Thinking Inside the Box

A box is a glorious thing. A glorious thing of which to think inside, in spite of the endless proclivity to do the opposite.
It is a small world of its own. A space. A space for, well, for something.

Something. Now that is pleasing to ponder. The enormous potential of this receptacle-cum-compartment.  But, is it art?

An inside.
An outside.
Base.
Sides.
Lid.

Even the lowly grocery store cardboard box has these features. As kids, we used them for school projects, doll houses, and, in the concrete-floored basement of our Don Mills neighbours' home in the early1960's, a series of exercise rooms, (linked by paper towel tubes), for their three small grey rodents.

And the cardboard box's slightly upscale cousin, the liquor store carton? It can stand on its own as art, what with its display of colour and pattern and wine label logo. Useful and attractive.

But the (artistic) challenge for me is to find the lowliest, homeliest of the boxes in box-world, and turn it into, well, something.
Some thing.
A thing of beauty.

Thinking Inside the Box

• 10 matchboxes (available at your local $ store - 10 for $1)
• magazines
• glue stick or gel medium
• scissors
• paints, found objects, gold leaf (all optional)

Slide apart the two sections of the matchbox, (thinking all the while what an ingenious invention it is).
Save matches for another use (bonfire, pyrotechnics, etc.)
Spend 10 minutes leafing through mags, snipping out any interesting patterns, colours or text.
You may then wish to cut these interesting bits into smaller pieces.
Begin collaging the inside of the inner part of the matchbox, and the outside of the outer part. (note: If you want to slide the matchbox pieces together again, heed this advice.)
Layer collage pieces on, until you are happy with the look.
Add other embellishments, if desired.
Limit yourself to half an hour or so - time enough to hone your decision making skills.
Your artistic abilities and sensibilities.
Your (miniature) collaging techniques.

A useful exercise to alleviate artist's block.

Asparagus

Dear 2014 Ontario asparagus crop,

As residents of Peterborough County, we would like to
thank you (so much) for, well, for tasting so damn good.
We love you.

Signed, your big huge fans,
Anne + Doug
xoxoxoxoxo


One of the nicest things about living in a country that is frozen solid half of the time, is watching and waiting. Waiting and watching.
For the day when Spring bursts into Summer, (with trumpet blast! With harp and lyre!), and brings yummy things out of the (very recently frozen) earth.
Hallelujah.
One of these things, perhaps the best of the most fleeting of these things, is asparagus.

We try, for the most part, to resist the temptation to jump the (short) season by buying the pale tasteless (but early) substitutes, (of veg or fruit, for that matter), from Chile or Mexico or California...
(Well, mid-Winter plump juicy grapes excepted).

It makes the Ontario arrival all the better.
We've waited and waited and waited, until finally, they're HERE!

We are not picky as to thick or thin, though one of our fave foodies insists that the thick-stalked asparagus is best, (more flavour and texture).
No fuss about shape or size here. The main thing is this.
Do Not Overcook.

But first, let me say this. In spite of pontificating, (with the 'Do Not Overcook' remark), in my humble opinion, even overcooked asparagus has a certain je ne sais quoi.
If only as a throwback to my 1960's suburban Toronto childhood-of-the-overcooked-vegetable.
Give me a limp grey overcooked asparagus stalk, wrapped in a cheese whiz spread white bread slice, toasted under the broiler to crispy brownness - anytime!

For the best (simple, minimal) asparagus, here's what we do:

• 1 bunch asparagus
• water
• 2 tbls butter

In a 12" cast iron frying pan, heat a shallow layer of water.
Wash asparagus. Snap off ends.
When water boils, gently lay stalks side by side in pan. Cover to return to boil then remove lid.
Cook for 1 or 2 minutes.
Drain off water.
Remove with spatula to a (simple but beautiful) serving platter. Place 2 or 3 knobs of butter on asparagus.
Serve immediately.

Eat with fingers. (Socially acceptable, even at Downton Abbey.)

Seeing Colour

"The ring, the call, the surprise, the shock that you have out of doors -
Be always looking for the unexpected in nature, do not settle for a formula.
Get into the habit of doing what you see, not what you know..."
                  - Charles W. Hawthorne 
                  ('Hawthorne on Painting')

Antwerp Blue
Oxide of Chromium
Permanent Sap Green
Davy's Gray


                                                                             

Sepia

Perylene Violet
Payne's Gray
Ivory Black

Burnt Sienna
Naples Yellow
Sap Green

Raw Umber
Warm White
Cadmium Yellow Deep  
Venetian Red                      
                                                       









"Your ability to see is your tool of trade.
Nothing else matters."
                                        - C.W.H.

