I vowed when I owned a house, I would not have any prints hanging on my walls, only original artwork. No mass printed Monet water lilies, no Degas dancers- the real thing.
The real thing is, however, expensive. Very expensive. So I’ve created my own art work for décor. I mimicked what I thought was beautiful - still lifes with vases of flowers, bowls of fruit, garden scenes and managed to do five pieces, some pastel, some gauche. I found old frames at yard sales and hung them up.
During this time, I bought one Matisse-like still life painting of real art from a consignment shop for $100. When people come to my house, they ask me about it. Did you do that? I reluctantly say no. I have since realized the difference between this painting and my own work: style.
I have embarked upon a journey to find my visual voice.
(First, a disclaimer: let me be honest here and say that the thought of finding my visual voice is immediately exhausting. As someone who is still honing her literary voice after some eighteen years, I know the effort and commitment one must put forth to develop artistic craft. But I’m not going to let that intimidate me. Matisse says with regard to art: “You have to offer yourself up in all purity and innocence.” In other words, we must approach art like a child; we must re-learn how to play.)
I bought a book titled Finding Your Visual Voice; A Painter’s Guide to Developing Artistic Style. It is a good book with exercises, interviews with artists, lots of pictures of paintings. It also discusses media and process. I found this included quote interesting: “visual voice is the piece of magic inside ourselves, the amazing actuality within us.”
I understand this with respect to writing. I know when I have captured the essence of a sentence, a metaphor, or a scene in my own way. But capturing essence in another art form is like speaking a sentence in another language; you need to learn the grammar of the medium first. But I am getting ahead of myself.
By looking at different paintings, I discovered the styles I would like to emulate. I like big blocks of color. I like natural subjects. I like simplification. I like the idea of incorporating internal aspects of painting.
According to Finding Your Visual Voice, there are external and internal aspects of painting. External painting is the mimicry of what a painter visually perceives of the subject matter - its colors, values, textures and lines- just as they are. Creativity is in the choice of subject matter and not the actual act of painting. This is categorized as “realism”, the only method of painting utilized (besides petroglyphs of course) until Impressionism.
Impressionists and abstract artists abound incorporated “internal” aspects to portray feelings like the placidity of Monet’s water lilies or the vivacity of Van Gogh’s irises. The essence of the piece was manifested in style, Monet’s delicate pixels of color, Van Gogh’s strong edges and vibrant oranges and purples, not subject matter. Paintings had become, well, paintings and not photographic images.
I have always been concerned with capturing beauty in my work and have sided on the realism part of the spectrum; but this doesn’t truly interest me, to draw every line, to include every color. I have since realized this.
While I liked the book enough, I knew I needed an instructor and a class to help me with the internal, external, and technical aspects of painting- the materials. I also needed support. I decided to take a painting course in acrylics because I had a hunger for vibrancy and the pastels weren’t doing it for me. I signed up for Paula Beaulieu’s course in beginning/intermediate acrylics at North Shore Community College. I bought a myriad of paints, painting supplies, and cleaning gear, stuffed everything in a reusable Stop and Shop bag and was off.
Paula believes this: to be an artist you must be courageous; you have to make a leap into the unknown, be it a blank page, a blank canvas, or a lump of clay. I understood that. I am good at diving into a blank page. Like Matisse, she believes in “play” and showing up to the canvas to see what evolves. Also, “a painting is never finished; there are only interesting stopping places.” I knew I had found someone who knows the creative process.
After learning about the mechanics of acrylics, how to establish value, and the push and pull of cool and warm colors, we set down to produce works of our own. I decided to be ambitious and create a series of water lilies. I searched online for pictures and printed them out. I decided I would try one on my own, outside of class. I spread out my paints, prepared my pallet, picked my brushes and dove in.
I had never worked with acrylics before and I found the paint to be indeed vivid, exuberant, yes, but slightly plastic. It reminded me of Mattel toys and Barbie. I did however, have a high level of sheen, making objects look wet (this was in part due to the medium, or goo I mixed the paint with to give it substance). I painted leaves and petals without thinking too much about them. But the lily flower resembled an acorn and the pad a sideways flaccid penis. When I finished, I showed it to my husband. ”Hmmm,” he said.
I wanted to tear it up.
I decided I needed to not be so hasty; I needed a plan, maybe sketch things out and produce some studies on the side.
For the next painting, I rallied for simplicity and chose an image of a single bud emerging from lily pads. I sketched it very carefully with a pencil beforehand and did some color studies. Instead of brown, I used gold. I was tense while I worked. This wasn’t play; this was a struggle with the ego; I wanted to paint something marvelous, something I could be proud of. When I finished, I knew something was wrong. I took the painting to class to find out what it was.
According to Paula, the painting did not present enough of a contrast of cool and warm colors; the bud just sort of dissolved into the leaves. The use of gold didn’t make the bud “pop”. So I worked on it some more (the one thing great about acrylics is that you can just keep layering the paint) and changed the colors. Changing the color was suddenly exciting, I was freeing myself from my preconceived ideas; the bud started to pop and so did my endorphins. I relinquished my need for beauty and at one point I felt my feet leave the surface of the earth. I had entered the zone.
Creative people, athletes, anyone who works passionately lusts for the zone, the state of consciousness where you actually feel like you are not working anymore; all arduousness is forgotten and you just cruise. I was familiar with the zone with respect to writing and yoga. Finding the zone here was something new, like reading poetry in another language. I think I even started to drool.
After the bud, I created one more painting of water lilies. I focused on the length of the tendrils to depict a reaching, the long stretch toward the light from murky depths (oh the profundity). I painted enough to like what I had done and this made me protective of my work, snarling and baring my teeth if anyone provoked me to add just one thing more. Paula told me to push past this, that in doing so everything would really start to open up. But I couldn’t. I shut the process down.
If I look at this painting too long, I start to hate it. Something tells me to truly find my visual voice, I have to devote more time to it. You cannot, however, be an apostle to two disciplines; there’s not enough time.
But I can always learn how to play.
Paula Beaulieu is an artist and art educator who helps people connect with their creativity. She teaches at North Shore Community College and hosts painting trips to Monhegan Island, Cape Cod and abroad for interested painters and artists of all ages and abilities. For more information, go to www.connectwithyourcreativity.com.
