Gouache!

No, I did not just sneeze.

In mid-November I joined a class at Flying Leap Art Space called Working with the Masters. Each month the class studies a different artist, and luckily for me they had decided to spend two months focusing on interior paintings by Bonnard. The artist, born west of Paris, is characterized by layering white paint over blocks of color, using nondescript people and animals, and composing with slightly skewed perspectives.

The best thing about the class is, of course, the people.  The ladies at Flying Leap come from various backgrounds. Some are trained artists, some have been painting only a few months, and every one of them is absolutely lovely and talented. Often studio classes are intimidating experiences where judgment abounds. Together the students here create a supportive and inspired environment, encouraging one another to take risks and delighting in their successes.

Good thing, because I was about to try a brand new medium. Gouache. I have always loved watercolor, but paint in oil 98% of the time. I like the control I have over oil paint—surprise, surprise. I painstakingly plot a composition, sketching it multiple times before making any mark on a canvas. Colors can be mixed on the palette or on the work itself, the tiniest details placed with single hair brushes. Texture is created with thick heavy strokes. Paint can be glaze thin, placed layer upon layer, wiped off or dried, whatever’s below the surface having its influence on the final effect.  Oil can take months to fully dry, so a piece can be put aside to simmer for awhile and returned to after the artist has had enough space to make up her mind.

Watercolor is basically the opposite of oil, and not just because it’s water based. Watercolor is challenging to control. It dries quickly, but there’s still the waiting for wet paper to dry so you can paint the next bit without adjacent colors bleeding together. Said colors are usually not very intense unless they’re layered, and layering can be difficult because even when dry, the second it’s touched by water the paint becomes pliable again. Gouache is similar to watercolor, but with far deeper colors, closer to what I'm used to getting from oil.

Over a year ago I started struggling against the strictness I place on myself using oil. All that premeditated stuff—where’s the spontaneity? The fun? On a whim I added a tiny table and chairs to the corner of a painting, and just like that a new branch of possibilities were born.  

That moment lead to details like the chandelier in the bathtub painting and the structure of the birdcage below (in fact, the whole idea behind this piece). I began to trust the steadiness of my hand, the validity of impulsive inspiration, and the worthiness of the whimsical. I started to relax my control, and I liked the results. I continue to search for that unstructured mark, but when using oil there always has to be a high degree of organization—at least for me.

When I dipped my brush in water on the first day of class, I felt another release. I slapped on the first color I mixed, a sunny yellow-orange. In minutes I had a fully formed and dry chair, and I felt completely free to smooth delicate, impromptu orange stripes over the chair’s surface. I wasn’t judging myself, the straightness or realism of the shapes, or my urge to use such bright colors—and the ladies in the class weren’t judging me either.

Over the next few weeks, I experimented with gouache all over this sheet of paper. I did things I would never do with oil. I used my brush as a stamp for the floor tiles, I didn’t measure or try to place them in straight lines, and I let raw paper show through between them. A cat appeared on the rug of its own volition. I intended sunlight to shine through the wide-open window, but when it became clear that this was a night scene, I didn’t argue. (Unlike my pomegranate painting, where I fought against the anatomic reality of the content for weeks before deciding, reluctantly, to let it be what it was—a baby pang. Thank you, Georgia.)

My instructor and classmates encouraged me to cut out a paper moon and place it in the window. That way if I didn’t like it I could just move it, and if I did I could paint it in. Well, I decided I liked it, and in fact, I was going to glue that white moon right to my painting. And to stray even further from my norm, I was going to cut out a cat silhouette and glue that on too.

And oh, those spindly lines of the bed frame! How utterly freeing to place them, one by one, reflecting the untroubled, energized mood of the chair's orange stripes.

I hope you’ll forgive me for taking so much delight in my own artwork. But it’s sort of a new feeling, this liberation, and I’m giving up self-judgment and control and just going with it.

Each morning my alarm goes off at 7 am. I press the snooze twice. If it’s a particularly blah day, I press it a third time. At 7:15, I feed the two furry beasts. I stand in the steaming shower until my skin is bright red, inhaling the coconut scent of my shampoo (insert tropical vacation daydream). I read while I eat breakfast. I listen to the news on my way to work.

