The Root of all that Is
April 10, 2010
About 5 years ago I found a huge volume in the library on medieval persian paintings. I was so fascinated and struck by the beauty with which the natural world was portrayed, the amazing overgrown gardens, fountains, landscapes. I also loved the integration of the man-made into the scenes: intricate tile patterns, embellished instruments and furniture, architecture. I spent several months doing studies of my favorite aspects of these paintings in my sketchbooks, and set out to do a rather large painting using these works as an inspiration.
After working for a few weeks on the underpainting which was just the springboard for the more personal, integrated vision I was discovering as I worked, I woke up one morning with tremendous pain in my hand. Off I went to the doctor, and to this day have been unable to finish that painting ( no more big brushes for me, hence the fiber work and small drawings). So that painting still exists in its unfinished, gestational state. I pulled it out recently ( I couldnt look at it for so long, because it cried out to me to be transformed into its next state of being, and I would just look at it with frustration). I hung the painting up on the wall. Underpainting, drips, incomplete vision and all. I think I will move the image to its next place, but on a different work, maybe a textile piece. I am certain that the finished painting would have looked completely different than the work as it hangs now. But, in the end, how often do we leave traces of our process, as we battle with our vision and ideas as the image evolves out of our struggle?