The idea of contrast as an element of art is the juxtaposition of opposites - a stressing of differences between elements that provides a moment of interest. Contrast creates a spot that draws attention and in doing so it highlights the unique qualities of each of the contrasting elements. Contrast is also used to separate objects and to make something distinguishable against its surrounding environment.
Contrast is all about the dissimilarity of things. It is a celebration of differences with the intention of honoring and exposing the individuality of each of the contrasting elements. A celebration that is only made possible through relationship. Without connection, each element remains a unique entity of intrinsic value and independent character. Yet side by side, in relationship, contrast can re-define each element opening a new depth of understanding and experience.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
That's Theological - Bug Bites
I have been working on a series of wood collages the past couple of weeks and last week it was finally time to begin painting them. Tuesday evening was the first rain free evening of the week so I took advantage of the opportunity to get outside and paint. I laid out a big sheet of paper on the ground, put the collages on top of the paper and began to apply the first layer of paint. I was only painting the backs of the collages in the first round so it didn't take very long to get them coated. As I came inside after moving them to the porch to dry for the rest of the evening, I began to feel stinging and itchy pain on my arms and feet. Upon investigation I found that I had been bitten by mosquitoes several times on both arms and once on each foot during my little outdoor adventure. Subtle swelling of the spots ensued and I quickly applied some aloe to cool the burning pain of the bites.
I immediately recognized the silliness of the situation. I should have known better than to paint outside, at dusk, on a summer evening without some sort of bug bite prevention in place. However, what had happened had already happened so there was nothing to be done but breathe through the immediacy of the pain, wait for it to subside, and make a mental note to avoid such a situation in the future. In fact, I did more than just make a mental note about it - I posted a status update on Facebook about it stating "the next time I get the bright idea to paint outside at dusk on a summer evening - please remind me that bugs bite." I guess I figured that actually writing it down and putting my experience out there in the virtual world might help me remember the painful reality of the moment and assist me in my vow to not repeat such an event.
Time passed and the stinging and swelling subsided and all of a sudden it was Friday evening and I found myself with some free time to fill. It was a nice evening again so I thought to myself that I really should get a layer of paint on the front of the collages. So outside I went and laid out a big sheet of paper and placed the collages on top of it and began to apply the first coat of paint to the front of the collages. I was half way through coating the second collage when I felt the itchiness start and the realization dawned on me that I was painting outside, at dusk, on a summer evening and I reminded myself - oh yeah - bugs bite. Fifteen bites later, the collages were resting on the porch to dry for the evening and I was, once again, inside applying the cooling salve of aloe to my burning and itching arms.
What is it about the human brain that allows us to have experiences, learn lessons from those experiences and yet still allows us to venture into the same setup again when we know full well that the outcome may be quite painful? Is it a desire to test the nature of things, is it an innate sense of arrogance challenging us to prove that what we know should happen will not occur just because we do not want it to? Maybe it is an underlying acceptance of pain as an interwoven aspect of life and our previous experiences with pain have taught us that with time comes the easing of pain and eventual healing. Or perhaps it is simply a lack of attention to intention as we move through the moments of life.
It was certainly not my intention to hurt myself by going outside to paint on Friday evening, I was distracted by the task at hand and did not even think to take a moment to be attentive to the entirety of the situation. This lack of attention to the whole very often leads to complex and sometimes messy situations. Awareness of the larger context of any given situation can provide insight into the intricacies of actions, interactions, and reactions that may occur. Such insights allow space for the understanding of motivations and situations that, without a willingness to be tuned in to the big picture, may be overwhelming, confusing, or discomforting.
Contextual attentiveness offers us an opportunity to enter into situations with an understanding spirit and, if needed, the proper equipment necessary for a positive and engaging outcome. That being said, I am also fully aware that it remains impossible for the human brain to have a complete understanding of the whole of any context regardless of our intentions. We simply do not have access to every bit of information that is necessary in any given situation to have a complete understanding. There are so many variables at play in the equation of each moment that it is almost surprising that we come through so well, so often.
Here enters grace. Grace which knows that which we do not know and intervenes even when we are unaware of the assistance we receive. Grace cushions our humanity and empowers us to encounter each experience in open fullness. Grace is not a magic wand that makes all things as we wish them to be, it does not always act to prevent pain or complexity, nor does the presence of grace relieve us of our responsibility to be attentive and aware of that which we can grasp and act on in any situation. Yet grace continues to be present, filling in the gaps of our human knowledge and sorting out far more than forgotten bug spray.
So, here I sit with the remnants of bug bites on my arms reminding me to be thankful for the Grace which constantly surrounds and inconspicuously intercedes in so many moments of life.
Bug Bites - That's Theological.
I immediately recognized the silliness of the situation. I should have known better than to paint outside, at dusk, on a summer evening without some sort of bug bite prevention in place. However, what had happened had already happened so there was nothing to be done but breathe through the immediacy of the pain, wait for it to subside, and make a mental note to avoid such a situation in the future. In fact, I did more than just make a mental note about it - I posted a status update on Facebook about it stating "the next time I get the bright idea to paint outside at dusk on a summer evening - please remind me that bugs bite." I guess I figured that actually writing it down and putting my experience out there in the virtual world might help me remember the painful reality of the moment and assist me in my vow to not repeat such an event.
