Faith to Move Molehills

So it’s December, and from my blog it appears that I was MIA for a couple months. Here’s the summary: I came back from London in September and picked up where I left off. Except suddenly I didn’t have enough space to make art, I didn’t have enough time to look for exhibition opportunities, and I had no ideas of what to paint. I came up with enough justifiable excuses to fuel hours of rebuttal with anyone brave enough to bring up the fact that I had stopped doing something I loved.

Then I went out of town for a weekend and found some inspiration. But it was the kind of inspiration leaving me wishing that my life had occurred in the 19th century when I could buy a small shack near a beautiful pond and live off the profits of my crop of beans--a life spent working in the morning, swimming in the afternoon, and reading by the candlelight.

So I came home even more frustrated than when I left. But I eventually started to figure out some stuff.  For example: 1)  I need to live in the present, and 2) I need to act in the present.

I highly recommend this devotional given by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland at my alma mater in 2009, entitled “Remember Lot’s Wife.” Elder Holland points out that in the Old Testament story, Lot’s wife met her unfortunate fate because she was not only looking back, but looking back longingly. As he states:

“To yearn to go back to a world that cannot be lived in now; to be perennially dissatisfied with present circumstances and have only dismal views of the future; to miss the here-and-now-and-tomorrow because we are so trapped in the there-and-then-and-yesterday—these are some of the sins, if we may call them that, of … Lot’s wife.”

The second realization, that I need to act in the present, struck me as I was thinking about my hopes and dreams for the future and the Lonestar song “What About Now” came on the radio. I don’t particularly like this band, but a lot of country songs are grandfathered into my playlist since I grew up with them. Anyway, as I listened to the lyrics,

“We could hang around this town, forever making plans,

But there won’t ever be a better time to take this chance,”

I realized that the things I always meant to do just needed to be done. Now. There was nothing standing in my way of doing the small things that had been on my list for weeks, like renewing my library card, or even the big things, like finding a studio space or some other solution to my painting issues. That’s it. The answer was to just do it.

It’s funny how simple it is to take care of a molehill when you finally realize it isn’t actually a mountain.

Consulting the fleeting voices: What the trees would say

This is a new beginning. It is as new as the commencement of summer, spring, winter, and last year’s fall. I may look the same—as if I were returning to a previous state. But time’s eternal round cannot stand still. It cannot roll back. Last year’s leaves have long since blown away or decomposed, dust to dust.

These leaves are new, different. I am different. So take courage and follow me to victory. Let's both roll on with that eternal round.

Oxford Rooftops

Oxford Rooftops, Caity Grether, 2010

Correction

In my last post, "Jelly Beans and Excuses," I accidently left the word "not" out of the phrase "this dialogue did arise out of regrets." What I meant to say was "this dialogue did not arise out of regrets." I have since changed the error, and you can reread the last paragraph in its intended form. I am embarrassed by my lack of proofreading.

I tend to do a lot of embarrassing things. Last week I was on the underground, and as the train was beginning to pull away from the platform, I reached out to grab a pole to steady myself. My fingertips were inches away from grasping it when a sudden lurch caused me to fall backwards onto someone's luggage. It was not a graceful fall. It was the slow motion kind where it appeared, to me and probably everyone watching, that I had more than one opportunity to stop myself before collapsing on what was probably some guy's tennis raquet or picture frame. But, unfortunately for myself and the luggage, I didn't. And, to add more awkwardness to the situation, I asked two people whose bag I thought it was if I had broken anything, neither of whom turned out to be its actual owner.

I guess in comparison, a typo in a blog post isn't that big of a deal.

Jelly Beans and Excuses

Cemetery Sketch 1

I could not stay awake in my American art history class a couple years ago. It was 8:30 a.m., the lights were dim, and I had just worked a 3 ½ hour shift at my custodial job. And I had other excuses as to why it was impossible. But one day my professor, who apparently was annoyed that I was only awake for 20% of his class, put a soap-flavoured jelly bean on the table up front and issued the threat that the first person to fall asleep would have to eat it. I stayed awake. And I realized that it was not too hard. I simply needed the right motivation.

