Everything’s All set up. Shelves stocked with cerulean Blue, Anthro blue, green gold, burnt sienna, and more wonderful colors and colors and colors. New colors. Past year been keeping colors basic. Neutrals. Now deep. Deep in it. Officially getting ready for Solo show in the fall. Am excited. Got the supplies. Got the preparatory work started. Almost seven months to dial it in. As well as publish my book of Nap Time writings and paintings. The problem with my book is I want to just keep writing instead of editing and curating. I have to match the photos of my naptime paintings with the corresponding naptime writing that spans two years. Maybe it should be split up year two and year three. That’s a start at least. It feels like a daunting project! I had a wonderful day painting today. I made a supply run this morning, that is a help. I’ve been having vivid, intense dreams and feeling a sense of needing to put self-preservation first. Don’t take any chances, I think. I grab a long stick on the ground as I’m hiking this morning; A trail up high overlooking San Rafael. Its my first time this far up. It’s a spot the homeless camp out on. I walk across someone’s spot. A round circle of grass is flat. The sun is just peering over the eucalyptus trees. There’s a small, tidy bag of garbage. I see a cigarette box. There was a bad fire on the hillside a few years back, during the drought. “It’s the homeless camps” everyone shouted. I would set up camp here. If I were homeless. With some mean dogs to protect me. Billy’s getting old. Her leg isn’t quite healed. She’s feeling her recent injury. Her days. That’s why I Grab this stick. In my dream, I was scared. I ran through tall grass. I ran from a thief. I was scared. This would be a convenient spot for rape, I think. I remember how vulnerable I used to be when I was on the street as a young runaway. I had to line up with guys who would protect me. Even if I had to have sex with them to keep that protection. It was the lesser of two terribles. In my dream I was a teenager again. Sitting in the back of a pickup truck. Trying to figure how to stay alive. I brushed it out of my memory. Buried it down deep like they’re someone else’s stories. I picked up the stick this morning because the alternative, in the event that strange, somewhat in trusty worthy looking man was to come at me. I would have to run through the brambles in the wrong kind of pants, or strike him, hard. The other night I dreamt I was trying to protect myself with a garden tool but I couldn’t swing hard enough. The noise of the fan brings me back into my studio. I only have fifteen minutes left of my break. Tomorrow I am staying the night in the city. I’m going to the MOMA to see the Diebenkorn and Matisse show. It’s going to be the best night ever. I’m going to a Brazilian Steak house. I’m going to eat steak and drink wine.
Category: Studio time
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I start by picking up paints, drawings, stamps, brushes, from this week, when, I brought Fiona into my studio to paint. I gave her my giant piece of charcoal; look you can do it like this (flat on its side to make huge lines) or on the edge (to make skinny lines) and yes, it gets all over your hands and makes you really dirty! But you can make handprints and smear it. I love charcoal. Her little feet and bottoms of her pajamas getting all dirty. Jack only wants to turn the wheel on my press, I say no. He investigates the garage, tools left out, nails and screws. Today I am by myself. It is is the first day I get to work in my studio, in what feels like forever. I feel outside myself. I start on my “notebooks”, glue cropped paintings onto each open page on the floor. They are mysterious in their simplicity, instead of working more on them I decide to leave them as is for now. I want to work slow and methodical this year. Slow down. Yesterday the sun came out for a few hours. Jack, Fiona, and I sat outside in the back yard. The warmth felt so luscious. Look, a first bee. Jack and Fiona come close. I study its delicate wings, soft looking body. What’s it doing? It’s looking for food, says Fiona. We see a fly, it’s going to be an early spring, I imagine, not really knowing. When I woke up in the morning I saw dozens of Yellow finches covering every inch of the bare branched fig tree. We filled the bird feeders and spread bird seed all over the yard yesterday. We saw a male and female deer walking slowly on the hillside. The grass is bright green. So much loveliness right in the backyard. I want to make art inspired by the way nature displays itself to us. By the slow gathering of food. I wash, fold, and put away the biggest pile of laundry the other day. I sit on my pranayama cushion and treat it as a meditation. It feels good to have every piece of laundry put in its place. To sit and start and finish a task. I had to refold many times because Jack and Fiona thought it was fun to play in the laundry bin with the clean folded clothes. I have to change my tactic, put away as I go. I’m not going to react to the news I hear on the radio today, not the shooting at the airport, not the news of our new American government. I feel. I am distracted by it. I will try to distance myself. I take my dog for a walk while my pieces I start first dry. Creeks are running, the air is fresh and cool. Now back in my studio I mix my first color, white and burnt umber. I start to paint. I’m feeling more present. The violent world starts to fade. My body starts to feel better again. I have two hours to paint. I have new books for me and new books of poetry for Jack and Fiona for the rainy weekend ahead.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 