Posts from the ‘art history’ Category

Jul 9

Yunomi, or, “Fired Thing”

Ever since my recent trip to Iowa City, I’ve been thinking about collections and collecting. Over lunch at the Bread Garden, a haven for visiting writers, my writer friend Carol Spindel and I discussed collecting and collectors.

We had just visited Akar, a gallery which features Japanese tea bowls made by ceramic artists from all over the country. I’ve never seen anything like it in Northern California where I live, so each time I return to Iowa City to see my dad, I make sure to stop by Akar and pick one favorite bowl.

My habit began years ago. I’d taken a ceramics course from Bunny McBride, an artist with a love for Asian pottery, and discovered the Book of Tea, by Okakura Kakuzō. (Reading it was magical–like coming upon Grimm’s Fairy tales for the first time.)

Kakuzō describes the Japanese tea ceremony in a way that embodies the principles he seeks to teach: simplicity, harmony and, to use a nowish term, mindfulness.

I was smitten. The whole notion of simplicity achieved through mastery spoke to me deeply. (Where did that come from? Was it that my English professor mom nourished me on Taoist collections of poetry at a young age? Who knows?) During one trip back, some 20 years ago, I selected my first Japanese tea bowl, a wood fired thing with a lovely exterior of salmon smeared with blacks and browns. I hesitated, being on a slim budget, but it chose me and I plucked it off its stand.

I had purchased a yunomi, or, “wood fired thing” and I’ve been collecting them ever since. The whole idea of drinking from one of these bowls incorporates being present, acting with care, savoring one’s drink. You sure as heck can’t grab a yunomi like you would a Starbucks cup with it’s cardboard collar. You’ll burn yourself. You have to learn to wait.

And, in learning to wait, you watch the bowl change. Over years, not seconds, there is an alchemy that happens between the tea and tea bowl. The pattern of crackles in the glaze shifts, the colors deepen.

I now possess too many yunomi to store on the shelf in the cupboard where we keep tea and coffee mugs. My husband complains that he can’t empty the dishwasher without building tipsy teacup towers. I might have to build them their own shelf.

Cups on Parade

But I probably won’t, because that would remove them from the realm of common use and make them special in a way that would defy their meaning –”wood fired thing.” And because like The Troggs song, “Wild Thing,” they make my heart sing.

Feb 6

1 Comment

Inscribing a Circle

I’ve been drawing circles since I was four, but my fascination with them as an art form dates back to to the 80′s in front of an ashram in Oakland, CA, where, just outside the door, I saw a most astonishing drawing done in a rich array of vibrant colors all contained in a circle.

Ritual rangoli done in powdered pigments

These circles, called rangolis, were done for religious or healing ceremonies. As an artist, I ached to be able to do something like this and after some investigation, came upon the mandala (the Sanskrit word for circle), an art form with a long history across many cultures. Like the rangoli, it is art created created for ritual purposes in a circular form and these days, also employed in art therapy.

So, while I’ve been painting, collaging, and inscribing these geometric discs for years, nothing could have prepared me for the excitement about the circle that recently burst upon the art scene in the form of Damian Hirst’s spots.

I started poking around and pretty soon I discovered that I could make a distinction between a circle and a spot. It’s strictly my interpretation, but the way I see it is that the spot is just that: a rounded mark or splotch made by foreign matter. It seems to have arrived in a rather casual manner.

Spots tossed on a watercolor in the studio, photo by Amelia McSweeny

The circle on the other hand is a closed line, something inscribed in which all the points on the line lie at the same distance from the center. It seems intentional, elegant, something that shows up in nature, but also something that 3 and 4-year olds begin drawing as they enter into the world of representation. The circle is one of the early building blocks.

I looked up on my studio wall, where all three current pieces are iterations of the circle, so I tried to dig a bit deeper to see what was so fascinating– and, what keeps me returning to them as a form decade after decade.

I’m reminded of something that another blogger, Gwyneth Leech, said in a recent post, “Spots Before My Eyes…:”"…there is the infinite variety of things, then there is an infinite variation of one thing.” A circle suggests eternity (think of a ring), something bigger than myself, time layered upon itself, the pleasure in creating a multitude of variations on a theme.

The idea that each circle can both be the same yet different; it’s own infinite, elegant universe is powerful. A 3-year taps into these infinite possibilities without fear or the preconceived notions of adults. When I began this post I thought that I’d be arguing for the integrity of the circle, but now that I’ve experienced spots and dots á la Hirst (and, for a great post on spots, see Joanne Mattera’s “Connecting the Dots), I’m looking to get rid of some of my trepidation and preconceived notions, and hopefully, adopt some of the spot philosophy too.

