The turning point:  

After much deliberation, I decided to give myself permission to do whatever I wanted to this particular canvas. Instantly, a smile stretched across my face. “Really?” I asked myself. “Anything…?” I felt a new, excited current of energy rush through my body. “This is gonna be so much fun!” And trust me, I needed fun. For the past four weeks painting had been anything but fun.

I felt like I had been painting for everyone else but me. I was painting to create something that would “fit in nicely” with the rest of my Mix Tape Series. It was as though I was painting with a formula in mind. A formula that would give me the results I predicted. (This is exactly the stuff I warn my students not to do right?!!)

The experience just kept on getting better. I felt as though I was surrounded by a cheering squad: “You go girl! Paint for yourself! Have fun! Do what you love! Make this for you and not anyone else!” And then finally: “If you were never to sell this painting on purpose, what would it look like? What would you paint for your own home? What would you paint for you?”

For the first time in weeks I was excited to paint again. And a most incredible thing happened: I knew exactly what to do. Instantly, I got up and turned on the shower. In it went. The painting, not me. To soften the multiple layers of paint, to soften the multiple coats of plaster. Then came the scrapping. Two hours of solid scraping. Removing layer upon layer of what once was.

At one point during the scrapping process I accidentally tore though a long strip of canvas. I barely flinched. “Yes! This is for me anyways, and I love it!”

In the end, my canvas had close to twenty tears on it. It looks like it’s been literally run over by a truck. It looks like you would find something like it sitting next to the dumpster. It looks old, scrapped, scarred by time and experience.

It’s also something I would expect to find in some of my favorite stores: Anthropology, Artitzia. It looks like something I would find in the thrift stores I like to visit so much, the antique stores, even Najavo Metals. (See earlier posts) It’s inspired by the vintage fabrics my girlfriend Cindi collects, by rust, graffiti, by peeling paint.

I am so incredibly happy with my new painting that I decided to create an entire series like this. My boyfriend said that it might be the most expensive series I make because maybe no one might buy it. But at this point, I don’t care! 

I am on the right track and I trust that this has got to count for something.

On my way home from class night, as I waited for the elevator, painting on hand, a curious by stander looked at the painting and said: “You have holes on your painting!” I smiled. “I know. It’s on purpose.” 

Here’s how it happened:

A few nights ago, my boyfriend and I had a painting party. In preparation for my new workshop in the works titled: “Unfinished Canvas Workshop”, (the main idea here is to bring in a piece that you gave up on, or are absolutely stuck on, and let someone else finish it for you!) I invited him to paint one of my canvasses. In the end, the result was exactly what I was hoping for: I did not like his painting at all! (Sorry baby!)

I couldn’t wait to tackle it. The process of “recovering” this canvas was painstaking to say the least. It involved scrapping off the candle wax, applying more plaster to fill in the deep gashes, pouring house paint on it to cover more gashes, and finally applying a calming layer of neutrals to off set the bright aqua green.

I finished the painting. It was beautiful and I am confident it would have sold. But you know what? I was completely bored. It sat on my dresser for over a week, and during that time, I felt like it was looking back at me saying: “Is this all you got?” (By the way, it should come as no surprise that I talk to my canvases all the time!)

So I asked myself why I felt the painting was boring. (A great habit to start early by the way – ask yourself deep, soul searching questions about your work and answer them honestly.) In this case, my feeling of boredom meant that I felt unchallenged by the work. Sure, I am capable of creating something “pretty”, something that will sell, but is that all there is?

Continue The Start of a New Series: PART 2

What Does This Painting Mean?

I had a recent request to write about one of my works titled: “You Never Bring Me Flowers”. I don’t like talking about this painting. Especially now. The timing is awkward. So close to Valentine's Day. A day we celebrate by giving each other flowers. And here I am about to write about never getting any...

Is this a coincidence? Perhaps not. 

So here goes….

“You Never Bring Me Flowers” is a piece I painted during a time in my life in which I was extremely unhappy. I had recently moved in with my parents. Left the city I was in love with behind. Left my job, my friends, my independence. Most importantly though, moving to Calgary also meant I was breaking ties with my ex husband completely. Even though I do not regret my decision to leave him, it was still extremely difficult to do so. In my mind all of these circumstances could have been summed up in one word: Failure.

The painting happened because I was thinking back to what it felt like to be married to a man who never brought me flowers. But in fact, it’s so much more than about not getting silly flowers. The flowers were merely symbolic of all of the nice things he withheld from me. Trust, friendship, loyalty and love to name a few.

Talking about this piece reminds me of a time in my life that I truly feel is over and done with. I am not bitter, angry or resentful. Just sad. Sad because there was so much beauty at the beginning. Or at least I thought so. But in the end, it all turned so ugly.

Now, when I look at the painting I think: “I should have bought myself flowers.” Instead of waiting for someone else to do it for me. But I didn’t posses that maturity then. I was still waiting to be rescued.

