My first drawing teacher and mentor, David Barranti, started day one of his 5 day drawing workshops in Cloudcroft, New Mexico with this question: "When was the last time you were a fool for your art?" My answer was, that I was a fool the second I signed up for the class. LOL ;)
And I was a fool for my art in June 2018 when I drove all the way to Montana from Cloudcroft for a workshop taught by a favorite oil painter of mine.
Turns out, I'm a fool again.
When I feel out of sorts, stressed, and sensing I need a new experience or challenge, I do what many other people do: Go to Google. (GTS=Google that $hi#) I googled these words "art + residency" and came up with a site called Annex:Art.
And just like that, I've spent two weeks in San Fidel, New Mexico, el communidad muy pequeño. I'm staying in a rustic but attractive adobe cabañita, with electricity, but no running water. For showers and a sink to wash-up, I have to walk a short distance to el baño. The water is muy frio, and San Fidel is in a drought in the high desert west of Albuquerque, so I only shower every other day, in the heat of the day, when it's too hot and the light is too harsh to paint.
The truth is, I was a little nervous about snakes crawling around under the wood slatted floor in the shower, so I decided every other day was sufficient for showering. Pablo, my host, an artist who owns and lives on the property assured me that if a snake was under the slats, that I'd know before I stepped in to the cubicle to shower. (Joy). It didn't help that when I first drove up to the property on a Sunday night, Pablo introduced me to his dogs, Hinz and Hanah, and explained the almost healed wound on the male's snout was a rattlesnake bite acquired on the property some time earlier. And then there was the 6 foot rattler I passed on the highway coming back from the Sandstone Bluffs the first week. So yeah, it's good to watch your step, even at 6200 ft. above sea level.
I've painted out on location most every day, and I've learned I love painting plein air, however, I can be slow sometimes and need studio time to finish . The first painting I did was of the exterior of the cabin where I'm sleeping. The carrizo plants on either side of the cabin had me stumped for a day or two. I just didn't get how to make marks that looked like those (darned) plants. (I complained to a painting teacher of mine about those plants and he just said, "Paint shapes and colors, shapes and colors." Of course he was right.)
Finally, I made peace with the carrizo and finished that painting. Out of all the paintings I've started, I still have about five or six paintings with remaining detail work to finish. So I was kind of a little bit of a fool for thinking I could complete two paintings a day while I was here. Sigh.
I have fallen in love with northern New Mexico. I'd never been west of Albuquerque before. The land is beautiful. La Ventana Arch, the Sandstone Bluffs, El Morro, Mount Taylor, El Malpais. The land forms are varied and geologically and historically amazing. I drove north of Mt. Taylor toward San Mateo yesterday and wanted to go all the way to Chaco Canyon. If I had another two weeks I would go to Chama and Bisti Badlands. I also loved exploring little teensy communities like Ramah and Anzac. I love that there are people out here who can live so remotely. Some, including some of the native pueblos, live off the grid. Amazing.
The native population is pretty much the majority, and being in the minority has been a new and enriching experience for me. Native art is everywhere. I've found a new artist to follow named Marla Allison. She is Laguna, and her work is fantastic! Like painted pottery, but on canvas. Detailed, but simply so.
The cabin I've called home also has a "pack rat" squirrel living in the ceiling. A couple of nights I heard scratching on the wall loud enough to wake me up and think one of the dogs (or something wild) was scratching to get in. One morning a veil of dirt fell from the ceiling, coaxed downward by the same squirrel I suppose.
One early-ish morning, during my stay, a couple of the chickens and the rooster escaped their pen. Hinz, one of Pablo's dogs chased the rooster through an opening in the wall (for the breeze), into the studio space adjoining the cabin. The rooster was surprised to see me in the main room just waking up, and ran to the corner nearest to the door to hunker down. I yelled, "The rooster is in the cabin!" (OMG!) And thankfully, Pablo had already heard the racket, grabbed the rooster from the corner of the cabin, and put him back, squawking loudly, in the pen. The dogs were trying to corral the chickens, but the rooster found the hole in the studio wall first.
The cabin's studio space is new. And the hole in the eastern wall was intentional in order to let the breeze in during the heat of the day. Pablo is continually making changes, adjustments and improvements to his property, and something I said in my application for the residency spurred him to build the studio addition onto the back of the cabañita. I said something about my dream of wanting to roll out of bed and do art first thing in the morning, which does sound like something I'd say, although I don't specifically remember saying it. In any case, I don't think I have ever had someone build a room specifically for me to prepare for my arrival. To say I was touched, is an understatement.
