This is another acrylic "dropper" painting, completed December 21, 2014. I logged over 90 hours on this one, challenging myself to see how much detail I could depict with liquid paint applied with medicine droppers. A photo does not show the particular texture of the painting, nor its pleasing sheen. Much of the brighter architectural features are rendered in metallic colors. I like how the dropper paintings are quite touchable and easy to clean as each color is mixed in a cup of thick gloss varnish.
In September of 2013 I enjoyed a wonderful tour of the highlights of Italy. One of our stops was the city of Naples. Unlike much of the rest of the country, Naples is quite a city of contrasts. The opulence of both old and modern Italy is everywhere juxtaposed against evidence of its mafia rule: its anarchist traffic, prolific graffiti and decay, and its desperate people vying for living space among the wealthy.
Our group took a fascinating tour one morning through Naples' many personalities. While stopped at a traffic light my eye was attracted to the man in the red sweater and I quickly snapped the reference photo for the painting. It was only on later viewing that the picture revealed to me the spirit of Naples: the breathtaking architecture housing its elitist population, either oblivious to, or peering down upon those in the margins. It is a picture within a picture of Naples, Italy.
Click on the link to watch the painting grow from the initial pencil sketch to the completion. Each transition is the product of several hour's work each day.
This evening my heart is with all the people who I know are grieving a loss right now - and there are many. Grief can feel like a dagger to the heart or like a big bag of sand at the bottom of the lungs. It hurts. We are human. We are supposed to hurt. Rather than trying to escape it, we must dare to embrace it like we may embrace a wounded child - with a clear mind and loving heart. That is what heals us.
So many people are told not to cry, led by a belief that crying keeps the spirit of their loved one from reaching the light. I have been taught instead that our tears are an important gift for our healing, and that the extent of our crying honors the breadth of the love we have for the one we have lost. I tell people that inside there is a certain size bucket of tears, depending on how much love we have, and that the only way to empty the bucket and shed its heaviness is to let the tears flow. A family who cries together heals together.
I have also been taught that it is not the absence of our tears that help the newly-freed spirit from reaching the light. Rather it is our love for them. It is the honest heart-felt wishes for their easy journey home. It is our ability to let go of any hurts that they may have caused us.
Love is what sends a spirit to the light, even love that glistens with tears.
I learned that in the spirit world there is no time, and that on the other side they may wait for us to finish grieving - wanting to see us happy again, but that wait, for the spirit, even if it takes us months or years, can be like just a moment to them. They are already in a place of joy and all-wisdom.
Grief brings gifts - gifts of heartfelt love and forgiveness. Like with the family depicted above it can bring such connection to the survivors if they dare to surrender to it. And with surrender, grief can also bring a deep connection to our Creator, as in the poem below.
It's not so bad...
Being sad Melancholy holds a delicate beauty of its own
Bullying happens in every age group. It happens in almost every setting. Psychologically it is a form of projection. If one is subconsciously feeling the effects of oppression from others or from negative self-thoughts they may say and do things to others to cause those same feelings. Passive people can be bullies too, but often they hide their actions - doing their deeds in more sneaky ways while they wear a friendly face. People who have good insight - who are aware of their emotions - do not tend to be bullies. Children can often bully others because there is more chance that they feel oppressed by over control or negativity by caregivers or of general family dysfunction that can lead the child to feel unimportant. Kids have less capacity to be able to identify their negative feelings. They will bully in an unconscious attempt to relate to their inner feelings in the reactions of others.
"Blame"
Acrylic, 2006
This painting is a depiction of domestic bullying: emotional abuse. Often the abuser will blame his/her partner for their own shortcomings, making it their fault for his/her inner discomfort. The energy of the bully's intention is projected to the figure which is turned away in self-protection. The energy spirals in, muddying the other person's orange (social connection) spirit and she becomes defensive rather than being her true loving self.
The poem below has been written in two parts. I wrote the first part in my late teens, remembering my own childhood experiences with bullying from other kids. I was still not quite over it at the time, continuing to feel separate from and judgmental about others who in my mind had more power than me However I was beginning to recognize my own value and perhaps some of the reason why I was the victim rather than the oppressor in childhood. The second part, written earlier this year, becomes a retrospect of the growth and change that is possible for any individual, and how sometimes our more painful experiences can be turned into our most useful gifts.
"At the Fair" 16 x 24 Acrylic with photo - just completed.
This piece took me 75 hours of work, from preparing the source photo, to applying the last drop of paint with a glass dropper. When the paint is starting to dry I must carefully inspect it for bubbles and pop them with a pin before they dry in. There are small bits of pen and brushwork on some of the finer details. I would often use a nail tip as well to push paint into tight corners. The process takes so long because each small application of paint must be dry before another color can be laid over or beside it. Its when the side of my hand would accidentally get into the wet paint as I worked that I would have to decide to quit for the day.
Here is a bit of the process:
Source photo, taken at the PA Exhibition this summer.