Time passed and the stinging and swelling subsided and all of a sudden it was Friday evening and I found myself with some free time to fill. It was a nice evening again so I thought to myself that I really should get a layer of paint on the front of the collages. So outside I went and laid out a big sheet of paper and placed the collages on top of it and began to apply the first coat of paint to the front of the collages. I was half way through coating the second collage when I felt the itchiness start and the realization dawned on me that I was painting outside, at dusk, on a summer evening and I reminded myself - oh yeah - bugs bite. Fifteen bites later, the collages were resting on the porch to dry for the evening and I was, once again, inside applying the cooling salve of aloe to my burning and itching arms.
What is it about the human brain that allows us to have experiences, learn lessons from those experiences and yet still allows us to venture into the same setup again when we know full well that the outcome may be quite painful? Is it a desire to test the nature of things, is it an innate sense of arrogance challenging us to prove that what we know should happen will not occur just because we do not want it to? Maybe it is an underlying acceptance of pain as an interwoven aspect of life and our previous experiences with pain have taught us that with time comes the easing of pain and eventual healing. Or perhaps it is simply a lack of attention to intention as we move through the moments of life.
It was certainly not my intention to hurt myself by going outside to paint on Friday evening, I was distracted by the task at hand and did not even think to take a moment to be attentive to the entirety of the situation. This lack of attention to the whole very often leads to complex and sometimes messy situations. Awareness of the larger context of any given situation can provide insight into the intricacies of actions, interactions, and reactions that may occur. Such insights allow space for the understanding of motivations and situations that, without a willingness to be tuned in to the big picture, may be overwhelming, confusing, or discomforting.
Contextual attentiveness offers us an opportunity to enter into situations with an understanding spirit and, if needed, the proper equipment necessary for a positive and engaging outcome. That being said, I am also fully aware that it remains impossible for the human brain to have a complete understanding of the whole of any context regardless of our intentions. We simply do not have access to every bit of information that is necessary in any given situation to have a complete understanding. There are so many variables at play in the equation of each moment that it is almost surprising that we come through so well, so often.
Here enters grace. Grace which knows that which we do not know and intervenes even when we are unaware of the assistance we receive. Grace cushions our humanity and empowers us to encounter each experience in open fullness. Grace is not a magic wand that makes all things as we wish them to be, it does not always act to prevent pain or complexity, nor does the presence of grace relieve us of our responsibility to be attentive and aware of that which we can grasp and act on in any situation. Yet grace continues to be present, filling in the gaps of our human knowledge and sorting out far more than forgotten bug spray.
So, here I sit with the remnants of bug bites on my arms reminding me to be thankful for the Grace which constantly surrounds and inconspicuously intercedes in so many moments of life.
Bug Bites - That's Theological.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Found in the Scrap
I have been working on an acrylic painting over the last couple of weeks. To be honest I have not made a painting in a while but it has been fun to once again stand before a large canvas and smear paint around in the adventure of making art. When I started this particular painting I had a rough idea of a composition that I wanted to use but was unsure of details. Being a firm believer in the artistic process I jumped in and shploped (yes that is a technical term) paint around the edge of the canvas to take away any potential for blank page stage fright. This was the first of several layers of paint to be applied to the piece over the next couple of days.
After three days of use I decided it was time for a fresh pallet surface. I had been using pallet paper so all this required was tearing off the used sheet and a fresh sheet would be available. However as I tore off the surface sheet I saw in the midst of the crust of smears a nice little patch of paint that, to me, appeared to resemble an abstracted building - a villa of sorts with a roof and windows rising out of a streak of paint on the pallet. The image pleased me and I decided to save the scrap as a reminder of something to attempt again, on purpose, in a later piece.
I have posted the scrap image below and you may or may not see the building that I see in the smear of paint just as you might or might not take joy from the lines and color as I do. Either way I offer up this little scrap as a reminder to keep your eyes open in all arenas of life so that whenever a small moment of unexpected beauty or insight presents itself you are able to catch a glimpse of it.
After three days of use I decided it was time for a fresh pallet surface. I had been using pallet paper so all this required was tearing off the used sheet and a fresh sheet would be available. However as I tore off the surface sheet I saw in the midst of the crust of smears a nice little patch of paint that, to me, appeared to resemble an abstracted building - a villa of sorts with a roof and windows rising out of a streak of paint on the pallet. The image pleased me and I decided to save the scrap as a reminder of something to attempt again, on purpose, in a later piece.