One more thing about the studio space. It turns out that San Fidel does have monsoons, and it also turns out I got to experience clearing out the studio space into the main cabin since westward blowing monsoon rain is an unfortunate companion for east facing breezeway openings in the wall. But desert residents never complain about the rain.
It's not that I've never camped. I have. And these particular accommodations are well into the "glamping" category. It's just a new, and exciting, (albeit sometimes challenging) experience. I'd stay here again with no reservations. I can totally understand why Pablo is a "Superhost" on AirBnB. The man has never met a stranger. But learning to use a composting toilet IS definitely high on the list of things I've done to show my commitment to my art. And I've gotten some great ideas for things I can do around my home and yard to jazz up and "funk-ify" my environment. Pablo, the owner of the property, is an assemblage artist, after all, and being at this compound is like living inside an assemblage piece with its mixture of odds and ends and objects used in unusual ways. So yeah, if this experience is my way of being a fool for my art, then bring on the foolishness.
The second day I was here I learned that you can assemble things, and you can assemble people. In the morning I met Cheyenne and her granddaughter Liana. When we met, they asked, "Are you the artist?" (That felt great. And I said, "Yes.") Pablo decided to bake a pie with the apples from one of his trees. And that night, he invited them, and another neighbor, back over for some stuffed peppers and sangria. I remember listening to Kathy (dubbed "FlipFlop" by Pablo because she wears fancy flipflops in snake country) tell hilarious stories about her travels to visit friends in California and camping in a tent on the beach. I remember hearing Cheyenne play her guitar and sing songs she'd written long ago in another lifetime in Nashville. I remember hearing Cheyenne's granddaughter, Liana, introduce her favorite songs, by a singer named Eden, to Cheyenne using Pablo's phone to play them on You Tube. Cheyenne and Flipflop accompanied Liana on their guitars while Liana sang. I remember thinking, this is what people do when they aren't dependent on satellite TV. This is what people do when they live simply.
Since coming here, I've learned the Acoma who live in the Sky City Pueblo live without running water, or electricity. So they know how to live simply. They've been living simply on that mesa for hundreds of years, and they produce beautiful art
I wish I had another two weeks to paint here, now that I'm getting used to my palette, now that I've conquered the carrizo and my fear of rattlesnakes, now that I've made peace with the composting toilet. LOL.
It's good to be a fool for art.
Peace
Judi
(Posted originally using FASO.com on 7/18/2018 4:35:51 pm by jeb)
And I was a fool for my art in June 2018 when I drove all the way to Montana from Cloudcroft for a workshop taught by a favorite oil painter of mine.
Turns out, I'm a fool again.
When I feel out of sorts, stressed, and sensing I need a new experience or challenge, I do what many other people do: Go to Google. (GTS=Google that $hi#) I googled these words "art + residency" and came up with a site called Annex:Art.
And just like that, I've spent two weeks in San Fidel, New Mexico, el communidad muy pequeño. I'm staying in a rustic but attractive adobe cabañita, with electricity, but no running water. For showers and a sink to wash-up, I have to walk a short distance to el baño. The water is muy frio, and San Fidel is in a drought in the high desert west of Albuquerque, so I only shower every other day, in the heat of the day, when it's too hot and the light is too harsh to paint.
The truth is, I was a little nervous about snakes crawling around under the wood slatted floor in the shower, so I decided every other day was sufficient for showering. Pablo, my host, an artist who owns and lives on the property assured me that if a snake was under the slats, that I'd know before I stepped in to the cubicle to shower. (Joy). It didn't help that when I first drove up to the property on a Sunday night, Pablo introduced me to his dogs, Hinz and Hanah, and explained the almost healed wound on the male's snout was a rattlesnake bite acquired on the property some time earlier. And then there was the 6 foot rattler I passed on the highway coming back from the Sandstone Bluffs the first week. So yeah, it's good to watch your step, even at 6200 ft. above sea level.
Finally, I made peace with the carrizo and finished that painting. Out of all the paintings I've started, I still have about five or six paintings with remaining detail work to finish. So I was kind of a little bit of a fool for thinking I could complete two paintings a day while I was here. Sigh.