There is always an easy way out. And it doesn’t seem like it’s such a big deal the first time you say “it’s too hard” but pretty soon that phrase is stamped with a large red X over every worthy opportunity in your path. Sometimes you don’t even have to acknowledge that you’re passing things by. You just veer slightly to the left or right to avoid an obstacle, then another one. The path of least resistance makes men and rivers crooked, and whether you credit evil or entropy, the easy way does not lead anywhere worth going.

I’m not usually lazy, and this dialogue did not arise out of regrets. But I am reevaluating my excuses. Some of them are valid—not all of us can do everything. But even if it takes oddly-flavored jelly beans, I want to make sure I’m doing the most I can.

Musings from a Bus Ride to Bath

Right now I'm on a bus, riding through the English countryside. It's not too different from any other countryside I've traversed, except the bus is on the left side of the road and the bones of my ancestors have lain here longer. The sky is as big here as it is in the desert, and the clouds are just as dynamic. The villages date back farther I suppose, and the rooves are thatched.

I just saw Stonehenge for the first time. As I looked at those stones that stood vertical before any known record bore witness of their existence, I wished I had been here before the roads. Perhaps even before the villages and maybe while the outer circle still guarded the inner one.

I've been in England for almost three weeks now. This is my second international traveling experience, my first being a visit to Caribbean islands that were reconstructed in the image of this place--with tin rooves replacing thatched ones. The West Indies were adopted and abandoned by the British and other European countries, and what is left is a facade intended to fool both its visitors and its inhabitants.

While I was there, I compared the real Caribbean to the pictures, films, and dollar store calendars that depict it. And now I find myself again comparing the original to the copy--the old world to its facade in the new one.

Before today I had already seen Stonehenge represented in a variety of media and circumstances. Though I barely allowed the thought to enter my mind, I felt tainted by my tendency to compare it to its image that comes with Windows to be used as a desktop background. Does there exist a more banal representation of a more revered monument to world history?

Not that I can think of. And as the bus continues on to Bath, I wonder how much it will resemble the pictures online.

Arm pits and Adaptability

If you have read one or more of my posts, you probably have come to the conclusion that I am not a person that likes crowds. It's true. While I enjoy parties, big cities, and 75% off sales on occasion, I don't gravitate toward them. Most of my life has been spent in wide open spaces less than or equal to ten minutes from something that has stayed relatively the same for thousands of years like a mountain, forest, or river.

Today, and, presumably every day for the next several weeks, I commuted to work by shoving my way through several blocks of people, squeezed onto the tube next to at least seven arm pits, and continued through narrow stairways to my final destination.

It was a long day. But I guess, as I have mentioned before, human beings are fairly adaptable creatures. Stubborn, but adaptable. I remained calm through my almost two hours of transportation adventures today, because it's the way it is. There is no way around it.

It's got its perks too, like the endless people-watching opportunities, and the gratitude I feel when I find fresh air again.

No Way Out

I love Agatha Christie novels. I don't regard them as great literature, but her plots are intriguing and entertaining, and they offer me an escape from 2010 America to 1924 Britain. This particular conversation stood out to me today.

"Has it ever struck you," Porter said, "that civilisation's damned dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" Such a revolutionary remark shocked Mr. Satterthwaite to the core.

"Yes. There are no safety valves, you see."

Perhaps that is what I've been looking for—a safety valve. Unlike Mr. Porter, I think they exist. I've spent the summer wanting to escape through a safety valve in the form of a sunny, muddy, moderately-paced river. But right now I'm flowing through a narrow tube at high pressure right into London. Yes—London. And there's no way out. Not that I want one, I think.

Ebbing and Flowing

There has been no breaking news in my life lately. My plants are growing as expected, my apartment is clean, my stuff is organized. I attend various social events and occasionally meet new people. I read and paint and work.

I kind of think that everyone goes through periods of their life where they simply bob up and down with the ebb and flow of the tide. At one point or another, they probably feel like consistency is more difficult than tribulation.

I've experienced some pretty turbulant (literal) waters. As a river guide, I got to see some pretty decent rapids. The rush of successfuly rowing through those waves is incredible. But for all of the time I've spent in water, I am not a strong swimmer. Last summer, this particular weakness caused my nose to break as it collided with the ocean floor in Maracas Bay, Trinidad. I'm not familiar with ocean currents, so when a large wave came I got worked. In fact I feel fortunate that a broken nose is the only injury I sustained from that incident.

Conclusion: While the little ups and downs of every day life can become monotonous, I think they're important--they allow the rush of great victories to sink in, and the broken noses of failure to heal.