I know that many of you have had fun in the studio with circles, spots and dots–if you have any stories or images you’d like to share I’d love to hear from you.

Jan 8

5 Comments

Reality and Resolutions–#2012

At this time of year, people talk a lot about resolutions, goals or even words they want to live by. My question though is “How are you going to do it?” Fortunately, you also hear about the scaffolding–the underpinning of the resolutions. Scaffolding answers the question of how do you get from point A to point B?

Last year I set myself the goal of creating a new website. I’ve had two websites designed in the past, and naively, I assumed that the work was in getting the site up and running. It didn’t occur to me to factor in the cost of keeping the site up to date.

The Second Story Studio, my second site

Some years older now and wiser, I realized that I needed to create a site I could update myself. That meant keeping it simple without the bells and whistles attached–the really cool things that web designers come up with.No funky fonts, dark backgrounds with white type–just the straight stuff, in other words, “Gallery Minimal.”

My first site: hkhunterarts

I decided to go with WordPress, a blog format that allows me to have multiple pages and, like this Blogger site, make changes and updates to my heart’s content.

I hired an artist friend Chris Beers who does IT and design for our local gallery, the Pence, and together we figured out a way to create a clean site where the colors of my pieces sparkle. We even included two tutoring sessions so that I could learn to do it myself.

So there I was with my squeaky clean site and a host of new jpegs to load on. The only thing is, that between the time when I learned the tools (before the holidays,) and when I was ready to employ them (after the holidays ), I simply forgot how.

I remembered my secret weapon–a book Chris had recommended: Teach Yourself Visually: WordPress. I picked it up and decided to have a go at it. I dreaded the thought. Me and instructions…hmmm…kind of like my ninth grade Algebra course–never know where I’m going to end up…

Using an old study trick, I looked at my watch and decided to read for half an hour with studio time as a break. I kvetched inwardly. Oi vey, the terms: trackbacks and feedbacks and permalinks! The funny thing was, fifteen minutes later, I was swimming with the permalinks. I even got into it so much, I brought it along to a doctor’s appointment with me.

So, I’m learning to load on the jpegs and pretty soon, I’ll be able to launch my site…As Billy Crystal noted in Analyze This, “It’s a process.”

Welcome to my home away from home: an online studio where you can see my artwork,
ﬁnd inspiration and read about my double life as an artist and art therapist.

The new kid on the block: hannahklaushunterarts.com

Dec 31

‘Tis the season to…?

When this season rolls around, we know it’s time to be busy–I’m reminded of my third grade grammar lesson in superlatives: busy, busier, busiest.

All this hustle and bustle comes at just the time when the light and temperature (in the Northern hemisphere) beckon us to to slow down, bundle up, and brew pots of tea and tureens of soup.

Each year I’m challenged to find a way to keep my balance-not to get so busy that I neglect the beauty in gorgeous orange globes of pomegranates, the migrating birds, and the friendly faces of my family. This year, I noticed that if I just did what was in front of me, I was OK.

Of course that had me doing everything at the last minute: buying Hanukkah candles the final day the synagogue gift shop was open, wrapping my families’ gifts the day I gave them, and waiting until the holidays were over to begin my cards.

I love getting holiday cards–the sense of that person’s warmth from across state, elsewhere in the country, around the world, never ceases to move me. They take time to think about me and my family, to sustain our connection in spite of the urge to let go, because in these days of e-mail, facebook etc., it’s all too much.

So I argue with myself–do I make the cards this year? Do I use Shutterfly to get one of those composite photographic documents of my family life? (Hmmm…kids grown, still won’t sit still.) I want to go be in the studio–so making the cards wins. I moan. Why can’t I just keep it simple like most of the people I know who send cards? Then I realize that it’s through their making that I feel connected.

After a while, a rhythm and logic develop and a flotilla of delicate rice paper snowflakes emerges; carefully glued on top of pieces of script. I love pulling random pages from old books, foraged from library sales (an act which distresses my husband), and discovering some synchronistic pattern like Charles Dicken’s ode to his Christmas tree from a 1920′s book on elocution.

Snowflake flotilla, photo courtesy of Amelia McSweeny

I discover that in cutting and unfolding, the shape of a Jewish star emerges in the center of the flake, surrounded by a circle of tiny people reaching out towards each other.

The star reminds me of my Jewish grandmother’s Christmas cards. These were cards that she sent out in the twenties and thirties to her non-Jewish friends and although they were sent as part of an attempt to assimilate into mainstream culture, I like to see them as a bridge between cultures, a way of creating and maintaining a connection.

