It's Showtime!

The Rogue Speaks:

All the cool spring art shows have started up, and I thought I would give you a rundown of the ones that the Guild members are participating in.

Diane Bailey-Haug is in a show at the Ranch House Gallery at Agua Caliente Park. The reception is tomorrow from 11 until 1. The gallery is open Wednesday through Sunday from 10 until 3. The show runs through March 3.

Jo Andre is in two shows--one at Northern Trust on Sunrise, The Empire Ranch Foundation Show. It is open from 8:30 until 4 through March 12. She is also showing at Ventana Medical Systems through Febuary. The gallery is open Wednesdays from 9 until 12, and Fridays from 1 until 4.

The Southern Arizona Arts Guild has a show at Brandi Fenton Park that runs from March 3 through April 5. The show is "Visions" and I have visions of making a sale or two there so I can pay my bills!

Saundra Trumbull sent me a Call to Artists for a show called "The Monsters That Made Us" at the Holy Joe Studio at 1126 N. Stone. Where they ever came up with that title I am afraid to guess. It sounds a little scary, but I just might submit a piece or two as long as they don't want really bizarre stuff like naked women with blood running down the whole canvas. Or stuff like "The Scream"--or detailed drawings of super-heros fighting the evil-doers. I get bad dreams from those, even though I have seen some that are so exquisitely executed (no pun intended).

Anyway, the weather has finally turned a corner, hopefully, and all our muses who have been hiding away where it is dry and warm, can now come out and inspire us in the sunlight. I always work better when it is sunny and warm(er).

I hope I run in to all of you at some of these shows, or see you at the next Guild meeting. It is next Saturday, by the way.

Another Rogue Speaks

Another Rogue Speaks:

Here is a wonderful story I received from Jo "Sky" Sawyer-Roof, a delightful and gifted artist I have known for several years. Sky wrote:

This happened back in my 30'--

I had been working with the Southern Arizona Light Opera Company along with my two children when they were young beginning work at ages 12 and 14. By this time, they had both been in a lot of other TV, theatre performances and Daugher was singing with Arizona Opera Company.

We were fortunate to be working shows with Professional actors, Directors and Musicians. The Music director of the Light Opera shows in which we participated was Mr. Herb Green, the gentleman who wrote the musical scores for such shows as the Music Man. During Music Man Our Son Derric landed the part of Tommy, lead dancer. He had already done Chuffa Chulalonghorn in King and I and was called back.

For Music Man instead of chauffeuring children I decided to try out for the chorus. As Mr. Green did not drive I would pick him up and deliver him following rehearsals and shows which was excellent in learning more about theatrical events. It was fascinating to watch him rewrite the musical scores to match the actors. If they needed more or less time to complete an action, he would simply rewrite the score. With but a moments notice, the musicians were expected to play exactly how and what he wanted. I decided to audition for the chorus of Music Man to work with him. When I tried out I sang a solo I had prepared and he said "good" now sing this song...and then he changed not only the solo, the key but also the tempo and I did that exactly as he wanted. Then he asked me to sing High C and sustain it. I thought I was a contralto. Or alto. Not high soprano. (Panic. Where, how, what, when??? but I just nodded as he said he would walk me up. So, I watched him and did as directed.) Did it. Done. When over and as I sat down, he said "Now That is the way a tryout is supposed to be. I sat down stunned. Shaking inside. This had been my first musical tryout and I had no clue as to how to do any of it. Watching others we trust, we learn. I got a part in the play, not chorus.

When we did Sound of Music we had a professional actor come in to play Maria. She was attractive and I thought did well. The locals did not like the fact the role had been gave to a pro (over so many who wanted it) so they all kept their distance and to me were rude to her. I decided to give it the old college try of trying to help her fit. I tried a casual conversation. It lead to a discussion on painting.

"Oh, I did not know you painted," I said excitedly.

Her nose wrinkled, back straightened and her drawn face (kind of a Marlene Dietrich look if you can recall that) puckered and she said through a drawn line of a mouth "of course, if you can do ONE of the arts, you can do ALL of the arts.!!" End of conversation.

