I like to Cut Things

Last Thurdsay following my lecture, (for which I wish I could call a re-do because it was a little disjointed and I so wanted it to be fantastic because women's issues are very interesting to me) I was talking with Carrie Scoresby of the Women's Research Institute, when she said something that has been on my mind ever since. It was something about how the institute was under investigation. The university was trying to decide it's value. I've been thinking about how important examination is. It's important for the university to examine, sure, but isn't that what women's studies are about? Isn't it imperative that we examine all aspects of our culture, religions, interactions etc. to make sure we are living, growing, expanding in a way that is will benefit ourselves and others? Don't we have a responsibility to make the world a better place for us and others? Only through examination can we explore possibilities.
I like to cut things. Well, I should clarify that I like to cut things but NOT flesh. In fact when I do accidentally slice flesh in any way, I can't look at it, I get light headed and have to make a b-line for nurse sister-in-law Jennie's house so that she can clean it and bandage it. I've asked her to be my personal triage nurse and she's done a fine job.
I like to cut felt, tomatoes, fabric, paper and that sort of thing. After cutting hundreds of felt flowers, I think that the desire and time spent is worth examination.
I spent a little time talking with Josh Ligairi this weekend about the documentary he did on Clean Flicks. Interesting what that examination has inspired. Sometimes the quest for truth and awareness isn't pretty but it seems necessary if we are to learn and progress.

I still don't know why I like to cut things.

I'm always interested in how different the galleries I visit are run. The way galleries do business and the way in which they interact with their customers and artists is interestingly diverse. That diversity makes each art show opening unique. There is one thing at every show I do, that stands out to me as the same. It's practically the only thing that makes it's bearable. I can't think of one word but I'll try to describe it. It's an exchange between me and a few people who connect/understand/feel something that I did/intended/attempted to do in creating the artwork. That exchange is only possible when in those moments there is unguarded sincerity. Not everybody is brave enough to feel it, let alone voice it. I'm glad for those who do because it's the one thing that makes it worth it.
Dr. Dan Barney overheard an interesting conversation between a couple of enthusiastic gallery strollers who were criticising my paintings. Though the conversation he relayed to me was entertaining because they just didn't get it, something Dan said stuck in my head. He said something about it being unfortunate that they didn't seem to understand the best thing about the paintings. It was all around them and they couldn't see it or feel it. It was what the people who sent the stories, the artist, and audience and the collectors all shared. It was where all the stories overlapped. It was that these artworks had meaning.
That was the best thing he could have said because it's what I believe in. 'Meaning' is what I'm seeking in every artwork I do.

I really was pleased with this show. I watched people reading the little blurb I wrote about working with these stories sent in by some of you, touching stories from all over the world. Then they would go and read a portion of the story displayed on the wall and study the painting. There seemed to be lots of thoughtful responses. So thank you again to those who came to the show and those of you who sent your stories.

It all started with wanting to paint a painting to protect Jenny the pyro-tech from burning up in a little streak of bad luck. I hope it works. Thanks for the spark Jenny!

Painting about inspiring people is a treat. Pam Beach is one cool artist mama. Check out her blog and you'll be amazed. I wish I'd studied at Pamschool before I'd had my own kittens.