My grandmother Caroline's Christmas card, circa 1925-1935

All of which takes me back the beginning; maintaining connection–and what better way to do this than through art?

Dec 10

A Process of Trial and Multicolored Error

Pomegranate: alizarine crimson/napthol red/burnt umber

I arrived at my friend Stacey’s last week with a lot of questions. I wanted to hear where she stood on the matter of staining and non staining pigments, her thoughts on hot vs cold press paper and if there was a better pigment or paper to use.

Stacey obligingly pulled out a reference book, The Wilcox Guide to the Best Watercolor Paints by Michael Wilcox and showed it to me. On each page there was a precis of every shade of watercolor known to mankind. She offered to loan me the book but the sheer weight of the information was daunting.

When I pressed her for the essential facts on these issues, I could feel her resistance. She explained that rather than reading about pigments, she prefers to work with the colors herself, testing one, then another with a whole cadre of colors. She opened a black notebook to a two page spread with the most mouthwatering series of colors I’ve seen in a while.

What was most interesting about the samples she had painted was that there was no

Pomegranate: alizarine crimson/napthol red/burnt umber

uniformity. You could see crystallization in some of the colors and in others, like viridian, there were speckles of plum and rust. “So, is that sedimentary?” I asked, pointing to the viridian wash. She told me that the paint water had remnants of many colors suspended in it–or, as she put it, “it’s dirty water.”

It was apparent to me that once again, I was facing the creative continuum of choice, trying to decide between two ways of approaching a painting or drawing. When I arrived that at her studio that morning, looking for answers, Stacey was telling me to experiment, to work by trial and error, always heading in the direction that that elicits energy and joy, rather than the road marked “I really should….”

Simply put,” she said, “avoid the ‘shoulds’!!
“If it seems like you have a choice and one way is going to bring joy, go that way.”

Dec 7

9 Comments

My 7 Links

I recently accepted Donna Iona Drozda’s invitation to participate in a project: My 7 Links Project. For this project, each blogger chooses 7 different posts to fit seven unique categories and then invites up to 5 more bloggers to do the same, and so on, as a way of uniting “bloggers from all sectors in an endeavor to share lessons learned and…to… create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts…”

A timely invitation and one that I thought about because it seemed to me a perfect chance to look over the year’s post, to form in my mind a gestalt of what I’d written, a means of seeing the road I’d traveled and perhaps the road I might choose to take in the year ahead.

Like the doors on an advent calendar, I invite you to open up one or more of these links and see what you discover.

Most helpful: Young Adult Bereavement Art Group/Art Therapy in Action: This post proved to be helpful in two ways; one for me, because the post reflects how much I learned about the grief process of young adults, but also because this information is useful to those people who wish to start an art therapy based bereavement support group in their own community.


Where I Live, ©2000, H. Hunter, 15″ x 18″, Acrylic &		Caran d’ache

Most popular: Finding Sanctuary: addresses our universal need to find a safe and sacred space. Nature + art = one of the most effective ways to find it.

Didn’t quite get the attention it deserved: Timing is Everything: There’s a lot packed into this little post with M.S. Merwin’s poem. Spring opens our eyes with its fleeting beauty and we’re reminded, once again, of the transience and beauty of life.

Most proud of: Art Therapy 101: No questions here. Art Therapy 101, about my daughter who was my first teacher in art therapy, wrote itself.

Peonies at the Ogunquit Museum of American Art

Most beautiful: Accidental Journey: Places of the soul–all of us have them and I accidentally traveled back to mine in this trip to Maine. Here I share images and thoughts of this magical journey, especially one gorgeous blush colored peony.

Surprising Success: A Different Kind of Summer: I had no idea when I wrote about spending the summer in the studio that it would elicit so many responses. At the hospital, when I’m asked what I did on the weekend, my answer is always the same: “I was in my studio.” (And it’s always a pleasure.)

Most controversial: New Beginnings: The controversy here is subjective within the quilting world–I suddenly felt confronted by an entirely different way of seeing the quilting process, one I hadn’t considered and which challenged me to re-examine my approach to the aesthestics of art quilts.

And now some nominations–4 blogs with entirely different focuses–something to satisfy different parts of my personality.

From the Scattergood Farm: written by two teachers at Scattergood Friends School (my daughter’s high school alma mater) where students both study and work a living farm. In this new blog, they present some radical new ideas for school lunch. Check this out!

Patricia Scarborough: I love Patty’s posts–witty and wry and half a continent away, I love to read her observations and see her plein air plainscapes.

Dwelling Here Now: One of the first blogs I discovered, Anthony Lawlor takes a spiritual approach to architecture and the architecture of thought.

