A New Textile: "Objects #2"

Objects #2, hand dyed wool on linen, 9 x 15 inches.

When I dyed the wool for this second in my Objects series (to see #1 go to this post), I thought that the purplish color might not be strong enough. Now that the piece is finished, I find that I like the balance of colors, which are lighter and grayer than in #1. The shapes and hooking patterns are meant to give an illusion of overlap: yellow over violet over gray. The swoop of yellow is more wavy than I intended, but this isn't unusual for the inexact process of rug hooking and I don't mind it, or the dip and rise of the upper edge. I like the obviously hand-made, obviously not-perfect quality, so different from the precision of my paintings.

In the detail you can see how very variable the loops of wool are. I hook by eye and by feel; when looking at each loop individually, I know it squeezes this way and that, slightly higher or lower than its neighbor; but stepping back, it becomes a part of a textured whole.

Below are the first two of four pieces of my Objects series, based on screen shots from the film Objectified, hung on my studio wall.

Grasses: "Undulant...a gloss of purple", a Poem by Amy Clampitt

I am not a great reader of poetry; I feel this as one of my cultural lacks, along with opera. But there are certain writers who use words that are so intensely visual that I am carried along with pleasure, such as William Carlos Williams: "a red wheel/barrow//glazed with rain/water..." Another such is Amy Clampitt whose nature poems are so pointed, yet complex; who finds the most remarkable metaphors that startle a reader with their aptness; who carries you deep into an experience with her close attention. I read her poem "Grasses" some months ago; it moved me, and I knew that I wanted to share it when the grasses began to flower, as they are now.

Grasses

Undulant across the slopes
a gloss of purple
day by day arrives to dim
the green, as grasses

I never learned the names of–
numberless, prophetic,
transient–put on a flowering
so multiform, one

scarcely notices: the oats grow tall,
their pendent helmetfuls
of mica–drift, examined stem
by stem, disclose

alloys so various, enamelings
of a vermeil so
craftless, I all but despair of
ever reining in a

metaphor for: even the plebeian
dooryard plantain's
every homely cone–tip earns a
halo, a seraphic

hatband of guarantee that
dying, for
the unstudied, multitudinously
truly lowly,

has no meaning, is nothing
if not flowering's
swarming reassurances of one
more resurrection.

Rhubarb Sour Cream Cake

We're still in the middle of rhubarb season, so when I hosted my bookclub yesterday I made this cake. It was a big hit and the general consensus was that I should post the recipe. Luckily, I had photographed the cake before we all sat down to eat. It's a simple recipe, not too sweet, with a nut topping. If you use pink rhubarb it's also pretty to look at with bits of the jewel-like fruit shining from the ocher colored cake.

1/4 cup soft butter
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 teas vanilla
2 2/3 cups flour
1 teas baking soda
1 lb rhubarb, cut into 1/2 inch chunks
1 cup sour cream

for the topping:
1/2 cup sugar
1 teas cinnamon
1 cup chopped nuts (I use walnuts)

1. Preheat oven to 350º
2. Cream butter and sugar until fluffy; beat in eggs and vanilla.
3. Sift dry ingredients and add to the butter mixture.
4. Add sour cream and stir; add rhubarb and blend well. The batter will be quite dry and stiff, but the rhubarb will add plenty of moisture as it cooks.
5. Put batter into a greased 9 x 13 inch pan.
6. Mix topping ingredients and sprinkle over the top of the batter.
7. Bake for about 40 minutes until done.

A New Painting: "Arms"

Arms, egg tempera on calfskin parchment, 6 1/4 x 5 1/2 inches.

When I found this image (and I deliberately use the word "found" as I go out to farms to photograph and discover or uncover images) I thought it was very intriguing, the many arms of the implement implying motion or energy, or an oblique reference to the Hindu goddess Kali.
As I began to paint, I felt that it would be difficult to work in a naturalistic manner with very textured surfaces, so I decided to simplify; what came to mind immediately was Spanish still life painting of the 17th century, where objects emerged from a dark ground.

Juan van der Hamen y León, Still Life with Sweets, 1622; oil on canvas; 22 3/4 x 38 1/4 in.

Many of van der Hamen's paintings have a geometric clarity that greatly appeals to me. Mundane objects are transformed into dramatic characters on a stage, emerging with great weight and presence from the darkness.

So...I painted the background of Arms as a strong dark, using layers and mixtures of Cadmium brown, Ultramarine blue and Phthalo Green, moving back and forth from warmer to cooler; and painted some of the furthest arms sinking back into the darkness. This is one of those paintings I'm not sure about, in this case because it's gone somewhere different. What do you think?