Using Photoshop, the photo is cropped, resized to the 16 x 24 canvas size, then altered with increased saturation, brightness, poster edge and cutout filters. This tends to outline and polarize some of the colors.
The photo is cropped into sections and each printed. Then the sections are reassembled and taped into place to line up with the canvas. This looks easy, but it was quite frustrating and time consuming.
I decided that any part of the painting that was a sign would be applied to the canvas, while all the rest of the picture would be rendered freehand. That entailed cutting out each piece and gluing it down, constantly making sure they were lined up accurately. If one piece was slightly out of line it would make the whole drawing go wonky.
These are the photo pieces glued in. next I could start drawing and painting.
I hung on to what remained of the photo because I did need to cut out and add the menu lists and prices later in the process.
Carefully, paint is applied with a dropper with colors mixed in a multitude of plastic salad dressing cups that have good snap-on lids. I mix liquid or tube acrylic colors with a liquid gloss medium and a little thinner.
Here are some closeups:
Watch the painting grow from beginning to end in this little video:
That was the new painting, now here is the old poem:
At the Fair
(1981) Copyright Kathie Bird
I’m six and jittery-thrilled. We
are going to the fair!
We walk through Normandy Park to Seventh Street, my mother and
sisters.
I jump and stretch my neck to get a glimpse of the big high Ferris wheel
over the rooftops.
I have a whole six dollars to spend!
There is a gentle roller coaster that circles the grounds.
I marvel to see everything beneath my feet.
Fingers sticky with candy floss, my mouth red from a half-eaten candy
apple
I clutch my take-home treasure – a floating balloon with Mickey Mouse
inside.
It’s yellow.
My sisters and mother, much bigger than me, walk home so quick.
My feet hurt.
Halfway down Normandy Park I stop to take a pebble from my shoe
And let go of my balloon!
I watched it sail high, high up until it is just a tiny yellow speck in
the sky
There is no consoling me while I cry.
I’m fourteen and walking through the midway
More thrilled to be with my boyfriend than anything else.
A ride on the Ferris wheel with him beside me feels warmer somehow.
I notice myself more than I notice the colors and lights and smells.
My button-front jeans flare out wide at the bottom, swishing around my
feet
My denim jacket sports flowered embroidery front and back – my own
creation
I carry a brown leather bag with long fringes that sway with my gait.
I feel grown-up and cool.
We stroll toward a large tent with a sign in front that says “Adults
Only.”
I know it’s the place where men go to watch women dance naked.
A guy we know beckons from the doorway.
Giggling, we slip inside the tent.
I stand against the back corner behind the shouting crowd.
I catch glimpses of a woman dancing up front, removing her clothes.
My face goes hot and my stomach knots as she flaunts her private
parts to the gawking men.
When we leave, I have no opinion – just the knots.
I’m twenty-three and just finished working my shift at the armouries
booth.
Tomorrow I will volunteer at the lost and found room.
Because it feels good to do such things.
I meet my husband and daughter to enjoy the fair.
I take pictures of her on one of the brightly colored kiddie rides.
She bears a smug expression that looks so cute.
I buy her a yellow floating balloon.
I notice the colors and smells and sounds as if through her senses
And it’s all so exciting again.
The petting zoo and the butts of the big Clydesdales in the barns
And the big pink wads of candy floss and somehow always the smell of
fried onions.
I have entered artwork in the competition and discover it bears a First
Prize ribbon.
My little family congratulates me.
We three sit in the Tilt-a-whirl, one on each side of our little girl
Laughing at the rocking tease and squealing in the spins and sighing at
the stop.
The balloon still floats in my little girl’s room.
Welcome to my new blog. It features my creative writing and artwork, sometimes with detailed information on the creation of certain pieces - the how and the why.
As an artist I create paintings that express a myriad of images from my internal and external experiences. I play with a variety of mediums and approaches to suit my intentions of the moment. Sometimes a painting will simply be about play and nothing else.
My poetry has largely sat hidden in binders and in digital form on the parade of hard drives that passed through my life since the advent of computers. When I was much younger I entertained the dream of being a semi-famous published poet but the dream became frazzled with editors who wanted to alter my words and lines. No one would dare to tell me that they would only accept my art if I changed it to suit them. Why is it an accepted practice with poetry? Nevertheless I continued to put pen to paper for many more years during those moments of introspection, always with the intention to share it all one day.
Now I am at a point in my life where I have no need to make a living from my creations. I believe there is another reason that I remain motivated to play with observations, words and paint. Here, through my blog entries you may spot my underlying purpose. The arts - be they poetry, painting, dance, music, drama...carry a different language: one of emotion and of spirit - a growing spirit.
I hope to entertain, to educate, but mostly to inspire. Take from it what you need, share my blog if you like, but remember to respect my inherent copyright of everything here.
I like to believe that we walk through our physical lives representing four parts - depicted here in feminine form. We are Universal Source ('God' energy), Spirit (the higher, immortal self), Physical Body (the manifestation of spirit in the form of matter), and The Child (the seeker/learner within us - motivated to grow).