I have fallen in love with northern New Mexico. I'd never been west of Albuquerque before. The land is beautiful. La Ventana Arch, the Sandstone Bluffs, El Morro, Mount Taylor, El Malpais. The land forms are varied and geologically and historically amazing. I drove north of Mt. Taylor toward San Mateo yesterday and wanted to go all the way to Chaco Canyon. If I had another two weeks I would go to Chama and Bisti Badlands. I also loved exploring little teensy communities like Ramah and Anzac. I love that there are people out here who can live so remotely. Some, including some of the native pueblos, live off the grid. Amazing.
The native population is pretty much the majority, and being in the minority has been a new and enriching experience for me. Native art is everywhere. I've found a new artist to follow named Marla Allison. She is Laguna, and her work is fantastic! Like painted pottery, but on canvas. Detailed, but simply so.
The cabin I've called home also has a "pack rat" squirrel living in the ceiling. A couple of nights I heard scratching on the wall loud enough to wake me up and think one of the dogs (or something wild) was scratching to get in. One morning a veil of dirt fell from the ceiling, coaxed downward by the same squirrel I suppose.
One early-ish morning, during my stay, a couple of the chickens and the rooster escaped their pen. Hinz, one of Pablo's dogs chased the rooster through an opening in the wall (for the breeze), into the studio space adjoining the cabin. The rooster was surprised to see me in the main room just waking up, and ran to the corner nearest to the door to hunker down. I yelled, "The rooster is in the cabin!" (OMG!) And thankfully, Pablo had already heard the racket, grabbed the rooster from the corner of the cabin, and put him back, squawking loudly, in the pen. The dogs were trying to corral the chickens, but the rooster found the hole in the studio wall first.
The cabin's studio space is new. And the hole in the eastern wall was intentional in order to let the breeze in during the heat of the day. Pablo is continually making changes, adjustments and improvements to his property, and something I said in my application for the residency spurred him to build the studio addition onto the back of the cabañita. I said something about my dream of wanting to roll out of bed and do art first thing in the morning, which does sound like something I'd say, although I don't specifically remember saying it. In any case, I don't think I have ever had someone build a room specifically for me to prepare for my arrival. To say I was touched, is an understatement.
One more thing about the studio space. It turns out that San Fidel does have monsoons, and it also turns out I got to experience clearing out the studio space into the main cabin since westward blowing monsoon rain is an unfortunate companion for east facing breezeway openings in the wall. But desert residents never complain about the rain.
It's not that I've never camped. I have. And these particular accommodations are well into the "glamping" category. It's just a new, and exciting, (albeit sometimes challenging) experience. I'd stay here again with no reservations. I can totally understand why Pablo is a "Superhost" on AirBnB. The man has never met a stranger. But learning to use a composting toilet IS definitely high on the list of things I've done to show my commitment to my art. And I've gotten some great ideas for things I can do around my home and yard to jazz up and "funk-ify" my environment. Pablo, the owner of the property, is an assemblage artist, after all, and being at this compound is like living inside an assemblage piece with its mixture of odds and ends and objects used in unusual ways. So yeah, if this experience is my way of being a fool for my art, then bring on the foolishness.
The second day I was here I learned that you can assemble things, and you can assemble people. In the morning I met Cheyenne and her granddaughter Liana. When we met, they asked, "Are you the artist?" (That felt great. And I said, "Yes.") Pablo decided to bake a pie with the apples from one of his trees. And that night, he invited them, and another neighbor, back over for some stuffed peppers and sangria. I remember listening to Kathy (dubbed "FlipFlop" by Pablo because she wears fancy flipflops in snake country) tell hilarious stories about her travels to visit friends in California and camping in a tent on the beach. I remember hearing Cheyenne play her guitar and sing songs she'd written long ago in another lifetime in Nashville. I remember hearing Cheyenne's granddaughter, Liana, introduce her favorite songs, by a singer named Eden, to Cheyenne using Pablo's phone to play them on You Tube. Cheyenne and Flipflop accompanied Liana on their guitars while Liana sang. I remember thinking, this is what people do when they aren't dependent on satellite TV. This is what people do when they live simply.
Since coming here, I've learned the Acoma who live in the Sky City Pueblo live without running water, or electricity. So they know how to live simply. They've been living simply on that mesa for hundreds of years, and they produce beautiful art
I wish I had another two weeks to paint here, now that I'm getting used to my palette, now that I've conquered the carrizo and my fear of rattlesnakes, now that I've made peace with the composting toilet. LOL.
It's good to be a fool for art.
Peace
Judi
(Posted originally using FASO.com on 7/18/2018 4:35:51 pm by jeb)
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