A Walk in the Woods: The Spring Burst of Conifer Growth

I love to see the new growth of conifers in the spring; it looks so insistently fresh and new. On the spruces (I believe this is a spruce), there are little bud-like forms which are at first sheathed in a brown papery skin. As the needles grow larger, the brown covering pops off...




and the small bright green packages of furled needles look like decorations on a Christmas tree.




The intense yellow-green new growths on pine trees, rising above the rest of the tree, are appropriately called candles. I can imagine this as a grand candelabra, lighting a large room.




In their remarkable vigor, standing like flaming fingers, the pine candles are a sparkling celebration of the new growth of spring.

The Lay of the Land: Facing East

In my first post of this series of landscape photos around my house and land, which you can see here, we came up the road––and that is literally up, since my house is on a small hill––in a westerly direction. Here I now am, on the small rise where the house sits, facing its front, symmetrical with two windows flanking the door on each side. A mass of daylilies, the old fashioned kind, line the foundation, and a honeysuckle climbs alongside the door.




I am looking back toward the east, from where we came when we walked up the road. The row of maple trees is the northern boundary of my land, which is a narrow piece of 9 acres. The shrub alongside the house is a Bridal Wreath spirea, which is in glorious bloom this year. And Poppy the cat is posing on the bench.



Continuing my sweep across the east, Blue Mountain comes into view, a hill that is 2400 feet high and has a granite quarry that I can see and hear from my house. My vehicle is a Subaru, considered the Vermont state car.




Moving my camera a little further to the south, I see the barn with its studio windows facing west. In the far distance are the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The large shrub next to the barn is a Burning Bush, which turns an intense red in fall.




At the edge of the barn is a Nannyberry shrub, a native which I planted years ago and now is enormous, with pretty flowers in spring and later berries for the birds. The ground slopes down to the barn and even more to the small pond...



which you see in its entirety here. It is very shallow, only about six feet at its deepest, because the bottom is rock ledge, of which there is a great deal up here on this hill. But it is perfect for taking a little dip on a hot day, to splash around with the fishes.




To end, I thought I'd give you a better view of the mountains, whose outline has become familiar to me over the years, coming and going in different kinds of weather. It is very satisfying to look across a distance at a range of mountains; it opens the heart.


Previous blog post in the series:
"The Approach"

A New Textile: "Objects #1"

Objects 1, hand dyed wool on linen, 9 x 15 inches.

The genesis of this piece was in the film Objectified, a terrific documentary on industrial design. I was inspired by the images of objects, which you can see in this blog post I wrote about the film, so began to do thumbnail sketches of them. I kept changing and refining until I came up with four sketches that I liked, which you see below, so decided to do a series. The color idea for the group is to have fairly quiet color, a bit grayed and subdued. Of course the dyed wool never comes out exactly as I plan, which is for the best; a little lack of control is fun.

My thoughts about the hooking direction are as follows: each "object" would have hooking following its lines while the surrounding shapes would be horizontal and vertical. In this first piece, I thought of the pale blue as the shape furthest back so hooked the green with an outline; the blue bumps up against the green, so gives a sense of being behind it. Maybe. Since the blue is a light color, it feels almost bright, so pops up equal to the green, or maybe in front. No matter. Here I feel like quoting my favorite Samuel Beckett phrase: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."




These four sketches are a guide to the series. As you can see, the color of #1 is brighter than it was in the sketch. I just dyed the wool for the second piece, which is the violet triangle with a yellow swoop above #1; I like the colors, but won't be able to quite tell how they work until the piece is mostly finished and I see it with its companion.

Plants Upon Machines

Last week I was walking around a local farm, taking pictures of machinery for my paintings, when I looked down and saw a perfectly round cushion of moss perfectly centered on a rust red metal part. It looked dried out, but there it was nonetheless, trying to live in a spot that certainly couldn't have been a natural habitat.




Here's a healthier moss on another machine, looking like a lush island rising from a red sea.




Another group of plants, or weeds as they'd be called in my garden, are growing well in some old hay or manure caught behind a gear wheel.




And this delicate froth of leaves found a home under a power take off shaft, soft greens of life meeting the acidic green of painted metal.




A single tiny plant grows in the expanse of organic debris in the middle of a loader's bucket. Although a farm's business is growing plants and animals, when I see these unexpected little bursts of green taking advantage of any small possible foothold on metal, I am touched by the persistence and ingenuity of life.

American Art at the Brooklyn Museum

Stuart Davis, Pad No. 4, 1947; oil on canvas, 14 x 18 in.

