Behold, the Blue
Assisi, 2022
Behold, the jar of blue. Through dazed eyes, the apothecary jar, large and lidded, contained the most startling powder I’d ever seen.
I’d been traveling solo around Rome and Florence for the past ten days, on a dream trip to the motherland of art. Or rather, the fatherland. Because the art I saw daily, the art which had formed the foundation of Western aesthetic ideals – and my own – was most certainly the art of the patriarchy. So much suffering, so much war.
I left Florence a day early, after sitting in a botanical garden trying to recover my sanity. Days spent examining my favorite masterpieces had taken their toll on my energy.
Despite the joy I felt exploring Botticelli’s Primavera for its technique, colour, beauty – I couldn’t escape the casual brutality of abduction and rape that formed the right third of the painting. Flowers escaping from her mouth as he grabs her. Screams falling on deaf ears and transforming into a mythology that accepts and celebrates forced sex and marriage. At the Pitti Palace, vulgar materialism and giant paintings of war scenes, pornographic in their celebration of gore.
The last room at the palace, though, had a surprise for me. The final collection was Italian Impressionism. Broken colour, chinks of light between branches, fragments and uncertainty, room to breathe. Find a garden, they told me.
And so, in that garden, imperfect in its early Spring state of last year’s decay and growth, I found some peace. Not for the first time in my life, I realized that thing I thought I wanted, what I thought would make me happy, was not what I needed. I thought that becoming a successful classical oil painter, represented by a high end gallery in a city would be the pinnacle of success in life.
What I was beginning to realize, was that I didn’t know myself very well at all. Hiding behind what I imagined would make me more loveable, more worthy of respect by a male world who only saw my blonde hair and body when I was younger, was exhausting. The artistry was just a cute addition to the package, not a serious endeavor. Without the educational credentials to back up my work, or a presence in a cool city art scene, I was adrift.
I also couldn’t settle on a single subject or style.
I’ve been told many times that I need to develop a collection, a recognizable style and subject – and stick with it. Galleries need consistency to be able to market you. I was told in Art School that I’m ‘Consistently Inconsistent’. I took it as a compliment, in my young, ‘fuck you’ way of seeing things. I didn’t want to do the same thing over and over again. I wanted to be free.
Over the years, I’ve been able to develop small, limited collections that explore a theme or subject. Then I move on. The world is so full of interesting things, that I just can’t narrow my curiosity without feeling trapped. And why should I?
So I went to Assisi. A town on a hill with winding streets, and the promise of devotional sounds to wake up to. Delirium settling into my consciousness, I dragged my wheelie case up flights of stone steps and steep cobbled streets looking for my accommodation. Finally, I found my hotel. More steps. Pausing for breath, gasping now between sniffles and coughs that had begun to take hold, I turned around to see where I was.
And there it was. The blue.
Not just any blue. A revelation of blue.
I couldn’t tell what the shop was selling at first. It looked like an apothecary, but not quite. I couldn’t see very well, even though I was just across the narrow medieval street. The shop was tall and small, open windows surrounded by delicate stonework. Swaying slightly, I crossed the road and peered through the window. Shelves lined the walls, holding more jars of colours.
Stepping inside, I realized that this was pigment. Small, beautiful squares of colour were displayed in tiny tin boxes on a central island. Watercolour.
I was entranced. It was like a dream. I’ve never committed to watercolour, except for sketching and almost always mixed with something else to make it more interesting. Rarely as a thing in itself. Why? Because it’s for old ladies. Not me, the ‘serious artist’. So serious.
Finding space for femininity in my work, and my life has been something of a revelation. Maybe it’s because I just turned 50, and I no longer feel compelled to pursue some unattainable career ideal in a world I don’t belong to. I asked myself, what do you really want? And the answer came, “I just want to be happy”. What makes me happy is my family, my husband and daughter. We three have a lovely little life, and my ambition blinded me to the gift that our life together is.
This paint, the helpful assistant told me, is made with honey. It’s incredibly rich and subtle at the same time. She handed me a brush, a jar of water and a tiny square of Arches Watercolor paper to try the paint. I dipped the fine Italian brush into water, then stroked a square of blue. So delicate, that stroke. So intimate. So feminine. So.. unfamiliar.
The natural hair of the brush held that pigment with such care, it felt like devotion. Like lighting a candle with a taper, my hand cupped around the flame. I gently stoked the brush along the textured surface of the white paper. The perfect paper. Just the right amount of absorbency. Just the right feeling. I rocked slightly on my bruised feet.
Returning to the hotel, I slept for what seemed like an eternity. Then woke and stared silently at the landscape painting opposite my bed for hours. Contemplating, feverish. The painting was in oils, all shades of brown, no other colour. I lost myself in it for a while, it’s soft embrace comforting my tired mind. So tired.
Eventually I recovered enough to walk around Assisi, slowly, with deliberate care and kindness. I noticed that the townspeople put flowerpots everywhere they possibly could around their stone terrace houses. Dots of crimson, lemon yellow, periwinkle blue graced every windowsill, corner and step. At the top of the hill, I rested with a coffee under an enormous tree canopy. Sitting under the leaves, light filtering gently through onto my skin, I felt so nurtured.
Whilst flying home to my family a couple of days later, I looked through my sketchbooks and mused about the experience. The Italian dream trip had taken a turn I had not expected. Isn’t that what travel is all about? Transformation?
My body doesn’t enjoy the style of art I have forced on it for so many years, Hard lines, drawn with a firmness and precision that causes tension in my neck, and tingling in my hands. Masculine markmaking. So hard on your body and mind.
Embracing what is, allowed me to open myself to the flow. The river I have been painting for years now, took on a whole new meaning. Taking a tiny watercolour kit down to the river in a small waist pack allows me to work with spontaneity. I see something, and just pause. Do a quick sketch, and move on. Sometimes I linger for a while longer under the cool shade of an alder. Take the painting a bit further. I get lost in the eddies and glides for a while. Then feel what I see and hear in my body. Flow.
Watercolour works for larger pieces too. I feel the training of years in my composition, markmaking, values, colour choices. But I don’t overthink it any more. And rarely overwork it. You can’t press down hard with a delicate watercolour brush, can’t force it to comply. The act of dipping a brush into water, stroking the pigment, then carrying it like a flame to a candle, feels devotional.
There are moments of wildness, of course. A bigger brush carrying a puddle can unleash a rugged coastline, a clouded sky, a winding road. Like Japanese the calligraphy I saw last year in Naritasan, the brush can dance with tremendous energy. It can create it’s own weather system.
So, here I am, brand new and old at the same time. In the second half of life, embracing what is, and allowing what will be. Behold, the blue.
See the new Watercolours and more at my studio tour experience at The Shelley Zentner Gallery @Untethered August 1 – 3rd, 11 – 4 pm. Admission Free
