze-like horse neigh. If he didn't have to go out, he was silent. It was amazing. It made you forget you were dealing with a dog.

He was perfect.

I spent my childhood praying for him, wishing for him, dreaming him up, and the last 15 years enjoying him more than I ever thought possible.


To know me at all is to know how much I loved Joey. He saved me. He was my guardian angel.

We were inseparable. I don't feel ready to go on without him. I know he was waiting for me to grant permission. It was the right thing to do, and I couldn't have asked for a better situation, or a more perfect ending to Joey's life.

Ours was truly a love story. 

My heart is broken.

Doorway . 36x24 inches . 2011

in
 

1. natural light
2. artificial / interior light
3. artificial and uv lighting combined
4. uv lighting
5. no light

Ingredients: acrylic, beach sand, crushed glass, phosphorescent pigments, varnish, water & light on canvas.

It's time to pass through. No matter how much I might want things to stay the same, I have to move forward. I have to take the next step. I believe events in my life have been purposeful. I don't know what's waiting for me on the other side, but it's time to find out.

The only thing I have control over are my choices. Everything else is unknown. Hopefully, one day, I can look back through this threshold and know that the rest of my life began with that one step, and feel solace that I took it. At the moment, it's a leap of faith.

Doorway will be shown on March 26th, 2011 in Hollywood for one night only. If you're interested in this piece and would like to reserve or purchase it before the show, email me. *UPDATE: This painting is now sold.*


Singularity . 30x40 inches . 2011

in




1. natural light
2. artificial/interior light
3. artificial and UV light
4. UV light
5. no light

Ingredients: acrylic, beach sand, crushed glass, phosphorescent pigments, varnish, water & light on canvas.

I guess I feel awkward even commenting on this piece. I don't have anything to say that would properly capture what went into it. It was an act of meditation and study. 

There's so much going on in my life right now. I feel like this moment in time is floating by at a different rate of speed than most moments. I feel trapped in the space, watching everything pass in slow motion, not seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and not remembering what life was like before I got here. Such a huge, important chapter of my life is closing, and although I can't stop it, I don't want to meet it. I feel like if I refuse to acknowledge reality, it won't play out. It's an incorrect and unhelpful mindset, and I'm swimming in it. I never, ever agree when I see others dragging their heels through life refusing to make choices and meet their destiny. Everything is rushing toward an inevitability and I can't stop it and I feel like I'm going to burst or disappear. 

It's strange that life can be so awesome and so sad simultaneously. I usually embrace change, but right now I'd rather certain things stayed as they were, forever. Forward motion, in this case, means the end of part of my lifestory that I don't want to let go of. I see aspects of my life approaching a sort of event-horizon, and I am afraid. I'm not sure I can handle it. I don't really have a choice. 

I'm standing in front of a doorway. At the moment, it feels impossible to see through to the other side.

 

Singularity will be shown on March 26th, 2011 at Studio C in Los Angeles. Definitely a piece you'll want to see in person. If you're interested in purchasing this piece before the show, email me for details. *UPDATE: This painting is now sold.*

Check out the current Studio C Collection.



Paradigm Shift . 30x40 inches . 2011

in
 1. natural light
2. artificial / interior light
3. interior and uv light
4. uv light only
5. no light (glow in the dark)

Ingredients: Acrylic, crushed glass, phosphorescent pigments, varnish, water & light on canvas.

[It's hard to tell from the pictures, but the painting changes color from red/orange to blue, green, gold, and violet when the angle is right.] :)

I always find it amazing how quickly the sun sets after it initially touches the horizon. It seems to take forever to reach that point and then within minutes, disappears like it's falling off the edge of the earth. It's a special few minutes. You're almost afraid to look away, lest you blink and find the sun already gone. When it touches the horizon, the shape of the sun becomes liquid, melting the very sea or land it wants to hide behind. After just a few short moments, it's gone and everything becomes darker. Though always there, you suddenly notice the starlight.

