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| Blue Triptych 5'6" x 11' oil and charcoal on canvas |
I love standing in front of a
blank, six-foot tall canvas, a stick of hard charcoal in my hand and not an
idea in my head. In order for the process to work, I must be alone and the
room absolutely quiet, no sounds, not even the radio. My hand begins to move,
almost unbidden, like a Ouija Board: a face appears, a body, another body,
everything overlaps much in the way of cave paintings. If I don’t like what I have
done, too forced, not free enough, I take a rag and wipe the charcoal lines off
the canvas and start over. My
surroundings begin to drop away and I find myself in what I call an Alpha state, the way you get when you meditate or are about to fall asleep. The
subconscious has taken over and the creative process (at least for me) can now
begin.
I take a rest and go back to
work. Another figure appears. It looks familiar, but no one in particular.
Where am I? In a diner? On the street? Supermarket? Buildings begin to appear
on the canvas, other images come out of nowhere, maybe a sign that says EATS on
it. I am in a dream state, following instructions from deep inside my visual
cortex. I get into a rhythm; my hand moves on its own as if to music in my
brain. I erase and redraw over and over again, a palimpsest of people and
places, one overlapping the other. I start to dance, elated by what is
happening on the canvas. An hour or two later, the canvas is filled with
images, lines and shapes. I am too exhausted to continue. I walk out of the
studio and take a rest. Later in the day, or maybe the next morning, I look at
the work again. This is the critical ‘make or break’ point. If the composition
and the drawing are not perfect, there’s no point going any further. I need
to start over, maybe leaving
behind an image I can’t bear to erase. All of this is completely intuitive, you
understand; there are no rules, no right or wrong. If, later, I still like what
I have drawn, I will take a can of spray fixative and spray the entire canvas,
up and down, side to side. The charcoal is now fixed in place. To change
anything means removing the fixative with lacquer thinner, often damaging the
primer of terra verte or umber. I sit and stare at the canvas. What next? It
must be perfect at this point; one mistake, one superfluous line and all is
lost.
Once I am satisfied with the
composition and the drawing, I need to decide what to do next: do I stay with
monochromatic stains of umber, gray and white, or go for full color – much
riskier? Once a decision is made, it’s hard to turn back. That’s the advantage of sealing of the
charcoal drawing with fixative; at least you can wipe the later paint down to
that layer. It’s a challenging period, not much room for error, but when it
comes together, I am filled with joy.
I was just thumbing through a
book about Chagall who also used “dream” states in his work. “I am an
unconscious-conscious painter,” he said. I guess I am too. It’s not easy for an
artist to shut down the visual-rational world and allow the subconscious to
take over. But when it happens, it’s magic.
