A little bit waxy, a little bit sticky, totally veiny and peeling off in the most wonderful shapes, pojagi voices whispered as I peeled tomatillo skins, “get the thread!” A twisting and delicious adventure in cooking and art unfolded for days.
I love film. The limits. The waiting. The not knowing. The colors and contrasts. The grain. The “accidents.” The rush.
There’s a moment I think about often. Sitting in my car in Costco’s parking lot on a grey Seattle Saturday in October a few years back. Chainlink fence and train tracks in front of me. A still sunkenness inside, my hands not wanting to leave the steering wheel and open the door. Outside, a blur of movement. Chaos. Screeching tires, wet pavement. Grinding metal, uneven cart wheels. Blinkers blinking.
Just minutes earlier, I had let go of my grandmother’s hand for the last time after she passed away. Now, here I was, sitting in my car with humanity swirling around me, going about their day as if nothing had happened. A huge gaping hole had been left in the world and people were pushing oversized shopping carts with giant stuffed bears teetering on top through a maze of traffic.
It was such an odd moment. Not exactly a sad moment. More of an “Oh, this is how it is” moment. That gaping hole, I’m sitting alone in it for a good reason. It was formed from so many years close to her and from being with her in that intimate moment when she transitioned from physical being to living in the hearts of those who were lucky enough to know her.
With that moment in mind, I made this.
FAQ: What’s your medium?
Answer: Whatever is around.
Example: I was lucky enough to receive @harryanddavid pears over the holidays. Each pear was wrapped in gentle green and metallic gold papers. The person who sent said pears had a birthday coming up. Hmmm I said to myself with very little actual thought and took an envelope from the stack I saved from holiday cards, finding the one from the birthday girl herself, and green padding from the pear box to make a canvas.
Theeeeeeeen, I had a cup of tea and wistfully thought about the birthday girl, leaving the tea bag on the tea papers for a couple days to leave a nice stain. Once that was dry, a plain ol ballpoint pen revealed the character hidden in the stain. With a dash of glue stick on the back, that went in the middle of the canvas. I don’t know why, that’s just where it seemed to want to rest.
Layers of tea-as-paint and bits of pear papers fell joyfully in place from there. I found some gold thread sitting next to my sewing needle stash and that seemed appropriate. I let the stitches fall wherever felt right. A few more layers and voilà, birthday art completed with
whatever was around.
Sometimes, I don’t know how to put a response into words or describe how I feel about things in-the-moment. On a certain crisp Fall morning, I sat with words exchanged a few days before. As I hot glued down needles, a beautiful and fragile web formed. I gently dropped in pieces of handmade papers my aunt had given me and blew tiny feathers in, watching to see how they moved through the scene. I laughed at myself when I tried to predict, with hands shaking from caffeine, where a drop of glue or piece of paper would land. Or how far a tiny glue string would stretch. Afterwards, I felt a great comfort and knew what to say. My reply was this process and piece.
Take a relaxing breath and listen to this story about how art was made on a recent Monday morning.
A while ago, I pulled some photographs and paintings out of my uncle’s (davidkingartist.com) trash. I heard one singing to me from a bin in my studio the other day. Then, my pile of stained tea wrappers joined in the chorus. And finally, I turned to my sewing machine to provide a beat.
My Aunt Patti’s Pojagi work providing heavy influence, I stitched the wrappers to the painting following ghostlike lines from the painting beneath, along wrinkles and edges. Whatever felt right.
Once it felt finished, I flipped it over and after a moment spent with hands on hips, I grabbed my watercolors and filled in the stitched patterns. It was hard not to peek, but my hope that paint was bleeding through the holes left by the sewing needle came true. Beautiful blots of color had joined variations of brown and a reversible painting was born.
The End.
There are a lot of spills in our house. So many that I started a series on my instagram feed called #spilloftheday. The images rarely receive many “likes, ” but when people see me in real life, this is the series they talk about. The series they say makes their day.
I wish I could blame the kids for the spill, but a lot come from me. As a often overly self-critical person, I have had to work very hard not to be frustrated with myself over things like spills. Mindfulness and children have taught me to laugh and admire the beauty in a spill instead.
Last night, we looked out the window to admire the sunset and saw this massive spill unfolding.
One could be mad about such a thing (seriously, how did they get all that water out there without anyone noticing!! And the chalk? Not ours. Magically appeared!)
OR
one could notice the colors, contrast, wet vs dry, the kid’s inhibitions in creating/experimenting, the strange conversations and other sounds.
One can laugh. A LOT.
For me, spills are an opportunity to be mindful, to enjoy serendipity, to join in and play/create without expectations. This one was not to be missed. I ran downstairs and grabbed my big girl camera and enjoyed every minute of capturing it.
When I checked out the Mitsui Real Estate Group’s space in January, I was drawn to the reflections from the large green-tinted glass lights. That’s the cue I used to curate images for this show. So, lights, thank you. I might otherwise have been lost in a deep dark hole of years and years of photographs!
I chose encaustic (wax over) images (printed on Torchon paper, which gives a slight watercolor texture) so that the reflections from the lights would be in play. I also tried something brand new - image transfers, which are so fun (and not unlike childbirth!). After a lot of sweat and a few burns, this is what made it up on the walls for the March West Seattle Art Walk.
Come see me on 3/14 for the West Seattle Art Walk at 6021B California Ave SW starting at 5pm!
Oh, added bonus and something to do for those who aren’t into mingling/talking - ART WILL SAVE YOU will be sponsoring a little art-making table to keep your hands busy and hearts happy!
We turned on some music and scribbled (6B water soluble graphite stick - basically a big fat pencil) to give some overexposed polaroids new life.
A week after my Aunt passed away, I found myself on Harstene Island with a heaviness. It felt like I was standing in a muddy hole. Not a deep one, but my body was so heavy that I couldn’t climb out. It was dark and damp. Moving was the only way out. It wasn’t easy, but I took a step and I picked up a rock, then a leaf, some grass. I looked up and saw roses. I reached for one, cut it, and put it in my pocket. I grabbed another. A thorn left a small scratch on my arm. Ouch. I started noticing more things. Bright green moss. Curly reddish brown - my favorite color - madrone bark. Things started to feel less dark. I dumped them out on a bench, organized them and then just… started moving things around.
How to make art with nature:
Step 1: Go for a walk. Gather some shit (not literally. leaves, rocks, sticks, dirt etc…)
Step 2: Move shit around while thinking of (choose one of the following or insert your own)
Someone you miss
Someone you love
A feeling
A problem
Nothing at all