--The co-uu-rrrrr-sse was drawn out and as stated very factually and I noted the nose rise as though speaking to an inferior.--

I took a moment to go from the feeling of having been slapped to the element of suppressing a giggle.

I have NEVER forgotten that moment nor those words.

Back From The Dead

The Rogue Speaks:

I reached a turning point today. Actually it is the "point of no return." Seeking to avoid being nagged incessantly by my Best Friend Artist because "you took that class, now do something with it!!!" I threw caution to the winds and dragged out all that expensive encaustic equipment and supplies that I paid a king's ransom for several years ago. Six hours later, Rod came in and asked me if I was going to get dressed today. Yes, I still have my pajamas on. And yes, I am going to change before I go to bed.

I stole some sticks out of a vase that I have in the den, took some weird mushroom-like pod out of my textures box, and armed with a couple of brushes and hot wax, I tried to remember everything I had learned in my class.

In one respect, wax is ergonomically way more efficient than oil paint, because if you want it to dry quickly so you can continue, you either put your work in the freezer, or run an ice cube over the part you want to set up quickly. Since my freezer is packed to capacity with veggies that are good for you, skinless chicken, and salmon, I chose the ice cube method. Oh, o.k.! I do have some ice cream sandwiches in there, too. BUT they are low fat, and yes I know you can't eat the whole box at one sitting just because they are low fat.

Rod had a meeting at 5, so when he left, I started cleaning up and threw together a pot of chili for supper. This is a great night for chili, because the wind is howling, the sky is black, and up on Mt. Lemmon, the snow is falling. So what if it is 60 degrees on the valley floor--it is a chili night.

A Temporary Cerebral Spasm

The Rogue Speaks:

I spent yesterday staring at all my encaustics supplies. Yep! As soon as I recovered from that weekend work, I thought for sure that I would have a creative flash and start throwing hot wax around my kitchen. But I had left the safety and comfort of all those nice artists with whom I spend the better part of last Saturday and Sunday. I am alone now, and I just don't know what to do! It seems I need a push, or maybe the companionship of at least one of those wonderful people. I know I have to get over this. Art is a solitary activity. That is the reason we have like kind with whom we can gather occasionally to share ideas--because we are alone so much of the time with our thoughts and our craft. Writers are like that, too. They don't sit down in a group every day and say, "O.K.! Let's write something!" But they do get together, I suppose, for a critique every once in a while.

Our art guild is having a critique in February. All of us decided to bring our weekend work so the rest of the group can see what we did, and ooh and ahh. Maybe that will be the push I need to get going. Or maybe when the rain stops and all that good sunlight awakens my brain! Or maybe I should get back into the habit of going to galleries to check out what is going on in the rest of the art world. I've always loved doing that! And the sun is coming out.

I'm getting dressed now. See you later!!

The Morning After

The Rogue Speaks:

I must have slept for at least 10 hours last night. Making art is hard work! And two days in a row, all day, with only a lunch break (I ate my sandwich with one hand and painted with the other. I am also a little sore, like all over my body, from using the muscles I hadn't used in a while, including the big one between my ears.

Two of my encaustics are on the right, along with a picture of Diane Bailey-Haug, who is a wonderful and fun teacher. I have included photos of my class-mates in this post. Susan and Mo are in the first picture, then Cherrie and Barbara, and then Phyllis. We all had such a good and creative time, that we thought about moving the clock back an hour when she was out of the room, so we could stay longer. We were a little intimidated at first by array of tuna-sized cans filled with luscious colors. Just a photo of the cans on the heating elements is a work of art!

The most important thing that this class did for me was to drag me out of the knothole I had stuffed myself into a while back, and get me into the frame of mind to create. That's what a good teacher does for you--she stimulates that part of the brain where all those grand ideas are hiding, lying in wait for just the right stimulus to come along to get those synapses firing, so the smoke comes out your ears.

