It’s been a slow year in the studio. I anicipated this, and in fact planned “Holding on to Nothing” to take place before my second daughter was born. Demands of a day job and assisting my wife with her small business being what they are, I knew that a baby on top of it all would make for scarce studio time. Sleep is lucky; studio time is golden.

Now it’s been over a year, and although the econopocalypse has increased demands both for aforementioned day job and small business, in a way things should let up soon.

I’m being a little disingenuous. The slow-down in the studio has only partly been a result of familial and economic circumstance. Perhaps more to the point, what I really need to do is spend more time understanding what I need to do next…. that is much more difficult than showing up in the studio to paint. When I had a commission, I knew what to do and I got that painting done neatly and efficiently. So I can paint… no problem. And I’m largely happy to do that.

But I have a sense that it’s time to grow into the next thing, and what that might be is still a little fuzzy. Which brings me back to time — or more importantly — time to think… and energy to think.

Here’s what I know: I want to make art that whispers in your ear and gently (but firmly) forces an awareness of the now. Art that makes you notice — not necessarily the art itself — but makes you notice your self, your senses, and your consciousness.

Here’s the other thing I know: that’s tough to develop, and even tougher to pull off, especially with a tired mind.

Here’s the finished commission piece - I shipped it off last week. The studio seems dreary without all this orange on the wall…

I don’t tend to be a believer in inherent aesthetics. It’s my supposition that we bring to an artistic encounter our own cultural biases, aesthetic training (informal or formal) and — ultimately — personal taste — that has been developed more or less deliberately throughout our lives. That is to say, nothing is beautiful in its own right — it only is beautiful if we decide it is so.

When Steven LaRose’s blog page loaded yesterday morning, I greeted it with a sharp inhalation and then let out a low four-letter word. More on this later, but the image to the right is of the painting I was reacting to: Glittering Generalities and Blazing Ubiquities.

I follow his blog pretty regularly, I have seen a lot of his work (just saw some in person at Snoose Junction here in Seattle recently), and generally have a high regard for what he does. Which isn’t to say that I like every painting he does… but I have an appreciation for his work and his process and his aesthetic. And, most of the time, I do like the paintings he makes.

But this painting was different for me — and I could immediately recognize that he had stepped over some threshold. When I clicked on the comments, it was evident that the body of folks who frequent Steve’s blog felt the same. I don’t think they are shining his shoes, either… I get the sense that this is genuine.

So here’s the question: among an admittedly self-selecting group that already appreciates his work, how is it that one painting could garner such a consensus in the comments? Is there something inherent about this painting that makes it special — something separate from the aesthetic experience we bring to it?

I really don’t want to believe that to be the truth, but I’m hard-pressed for an answer otherwise, shy of sheer coincidence.

You can read all the comments here.

It takes so dang long to get to the point where I can start putting color on a panel, then the rest goes so fast… I’m a little farther along than his image, but here’s the first passes of color on the 42″ panel. The tag on the wall is the mass tone of the color I’ve mixed — it’s primarily pyrrole orange, modified by diarylide yellow and transparent yellow iron oxide.

I’ve been commissioned to create a new painting at 42″ square that looks something like this older painting of mine from 2005. A lot of artists shy away from commissions, but I rather enjoy them.

For one, it’s such a relief to be able to make work that I know I won’t have to store. Seriously.

But perhaps more importantly, it’s great to be able to create work that’s somewhat pre-determined. I still have to think and make decisions while I paint, but the range of decisions has been reduced greatly. So much of my work takes place within a defined set of constraints that I guess this seems relatively natural and comfortable for me.

6th and Pike in Seattle. I honestly can’t decide if this is masking for maintenance of expansion joints in the sidewalk, or if this is guerilla art. Either way, it made me hyper-aware of the rhythm of the breaks in the concrete.

I took Rob down to the Delridge Playfield yesterday to show him one of my favorite pieces of public art. These three stones arranged at the intersection of paths hold a lot of interest for me. See the darker stone in the distance?

It’s cast bronze.

Rob wasn’t so impressed.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t about amazing execution, this isn’t about grand statements. Hell, this probably passes under the radar for 95% of the people who walk past this park. Probably more than 95%. It’s stealth art. There’s not even a plaque that I can find to identify the artist who did it. Maybe it wasn’t even an artist. Maybe the Parks Department just hired a bronze foundry to cast a stone to fulfill some 1% for art requirement when they built the Community Center. I don’t know.

So why do I love it?

Because the surprise you get when you discover that it’s not a rock, especially if you’ve seen it a hundred times before, causes that momentary flash of insight and awareness. Because it is like a Zen koan. Because it forces, ever so briefly, a different point of view. Because it allows a moment of presence and awareness of the human experience that is currently yours. It causes you to look back at the other two stones and question their authenticity. It makes you awake.

That’s hard to do when people expect to be looking at art. If somebody walks into a gallery, they are expecting to have an art experience, and they have a frame of mind that is open and ready to have their perception adjusted. A person encountering this piece has no such expectation, so the surprise — the adjustment in perception — is that much greater.