Signaling the End: Sandstorm of my Mind

Sometimes being an artist is like being a cryptographer. The universe gives me messages that I have to decode. Instead of breaking the code with words or numbers, I rely on the language of colors, shapes, patterns, and textures to reach the place of understanding. With the next piece in my portfolio, I did not know what I was creating, or the meaning behind it, while working on it. Even when it was complete, I still knew as little about the piece as when I set out to create it. For the first time ever, it wasn’t until I began writing this blog post that I began to break the code and thus understand what the piece truly represented.

I was first introduced to Peter Gabriel’s superb score, “Passion: Music for the Last Temptation of Christ”, in Autumn 1999.  I was immediately mesmerized by the score which varies from epic, sweeping tracks to minimalist pieces. Naturally, some of the epic tracks are stand-outs, but some of the more subdued and obscure pieces really shine as well. “Sandstorm” is one such track that has always been a silent favorite of mine.

It wasn’t until 17 years later, one morning before dawn in April 2016 when I awoke unable to calm my thoughts, that my connection to this song would come to fruition. In the early hours of that morning, I stepped into the art studio, inserted my headphones, scrolled directly to "Sandstorm", and instantly I felt it reflect the spinning chaos of my emotions. As the music pierced my soul, I began creating the initial layers of what would become this piece. At the end of that first painting session, all I had was black, white, and grey on the paper. “And this means what?” I asked the muses, to which they gave no reply.

Work on this piece spanned several days without knowing where it was taking me. The only thing that was disclosed to me was whether or not I was finished. More often than not, I was told to keep working. Each time that I returned to work on this piece, much like donning a mask, I would step into the music, channeling its energy. As the tempo would build and swirl into a climax, the muses would guide me, whispering that it wasn’t finished. As such, I would create the next layer.

As mentioned above, even after its completion, I did not know what this piece was. “Great, I made an abstract sandstorm,” I initially thought to myself. The second I had that thought, I knew I was on to something, that this was an interpretation of a sandstorm. I couldn’t have known what this represented because I had not yet decoded the underlying message. A few weeks later into the middle of May, I chose the title, but I still did not fully understand this piece.

Through practicing Mettā, I am learning to reside more in my heart and less in my head. Through this practice, I have realized that often my heart comes to a place of understanding and acceptance well before my mind does. In the previous November, I knew in my heart that the long term relationship that I was in was over, but there was a disconnect between my heart and mind. It wasn’t until I set out to write this blog post that I understood that the swirling tempest that pulled me from my sleep that April morning was foreshadowing. My heart was communicating to my mind, signaling the end, and with my mind's reluctance to embrace it, it manifested into the turmoil and chaos that was the

"Sandstorm of my Mind"

Featured in this post: Sandstorm of my Mind 
All current artwork can be found in my profile at Fine Art America. Thank you for your time and your support.

Glimpses of the Truth: Life Lessons in Art

When I began work on this piece, I had no idea of the phases and changes it would undergo. I started this piece at a friend's art studio one afternoon in January 2015. I was simply playing and experimenting with watercolor. I put down several large brushstrokes in three different colors and that was the extent of it. I left it at her studio to dry and several months would go by before I laid eyes on it again. That summer afternoon when I finally saw it again, I brought it home and unrolled it onto my kitchen table, where it sat for several weeks as I continued to work on it. I added more watercolor, which added greater density and complexity. I didn't know where I was going with it, I just kept painting. Eventually I reached a point where it became a busy, almost garish conglomeration of watercolor. Unsure of where to take it next, I set it aside.

Verbal exchanges, unpleasant situations, and some serious life events took place while it was on the back burner. Each of these things forever altered my perspective and my life, and in keeping with that difference, I switched to acrylic paint when I finally returned to this piece in November of the same year. For that last phase of work, I started by covering the entire piece in an extremely thin layer of white acrylic paint. Then, using a silicone blade while still wet, I smeared the white paint, revealing some of the underlying layers of watercolor. I was happy with the result and the effect of the multiple layers; however, the piece was still not complete. 

If the events that had taken place taught me anything, it's that when my intuition gets dragged into a situation, then there is almost always more going on underneath the surface. What better way to mask everything than to cover it with solid black. I cut out strips of artists' tape and placed them directly onto the paper. Then I proceeded to slather everything with generous amounts of black paint. I smoothed it out with a silicone blade and let everything dry. When the time felt right, I gently lifted the edges of the artists' tape and began to peel off the strips. What I discovered is that when you begin peeling back the layers of subterfuge, you get:

"Glimpses of the Truth"

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All current artwork can be found in my profile at Fine Art America. Thank you for your time and your support.