Word of the Day: Undulatoriness

"The grand and majestic have always somewhat of the undulatoriness of the sphere. It is the secret of majesty in the rolling gait of the elephant, and of all grace in action and in art. Always the line of beauty is a curve."

--Henry David Thoreau, "The Service"

For Real

There is a large empty lot behind my apartment barracaded by temporary chain-link fences. I assume someone started building there and then ran out of money. It's grown over with weeds and were it not for the carefully planned and fairly well-kept apartment complexes around it, it could be taken as a set of an end-of-the world film.

Anyway, as I was walking home tonight, I saw what I thought was a bird flying above it. As I got closer, it turned out to be a radio controlled toy airplane. The scene seemed very dramatic--the sun setting on what could be a war zone infiltrated by the buzz of this toy whose real-life counterpart would belong in a real-life war.

The situation and this way I happened to percieve it made me think about the contexts in which real and fake overlap. As children, we play to practice for real events later in life. Even as adults, we sometimes give life to inanimate objects for sentimental or other reasons. Then of course there are movies, books, and websites that give us virtual access to real things that we may or may not actually encounter later.

When I first arrived in the Caribbean and we went to the beach, I remarked that it was so unreal I couldn't appreciate it. If I had never seen pictures or movies depicting a tropical lanscape, perhaps my reaction would have been different. But I don't know, because we live in a world where virtual versions of nearly every experience exist.

Is there value in both the actual and artificial? Of course. So I think the question is where is the line? What things are okay to experience virtually and which ones do we need to live through for real? As a note to the universe, I'm fine continuing to appreciate the buzz of toy airplanes in a pretend war zone.

Like Water over Sharp Rocks

From Rock Series, acrylic and mixed media, 2008

I had a rock collection growing up. I kept it in a tin can under the stairs in our basement. None of my finds were geologically significant, though I thought they were. The most valuable rocks were the polished ones. Most of my polished rocks came from various souvenir stores--the stuff-as-many-as-you-can-into-a-little-black-bag kind. One of them I found in the creek behind our house. While it is very likely that this particular rock came from a souvenir stash upstream, I chose to believe it had been polished the hard way, over thousands of years, molecule by molecule.

For some reason, the rock I found in the creek meant more. It had the same surface quality as the others, but as in most aspects of life, there seems to be value in doing things the slow way.

Today I heard someone use the phrase "like water over sharp rocks" in describing changes that had taken place in her friend's life. I like that. Like water over sharp rocks, atoms of hydrogen over atoms of carbon, your rough edges and mine are being refined. Over time we will become the best versions of ourselves--still individual, unique, identifiable--but able to shine with a raidance only achieved by years of almost indiscernable changes.

By the way, my chamomile plants sprouted. As of the last ten minutes, there is no apparent growth.

Inability to Wait

For a class assignment last fall, I was supposed to grow a plant. It failed. Twice. So now that it's spring and I have some extra time, I decided to try again in an effort redeem my honor as a gardener and also to have something to do. I planted some seeds last saturday--chamomile and green beans. And they still haven't grown. I know the germination period is 6-8 days, but I thought nature would make an exception for me. I keep peeking out the window, trying not to let anyone know that I'm actually expecting anything from the containers of dirt on the porch. I check the soil moisture a few times each day and make sure it's getting the maximum amount of sunlight possible. But I still have to wait. And apparently I'm not very good at it.

But Then

It seems like this spring has been one of the most dynamic ever. I leave in the morning wearing shorts and sandals in blind optimism and come home cold and wet. Rain, then hail, then wind, even snow take the place of expected sunshine for weeks on end. But then I walk outside to the most substantial, glowing, magnificent clouds I have ever seen. The sky is brighter and deeper and the mountains, dusted with snow, shine against it. The colors of the sunlight separate into rainbows that span the entire sky. For a short moment I wonder if it's worth it--if this brilliant scene is worth the the unpredictability, the threat of storms, the wet feet and the changes of plan. But it's almost not a question because the answer comes without hesitation: unequivocally yes, of course it is.

The Good Things Habit

I did a lot of cleaning and organizing this weekend, mostly because it's hard for me to stop cleaning once I begin. I felt like an addict tonight--

Self(1):"It's just dusting the door jams"
Self(2):"Well, it was just scrubbing the shower. Then it was just cleaning the cupboards. When is it going to end?"