That moment, from when the sun first meets the boundary between light and dark, and when it finally disappears, has always felt spiritual to me. Rarely do we get to experience the cyclical workings of the universe on such a profound, personal level.

Paradigm Shift is the latest painting in my Studio C Collection, to be shown on March 26th. If you'd like to purchase or reserve this painting before the show, contact me. :)

The Journey . 36x24 . 2011

in




1. natural light
2. interior light
3. interior & UV light combined
4. UV light alone
5. No light (glowing in the darkness)

Ingredients: Acrylic, phosphorescent pigments, varnish, water & light on canvas.


I started this in November. It took me that long to complete. My plan was to work on more complex designs first so that I had ample time to finish them before the show. Good call.

This piece has had a lot of different themes, even for me. It began as an observation of water droplets on glass, quickly becoming various concepts in my mind, each variation less connected to the original. 


(colors change depending on the viewing angle)

I've been told that it looks like cobblestone. My husband suggested it looked like an Earthship wall. To me, it even started to resemble biological cells. In essence, it's all of these things, or none of them, depending on what you see it as yourself. I don't want to decide for you. It's not up to me.

We each see what we want, and travel a different path on our individual walks toward discovery. It's a very personal thing. Ultimately it doesn't matter what any given painting means to you, since it's about the journey with which you arrive at your unique interpretation anyway. Your life, your experiences, form the eyes with which you see the world now. The process is the beautiful part. It's not the art itself, but The Journey you took to arrive here. We're each on the path, walking at our own pace, learning as we go, discovering ourselves. 

I feel like that's kind of the whole reason I make art to begin with. It's an exploration of myself.

The Journey is the latest piece in my Studio C Collection, to be shown on March 26th in Los Angeles.

Update: Painting sold! :) But, it will still be at my show, so make sure to see it!


The Makings of an Art Career

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I started thinking of myself as a professional artist in 2006, but I've made art since I was a toddler. There's a picture we found of me as a child, maybe 2 or 3 years old, standing on a chair so I could reach the counter, paintbrush in hand, paints before me. I didn't think of myself as an artist growing up, because I was just making use of the art supplies my mom had around and bought for herself anyway. I would get my own occasionally, whenever I asked, but that was just for my own entertainment. It wasn't Art. Or was it?

Either way, I generally had a rehearsal to get to or an audition to prepare for, so I didn't have time to think of all the art I was making outside of performance as Art.

Ironically, I remember seeing artists and their little studios and lofts in movies and thinking it was just the coolest thing ever, and I knew at some point I wanted to live in an artist's loft, with paintings stacked against the wall and supplies strewn about everywhere. I didn't specifically want to be an artist, but I definitely wanted to live in an artist's studio. Ha.

[Anyone remember Jordan from the movie Cocktail? That.]

Looking back, I realize now that I even had my first real "art studio" in 2003. It was my closet, of course, but it was the only space I had for making "real" paintings, as I called them. Stuff I was serious about.

Between 2003 and 2006, aside from painting, I arranged a couple of large scale art installations, walk-through sculptures you might even call them, but we didn't photograph the events properly or even know to think of them as art installations, because that was before we realized I was already having an art career.

I was just making stuff. I had lots of ideas. I had help and people who believed in my ideas, and a bit of funding even, and together we made some awesome and artsy experiences. It was through some of these art installations that those around me began referring to me as an artist. I was still catching up to that knowledge, and what it meant.

My painting mentor at the time, Ray Friesz, upon viewing one of these large scale installations, commented that he wished he'd known ahead of time what it was, so that he could have invited a bunch of his important Art World friends, because this was "just the kind of stuff people in New York were doing nowadays." What? Really?

He knew I was an artist. I didn't. I was, however, getting suspicious about the way everyone kept referring to my work as "Art."

At some point soon after that, I realized that I was, in fact, an artist, and more than that I wanted to pursue a career in Art. Staggering. It was a revelation for me, if not anyone else.