At the American Gothic House Center I’m in contact with volunteers daily: somebody scheduled to help out for a few hours in the gift shop or just checking in. Most of the time, these people are on their way to volunteering somewhere else. They’re retired and busier than ever, committed to restoring historic sites, developing programs for the community like SHARE or senior meals, visiting friends who can’t leave home or headed to a meeting of committee X Y or Z.  

One eight hour day later, I get in my car and plug in my iPod. I turn the volume up as high as I can stand it and hope the good people of Eldon don’t judge what they see—eyes squinted nearly shut, mouth open wide, singing and dancing around in the front seat like a maniac on my way out of town.

I turn off the car, unlock my back door, and am greeted by those two nuisances. I feed them again. I open my computer and make dinner for myself—probably spinach salad with almonds, craisins and tomato basil feta. Maybe salmon or mandarin oranges on top if I’m feeling frisky. I read while I eat.

Then, I have the choices. Practice yoga? Do something to further my artistic career? Rest my brain in front of a screen, clean my apartment, go for a walk, keep in touch with friends and family.  If I’m lucky, I might do two of those things with my 4 free hours before bed. Am I attending committee meetings? Not unless I’m on the clock. Do I mow lawn or shovel sidewalks? Nope. What, exactly, am I handing back to the communities I live and work in?

I feel guilty that I’m being paid to further a cause which so many people (about 30, as it turns out) are willing to give away their time for. And I certainly don’t give my free time away. I use it up on myself. I am alone in my apartment, making paintings no one has seen or will see for months. It is a completely selfish act.

Right now, for instance, I’m working on two pieces. This one, still unfinished, started as a way to confront one of my (many) recurring nightmares—losing my teeth. Maybe now it’s about aging, or secrets, or whatever. The meaning changes daily. But is it meaningful to anyone other than me?

And this one, becoming a plaid washing machine with a seashell inside—what good are all these colors and marks doing for the world?

So here I am, wishing to spend more time painting, thinking about graduate school and becoming a professor so that I can surround myself with art, while the people around me give hours and hours to improving their communities and getting their hands dirty to help their neighbors. I can see them out my window if I peek around my oh-so-personal painting of a bathroom, which may or may not be useful even to me.

I asked my writer friend whether she ever feels selfish in her work. She responded with stories of relationships she’s developed with strangers who have felt a connection to her through her blog. She pointed at a painting of a sunflower done by her sister and said, “That painting makes me happy every time I look at it!”

I started writing here with the hope that maybe the right person will read my words and find relevance to their own life. I made a website so that someone, anyone, might see what I’m doing and might hear it speak. In the mean time, I guess I’m just painting because it makes me happy. That’s going to have to be good enough.

I’ve been thinking about movement. I even got out my trampoline last weekend. Unfortunately I can move up and down and around as much as I want under these 12 foot ceilings, but it won’t cure my urge to run. (Running itself being absolutely out of the question.)

On a day to day basis I enjoy my life.  Except I can’t pass 12 hours without daydreaming about getting in my car and driving until I feel something. Something like the freedom to take a deep breath at the top of a mountain, to scream and cry and laugh and sing; or to rip off my clothes and sprint into the ocean and fight against the waves until I wash up on the shore exhausted.

Whew. Quarter-life crisis? Strange to realize that what I’m really craving is strong emotion, because lately I cry a few tears about three times a day. The sunset, the movies, roadkill, babies, music, doing the dishes, social interactions, paying bills at work, and generally any happy occasion. Pretty annoying and completely out of character for me. You’d think I could just be thankful for my health and friends and family and good job.

Anyway, in an attempt to counteract the selfish madness I’ve been mapping out a month long cross country road trip. I think I will begin by jet skiing at the lake house in Kansas, and then on to Colorado (Springs or Denver?). Thirteen hours later is Tucson and my friend Kami, who I haven't seen since before graduation. Also my god-dog Lizzy. My absence is making me a very a poor role model.

