For my partner and I, the holiday season started at least two weeks ago and it’s been non-stop since.  Between work, classes, family, visitors, cleaning, decorating and the usual stuff that always pops up when you least want it to—I’ve had little time to devote to my artwork or my website.  I’m not complaining, mind you.  However, I need my moments of quiet time and I haven’t had much lately.  I’m setting aside the seasonal rush to write about a subject that’s been on my mind for a while now.  Autumn/winter brings about a time of reflection for me.  Perhaps it’s the desolate beauty of the trees with only berries and few leaves or the refreshing crispness of the air.  Whatever it may be, I’ve had time to contemplate why I stopped painting scarves almost a decade ago and what made me begin again. 

My intro page refers to Sandy, a friend of mine, who kept at me for months to start painting again.  Someone other than my mother (who thought everything I did was wonderful) loved my work and encouraged me to continue.  Artists can go through dry spells or even have such a lack of confidence that they will stop working.  Mine was a combination of both.  Deep in the crevices, I believed that I would create works that no one would want and would end up with a stockpile.  This can be devastating to an artist.  When someone doesn’t like our work, some of us take it personally.  It took someone else’s persistence, self-reflection, and perhaps a bit of maturity to make me see that this was a ridiculous assumption.  I have no scarves left from years ago—because all of them sold!  I also realized that if I like something, someone else out there will too.  I felt the need to create.  The Internet played a major role as well.  Being able to view others works, read their viewpoints and see artist’s studios from all over the world is inspiring. 

I love what I do.  I’m in a serene state of mind while I’m working.  Perhaps best of all, the people who have received my scarves enjoy them.  There’s a certain sense of accomplishment and pleasure that comes with someone wanting to wear something you made or to think enough of your work as to buy it as a gift for someone else.  

Cheers,
Diane

This is my favorite time of year. I love the colors, the smells, the chill in the air, and the spicier comfort foods —the essence of what makes autumn. As an artist, I find it difficult to ignore the glory that surrounds me whether I’m looking out my kitchen window, or on the way to work—reds, oranges, golds, and bronzes abound.

I had ordered a dozen oblong chiffon scarves to paint on and decided to use the autumn colors as my theme for several of them. There are pots of mums and pansies just outside my door which also helped to inspire. I felt that no resist (or lines) were needed for these, just the free flow of color and letting the inks blend and mix where they may. There’s a sense of freedom to painting without any borders. It allows one to focus more on the colors and less on the forms. After a day at work it’s also a way of letting go. I’m no longer focusing on a computer, but something beautiful and tangible. But I digress. Back to the title.

As I am painting seasonal colors, the primary color used is red or at least some closely related cousin. Red, at least in western culture, probably ignites more response than any other color. Men find women who wear red are more attractive than those wearing other colors. It evokes passion, danger, delight, and for some, holiday memories. As a silk painter, it is also one of the most problematic colors to work with. Red is one of the brightest, has high staining power (as anyone who has accidentally washed whites with one red item can attest) and also runs the most. Of all my scarves, the ones with red I need to wash and dry twice, blotting them before hanging them to avoid pink drips. After steaming my scarves in muslin (for 3 hours) to set the colors, I can almost guarantee that at least one of the predominantly red ones will leave red speckles on the muslin, thus causing me to wash it before steam setting another scarf. And yet, despite the problems that I encounter with red, the results are still worth the extra effort.

With my favorite time of year also comes the problem of the lack of light in my studio—the front porch. During the summer, I can work until 8 or 8:30. Now, I’m limited to 6 or 6:30. This makes it rather difficult for a 5 to 9er.

I decided to try working in my kitchen instead. I hauled a small table in the middle of the room to place my stretcher on. I would have preferred a portable card table as it would be much larger for better support. However, you work with what’s available. My ramshackle production ended up looking like a slightly twisted stick of gum or a silk and plastic teeter totter. Fortunately, my kitchen is a large square instead of a narrow oblong giving me just enough room to maneuver around the stretcher and thus avoiding the sink, counter, refrigerator, and computer station. The act of painting became something of a Mr. Bean type dance. I have to admit it was handy having the sink right there so I could refill my inks or wash out my brush instead of plodding back and forth through the dining room each time to do so. In fact, it was rather handy. I could listen to the radio shows on the computer, monitor dinner more easily, and actually finish my scarf faster. I know that in 6 months I’ll be back to working on the porch again, but I’m looking at this as less as an inconvenience, and more as another characteristic of having a nomadic studio.

Today I had been reading about another artist’s studio and that got me thinking about what makes a studio. I suppose the popular notion of a studio, or at least the stereotypical idea, is that of a large room surrounded by windows with the artist’s tools neatly stacked on shelves and various works in progress dotting the landscape. Some artists are lucky enough to have this type of studio, perhaps overlooking a scenic view or a city street within walking distance of a comforting coffee shop.

Until I bought my house, my studio was always the dinning room table—not exactly ideal, but it worked. Now “my studio” is the front porch, that is, when we’re not having breakfast there. However, I now have a room surrounded by windows and the view of a busy street, trees, birds, and the frequent sound of sirens from fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars. It may not be Connemara or San Francisco, but it is my studio and I love it.