A Spiral Beginning

The time comes when one must begin - even when feeling resistance, 

uncertainty, lack of clarity - one simply must begin. 

For that to happen, I know by now, means I must go to the studio and do something. 

I know I've written about this before here. It almost doesn't matter what I do, but 

I must go and know that I am easing into something... I tell myself I can explore, 

write, look at books, arrange things on shelves, sit and drink tea... wait. 

This is my strategy and it works. Eventually I notice something, like a whisper, as 

little by little my work speaks to me, and I begin. 

I've fantasized about being a person who has a rigid routine, where month in and 
month out, I'd know where to be when. But there is an organic ebb and flow to my
art making as it is just one thread in a rich tapestry that is my work. Each thread contributes to the colorful whole, and there is cross-pollination - singing inspires a 
story, teaching inspires a painting, painting inspires a ritual, a walk inspires me to write. The stewarding of the forest and the growing of flowers provides the wind and the insects who, of course, are the main cross-pollinators. 

So I took myself to the studio, journal in hand, to begin. I swept fallen flower 

petals from the floor, re-arranged my inspiration shelves, looked at books and 

images pinned to boards. I sat and wrote in my lovely journal by Oberon Design

- a gift to myself at Christmas that I have been coveting for years. I'm glad I 

waited a few years as they now make a cover sized for Moleskins journals that 

suits me perfectly. 

 

 I spent a moment to admire the variation of zipper patterns on shells, 

and to listen to the conversations between things and in the wind. 

  

One day I started to draw. I played with spirals in atmospheres/ 

I don't much like the results, but something was learned, 

and, most importantly, a dialog has begun. 

Late one afternoon, I returned from the studio, to discover that a pair 

of juncos made a spiral piece of their own, much too close to the front 

door. I wasn't sure what to do about this as they were rather 

alarmed when I opened the door. After much delibration, 

and seeing that the basket was hanging by a thread, I quickly 

tied a new string loop and hung the basket higher and away from 

the door a tiny bit. But they haven't been back. Its late 

anyway, maybe they were just practicing their weaving?  

Pollen is bursting out of the helenium, and plenty of 

bugs are working hard to spread the bounty around. 

Though beautiful outside, last week was so hot that niether of us 

here - the two legged or the four legged - got much done except to find 

the places outside with the most shade and air movement for napping. We're 

both enjoying the cooler days now, but tomorrow I'll be doing a rain 

dance to attract the thunderstorms which are forecast to be traveling about.

Monday update: Rain last night throughout the night! More predicted here 

and there in the week. We need it. I guess I did a rain dance in my sleep, 

along with many others.  

Things Evolve

"Trees", watercolor, VClaff, 2012

I remember listening to an interview on public radio many moons ago wherein a 

writer was speaking about his process. I don't remember who he was. I have

thought about his words many times and wish I could hear the interview again. 

When asked about his daily routine, the writer said that he started his day with a 

cup of coffee and the newspaper. He would begin to think about getting to his 

writing desk, but instead would have another cup of coffee, and find something 

to do that would buy him more time. Eventually he would eat breakfast and then 

find something else that might prolong the journey to the desk. He admitted that 

getting to writing was a daily practice of slowly moving closer to it in a round about 

way. It sounded to me like a predator slowly circling his kill, waiting for the 

exact moment to strike. Eventually he got to his desk and began writing. When 

asked about the practice of writing, he said that writing is something that it easy 

for everyone, except if one is a writer, then it is extremely difficult. 

"Gray Mountain", watercolor, VClaff 2010

Last week I had the week off from teaching, and had the gift of many days in the 

studio. The words of the writer were with me as I circled around the studio the first 

morning, considering one possibility or another, before landing on a course of action 

for BEGINNING. Though I had been painting here and there over the last few weeks, 

this was the moment of deepening the exploration and inquiry, not just getting back 

to putting brush to paper. 

I opened a very old sketchbook that was only partially filled, tore out the old 
drawings, and began with spirals. It was a bit like journaling as I found myself 
scribbling words beside the spirals, a good way to begin. I liked that occasionally 
the spiral bled through to the next page. The words near the spiral below are:

Just to be clear, I don't know where I'm going. 

