I read an article that talked about the color of Cezanne’s studio in Aix-en-Provence, France. It had gray walls, which lessened the 3-d effect of real objects. In other words, painting a bowl set against a gray wall has a flattening effect (which is apparent in Cezanne’s paintings). It is easier to jump from the color of the bowl to the color of the wall. The wall color is actually important. Very interesting! I’m easily fascinated by the importance of negative space. I could go beyond art with that topic. But I won’t, at least today.
Check out the article. It has pictures of the studio. When I walk into the room of someone dead and famous, I usually don’t think, “Whoa, this is a room of a famous person.” I tend to think, “Whoa, this room is pretty ordinary and real-looking,” which makes the famous person seem more ordinary and real. And I like that! I don’t know everything about Cezanne, but I do know he was a gruff, temperamental type of person. And he didn’t mind repetition. He spent much time painting the same mountain over and over. I think it wasn’t about the mountain. It was more about the colors.
I’ve posted about this van Gogh painting before. It’s hanging right above my computer screen, so it is probably the most-looked-at painting in my house. My copy is a little grayer and bluer than this image. Not only is the weather appropriate for today (windy, rainy, gray, cold), van Gogh himself is appropriate. Here’s a guy who had a severe mental illness. Yet he struggled through, battling against all the negativity around him. He didn’t win every battle (at least I assume cutting off your own ear consists of losing some sort of battle), but he kept doing what he knew was right: creating art. Where was the encouragement? Where was the motivation? It had to be spiritual because I can’t understand it any other way. Even when we’re backsliding into the same old patterns, God ensures His plan continues.
Beauty and inspiration come from weird places. But behind all the weird places is a Master Designer.
Sleep is a weird thing for me. I’ve had insomnia. I’ve had sleep with consistent nightmares. And sometimes I sleep just fine. Sometimes I love it; other times I dread it. Lately, I’ve been wanting to sleep, which I know is a sign that I want to skip as much awake life as I can. I do force myself to not go to bed right away. But last night I didn’t. I went to bed early and allowed myself to stay resting (if not actually asleep) until my normal get-up time. So if I’m still easily tipped off-kilter, at least I’m also well-rested. That must count for something.
Actually, I learned today that my real need is dealing with sin, not dealing with relationships or feelings. I knew that already, but it’s good to learn again. And Jesus already dealt with the sin and took care of my real need. So I’m good to go. Did you hear that brain? You’re good to go.
I like this painting for its beauty. It’s like she’s dreaming this sweet-smelling summer world, and she’s in it, too. Best of both worlds. She’s good to go. It could be a really ugly painting with dead flowers and storm clouds and whatnot, and maybe you couldn’t even tell that the girl was sleeping peacefully. Maybe she was really ugly, too. She could still be good to go, on the spiritual side. You never know by looking. Or feeling. But sometimes art is symbolic of spiritual things. If this one is, then perhaps she’s resting in a beautiful psalm, like Psalm 23, which my daughter is memorizing. “He makes me lie down in green pastures… He restores my soul.”
Something about Joseph Cornell’s shadow boxes makes me uncomfortable. It’s a little like looking at someone else’s dream. All artists have a vision, which they then transform into a work of art; Joseph Cornell has somehow skipped a step and put his vision in a box.
I still like it, in a fascinated sort of way. This one makes me think of pipes and the smell of tobacco (rather than sea shells and bubbles). Somewhere along the line I find myself thinking of my older sister, who is visiting right now from her European home of many years. We are alike in many genetic ways, but in her years apart she has become accustomed to things that I am not accustomed to. Things that make me uncomfortable and make her happy. It really has nothing to do with pipes and tobacco. But maybe it has something to do with the otherworldly sea objects. They are neither good nor bad in themselves, but these shells are so close to being dreams that they could easily transform into nightmares depending on the person who dreams them. Do you get that sense? That this artwork could make one person happy and another anxious? That’s what it’s like with my sister. I get anxious around her when she is saying or wearing or buying things that she can’t even comprehend as being nightmarish. It’s not fair to either person, and I suppose it will be what forms a barrier between us. These are things communication does not solve.
Raphael’s paintings don’t normally strike me as funny, but this one is! It’s especially amusing (and interesting) to know that underneath the unicorn is a painting of a dog, which is supposed to represent marital fidelity. You can even see the dog’s ears in the sleeve of the dress. I wonder what the mystery is behind this painting. It’d be nice to know everything, but at the same time, I like not knowing. I like the tension between the girl’s expression and the expression on the unicorn’s face. (Is it laughing?) I really like the way she’s holding it, as if to keep it close and protected, away from whomever might be out there behind the artist. I’d enjoy a copy of this on my wall, just as a reminder that art can be both beautiful and fun.
This afternoon I spent some time preparing for an art class I’m teaching to some homeschooled kids. Part of the project is inspired by the collages Matisse made later in life. Painting with scissors. Matisse, though not always in good health, and with a multitude of family problems, found solace and rejuvenation in making art. Good for him. I also felt relaxed, centered, and purposeful when I was preparing the project.
Why don’t I make art more? Why can’t I convince myself that it is important for me to work on something that destresses me? Instead I fly around the house, getting wound up. I’ve been happy again, which is my warning that I’m going to crash soon. What if I knew that I could cushion the crash by painting? Would I do it? Or would I insist on getting my laundry folded and making a casserole when a pan of chicken strips in the oven would do just as well? I do know that I have to decide these things now, because later, when I’m not thinking straight, I won’t choose to do anything good for me.