Hot wax, cool wax

The Rogue Speaks:

I am so anal! My coherts had to slap me down to stop me from over-working my pieces. I just can't help it! I want everything to be perfect! Well, life isn't like that. We all know that! Except me. Diane had such an excellent workshop! She had to hold me back, and I'm glad she did.

I will put my pictures on tomorrow, after I recover from the trauma.

Hot Wax! Hot! Hot! Hot!

The Rogue Speaks:

What a creative day I have had! This was the first day of my encaustic workshop with Diane Bailey-Haug at Toscana Studio and Gallery. It turned out much better than I thought it would when I left the house. Diane is really a kick! She is a lot like me and Diane, only much nicer. We like her!!

It was not a good morning for me. My waterproof container in which I kept all my clay tools, was filled with a foot of water, and I am trying to salvage several hundred dollars work of rollers, bats, and accessories that were soaked and moulded.

Once I got into the swing of things at Toscana, I forgot about my clay tools, and jumped into creating some really cool encaustics. I will put photos of my work on the blog on Monday. Please be kind.

I am leaving Diane's "sneak peek" up for a few more days, so you all can have a chance to read it.

Please go to the archives to see what you have missed.

I AM HAVING SOOOO MUCH FUN!!!

Starry, Starry Night

The Rogue Speaks:

First let me say that I do have a story about Pat Robertson and my beautiful, sweet, loving mother-in-law, but I am saving it for another day. Instead I am treating my readers to an excerpt of an exciting new novel by my Best Friend Artist, Diane Loving:

This is an excerpt from my novel Impasto Imperfect, about the ghost of Vincent Van Gogh visiting an artist living in modern day New York. In the following, Jo, the contemporary artist has brought Vincent’s ghost to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see his works. Having sold only one painting during his brief life, Vincent Van Gogh died without realizing his legacy to the artworld.
(All rights reserved, please, I am a starving artist - - Diane Loving)

As they entered the gallery lined with Impressionist works, Vincent’s eyebrows arched in recognition of a Monet. Before he could speak, Jo stopped him at the entrance to a smaller gallery lined with his paintings. He stood for a moment trying to make sense of a sight not in his purview, as if he were trying to understand the unfathomable. He looked from painting to painting, then at Jo. She had never seen an expression quite like the one on his face. She released his arm and he tentatively approached works which he knew intimately.

Vincent looked at his paintings for a long time, moving slowly from one to the next, then back again. He stepped forward to touch one. His paintings invited touch with their thick impasto pushing from the confines of the canvas. But Jo instinctively reached for his hand to stop him as she saw the security guards approaching, not knowing whether or not they saw him. In this place he could not touch that which he created.

She laughed to herself trying to imagine what the guards or docents would think if the artist pulled out his paints and added embellishments to his own canvases. She had been to receptions and fundraising functions at the museum, and she had met so many people who thought they knew his life story and who relished his works. Yet these same people probably would not invite the man beside her to the same events or choose to sit next to him at a soiree. She equated it with the Second Coming in that the physicality of the messenger is not as attractive as the message. Dear wild-eyed, disheveled-haired, one-eared, rumpled and unkempt Vincent. Wouldn’t one suspect that the genius who could create such works might in actuality look exactly like this?

They stood looking at his works while holding each other’s hand. She wondered if he was awash in memories seeing these old friends? Was he thinking about the subject, or the circumstances under which he painted them? Why this color, where this person, how this technique? But they did not speak. She let him be with his creations. And he continued to look, slowly pacing from one to the next.

And then Vincent wept. He cried silently at first, then with big gulping sobs. Jo put her arm around his heaving shoulder and then he buried his face into her arm, still weeping.

Vincent suddenly raised his head and wiped his eyes as two patrons approached.
“I painted that,” he whispered as the two onlookers passed in front of him, but they did not hear him. They busily interpreted a canvas in low voices; admiring the master’s work without seeing the master. He walked directly behind them looking over their shoulders at the next canvas that caught their attention.

