It has been delicious to be back in the studio. I have dedicated a certain number of studio hours a week to complete current series like Marking Time and COVID Cost. The knowledge that these projects will be completed by Fall 2025 has eased my mind and has allowed me to use the rest of the studio hours to revel in the materials and the ideas that I have collected over the last couple of years.
After two years of frequent travel for family, and art related events, I find myself at loose ends having been pulled in many directions, physically and emotionally.
This fall and winter, I traveled a great deal, unable to be in my studio for more than days at a time, for many many months. I found myself distracted, unfocused, jittery, and unable to sustain levels of concentration.
Last month I returned from a residency at the Vermont Studio Center (VSC) in Johnson, Vermont. I greatly enjoyed my first experience there in November 2019 and looked forward to my return.
I was invited to exhibit work in the Moira Fitzsimmons Arons Art Gallery at the Hamden Country Day School (Hamden, CT). It's curator, Caryn Azoff, has had an integral part in creating a rich and wide-ranging art program, as well as a vibrant exhibition schedule rooted in both traditional and contemporary art. It is an unusual space in that its main wall is a large, curved surface facing a bank of glass windows and doors.
After the anticipation and intense work involved in mounting my solo exhibition, it came down at the end of May. I felt unable to dive back into my work. I was drained, listless, let down and had little desire to actively create.
As an artist working alone in my studio, being part of a larger art community is essential. I have been actively involved as a member of several cooperative art galleries, and supported other artists by attending openings, offering resources, trading and buying art. However, when I first learned about the International Encaustic Conference in 2011, I had never been away for multiple days solely for my art practice.
It happens every time. Even though I know it's coming. Even though I've experienced it before. It still creeps up on me… the post-solo slump. My work comes down. I drive past the gallery windows and see the empty walls. I feel a little anxious, decidedly blue, and somewhat at loose ends.
Giving my artist talk for the Marking Time exhibition at Palmer Art, I was endeavoring to explain my lifelong habit, dare I say need, to collect objects. From a young age I have sought out secondhand stores, flea markets, and garage sales, searched for sea glass by the shore. I imagine all the hands that touched the object, wonder about the lives led; sense the history contained within.
After the holiday rush, family visits and winter digging out, it was suddenly time to get ready for my solo exhibition. Marking Time opens on April 1st. and that date rushed towards me with unexpected urgency. The creation of work, though vital and essential, is only one part of preparing for a solo exhibition.
Years ago, I had the fortunate experience of watching a juror choose work for an exhibit at the local nonprofit arts gallery. At the time, I believed a juror picked the best work and rejected the rest and therefore if my work was not chosen, it meant it was not good enough.
In the midst of changing seasons, holiday bustle, and as a new year beckons, I take stock of what I accomplished the last two years and what remains unfinished.
My introduction to printmaking was a monotype class over 20 years ago, at the Center for Contemporary Printmaking (CCP) in Norwalk, CT. From the moment I stepped into the upstairs, light filled printing studio with its exposed wood beams, wide plank pine floors, and scent of inks, and waiting presses, I felt at home.
After watching a colleague piece together a steel structure for my glass and wood sculptures, I wanted to learn to weld. I wanted to create structures for my bird nest and paper sculptures, ones intrinsic to the work itself. I saw Judy Pfaff was teaching a week-long class at Truro Center for the Arts. Having taken an installation class with her previously, I knew it was the class for me.
It is hard to describe the deep peace and inner quiet upon arriving at the Rural Residency for Contemporary Art (RUC) in Cividate Comuno, Italy. After the never ending art to see at the Venice Biennale along with all the other things to see in Venice, it was a gift to step into the fresh country air and just be. No schedule. No list of things to see or do.
I gaze longingly at the images. I imagine a whirlwind of art in Venice followed by a week at a rural residency… sitting outside, summer sun shining on me, facing the Alps, drawing, stitching my teabag pieces, and wandering the hills and medieval towns nearby.
In 2019, moving from our house of thirty years, I decided to move my studio home. Perusing fellow artists’ studios, I experienced some serious studio envy. I made a list of musts and wants. I had visions of a property with a separate two car garage or perhaps building a separate studio structure in the backyard.
A sudden bout of anxiety hits me five minutes before the studio visit. My palms are sweaty, mouth dry. I take a quick look around the studio and take a deep breath as I see her car pull up in the falling snow.
After a holiday season overflowing with family, joy and chaos, I was anticipating a long quiet stretch of winter in which to slowly clean up the studio, re-organize, and get back to work. Instead, in early January my daughter moved in with her five-month-old baby and her dog, to stay with us while her husband is deployed on a nuclear sub.