(Note: It is yet to be determined whether the talking to myself is cleaning-product-fume induced.)

Anyway, the organizing bug spread to my computer, and I started sorting through my documents. To illustrate the overwhelming nature of this task, I have around 5,000 items, including a folder entitled "Misc" and another entitled "Miscellaneous." If there is a distinction between the two, I don't know what it is. Especially since the files in these folders have names like "pizza" or, even better, "10-08-07."

One of these ambiguously named files is "good things," which turns out to be a list of at least three good things that happened each day over a two-month period. I made a habit of noticing and remembering good things--from deep talks with friends to a guy dancing like a ballerina at the bus stop--and then recording them.

One of the catch-phrases of my favorite tv show is "I hope you find what you're looking for." In my experience, finding what you're looking for is the easy part. The trick is to look for the right things. If we look for dust on the doorjams, we'll find it. If we look for the worst parts of ourselves and others, it will be nearly impossible to see the best. On the other hand, if we look for the best parts of ourselves, for the funny, joyful, and beautiful things in the world, I'm pretty sure that they will fill up our lives and we will not have any energy left for pessimism.

Self(1): "I think I'm going to pick that habit back up."
Self(2): "I think that's a good thing."

Just a Good Song

From Postal Service's "Sleeping in":

"Last night I had that strange dream
Where everything was exactly as it seemed
Where concerns about the world getting warmer
the people thought they were just being rewarded
for treating others as they'd like to be treated
obeying stop signs and curing diseases
for mailing letters with the address of the sender
now we can swim any day in November."

I don't know if it's the simplicity of seeing everything at face value or the beauty of making the best out of situations we can't control. But I just love this song.

The Permanence of Temporary Experiences

I went to Moab last weekend. Sitting on a rock above Upheaval Dome in Canyonlands and listening to the "profound silence echoing off the canyon walls" (not my words), I realized that I was in a place where you can't pretend to be anything you're not--a place where you want to stand on top of a plateau and smile into the sunshine or be buried underneath it.

I found myself wishing every day was like that day--being with friends, hiking in the morning and rafting in the afternoon. I found myself wishing I could always be in a place whose vastness reminds me that I am not the center of the universe.

I teach a watercolor class, and last night one of my students pointed out that any beauty we add to the world--in the form of art, gardening, music, or whatever--is added for good. Even if we throw the painting away or rip up the garden, that positive energy cannot be removed.

I buy it. I think we have to believe that the good we do for the world has permanence or life seems futile. As an extension of that thought, I would submit that any beauty we add to ourselves also stays with us. Not in a way that we don't have to constantly add to it, but in a way that temporary experiences have a lasting effect upon our souls.

So I say listen to the silence, smile into the sunshine, and let it fuel you through the less beautiful parts of life.

Walking Away

There was a time when I thought nature was fragile, when I thought humans were fragile. Twigs and bones can be broken with little effort. Leaves and muscles can be torn, and land and skin can be burned. Besides our vulnerable physicality, as humans, we are composed of hearts that are easily broken, minds that are easily influenced, and feelings that are easily hurt. Sometimes even the smallest tragedies seem impossible to overcome.

But the truth is that nature is not that fragile, and neither are we. After impossible catastrophes, entire populations of trees and people eventually flourish again, even more resilient for the destruction. Yes, healing takes time, effort, and faith. And I suppose we never walk away from broken bones or broken hearts scarless. But the truth is that our bodies and spirits want to survive, and eventually, we do walk away.

A Simple Choice

I talk a lot about weather and listening to voices. So at the risk of sounding like a schizophrenic meteorologist, well, here I go again.

Do you ever have those times where something simple, that you really already know, hits you so hard and so clearly that you feel like you need to go tell the whole world about it? Well, this weekend I had one of those times. I've been dealing with some self-pity lately--I'm not good enough, I'll never be this or that way, Everyone on the road is driving like crazies because they hate me so I'm going to take it personally, etc. Anyway, I got really down. And then I realized that the voice I was listening to, the one that was telling me those things, doesn't want me to be happy. In fact, it wants me to be eternally miserable.