Process

A series of stages. The course of becoming.












For me, every artwork is an experiment.
It's why I love mixed media - no end to the possibilities...

Process. A series of stages.

I like to think of each new idea as the beginning of a body of work, no matter how small that body may be.
This seems to work for me in my experimentation.










And here's how.


                                                                               

When artworks are developed as part of a series -same imagery, colours, materials, size - the works are linked, but stand on their own.
I begin with an idea, then play around with it, (on paper, or canvas or board). If I like what is happening, all sorts of new possibilities may open up. I can imagine how the work would change if I did something differently. Even a subtle shift.

But here's the thing. It's important (for me) to leave the first work as it is, as my starting point, and begin again, on work #2.
Sometimes rearranging the elements, changing their placement or playing with colour or tone, can make a piece more interesting, more balanced.

I rework the idea.

 And I rework it again.















And again.

Process. The course of becoming.

All of this might lead to other ideas, so I carry on. Carry on, on this journey I'm on.
The ideas (with luck) will flow. The works, by nature, are linked, yet everything is experimental, organic. No worries about mistakes, or drips, or blots or messes. Not all of the works will all be successful all of the time. But, just sometimes, the work which ends up being the most successful is a total surprise.


Each new work is literally the 'drawing-board' one goes back to as the series progresses.
Each work, in essence, the page of a sketchbook, more akin to a journal entry than to a planned, finished, polished artwork.
And as a 'journal entry', each work of the series will stand.
As a testament to the thought process of the moment, each work stands.
Flawed and brilliant ideas alike.
Each work, a signpost along the way.

In the end, the series is a collection of these ideas.
The process recorded, I can look back at the route this particular idea has taken.












Process. A series of stages. The course of becoming.

Wild Leeks

Early May.


We walk through the still leafless woods, (leafless, at least, on the treetops - lots underfoot), making our way to our fave (secret) wild leek patch. We spot numerous clumps of the little beauties, signalling an ideal season - a winter of long continuous snow cover. (Ha. That's for sure.) But even so, care must be taken not to harvest too many, just a few from each clump. Too many, and bye-bye leek patch.

With slim trowel, we carefully dig round each leek, gently easing it from the earth. The pungent humus - rotting leaves and earth and the mild oniony scent of leek as it is released. Eighteen little darlings. Enough.

Best Wild Leeks 

(Serves 2)

18 wild leeks
2-3 tbls. butter

Under running water, wash earth from each leek. Slice off root, as close as possible to the end. In cast iron wok, melt butter. Heat to medium/high and add whole leeks, moving around gently with a wooden spoon for a minute or two until wilted but still green, and browned here and there.

Serve immediately.

As a side veg or main event, wild leeks are always the star.
Great on spaghettini with garlic and olive oil (and a grating of parmesan).

Short short season though - spring, warmth, wild leeks - gone.

Breathing Space

Oh Lordy. If I can't be at the seaside, then let me be in the woods.

Staring down into an old disused well, in the deepest darkest part of our woods, I see Chester's reflection in the surface as he sniffs round the edge. His nose not more than a fraction from the damp.
The water, when I kneel to touch it, clear and cold. Likely once used for watering animals in the nearby field, the field's edge (now) more than a dozen metres away. How long has it been here, abandoned, partially covered in timber, silent? A century? Longer? Haven't we walked this part of the woods for twenty years? And yet knew nothing of these rings of sleek grey stones. Stones someone gathered, shifted, laid into the ground. Contents mirroring a sliver of glittering treetop. Above, and all around. Space.

Space.

(Not the final frontier type.)
But space that surrounds like gentle enfolding mother's arms.
Space for thinking and moving, wandering slowly, thoughtfully planning, seeing things simply.

Breathing Space.

Five Minutes a Day

 Recipe For A Five Minute Drawing

Ingredients: 1 box oil pastels
                    1 graphite pencil
                    1 pad 110 lb. acid free white paper
                    1 roll masking tape
                    1 exacto knife/scraper

Method: Draw a 6 inch square on fresh sheet of paper. Mask around edges of square. Scribble with oil pastels within masked area. Think about the space around you - the land, the air, colour, light. Layer oil pastels quickly, switching colours, blending with fingers. Smudge. Use pencil and knife to add line or scrape away areas. Remove masking tape border. Stare at it.

 There.












                                                 

Five minutes, and a beautiful little gem.













Repeat daily.