Blue Sky Dreaming: Blue Sky’s open minded approach to her subject matter and materials intrigues and inspires lots of us in the mixed media world.

Nov 15

Circles Within Circles

When I last wrote about painting persimmons with Stacey Vetter, a number of people asked me to keep them “posted.” I had the best of intentions but my production took a sharp downturn high up in the hills of Carmel Valley.

While my son Ben played golf on the tiered greens of Saint Lucia Preserve, I hid myself behind a Valley Oak and began to paint acorns and oak leaves. The sun was hot and rather than creating distinct layers, the walnut ink pooled on paper. After an hour, I had only a few clusters to show for my efforts. Discouraged, I decided to report my findings to Stacey the next week.

Stacey took a survey of my results and prescribed painting circles. “Circles??” I asked. Not one to stand on ceremony, she picked up her brush and began to demonstrate what she meant. As I watched her, I noticed that she handled the brush with a deftness born of deep practice. The brush seemed to swirl around with no hesitation.

I took up my brush, discovering that it intended design on its own–and performed the opposite of hers. Frustrated, I reminded myself of the revered book by Shunryu Suzuki: “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind.” “It’s O.K.” I assured myself. I have to work against my own grain when I put myself in a place where I know very little and I need to have a high tolerance for mistakes.

I decided to persevere. As I did, I began to notice little things: how as I came around the bend of the curve and the brush seemed to be running out of ink, it would disperse just enough ink to easily close the circle. Slowly, as I repeated the circles, I began to feel the delight I experienced as a child on ice skates when I figured out how to spin. Soon I was spinning the ink. Circles and more circles. On hot press. On cold press. On rice paper. On banana paper.

My next challenge was to create a shading in the circle. Stacey explained that I would need to paint a piece of the circle and then stop; making sure to leave an organic shape, quickly rinse my brush and then, with precisely the amount of water as I had just shed of pigment, finish off the circle.

A few days later at a studio time with my friend Linda, a landscape water colorist, I decided to try my hand at it. She sat down to complete a gorgeous landscape of Lake Tahoe and I brought out my circles. She glanced over after a while and noted that how boring it must be. Her comment caught me by surprise. I had become completely involved in the act of touching paint to paper and watching it react.

In its own way, it was as fascinating as observing a patient in her hospital room. How did the first stroke lay down? (Is the patient alone in her room?) What kind of organic shape should I leave? (What kind of expression does the patient have? What is the tone of their speech?) Does the paint granulate as it begins to dry? Is it a staining or non staining pigment? (Does she want to cover the entire paper or work in just a tiny corner?)

Like the beginning of William Blake’s poem, “Auguries of Innocence,” it seemed that I’d discovered “a world in a grain of sand.”

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

After I explained to Linda what I was seeing, she too got caught up and soon we were both exploring the depths of her vast collection of colors. They were seductive, those circles, and she couldn’t resist trying her hand at a few.

I’m not sure where these circles will lead and I’m sure a few of them will land in collage works. In the meantime, I’m taking time to relish the turn of the brush.

Jun 24

9 Comments

An Accidental Journey

Peonies at the Ogunquit Museum of American Art

When I was a small child of five, my family moved to Maine. My dad was finishing his PhD and got his first teaching assignment at Bowdoin College. I was just beginning kindergarten.

Is it possible to fall in love at the age of five? Because if it is, I did. I loved so much about Maine, beginning at the edge of our backyard. Behind our brown plank house, in a yard with clumps of birch trees whose bark made perfect “paper,” lay a bog. It was a magical place where I discovered peepers, tasted my first cranberries and stood peering into the depths of the murky pond. I marveled at the frogs’ eggs gathered in gelatinous blobs, the beginnings of my education in biology and reproduction.

We didn’t live in Maine for long; just three years, but enough for the landscape of the place to imprint itself on my consciousness; stretches of land with rocky outcroppings, white steepled churches, docks and piers heaped with lobster pots and fishing nets, the smell of ocean and the clack of clamshells.

Rocky Coastal Beach, Hampton, N

The car-sweep of these images wove itself into my consciousness, so that even now, fifty years later, I dream of traveling back to Maine. In my dreams, I swim up a river banded by ferns and rimmed with pine trees; there is the promise of blueberries hiding within the woods. The dream is so vivid that I believe I am there and awaken with the sensation of just having returned from this faraway place.