So it boils down to this. In a world where everything is said to be relative, I submit that there are two absolutes. There is a good and there is an evil. One tells us that we are divine, that we can change, and what's more, it's worth it. The other has encouraged my self-depricating thinking and every other filthy, demeaning, evil thing in this world. In every decision I make, I am listening to one voice or the other. It comes down to a choice between listening to that which promises me everlasting joy and that which desires my everlasting misery.

Trusting what I know of both, the decision is not that hard. I just have to make the choice. And it really is that simple.

Colors

Holi, the Festival of Colors, is a Krishna religious celebration recognizing the end of winter and God and good in the world in general. There is a countdown and then everyone throws cornstarch (pigmented with probably-toxic chemicals that combine into a nice purple color into your nose) into the air. At the end, everyone is covered in bright yellow, purple, pink, green, and orange. That moment is incredible. The air, the people, and the ground are brightly colored and beautiful. Then the colors start to combine into dark purple, maroon, and brown, and their striking intensity is lost. Someone remarked that it's sad that as the pigments mix together they just become brown and dull.

But something else happens when those colors mix. Everyone leaves looking the same. Whatever they were wearing when they came, whatever color their hair or skin is, they are now a strange melange of subtractive color. It's the same thing that happens when the bright colors of fall turn brown and fall to the ground. Trees are left to their bare essentials--no longer defined by their superficial assets. They are still identifiable by their size and structure, but there is something wonderful about the simplicity of a wintertime tree. I've taken time to appreciate their vivid,colorful spring, summer, and fall selves, but I've never thought much about how the beauty of the leafless time also ends.

Class

I will be teaching a watercolor class at Roberts Arts and Crafts on friday evenings during the month of April! If you or anyone you know might be interested, you can register at the customer service desk at Roberts or contact me (casamahela@msn.com) for further information. It'll be fun!

The Voices That Really Matter

I was talking with some friends and thinking about my last post, and I realized that the fleeting voices of fall are, in the long term, not fleeting at all. In this part of the world, the cycle of deciduous trees is as dependable as the sunrise. Though their vibrant colors don't last for long, they will always come back. I can depend on that.

My life, and yours too probably, is constantly injected with voices we can't depend on--voices that won't stand the test of time. Eventually, someone will play a more creative commercial, someone will write a catchier song, someone will create a more intriguing blog. In such an environment, how do we pick out the voices that really matter? I guess that's why those voices seem fleeting--because if we're not watching for them, they pass right by.

So I don't know about you, but I think maybe it's time for me to turn off Hulu, put down my newspaper, and ignore the billboards. I think it is time to listen to the voices I can depend on--the ones that direct my heart to the One Voice that actually matters.

Necessary Somehow

I'm shy, and tonight I had to call my mom and get a pep talk before going through a line at a wedding. I did it (awkwardly), and as the night went on I even started a conversation with someone I didn't know. She lives in Germany and is visiting the United States for five weeks. I learned her name, what she was studying, and what she was planning to do during her time here. None of that information will come in handy someday. In fact, I probably won't ever see her again. And yet, it was necessary somehow. It was constructive.

I have spent some time thinking about why it is important to listen to the fleeting voices in life. Or at least why it's important to me. A few years ago, I tried really hard to not listen. Change is hard, and I got fed up with meeting people that would just move on and out of my life within a matter of months. I decided not to engage in any unnecessary interactions, and I checked out because I was certain that I didn't need short-term people in my life.

I struggled. A lot. I hit some kind of rock bottom, and it wasn't til then that I realized I was missing out on something essential to human nature. I didn't want to admit that I needed other people, but I do. I need other people even if they are only in my life for ten minutes. I need to have those awkward conversations at weddings with people I won't see again. I'm sure I could come up with a list of reasons why listening to the fleeting voices is a good idea. But for me, it is enough to know that life is better when I do. Even if it takes a few pep talks along the way.

Artist Statement for Paintings Below

Every fall, the days get shorter, the temperatures get cooler, and I wonder if I have stocked up enough sunlight to make it through yet another winter. And then it happens. The trees burst into reds, oranges, and yellows, mirroring the quickly dying summer heat. This transformation, like so much of nature, feels magical. In fact, it feels divine.

In attempting to preserve these ephemeral colors, their fleeting voices have taught me about the faith it takes to bloom every spring, knowing that they will die in the fall. They have taught me that sometimes it’s okay to be loud and let the world know you’re there. They have taught me that the landscape becomes even more amazing when it is composed of a variety of colors and shapes. They have reminded me that the fact that we—they and I—are not here, now, by accident.