That was many years ago now. I've been doing this almost full time for years. With intention. With purpose. I feel liberated in it now. People ask what I do, and I boldly, proudly explain that I'm an artist. Generally people don't know what that means, and assume I paint stuff every now and then with hopes of being an Artist one day. I know this because they follow up by asking me what I "do for a living." It's perplexing for them to comprehend that Art is my career.

For me, at this point, it's just natural. The career happened because I was pursuing Art to begin with. I was always working toward this. Now I know.

In the thick of it



I feel like a broken record. People have been asking us 'what we're up to lately' and we honestly only have one response:

Art show. Art show Art show Art show Art show Art show Art show Art show.

Art show.

Art. Making art. Art art art.

Oh, the art. That's where I've been. 12 hours a day, not coming up for air, not going outside for days at a time, not realizing how many days have passed. I'm sure if I planned better and started earlier, I wouldn't be so buried in work towards the end, but... That's how I work. I'll improve as I go, the more shows I have, the more I do, but for the time being, I really think this "atmosphere" is what invigorates me. I'm not inspired enough until the deadline is nearer. It's then that I can figure out how to do everything. It's only when I feel pressure that I start moving quickly.

It's probably not ideal, but that's what I feed off of. In further reading of Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit, she talks about certain characteristics being in one's creative "DNA," in that we have certain habits we tend toward naturally. I can definitely see how I'm an artist, and more than that, a painter. I'm fine spending hours and days holed up in my small home working, working, working. Just me and art. I don't notice that it's getting dark until I find myself straining to see my work. I don't need to see people, or talk to anyone, I just paint and paint and paint. And I'm fine with that. Others have asked me "how I do it" and mention that they go stir-crazy at the attempt and need to leave the house after just a few hours of work. What can I say? We have different DNA. Obviously we're not all meant to live this lifestyle. The truth is, it's easy for me. I thrive in it.

Fortunately, unlike most painters, I have a lifetime of public performance & speaking experience under my belt, so when it's time to go out and present, I'm cool with that too. I like being in front of people, I like being on stage. I'm good at it.

It's really a perfect balance for me.

Focus

(And that's not even Hawaii! You win this round, California.)


I mentioned my current fitness regime in a recent post on Resolutions, but I learned something new about it over the weekend.

I began my daily routine in October, after a couple years of on-again off-again attempts at finding an exercise system that I was willing to do consistently. I've been doing yoga semi-regularly for about 4 years now, but it wasn't achieving the level of "fitness" (meaning, 6-pack) that I desired. It definitely helps with a lot of things, specifically muscle-tension and stress, and I wouldn't find any fitness regime complete without a regular yoga practice.

In October, I had an awakening about my life and how I needed to include daily fitness in it at some point, and I knew that it was only going to get harder for me. If I didn't start now and stick with it, I never would. That scared me.

So I did. I've been consistent since then. Today I started my 14th week. Whenever I have to miss a day during the week, I feel off-center and unbalanced, like something's missing. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I felt like I had too much energy, and couldn't focus as well.

Over the weekend, I started reading Twyla Tharp's book, The Creative Habit. She discussed her morning workout routine, but likened it to a ritual that she performs each day in order to allow herself into a mental space primed for creativity. It gives her focus.

Of course. Focus. I was no longer seeking a 6-pack (not that I mind the one starting to form) but instead the mental clarity that came with putting myself through a consistent ritual, one that expelled excess energy and gave me a sense of discipline and accomplishment. I'd convinced myself, somehow, that spending those 45 minutes working out my physical body was the number one most important thing I could do each day.

What I wasn't expecting was the mental discipline that carried over into my art. I now see my tasks more clearly. I know better how to accomplish them. I feel inspired. I'm getting tons of ideas as I work. I feel more disciplined. I'm starting to handle every single thing in my life in a more productive way. That 45 minutes each morning is actually making it so I accomplish more as the day wears on. I feel like I have more time.