Dogwood in the yard of a older home in Kittery, ME

It didn’t seem so strange then, when I accidentally ended up in Maine last week. My family and I flew out to a wedding in Vermont and, wishing to make a small vacation out of it, I suggested we stop off at the coast for a day; in New Hampshire to be exact. Arriving at dinner time, we set off in search of sustenance other than McDonald’s. After getting turned around on a round about, we crossed a bridge and came upon what looked to be an excellent taqueria. A man whom I asked in the parking lot noted that it was the best Mexican food in Maine outside of Southern California. We were in Maine, not New Hampshire!

Boats like clamshells at Kittery Point, ME

The feeling of delight that rose up in me was exquisite. We all looked at each other and began to laugh. Imagine that!! We had arrived in Maine by accident. What followed was a day and a half of intense exploration; of inhaling smells and remembering once familiar sights. I could tell you that we lingered at a dock, wandered through an art museum and mixed with the locals in a general store, but that wouldn’t quite capture it. Throughout the hours we spent there, I felt that I had returned to something quite precious that I don’t want to lose again.

Weehawken Sequence, John Marin, circa 1916, 10″ x 12.5,” oil on canvas

Is there a place in your life that calls to your soul, appears in your dreams, a place to which you’ve made a secret promise to return?

Feb 19

12 Comments

Close to Home

Last week I had the occasion to attend an opening for an artist friend whom I’ve mentioned frequently in this blog, Sara Post. Sara’s exhibit, Close to Home, was up and ready to see in our local Davis, CA gallery, the Artery.

I had a particular curiosity about this exhibit because Sara had confessed to me over coffee several weeks back that she had one month to come up with the artwork for this show. When she told me this, I knew for a certainty that she would take the proverbial tube of paint and run. And run with it she did.

A couple of weeks later, I stopped by her house to drop off a book. When I walked into her studio, work was spread over the tables, hanging on the walls and arranged on the floor. Joyful abandon reigned supreme.

I’m fascinated by how specific conditions such as an imminent deadline can elicit completely different creative responses in people. Sara decided to look no further than her own backyard for inspiration.

A wise choice judging by the results. Sara honors the beauty of houses and gardens and the fascination that we bring to them. It’s as if she’s taken a magnifying glass to the world outdoors; exploring walls, windows, doors and rooftops; the spaces they create and the landscape they define.

Her work places itself in a tradition of modern landscape painters such as David Hockney and Cy Twombly.

As I gazed at the pieces I found myself drifting into an imaginary back yard where pools of deep turquoise water drifted in and out of focus and grasses blew in the wind, waving their tips of gentle gold.

I crisscrossed the gallery, picking up one observation here and dropping another there, imagining the possibilities that my own back yard might offer.

If, as Voltaire says in his novel Candide, “we must cultivate our own garden,” this exhibit invites us to explore the abundant possibilities which may lie therein.

Jan 5

11 Comments

Good Things Come in Threes

Thank you everyone who sent their thoughts and concerns about my dad. Your comments touched my heart and brought ease. I wrote it while waiting with my family for a flight to Kauai, a place that my father had introduced us to seven years ago and to which, paradoxically, we were returning shortly after his diagnosis.

Since I’ve been here absorbing sun, waves, and floral abundance, I’ve had time to think about my own art work. Often, when I’m thinking about a post, I’ll pick an event or a thought that is clamoring for first place in the forefront of my mind. Pathos, pain, and or redemption claim my attention. Taking a break helps me to focus on quieter voices.

I finished this piece several weeks ago. Originally it was three separate 12″ x 24″ panels. After studying them out of the corner of my eye (best way so they don’t know I’m watching), I decided to connect them. A risk.

For many years I’ve wanted to create tryptchs, having become enamored of them when I first discovered Jan Van Eyck’s “Dresden Tryptych” in an art history class many years ago.

Periodically, I’d give it a try and find that I couldn’t extend my attention sequentially over a series of surfaces. Perhaps it was because I was giving most of my attention to my children. Or, perhaps it was because I simply wasn’t ready.

Whatever the case, I’ve discovered that in the last year I’ve been able to create and sustain a flow of attention across several surfaces. Is it because my children are grown and launched into their own lives? Or is it because I’ve grown? One of those proverbial chicken and egg questions.

No matter what the reason, I’m delighted and all the more so because this opens up a whole new suite of possibilities which I look forward to exploring in this new year of ours.

Textile and Paper Collage

Posts from the ‘art history’ Category

Yunomi, or, “Fired Thing”

Inscribing a Circle

Reality and Resolutions–#2012

‘Tis the season to…?

A Process of Trial and Multicolored Error

My 7 Links

Circles Within Circles

An Accidental Journey

Close to Home

Good Things Come in Threes

About Hannah

Search the site

Email Subscription

Categories

Blogroll