I painted these colors to preserve them—to remind me of the magic of the season that always seems too short. In the end, they remind me that there is always magic in the natural world. More importantly, they remind me to look for it.

Note: I borrowed the phrase “desperate colors of fall” from Regina Spektor’s The Sword and The Pen:

“. . . for those who still can recall/the desperate colors of fall/the sweet caresses of may/I hope they happen someday . . . ”

Pictures of BFA Final Show

I had a friend take pictures for me, but I haven't received them yet. Until then, here are some I took myself. This is why I'm a painter, not a photographer. The dimensions listed are the dimensions of the framed pieces. For dimensions of the artwork by itself and a price list, see the bottom of this post.

In this place that I am, with these traits I've been given

31.5" x 26"

Ghost of summer's heat

20" x 23.25"

The price of survival

19.5" x 24.25"

This is the part I usually realize it should end.

20" x 18"

Maybe this one will last forever

20.25" x 19"

Listen to our fleeting voices.

27.25" x 30.25"

Do you become most beautiful when you're about to die? I do.

24.24" x 23.75"

Temporary by definition.

38.75" x 48.75"

Exclamation at the end of summer

38.75" x 48.75"

The leaves are mostly dead or dying. First sign of winter.

50.75" x 38.75"

Why are you only looking at my leaves?

25" x 26.25"

First I'm green, yellow orange red, then I'm brittle, then I'm dead

21.5" x 25.75"

To the desperate colors of fall: Stick around a little longer this year. Please?

50.75" x 38.75"

Title	Painting dimensions, inches, +/- .125	Price (Framed)
In this place that I am. . .	21.75 x 15.5	$165
Ghost of Summer's heat	10.25 x 13	$140
The price of survival	10 x 14	$100
This is the point . . .	10.25 x 9	$100
Maybe this one . . .	10.5 x 9	SOLD
Listen to our . . .	16 x 20	SOLD
Do you become . . .	14.5 x 13.5	$120
Temporary . . .	28 x 38	$460
Exclamation . . .	28 x 38	$460
The leaves are mostly . . .	40 x 28	$460
Why are you only looking . . .	25 x 26.25	$165
First I'm green,. . .	11.75 x 15.75	SOLD
To the desperate colors . . .	28 x 38	$460

Pictures Coming

I'm sorry that I have not posted more pictures of my work or the exhibition. I will do that very soon. Thanks again to everyone for taking the time to look at my art and provide support and feedback. Now back to painting.

My Gratitude

In putting my BFA final exhibition together, I feel like I put forth my best effort and Heavenly Father helped me through the rest. Everything went miraculously smoothly as I finished up my show and put together my reception, even though I was at the end of my rope. Faith works.

I was also blessed to have family and friends who were willing to help me in any way I needed. Sometimes I say "I couldn't have done it without you" even though I was capable of doing it on my own. This is not one of those times. To those of you involved in helping me put my show and reception together (you know who you are): I couldn't have done it without you.

Tonight!

Come see me and my art tonight at the Harris Fine Arts Center at BYU between 6 and 8 pm!

Tree Poem

My red leaves are stripped,

My branches stand bare,

Drops of sap on my maple trunk
Are frozen in december air.

Exposed by the season,

My sap stains are showing,

Only time can heal my blemished bark,

Only hope can keep me growing.

Another Painting and Comments about My BFA Show

I haven't named this one yet. I sent a list of titles to the gallery and I figured when I hang my show up, I'll just match them with whatever paintings I feel like at the time. So I'll get back to you on that.

I hang my show up on Tuesday! I didn't realize when I started how much time and energy it would take to mat and frame thirteen pieces, but I'm glad I did it. Hopefully the extra work will make the finished product that much more rewarding.

The Anticlimactic Victory of Spring

It's February. I don't put much stock in whether the groundhog sees his shadow or not, but the very fact that he looks for it reminds me that spring is going to return. Every February signifies my favorite part of winter--the downhill side. But today, when the temperature was in the upper forties and people ran around in shorts and t-shirts, it felt wrong. I love summer. I wish I could go live in summer weather all year long. But right now, here, it shouldn't be warm.