Not surprisingly, this painting has never sold. It even made someone cry once. Who would want something like that in their home?!! It's so damn sad! 

What I do know is that sometimes, it's not for me to decide what gets created and what doesn't. In this case the painting needed to happen. So I allowed for this to happen.

It's not all sadness and loss though. I am able to look at it now and think: "Gosh Sam, you've come so far. Good for you."

What Does This Painting Mean?

I am living in a borrowed house. We call it “the museum”. A house full of antiques, plastic trees and a beautiful, massive garden. The carpet in my bedroom is covered with a thick layer of dust. The more I vacuum, the more I find out that the carpet is actually much more vibrant than I initially suspected. Electric blue.

My room mates, Brea and Lauren, argue constantly. Never see eye to eye. At the time, my sister was already living in Montana with her new husband to be. I had recently moved back to Calgary after my own divorce.

We encouraged Brea to start a new life for herself. A life without Lauren. Find a new kind of happiness. Maybe this happened because my sister and I had recently left our own marriages. Maybe we were tired of seeing Brea and Lauren so unhappy. Maybe it was both.  

The separation process began in small, simple ways at first. Like helping Brea to open her own bank account for example. And when my sister and her fiancé came into town to visit, they took Brea with her. For a break, she said. We wondered if it might be forever. No one knew for sure. Would she do it? Would she really leave Lauren for good?

The house felt empty when she left. Lauren worked more. I painted more. We missed her. “The Likelihood Of Her Return” is about my friend Brea. About that time.

And in a way the painting is also about me. How likely was I to return to sanity after my own divorce?

The following is the first installment of my "What Does This Painting Mean?" collected stories. I decided to start off easy and lead up to the heavier stuff. I hope you enjoy.

I created Truth be Told for a solo exhibition in Calgary’s Art Central in 2011. Out of the 12 -16 pieces that were part of the show, I felt like Truth Be Told was the most honest. The most truthful.

The reason for this is simple: I painted it for me. Not to impress my students, potential buyers, or even my family. I wish I could say that all of my pieces had this level of honesty. But the truth is they don't.

More often than I like to admit, I concern myself with questions like: "Will this sell?", "Is this what people want?", "Is this what people expect of me?", "Does this fit in with the rest of my series?", "Is this complicated enough?", "Is it beautiful?"

When I made this piece, I managed to keep all of these concerns at a distance. As a result, the starting point for this piece was actually quite simple. I asked myself: "What would I want to hang in my own home?"

With that in mind, Truth Be Told was created. Not surprisingly, this was my favorite piece in the entire show and the one that got the most attention.

People have asked me what the fuchsia spot is all about. Is it a heart? A kiss? A kite? Most people think it’s a kite. They are all right. Because I honestly have no idea.

Sometimes there is no sense trying to find meaning or an explanation for everything. I felt like the canvas needed a touch of color. A focal point, you might say. Something your eye could go to and take a bit of a rest. So in went the fuchsia. No questions asked. It’s what the painting asked for so I simply obliged.

Truth Be Told id available for purchase at Peridot Decorative Homewear in Calgary, Alberta. You can view it on my website as part of the Truth Be Told Gallery.

A few days ago I asked my blog readers what they wanted me to blog about. 

A single, but extremely thoughtful and intelligent comment came back: "I'd love to hear what's behind your pieces - what they mean when you make them".

This comment rocked my world. Shook my foundation. "It's time!" I thought. My mind started racing, trying to figure out a way in which I could accomplish this. Here's a bit of an insight into what's been on my mind lately:

You want to know what it means. Why I paint the things I do. I am afraid to tell you.

I am afraid to be so vulnerable. Afraid to be judged and criticized for the decisions I have made. Also, I can't help thinking how all of this is going to affect my professional reputation. Will my works/classes sell better or worse?

I am also afraid that my family will be angry with me for making public the more personal aspects of their lives. "It’s not anybody else’s business", they will say. "Do you have to tell them everything? Can’t you tell them what it means and censor at the same time?"

My answer is no. Of course not. That wouldn't be me! I either tell you what my works really mean or I don’t. 

When asked this question in the past, my answer has varied depending on who was asking the question in the first place. A passer by would receive a quick and easy response, while my students or close friends would receive a more personal, detailed answer.

I can't exactly make that discretion on a blog now can I?

With all of this information, questions, doubts and fears floating around in my brain there is also a growing excitement. I've always wanted to share what my works mean. This has been a wish of mine since the very begginning. I've just been too afraid to do it! 

Why? Because even though there is a possibility that my worst fears will come true, there is also a (and I feel like this is even bigger) possibility that I have so much to gain! 

So, every month starting in January 2012, I will choose two paintings to write about and tell you what they really mean. No censorship. (Gulp)

Here goes nothing…