“Ah! My old hat!” Vincent exclaimed.
Jo looked at the portrait of Vincent wearing a straw hat.
“I know you did many self-portraits,” Jo said.
“Yes, because I am such a handsome fellow!” Vincent laughed. “I could not afford to pay models to pose, so I bought good mirrors. I was the least expensive model I could find.” He looked curiously at the canvas, then moved closer to it, raising his arms toward the frame. “I believe this is a used canvas I brought with me to Paris. If you look on the back of it you will see a study I did of a Dutch peasant.”
Jo whispered frantically, “Vincent! Please don’t move that! The guards may not see you but they’ll think I’m defiling the art, you’ll get me thrown out of here.”
“Yes, of course, I am sorry.” His arms dropped quickly to his sides.
“I’ll just have to take your word for it. Two Van Goghs on one canvas!” Jo whispered.
“Yes, the museum should suspend it from the ceiling so that people can see it from both sides.” Vincent suggested.
“I’ll be sure to recommend that to the curator.”

Vincent looked around the room and his honored place in it. It was an elegant room. The paintings hung at a respectful distance from each other, a series not a crowd. The lighting was direct but unobtrusive. The people hushed. It was indeed a sacred place, both like and unlike the church that would not take him in.
Suddenly he cocked his head, staring at the wall next to the place where his works hung. A single syllable escaped from his lips, “Paul.” He walked to the wall and Jo followed, watching him as he looked at the paintings by his friend Paul Gauguin. “Paul is here as well,” he said, smiling. Jo nodded and smiled, too. Then he looked at Paul’s works and back to his own, his smile broadened and he leaned in to whisper, “but he doesn’t have as many here as I do. If he comes bothering you, make sure you tell him that.”

But, of course, Paul Gauguin never came to visit her, nor did any of the other ghosts of artists past whom she assumed may yet float through the galleries of the world’s museums great and small.

“When I was alive, I could not get individuals to appreciate my work let alone a fine museum. I am guessing that time as it passes brings an aesthetic with it.” Jo nodded, though she was not sure why the Vincent of his day could not speak to the eyes and hearts of viewers like he does in modern times. He asked if the general public appreciated his work or just the art historians and museum curators. She could think of only one way to answer the question. She took him to the Museum Store.

Vincent was surprised and appreciative to see that he had his own corner in the marketplace. Notecards, calendars, magnets, a Sunflowers umbrella, prints of his Irises. Though he grumbled that the reproductions did not pay respect to his use of impasto, Jo told him that it was an impasto imperfect world, and that the public wanted Van Goghs that they could afford. He nodded and browsed through the gift shop. She did not show him the coffee mug where, when filled with hot water, his ear disappeared.

Sing It, Elton!!

The Rogue Speaks:

My "Best Friend" artist is such a smart mouth! She was making fun of me because I decided that I should include all the muses in my blog. Everyone I know loves poetry! And I got some great best-sellers for Christmas that I plan to read in the pool when it is too hot to do art or play golf.

The music, she absolutely cannot argue with me about! Joe Bourne is one of my dearest friends. Everyone loves to hear him sing jazz, and Nat King Cole. Manny Herrera is soooo mellow. We all love Manny! And don't forget Rob Wright! Wildcat Jass Band makes me want to do things that Rod has only dreamed of in the early morning hours when he has--well, you know!

O.k., now we come to dance. "Best Friend" artist never knew that I would come up with this, but my cousin Sandra's granddaughter, Jenny Mitchell, who is a composer in Atlanta, composed a ballet suite for the Cobb Symphony!!! Not only that, they performed it! HAHAHAHA!

If I could figure out just how to get "TINY DANCER" to dance across the screen, I would. And as anyone who knows me, knows, one way or another, I will figure out just how to do that!