Fascinating.

Now I just need to learn a way to quiet my mind sufficiently so that I might feel sleepy when I go to bed and get a long, full night's rest and I'll be set. ;o)

Atemporal . 48x24 inches . 2011

in





1. natural lighting
2. artificial (interior) lighting
3. combined uv and interior lighting
4. uv lighting only
5. no light (glow in the dark)


Ingredients: acrylic, sand, phosphorescent pigments, varnish, water & light on canvas.

a·tem·po·ral
[ey-tem-per-uhl, ey-tem-pruhl]


      –adjective

      free from limitations of time.


Without time. Outside of time.

I've often made paintings that represent both old and new, existing as both ancient and futuristic in style. My interest in this is part due to a fascination with ancient technology, but also an element of imagination as to what that means. Ancient as we know it? Ancient for another time? Is it possible that "ancient technology" is entirely different than we think it to be? We really only have theories. But more than this, my "ancient/futuristic" paintings don't necessarily pertain to any timeline we've ever been a part of. I'm not sure it's representing us, per se. Maybe it's our distant future. Maybe the "ancient" I speak of is really us, as we exist right now in this moment. At some point in the future, our present is someone else's past. Maybe my imagination is simply dreaming up a timeline that doesn't exist. Maybe.

I like to think this piece was inspired by the stone-working of a temple somewhere, maybe not here, maybe not in the past. Maybe it hasn't been made yet. ;o)

This is a sister painting to Garden, but although their basis is similar, the emotional feel of Atemporal is quite the opposite of an aged, dry, weathered look. This time I went for liquid. White. Almost metallic. Definitely something that needs to be observed in person as you walk around it. Colors change, and at times it seems almost made of mother-of-pearl and abalone shell.



Isn't that neat? :)

This piece is part of my brand new collection that will be displayed at my upcoming solo show on March 26th, 2011 in Los Angeles. Visit my website for information about the show. If you'd like to reserve the painting by purchasing it before the show, contact me for details.

UPDATE: This painting is now sold. Come see it at the show before it leaves for Oregon! :)

Brand New Site

New website up!!

Go. Go look. Now. It's neat.


It will allow me to update it myself, whenever I like. :) (Rather than relying on the free-time of my graphic designer husband.) I'll be adding stuff as I go.

Fun!

New painting this week too. Everything is coming together!

Today is my Grandpa's Birthday

Two days before my own birthday. He would have loved being alive for 1/11/11.

I wrote a bit about him last year. He and I were great friends. :) I always knew that I didn't need a father because I had my grandfather. Balance, maybe? Who knows. He died 3 months before I met Colin.

In the morning before Colin proposed, (which I was not remotely anticipating) I awoke from a dream in which I told my Grandpa that I would be okay now, that he didn't have to worry about me anymore, and that Colin would take care of me. It was a highly emotional dream, and I woke in near hysterics over it.

Later that day, a total shock to me, Colin asked me to marry him on the very beach my Grandpa and I spent so much time together on in Cambria, CA. He'd been planning it that way for months.

It's very hard for me to believe in coincidences.

Last year, Colin drew this, and gave it to my Grandmother:



Pretty spectacular, huh? Needless to say, every member of my family was stunned.

My Grandpa was funny. He has these little signs hung up around the garage, which became his work area. None of us are willing to take them down, even 10 years later.



This has always been one of my favorites, in part because it's in his handwriting. It reads:

There once was a fellow named Rocco,
And a pigeon who wanted his taco.
Said Rocco these words,
"We don't feed the birds
For fear it might bring a whole Flocko."

:)

He also liked hot-gluing things together and spray painting everything gold. I have no explanation for this. But it makes me laugh. We haven't removed these from the garage either.





I miss him. I'm not remotely over his passing and I wish he could see all the amazing things that are happening in my life. I wish he could meet Colin, I wish he could see my art. I think he'd really like them both. :)

I choose to believe he knows anyway.