Two weeks ago I had a delightful day in Brooklyn with a visit to Coney Island and the Aquarium in the morning, which I wrote about here and here, followed by a trip to the Brooklyn Museum in the afternoon. The Brooklyn Museum is the museum of my childhood, and my many trips there were full of the enchantment of the Native American collection in the Great Hall, the period rooms and the Egyptian Art. Painting did not register much with me as a child. On this recent trip my parents and I decided to visit the newish (which I hadn't seen before) installation of the collection of American fine and decorative arts on the fifth floor, called "American Identities". If it's not too terrible to use this word when describing a museum visit, the galleries––in which painting and sculpture, and even some early film, were shown alongside furniture and other decorative arts––were entertaining. I loved seeing the juxtapositions of a period's furnishings with its paintings and sculpture; I enjoyed seeing contemporary art hung alongside that of the past, for instance a Pat Steir waterfall painting next to a 19th century painting of Niagara Falls. In the corners of the floor were comfortable seating areas, furnished with chairs appropriate to the period of the surrounding galleries.

We entered the exhibition at the wrong end, seeing the modernist work first, so that's how I'm presenting it here. Hanging salon style were three terrific Stuart Davis paintings, jazzy and lively. Pad No. 4 along with the larger Mellow Pad are a perfect expression of the syncopation and rhythmic complexities of jazz.

Gertrude Greene, Construction in Ochre, 1941; oil, wood, and masonite on masonite, 36 1/8 x 34 in.

Greene was one of the founders of the American Abstract Artists group in 1936. This relief is strongly reminiscent of the work of Jean Arp, but her forms are quite different. I love the way the circle at the edge of the brown ground is caught between rising up and being pushed back into a waiting round slot, making me wonder if she was inspired by a game of ping pong.

John Vassos designer, RCA Victor Special Model K, Portable Electric Phonograph, 1935; aluminum, various metals, plastic, felt, leather; dimensions closed: 7 3/4 x 16 1/4 x 17 1/4 in.

I couldn't resist including this phonograph in the blog post, even though the photo is not quite in focus. This RCA Victor was in the non-objective art section of the "Modern Life" galleries; the jazz it might have played was clearly important to Stuart Davis and others at this time.

Sargent Claude Johnson, Untitled (Standing Woman), 1933-35; terracotta, painted pale tan; 14 1/4 x 4 x 3 1/2 in.

I was very taken with this small sculpture, especially the simple rendering of clasped hands. A modernist abstraction of forms and repetition of shapes pays homage to African sculpture.

Charles Sheeler, Incantation, 1946; oil on canvas; 42 1/8 x 20 1/8 in.

Although Sheeler's later, more abstracted, paintings are not among my favorites, I found Incantation to be a very convincing and powerful work. The two massive cylinders flanking the complex web of pipes have a monumental and solemn presence. The fact that Sheeler equated these industrial forms with a magical spell shows how far we've come from the positive view of industry held by many during the Machine Age.

Edward Dreis, Gravel-Silo, ca. 1930s; oil on canvas; 27 1/4 x 37 1/4 in.

Dreis presents us with another view of modern life; not only the silo, but a freight train and electrical lines, painted matter of factly with diagonals moving this way and that through space.

Augustus Aaron Wilson, Tigers, 1931; painted wood, wire 24 1/2 x 9 x 86 in.; painted wood, horsehair or bristles, 36 x 12 x 79 in.

How could I not love these tigers? made around the same time as the Dreis painting, but a world away in feeling. Wilson was a retired lighthouse keeper who carved duck decoys. Inspired by the great tiger Emyr at Ringling Brothers Circus, he made these two tigers from railroad ties and telephone poles. They have so much character: the lifted head of the larger tiger and the painted patterns on the smaller.

Giraffe Head, 1850-1900; painted wood, glass; 26 x 11 x 13 in.

Another sculpture that completely charmed me was this alert giraffe, patterned with bold spots, its eyes looking clearly and calmly ahead. It's amusing to see, in the background, an academic marble sculpture; for me, the juxtaposition is all in the giraffe's favor.

Ammi Phillips, Jeannette Woolley later Mrs. John Vincent Storm, 1838; oil on canvas, 33 x 27 15/16 in.

Phillips is my favorite of the American self taught itinerant painters. His forms are so assured and clear and his faces are so specific and beautifully realized. The various textures of satin dress and lace collar and coiled hair are carefully described in a precise, tactile style. The wings of the collar pointing to ballooning sleeves and countered by the upward folds of the bodice are elegant rhythms, much more sophisticated than the label "folk artist" would lead us to expect.

Ashiwi Polychrome Water Jar, Zuni culture, 1700-1750; pottery, slip; 11 1/4 x 13 1/4 x 13 1/4 in.

This jar is one of several Native American pots on view and it is a very beautiful and dramatic piece. The abstract patterns flow around the jar, enhancing the bulging form. I love the strong sweep outwards to the widest part of the pot, with an even stronger sweep in. And what a pleasure it is to see this pot and other objects held in equal esteem to the "fine art" in the collection; it helps us to notice more, appreciate more, and make connections we would not otherwise make.

