It’s a funny thing to build pretend worlds for the eye to trust and explore. Literally. There have been many funny moments -- stringing naked girls from impromptu crucifixes in my studio, burning model houses on private property, convincing your local YMCA lifeguard to let you into the pool with your clothes on and perform multiple costume changes. I would like to begin this post with a shout out to all my friends who have made my painting references possible. Procuring naked photos of oneself covered in broken glass isn’t something that a girl can get through all on her own. Here’s to you guys!
My flooded Baltimore bathroom.
So when I start a painting, the mental image almost always comes first. And if that happens to be something that I can handle translating from mind to matter without assistance, great, I’m off and running. But that is almost never the case. So I set up models or puppets in my studio to look at or people in a setting to photograph. Then I often suture these images together Frankenstein-style in my head. Every painting calls for a different method. (Necessity is the mother of invention, etc.) Nothing is “cheating” in my book. I’ve used tracing paper, printouts and projection. (However, during a critique with Julie Heffernan on a painting that drew from only one photo reference, her response was “Love the image. But wouldn’t it be horrible to make paintings like this all your life?” True story, Julie. Because although the process involved a much-reduced risk of an anxiety attack, it lacked the generative thrill that comes from birthing something new. And then, of course, if a photo adequately communicates an image, why make a painting?
Me in a skirt.
I end up using my own body a lot because I’m always around and am very supportive of my cause. I wish I could show you all of the bizarre imagery I have floating around in the ‘References’ folder on my computer – the pics are usually even more surreal than the paintings because the subject is often acting out something that clashes absurdly with its setting. But, unfortunately, many of the photos are un-postable because there are naked(!) people in them and we’ve all learned the hard way that once an image is out there, it’s almost impossible to reign back in. (For instance, the first image of me that pops up when you Google my name is a chubby-cheeked, Ms. Frizzle-esque catastrophe from my sophomore year in college. Dear Oberlin, I really appreciate the publicity. All press is good press, etc. etc. But, for the love of God, take that photo down.)
Each painting ends up gathering together a digital mood board of sorts, filled with images from all kinds of sources. I use this collection of internet detritus, mixed with video clips and primary sources, to figure out the composition, palette and desired feel of the piece.
Delta advertisement that informed "Honey I'm Home."
Especially since so much of my recent work stems from a specific place, my travel photos feed into my work directly. In Iceland, I kept a folder of images that I had collected as a color journal.
Sometimes all of the images are too much to combine in my head, so I physically cut them up and paste them together or do the equivalent on Photoshop.
I owe much of my thesis work, “Outpost,” to a plexi-glass house. May it rest in peace. I had its components cut at a plastic company in Baltimore. I decorated the inside as one might a Robinson Crusoe style dollhouse, using model materials, furniture from my childhood dollhouse and random debris. It had a different role to play in each of my paintings. I had hoped one of those rolls would be a working aquarium. So I followed every Youtube step for making it water-tight. But it flooded my studio almost immediately. Since you can pass notes down to the floor below you in the Balitmore warehouse where my grad program was posted, I quickly scrapped that idea.
The house’s final act was a daring night stunt. Accompanied by three lovely female assistants, it was put afloat on a winter-cold river and set on fire. Apart from the toxic odor, it was a beautiful send-off. Afterwards, I tried to throw away its remains, but they were rescued by some of my more materially-experimental MFA peers and reincarnated as yet more art.
The best actress award goes to poet and neuroscience guru Ryann. The woman in my “Fielding Terns” painting was born from a combination of her body strung up in my studio and a puppet I constructed from material scraps. The forms ended up having a surprising amount in common.
These are images that came together to become “Everything That Rises:”
Most of my photos of Laura Hudson are not for the public eye! But luckily for you, her paintings are. (Be patient. They rotate through.)
In which Chaney (an awesome painter and fellow adventure seeker) and I braved a tangled Baltimore underpass adjacent a sprawling homeless person’s shelter, shattered a sunroof that I had procured from a car graveyard and filled her hands with broken glass:
This is something that I am working from now. Kind of love this messy Photoshop collage so hopefully my painting will be at least as cool.
Winter Solstice at my grandmother's house in Houston.
My cousin Mira -- belly dancer, painter, costume designer and body painter. She has a new project called Sirens where she transforms women with fabric, feathers and paint into their particular type of goddess. I drove to visit her on Friday southwest of Austin in a small town called Driftwood. I passed Enchanting Oaks Drive and Crystal Hills Drive. After a wooden sign proclaiming "Wizard Academy," I took a right turn onto her dirt driveway. Her studio sprawled across the ranch-style house with headdresses and Indian garb adorning every surface. A cushioned construction in the living room was shaping up into a hookah lounge. Three feline sentinels took turns keeping watch and bossing around her large dog.