When I complain about snow, some people tell me "there must be opposition in all things," and therefore we need snow in order to appreciate sun. I tell them that I've had enough snow and, if I never saw it again, I could still appreciate summer for the rest of my life. But maybe there's something to that whole opposition thing. I'm sure it will get colder and snow a few more times before the end of winter. But this February, I'm thinking the victory of spring seems less triumphant when it has conquered nothing more than a few days of snow and a few days of temperatures below twenty degrees.

Announcement

The Perfect Palette and Why I Paint

I paint these things because they mean something to me--something that is so much a part of me that I can't seem to fully describe it with a single artist statement. In fact, I don't know how to define it without explaining the zillion experiences that have accumulated into my admiration of the natural world.

Here is one of them.

September 4, 2009

Today I had one of those moments. One of those moments that feels like it was preluded by so many others, that felt like it was as predicated as the aligning of the planets or the dying of stars. It was preceded by a realization that the comfortable warmth of august and freedom of shorts and flip flops would soon give way--yet again--to the winter months, through which I fight to survive year after year.

The moment came while I decided to enjoy the heat of midday on a hike. I was by myself, and a little nervous that there wasn't anyone else on the trail. I reached the top, and then started back down. And ran. Fast. My arms were flailing and I felt free and grateful to be alive. The colors of the brown grass, green scrub oak, bright yellow black-eyed susans, and gray storm clouds slowly covering the cerulean sky combined into the perfect palette. Or at least the one closest to my heart. My feet fell to the dirt and gravel rhythmically, in a way that seemed invincible. I moved and breathed differently than any other time I came down that trail. I'm not sure which of the preceding moments of my day or life actually contributed to that moment. But I hope that I have more like it.

Postscript: I have.

The One That Makes Me Miss Fall Most

Caity Grether, In this place that I am, with these traits I've been given, 2010

Poetic Formalism and Luc Tuymans

Someone told me my paintings are "poetic." I like that description, so I've been trying to figure out exactly what it means. This is an excerpt from an article by Jordan Kantor in the January 2010 Artforum. Describing Luc Tuymans' Gas Chamber (1986), he states: "In its imagery, the painting is barely legible; however, with the benefit of the title, the pictorial restraint and narrative obscurity become integral aspects of the artist's postulation that historical representation may be more a matter of distance, omission, and translation than of proximity, completeness, or primacy. Indeed, the painting derives as much power from what it withholds as from what it reveals."

While I appreciate Tuyman's work, what appeals to me most about this aritcle is Kantor's phrasing. I'm not ready to attribute the terms "pictoral restraint" and "narrative obscurity" to my own work, but I like those ideas and perhaps my work is moving in that direction. For my upcoming show, I am certainly depending on "the benefit of the title" to help viewers look more deeply at my work.

Caribbean Watercolors

These are the my watercolors from of a study abroad in the caribbean last summer. (Yes, it was awesome). Some of them are plein air, and some of them I did from photographs after I got back.

The Beginning

Caity Grether, First I'm green, yellow orange red, then I'm brittle, then I'm dead., 2009


My current body of work began with the following journal entry, from September 26, 2009:

This summer I kind of missed being on the river. But this fall, I am desperately missing having been on the river. Does that make sense? I think maybe I'm feeling a shortage in the solar stockpile that (hardly) gets me through every winter. If my full capacity sunlight silo is barely enough, will I survive this year?

The desperate colors of fall. Is that why leaves turn from cool green to warm oranges, reds, and yellows? To give us as much sunny color as possible before the world sinks into depressing gray and burnt umber? I think so. The bright yellow black-eyed susans are mostly dead or dying right now. First sign of winter.

I watched Disney's Wall-e for the first time tonight. I feel slightly upset. Probably for a few reasons, but that movie is one of them. It was cute, but at the same time a rather striking and depressing social commentary. If I could remember exactly how I felt when Owl's house fell down on Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day, (I am told that I cried over it), I think that I feel the same way right now. Maybe I should watch While You Were Sleeping. It is real enough to be convincing, but there are enough elements of coincidence and hope to leave you feeling optimistic. I relate to Sandra Bullock in that movie because she wears frumpy clothes, has brown hair, and she suddenly goes from being all alone to finding her one true love. I relate to Wall-e because he runs on solar energy.

To the desperate colors of fall: Stick around a little while longer this year. Please?