If Art Is Eye Candy, Then Poetry Is Food For The Gut

The Rogue Speaks:

I have friends who are not only artists, but poets and writers as well. Where visual art hits you in your "eye" brain, the written word can hit you where you live on a day to day basis--in your gut. I have added some poetry to my blog, the first installment having been written by George deMan, whom I have known for over 40 years. George lives in Atlanta, the city of my birth, and was a MAJOR instrument in the creation of the Atlanta Botanical Garden, among other things. George currently teaches adult classes at Emory University, after having retired from such illustrious publications as The New Yorker Magazine, and Southern Accents/Southern Living Magazine. George was married to my sister, Andrea, until her death from leukemia in August of 2008.

When George and I first met, I was a young married woman with two little children, one who was only two years old at the time, and another who was just an infant. It took a while for me to transition from a Southern mother, tied to the expectations of all women in the South in the 60's, to an artist, who painted, and played with clay, and wrote poetry as well.

I have other friends who write poetry and prose, and from time to time, I will post their creations on my blog. If you want to send me some of your written word, I will be happy to get it, and throw it out for all the world to read. If you do, and you pass this site on to people you know who will appreciate your thoughts, we will have accomplished something important. We will give the world something to hold on to and strive for--creativity and contentment.

And if anyone wants to know about the mating ritual of the Troll Monkey, just let me know.

My Butt's The Same Size, But My Horizons Are Expanding

The Rogue Speaks:
I am excited to be learning a new way to create art. This weekend I am taking a class in encaustic that is being taught by Diane Bailey-Haug. A couple of years ago, when I actually had some money in my art account, I spent a sinful amount on encaustics and spread all the stuff out on my kitchen counter. Then I sat and looked at it for a while. After I had gotten up the courage, I jumped in and heated up the wax. My first few attempts were bizarre, but sort of interesting. Then summer came and I found myself sweating a lot. Painting in encaustics is pretty hot work! So I put them away for a while, after having lost 5 pounds in pure sweat.

Now I am ready to have at it again. After having seen some of Diane's work at one of our exhibits, I became excited about sweating again, and signed up for one of her classes. It begins this Saturday, at Toscana Studio and Gallery, which is owned by another artist friend, Linda Ahearn.

This is going to be quite an adventure for me. I haven't learned any new ways to create since my Best Friend artist talked me into painting with my boobs. We painted several pieces that were accepted into an exhibit at WomanKraft Gallery, and they actually sold. We were invited back to show more (paintings, that is) and they sold, too! My family is a little embarrassed about this art form, but I did earn enough to spring for the encaustics. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Dogs I Have Known: Fat Mutt and the BFR

The Rogues Speak:

I am still figuring out just how this blog works. Sometimes, when you are an artist, operating in the technical world makes you very tense and stupid.

I got my first comment today from another artist. She and I have been friends for at least 7 years, and during that time we have managed to do a lot of mischief. Actually, she dragged me into the mischief. If left to my own devices, I would still be doing architectural renderings, alone in my little studio room which now looks like a grander version of Fibber McGee's closet.

The way to really grow as an artist is to surround yourself with other artists whom you admire. I think I have been successful at doing that, and if you look at the art on my blog, you will have to agree. I plan to post an example of my "old" art very soon, then you really will agree! I now am friends with a LOT of artists whom I admire, and we feed off each other to produce more interesting work.

I have fed off my Best Friend artist to the point where now I am almost as wild as she is. She has made me do things that I would never have thought of on my own, and therefore has made me much more creative.

I responded to her comment, but unfortunately my navigational skills on this blog are still very weak, so if you want to know about Fat Mutt and the BFR, you will have to click on the comments from my post, BRANE DED.

BRANE DED

The Rogues Speak
Well, I am home from the reception, which was great, by the way, and I had a nagging feeling that I had better check what I wrote earlier. Sure enough, I was really brain dead at the time. My spelling reminded me of an acquaintance known to me and only my closest friends as Troll Monkey. This individual, who claims to have an advanced degree, butchers the English language like no one I have even known, and types it out in emails that makes me shudder. Not even spell-check can make any sense of Troll Monkey's ramblings. So when you post a note for the Rogues, please check your spelling to make sure you are not as brane ded as I was earlier today.

Someone Always Has To Go First

The Rogues Speak