IMART, Day 2

A new day begins.... the first look at the group's work from yesterday, as a whole. The small gallery of waxed self-portraits lined up on the chalk ledge for consideration.... introspection, contemplation. On a corner table near the windows, the collection of cloth art dolls are enjoying the morning sunlight. A quiet, leisurely discussion of what worked, what we discovered, problems, how we overcame them and what we might yet do to our art pieces.

Ken showed us the importance of standing back ten feet to evaluate our work. I saw the needlework master, Kaffe Fassett (pronounced as in 'safe asset') use this technique with his students during the knitting workshop featured in his "Glorious Color" video. It does, indeed, give you a different perspective where sometimes the unexpected emerges and helps you to see what needs to be changed or adjusted.

Drawing from things/moments that have made us who we are.....

On the blackboard he writes a quote from the Essays of Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592): "The least strained and most natural movements of our soul are the most beautiful"; [the best occupations the least laborious.]

We are making art.... doing it with feeling, with emotion, not being precious. Creating..... without thinking about it.

I'm remembering a spring night, working steadily on an assemblage over the previous six hours, it's 4:15 a.m. Long past hunger. Night is now day and birds are singing loudly, claiming their morning territory — even if I tried to sleep at this point, I couldn't. But I'm on a roll. Every object I place just seems to work, like putting together a jigsaw puzzle you know by heart. Everything just effortlessly clicks — the white moment. I'm part of the artwork, it's part of me.... not thinking words, not making conscious­ decisions, just doing it without thinking about it.

At the Bricolage Workshop, it's a day of layering and building up texture on our newest pieces with various types of paper and other materials: newspaper, tissue, printed papers, corrugated cardboard, the written word. Accenting with broken eggshells, rusted tin, stitching.









I couldn't bring myself to use the snake skin. Maybe with tweezers, or tongs or oven mitts. Wonderful, exotic, beautiful snake skin. No, sorry, can't do it.

















Last week an artist friend gave me a quick 'emergency' phone call before heading out for a fishing holiday. (It was long distance – we always talk for hours so only phone at Christmas.) "You just have to see this book. It's for people like us. It's called The Art of Layering: Making Connections. Gotta run now, Gord's waiting in the truck. Bye."

According to their website, "The Society of Layerists in Multi Media is composed of individuals who use the experience of art to cultivate their spiritual awareness." "Layered art appeals to the viewer who enjoys searching for those fine details that require thoughtful consideration to reveal hidden meaning. It calls as much upon visual metaphor as technique to bring its subtlety to the surface." "....as creators they recognize the importance of memory as they pursue their studio explorations. Greeks were wise to give mythic importance to the union of Zeus with Mnemosyne (memory) who together produced the Muses. It is the landscape of memory which Layerists draw upon to give form and significance to their artful discoveries."

They explain that their term Layering is not a particular style or medium but a holistic approach to art. "Therefore we say that it is not the technique that distinguishes a Layered work of art so much as the mind of the artist who makes the art. The Layering we speak of is an evanescent, as well as a tangible, metaphor. It grows like moss from living and learning. It imbues the work with meaning."

Afternoon, on the blackboard:
There is nothing ugly in art except that which is without character, that is to say, that which offers no inner or outer truth.
Auguste Rodin

Layering.... art with character, truth. That certainly describes the visual anthologies of Australian mixed media artist Judy Wilkenfeld. Of Elephants and Dreams is a thick handmade book, pages stacked as high as the volume is wide. Handmade book is an understatement. Each page is an individual layering of found treasures flowing with symbolism. It's a phenomenal work of art, as is her sensitive 3-paneled collage Numbers, the story of Holocaust survivors Sam and Esther.

The layering for my bricolage began with a soft, thick brown paper glued flat (like I meant it!) onto an 8" x10" sheet of primed medite. The other eleven pieces I bought from Opus Art Supplies won't go back on the shelf for an additional 8 years, I promise!














Things/moments that have made you who you are.....

Unraveled burlap to represent fields of wheat growing up around the marshy slough. The short pieces of sisal rope and the bright yellow tissue underneath will show through after the surface is darkened. A shape cut from corrugated cardboard. The top layer has been pulled away to reveal horizontal lines for the siding of the clapboard farmhouse. Overly bright tissue for the sky and prairie sunset will be toned down with more layers and a wash.















Did I ever live on a farm? No, but the summer I was 13 my family traveled 2085 miles to the farm near Buchanan, Saskatchewan where my Mother's family homesteaded around 1905. I remember listening to the battery radio on the kitchen table, silent for probably 25 years. Upstairs was Mom's little toy box with the hinged lid. It was blue, the top layer of paint wiped back to show a swirly red design on the textured surface. I thought it was a bit ugly but didn't say so (and never ever told her). The cradle in the hayloft was my mothers, too. Stiff, wiry horsehairs from long dead horses were caught between the slivers of wood in the barn door. I picked a few out. They were dark brown. Several pieces of farm equipment were silently rusting in a shed with no doors. Mom told us how she loved summer rain and how she walked barefoot through the mud it made. "It was warm and would squish up between my toes." she said, lifting her shoulders and scrunching her face with a big smile. We went to Good Spirit Lake, renamed from Devil's Lake where my grandfather drowned at age 39, four short months before his daughter would be born.
















Layers and more layers, washes of secret sepia, experimentally slopping stuff on, carefully scraping excess off, burnishing and polishing. An ancient (well, old anyway) piece of wood molding for a final touch — a sort of 'handle' at the top. Bricolage is progressing well. I like this piece.