Weaving

[Image 1]

I imagine every artist experiences shifts in their work that illustrate a greater connection to authentic self-expression. It’s one of the amazing things about art creation, a sort of coming to understand yourself, and in the process connecting with those who relate to and feel the same sense of connection to the emotions hidden within the work itself.

As I add to the woven series, the layers of paint and shapes speak to me. This particular piece awakened a profound sense of nostalgia and memory. The original layers were very bold and even somewhat obnoxious. It’s important to paint them in this way, to exaggerate their display so that when you cover them over, they are still somewhat visible and add to the painting’s depth and interest.

I’m reminded of the many stages humans experience from birth, through adolescence, and into adulthood, and how those changes mirror these layers of paint.

Women, especially, undergo enormous changes in temperament and physiology as they move through the stages of growth.

When I was a young teenager, my exuberance for life and the almost obnoxious way I did, at times, express the many swirling emotions inside of me, laid a lovely layer of bold enthusiasm I would paint over as I grew older and my depth of feeling strengthened; I added more refined and purposeful strokes of grief and pain, unconditional love and trust, a variety of values, hues, textures, and shapes that don’t occur to you when a painting, or a life, is in it’s youth.

Weaving the threads of ones transforming and changing colors and textures of personality and experience in and out of the tapestry of life, even though it is difficult to see the full construction of it until the end, is a beautiful artistic practice in and of itself.

The layers of our lives are often thrown down without thought, as a form of play and carefree abandon, and these important, yet messy, strokes form the foundation for the further layers we each place with greater thought.

As one nears the end (of life or a painting), there is enormous attention to detail given to each stroke; what was once carefree, becomes careful, intentional, and purposeful. What was once crude and indefinable, slowly and with time, comes into focus and becomes a personal work of art.

When I study this new painting, I see myself in it, as well as the overall human experience—all of us struggling to define or comprehend ourselves, until, all at once it seems, we do.

Every layer matters, in life and in art. Without the layers, there is no depth, there is no interest.

When I was a teenager, I would often stare into the mirror trying to see into my soul through my eyes. But despite the eyes being the window to the soul, my own felt shallow and impenetrable.

Now, when I look in the mirror, it’s a very different experience. My eyes have developed secrets. The depth seems to go on forever. There is pain, triumph, wisdom gained from many hours of struggle, and for the first time in my life, I see me in there.

When painting, I have a similar experience. Unless there are layers of different textures, shapes, and sizes, it will seem flat and unrelatable and hard to connect with. But as I work with it, even struggle with it, slowly it takes shape, and when I look into it, I’ll see and feel myself, at least a part of who I am. Such an odd, but interesting practice.

Before I started painting with acrylic, I wondered how an artist was able to determine when a painting was finished. How do they know when to stop? Now that I’ve spent many hours with a paintbrush in hand, I finally understand the secret all artists discover: determindng when a painting is finished is an intuitive sense rather than a rule-based assertion. You just know. I stop when I can’t find any more to do; it’s time to move on to the next painting and let this one go.

Is the end of life like that? You just know and feel it, like a transition to something new and better is awaiting you? I sure hope so.

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Images:
[Image 1] “Woven 2”, original artwork, Thalia Black, Mesoamerican series