Thinning Spinach: A Chore into a Salad

When I plant spinach seeds in early spring, I sow them thickly to be sure enough will germinate; a bonus is having the tender sweet young spinach thinnings for delicious salad lunches. When the leaves are 1 to 3 inches long, I begin to pull some plants, leaving the others about 2 inches apart, so they'll grow to maturity happily.




Today, the chive blossoms have begun to open, so I picked some; their florets are tasty and add a sparkle of color in a green salad.




Here is the salad I had for lunch today: spinach with croutons and feta cheese. I love home made croutons in a spinach salad, so I cut a slice of homemade bread into squares and fry them (I know I know, baking would be healthier, but I adore the taste of the fried) in a little olive oil until golden, turning them to brown all sides. I add them, along with crumbled feta cheese, to the spinach and chive blossoms which have been dressed with good olive oil and balsamic vinegar. If you like garlic as much as I do––and I think it goes well with the sweet spinach––grate a large clove into the salad. I no longer use a garlic press because I find the Microplane fine grater is easier to use. Add salt and pepper to taste, but with the garlic and feta and the balsamic vinegar, I find I need little if any salt. When later in the season I make a salad with more mature spinach, I take a suggestion from Deborah Madison in her Greens Cookbook: wilt the leaves by tossing with heated olive oil. It's all delicious, a healthy treat from the spring garden.

A New Painting: "Across"

Across, egg tempera on calfskin parchment, 7 x 5 inches.

I've been looking at the photographic source for this painting for some months and have been very intrigued by it, wondering if its stark composition of mostly blacks would work as a painting; and, how difficult was it going to be to paint the illusion of folds in the black. I can now say that even though it wasn't a breeze, working on this painting was a pleasure as its forms developed. Many layers of different hues and values underlie the blacks; I kept painting until I felt the frisson of a tactile presence. And the greens! the green pipe moving across the black went through a multitude of variations: warmer and cooler, light and darker green, shadow higher or lower, greater or lesser contrast. I finally got it to a place where I think it works with the black––very different color but similar light––and exists in a space in front of it. The result is what is a very startling painting to me, a shock of green across black and hard geometry softened by folds.

In this detail you can see something of the textured marks I used to enliven the surface of the blacks.




With this painting, I have begun a shift in my ideas about size, thinking that I'd like to make my paintings a little larger. At this size a one inch increase can make a big difference. Above on the left is the original photo for this work at 5 1/2 x 4 inches; that is the size I would have painted it if I made the painting a couple of months ago. Recently the forms began looking too small to me, so I made the photo one inch larger across, 1 1/2 inches larger vertically. It doesn't sound like much, but it changed the feeling of the piece considerably. I was in the studio this week, putting away some older paintings on panel and thinking about my very small paintings in relation to the "normal" sized ones. It was clear to me why I love doing these small works: they ask for a close look and an intimate encounter.

The Lay of the Land: The Approach

Last fall, my good friend Dotty Attie, a wonderful and provocative painter whose work you can see here, expressed a desire to see more complete views of the inside of my house; she'd been frustrated by tantalizing glimpses in still life images. I took her suggestion and did a series of popular blog posts titled "My Old House". You can see the last post, on my barn studio, here, and it has links to the other posts. This spring she asked if I could post some images of my land and gardens because it was difficult to get a sense of the landscape from my preferred close shots. Thanks again to Dotty, here is the first of a series of posts of landscape views of my beloved house, barn and land.

I live on what was an old hill farm; this part of Vermont has fertile soils atop hills, so many little farms existed in years past. A winding and steep dirt road, well maintained by the town and ending at my house, passes between my small fields heading towards the west, showing a glimpse of barn and house above the grasses and weeds.




Here is a closer view of the barn, probably built around the same time as the house, in 1821. It was the horse barn; a much larger cow barn was torn down before I saw the property (and fell in love with it) in 1989.



And here is the house, a small cape with a huge lilac bush which has grown larger and larger over the years. The approach to my house and barn is most lovely in spring when lilacs are blooming. If you notice where the car is in the two photos above, you can see that the house and barn are not far apart, the house sitting on a slight rise.



Here's a closer view of the barn with the deep purple hybrid lilac Ludwig Spaeth and the yellow-green spring leaves of dwarf ninebark. The barn, with its high peaked traditional northeastern metal roof, encourages the snow to slide off in winter.



The large double doors to the left open to a storage area, while the rest of the barn is my studio. The hostas in front of the building are giant varieties, a perfect scale for the building, and happily this year haven't been munched on by deer.



Standing next to my car, I took this closer shot of the house, with its weathered spruce siding and white trim. The strange silvery metal object is a propane tank. Two upstairs windows in my bedroom face east to the rising sun, where I begin my days looking out at the White Mountains of New Hampshire.