I have posted the scrap image below and you may or may not see the building that I see in the smear of paint just as you might or might not take joy from the lines and color as I do. Either way I offer up this little scrap as a reminder to keep your eyes open in all arenas of life so that whenever a small moment of unexpected beauty or insight presents itself you are able to catch a glimpse of it.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Picture Imperfect
When I make a piece of visual art and I think I have reached a finished point I step back and take a long look. As I see the piece as its own unique entity for the first time I begin to notice the way each stage of the work plays into the work as a whole. I also take note of the areas of the composition that seem to stick out - either in a healthy and fun way or in an odd and distracting manner which cry out for additional attention before the work can actually be considered done. This critical eye serves to check the piece and see if it passes the unspoken standards I set for myself as an artist of what I expect of a work that I am ready to share with others as part of my visual voice.
One of the challenges I run into in the process is the comparison of my work to the imagery that saturates the culture around me as a test of quality. Much of the imagery that I see daily is digital imagery – created with a base photograph or images and compositions developed on a computer. Digital imagery has the ability to be crisp and clean and picture perfect. While media images are not specifically art, they do build a visual reference point for comparison and set a certain threshold of expectation for viewers.
Handmade art can be, but is not always, visually crisp and clean. Very often the lines of my art are fuzzy and wobbly and the shapes are more indicative of the objects they are representing versus explicit reproductions. This is one of the gifts of visual art – the space for interpretation and an imbued sense of feeling. Yet it is also a challenge in confidence when comparing the visual images I make to digital and printed imagery. I am not a machine, and I celebrate that fact, but sometimes my brain forgets to maintain that distinction and tries to critique my art from a mechanical standpoint. In these moments of comparison I tend to linger on the moments of imperfection in my pieces and sometimes have a hard time seeing the work in the light of its unique authenticity.
Last weekend I was digging through piles of scrap wood in my Dad’s workshop in search of materials for some wood collages. I came across a small chunk of wood that had two holes bored into it – one formed a perfect circle and the other circle fell off the edge of the piece – I let out a squeak of delight and said “look at how beautiful this is”. My Dad and partner just looked at me and laughed at how excited I was at the botched elements on a chunk of wood. “If its holes you want – I have more stuff over here” my Dad said and brought over a stack of wooden circles full of holes and lines grooved into the surface. In that moment I was reminded of the power and potential of imperfection. In no way was I stifled and deflated by the lack of crispness and rigidity that would exist in the result of using these scraps in a collage. Instead, I was elated by the imperfections and I was on the lookout for them, excited about the unexpected beauty and character that each ding, dent, and scrape on a piece of wood might offer the resulting collaged composition.
While I value and believe that critique is a necessary part of creating and encountering visual art, I am also learning to be gentle and gracious with that process. I am seeking to be open to each piece as a whole and to enjoy it in its own uniqueness instead of getting bogged down in the infinite critical suggestions of what it might have been. I will continue to celebrate the human touch that is evident in handmade imagery and challenge myself to be mindful that areas of images that hint of imperfection may actually be the perfect elements of interest and beauty.
One of the challenges I run into in the process is the comparison of my work to the imagery that saturates the culture around me as a test of quality. Much of the imagery that I see daily is digital imagery – created with a base photograph or images and compositions developed on a computer. Digital imagery has the ability to be crisp and clean and picture perfect. While media images are not specifically art, they do build a visual reference point for comparison and set a certain threshold of expectation for viewers.
Handmade art can be, but is not always, visually crisp and clean. Very often the lines of my art are fuzzy and wobbly and the shapes are more indicative of the objects they are representing versus explicit reproductions. This is one of the gifts of visual art – the space for interpretation and an imbued sense of feeling. Yet it is also a challenge in confidence when comparing the visual images I make to digital and printed imagery. I am not a machine, and I celebrate that fact, but sometimes my brain forgets to maintain that distinction and tries to critique my art from a mechanical standpoint. In these moments of comparison I tend to linger on the moments of imperfection in my pieces and sometimes have a hard time seeing the work in the light of its unique authenticity.
Last weekend I was digging through piles of scrap wood in my Dad’s workshop in search of materials for some wood collages. I came across a small chunk of wood that had two holes bored into it – one formed a perfect circle and the other circle fell off the edge of the piece – I let out a squeak of delight and said “look at how beautiful this is”. My Dad and partner just looked at me and laughed at how excited I was at the botched elements on a chunk of wood. “If its holes you want – I have more stuff over here” my Dad said and brought over a stack of wooden circles full of holes and lines grooved into the surface. In that moment I was reminded of the power and potential of imperfection. In no way was I stifled and deflated by the lack of crispness and rigidity that would exist in the result of using these scraps in a collage. Instead, I was elated by the imperfections and I was on the lookout for them, excited about the unexpected beauty and character that each ding, dent, and scrape on a piece of wood might offer the resulting collaged composition.
While I value and believe that critique is a necessary part of creating and encountering visual art, I am also learning to be gentle and gracious with that process. I am seeking to be open to each piece as a whole and to enjoy it in its own uniqueness instead of getting bogged down in the infinite critical suggestions of what it might have been. I will continue to celebrate the human touch that is evident in handmade imagery and challenge myself to be mindful that areas of images that hint of imperfection may actually be the perfect elements of interest and beauty.
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