About 8 hours from there to L.A., and somewhere else in California where my mom’s sister lives, maybe San Francisco. Leisurely trip up the coast to Portland (Beth, do you think I can stay on your friend’s 40 acre Mount Hood property? Pretty, pretty please?!). Seattle’s only 3 hours north of there, and Idaho holds lots of family members.

There are two main problems with this trip.

1.       Wyoming and Nebraska

2.       I’m missing the entire northeast (and my roomie in D.C.), where I’ve never           been outside of airports.

No, three.

3.       I need a copilot. I’m taking auditions now. Qualified applicants are:

    a.       Excellent drivers, mechanic  (or at least tire changing) experience a plus

    b.      Able to introduce me to wondrous new tunes and appreciate my favorites

    c.       Willing to sing shamelessly at the top of our lungs and vocal ranges

    d.      Ready to go with the flow and enjoy each mile with no emphasis on a final            destination

    e.      Awed by nature and happy to make pit stops for staring at it

    f.        At least six feet tall with a dry, sarcastic sense of humor and long messy           hair (oh, and male)

I’d settle for b-e.

December 1, 2010—five years since my littlest sister was born. This time of year makes me nostalgic. I smell snow, wood smoke, scents from the previous winter on my long brown coat. I look forward to snuggling in, lighting candles in my broken fireplace, watching the wind from the floor to ceiling windows in my apartment. (Which is great in theory, but a broken fireplace and a wall of windows does not equal a warm or efficient living space.)

I daydream about my favorite places.

Bruges, Belgium. May of 2009. The Belgians know what’s up—chocolate with breakfast, hundreds of beers in the bars, and three official languages (none of which are English). A French fry museum, waffles sold by street vendors, and just in case you’d rather be elsewhere, an Irish pub serving hard cider. Oh, and then there are the canals. No big deal.

My bedroom in Urbandale.  I was able to fund my trip to the U.K. because I spent a semester interning full time at the Des Moines Art Center, and living rent free with a wonderful couple who were basically strangers before I arrived.  A few of weeks ago I went back to see my adopted aunt and uncle. Played pool on the table in the basement while Bob had a cigarette, browsed books Sandi strategically left out for me. When I climbed the stairs to go to sleep that night, I realized there was a big dumb grin on my face. I was happy to be home.

Portland, OR. On spring break, I drove 36 hours through a variety of weathers and 8 states to spend two days in Portland. Say what you will about the city’s rain, I still can’t get over the moss growing on every possible surface. Portland’s got mountains on one side, ocean on the other, and waterfalls connecting the two. There’s no better way to get a grip on life than realizing you’re an insignificant speck among the absolute freakin’ beauty of nature.

The Art Farm! Easily the most worthwhile month of my life, and probably the reason having a full-time job is so unappealing. In addition to painting, this month consisted of crazy amounts of ice cream, absolutely no structure, and unlimited access to warm raspberries. I had to steal these photos from the other residents (thanks guys!).

It wasn’t until my last year there that I really started to appreciate Iowa City. Due in part, of course, to my quirky Old Capitol coworkers. You never know what kind of people you’re going to find working a museum. Wait, I take that back. You know exactly what kind of people you're going to find. You just have to be one to appreciate it.

My home sweet home and the home of two of the coolest people I know: My mom, now an empty nester, and my sister Emily, a student at UNI.  I thought moving to another small town in Iowa would be just like going home, and in some ways it is. But mostly, it isn’t. It’s not the same as being surrounded by people who probably changed your diapers, or your parents’ diapers, or people whose diapers you changed. The Des Moines River, which is one of Eldon’s borders, is far from the Mississippi. There is no Pup Hut, where I sweated my ass off for six dreadfully hot summers. And mainly, there’s no mom or sister to bike laps around town with me!

At some point, in some order, I plan to spend more time in all of these places. A day, a month, a year or twenty, with lots of travel and life and energy in between. As Beth keeps telling me, ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE! And now, if possible, I'll take some sleep please!