Eventually, after many pages of these, I pulled out my new stock of watercolor 

paper, ripped the sizes I wanted, taped them to boards, and began to paint landscapes. 

It was the moment to strike. After the first day, the bit about writing being hard 

for the writer was definitely where I was at - substitute painting being hard for the 

painter. I spent that evening worrying that my work had become too conventional, 

that my obsession with trees and mists and distant ridges was repetitive and that 

during that whole day I had produced nothing of value. 

Luckily, I've been at this long enough to know that I needed to get to the studio the 

following day and continue. After untaping the paintings from the day before, I 

began to see that possibly a few were OK. I continued for the remainder of the

week, and found myself in a blissful flow of work. Not that self-doubt is gone, no, 

it keeps me digging deeper into the possibilities of the materials and the image and 

taking risks to find something surprising. More than anything, I need to engage 

deeply in my process, with enough time and space that the rest of the world melts

away. In those moments my imagination takes me high into the hills with views across 

vast spaces to the mountains beyond. There is absolutely nothing I can do about 

my obsession with this. One can really only make one's own work, otherwise, its 

just pretending. 

"Ridges & Mists", watercolor, VClaff 2012

The paintings in this post were made last week. The top two 

are small, about 7x5 inches, the rest are larger, roughly 12 x 10 inches or so. 

Seeing them here, I think the color is somewhat off. I need to re-shoot them, 

but you get an idea. 

"Ridges & Mists", watercolor, VClaff 2012

"Distant Hills", watercolor, VClaff 2010

"Winter Hills & Sky", watercolor, VClaff, 2012

The new studio is simply a joy to work in. Beautiful light, warm, open space, I love it.

Even Pasha has found his place here. I leave you with images from the studio and 

from walks with Pasha this week and last. Things truly evolve, and it feels good to  

be having an intimate dialogue with my work again. Thoughtful listening and strings

of questions lead to new understanding  - and then there is dreaming... 

Fire in the Hearth

Spiral & Stone

Outside the snow has turned to rain, towards morning though, the freeze will come 

again. Inside rain rhythms play on the metal roof. Pasha just left his rug by the fire 

to sit with me. He grumbles when he sees the computer on my lap, and walks across 

the keyboard in protest. Giving up he goes back to his rug. I'm feeling a bit guilty, 

but have just settled in to this post so his invitation must wait. 

After much fuss, the gas stove in the new studio is working well and I have been 

painting the walls and getting ready to move in. I thought maybe I might need 

a cargo sled to pull across the frozen driveway, but a warm week has melted 

much of the ice.   

 I chose a white with a hint of yellow giving the room a wonderful, warm glow. 

It was a practice in restraint to chose a subtle color as the saturated yellow-oranges 

were tempting, but I'm delighted I resisted. 

I wish I had two weeks to dream into my new space, but now that school has started, setting up the studio must be wedged in between class prep and the usual winter 

tasks that come with forest living. 

A deep longing for the feel of ink gliding from my dip pen and bleeding onto 

paper pulls at me. I have been away long enough to loosen habitual ways of working, 

and crave the structure of practice in my life. 

Soon the sacred objects will collect on the studio table, and my dialog with 

the new space will take shape. How will this new place inform my work? 

What will be the first thing I work on? 

Looking back at drawings and photos from my old studio, I feel myself entering into 

my process even before my materials have found their place on the new table. 

Tomorrow, I'll begin to transfer my things from the old studio to the new. 

As always here at RavenWood, the land and creatures remind me of my 
wildness, and with the snows I see who has come to visit in the early morning hours. 

More than once today, while bringing wood inside, I paused to feel the cold 
air fill my lungs and listen to the chickadees twitter in the birch trees. 

In the early morning, just as the sun is rising, I light the fire and sit watching 

as it catches. In these moments, I feel a long line of ancestors behind me whose 

mornings started in the same way. My mother recently asked me if I minded heating 

with wood. How can I explain the need for the first moments of fire when the 

kindling snaps and the warmth begins? In winter, when the hearth is full of fire, 

ancient, primal stories rise with the heat of the flames. No, I don't mind, in fact, 

I am grateful.