Mediocrity

I keep thinking about the best things I've ever made.

There is nothing essentially to them besides their newness. I've grown to resent them.

In my table of contents I hope they mean so little. 

Here is where the conflict rests, of course, nobody is forcing anybody to paint. 

But I love it, I NEED IT.

I just don't need it this way.

"Lucy" 12" x 12" oil on canvas, 2014. C. Fralic

I don't like your dog.

Wait until you see what I love.

You'll fall off the page and I hope you'll scrape your knees.

Two marks you can't forget. Twin scabs.

Every time they itch I'll get a new idea.

Here's to letting go of the creature comfort which nurtures me: 

mediocrity.

Raccoon Day

Today I took my dog for a walk. He's an odd shaped, chihuahua-daschund mix with massive ears and a long, skinny body. His name is Frisco, but I call him more human names when I walk with him, just to make myself feel better about talking to a dog in public. We have long, drawn out, one-sided conversations in the bleached autumn sun. He rarely disagrees with me, but will occasionally interrupt me with paranoid barking. Usually it's only source is the raving of a confused rescue dog who doesn't understand things like 'cold wind' and 'fat people' because he's from California, where those things don't exist.

On this day, he bristled in terror and hurled himself towards a gully on my left, where I saw nothing but empty space and tree-tops. I thought perhaps he was astounded at the crinkly noise the leaves made as they emptied from the branches, but instead I saw two furry polyps moving steadily right beside me, the tree-top hunching under the overly-comfortable weight of their round fat bellies.

It was two massive raccoons, just maybe two feet from my face so suddenly despite their clumsy nature. I was more drawn to their impossibly frail humanlike hands than their signifying masks and luxuriously striped tails. They stared at us quite intelligently, but then I realized that this was perhaps their calculating a dinner of my tiny canine friend, so I pulled him up into his arms and he cocked his head, pinging radar off their faces.

I will say that raccoons, when they aren't furious, are probably the cutest animal I have ever seen. They have lovely dished faces and this appearance of being excessively stuffed like living marshmallow lemurs. I'm surprised nobody has domesticated a raccoon and taught it to do silly cute things like play dead or wear a large bow and jump out of gifts. (I considered momentarily how Frisco could barely be taught to sit down when told and how I might trade if nobody would notice, but then he licked me and I remembered that raccoons are terrible.)

I stared for awhile, as most artists do, a little too long at some points where other pedestrians might glance while they continue their jaunt. I desperately longed to pull them against me like down-filled pillows and snuggle into their plush tails, but I knew they'd much rather choose to piss on my arms and give me rabies. With that thought, I let Frisco touch the ground and we went on with our crisp morning walk.

Moments later- well perhaps, an hour- I saw a pile of course grey flecked with white. It looked like a sheet, parts of it gelatinous, and it had no real shape. I thought it some type of discarded fabric, but then I realized in its centre was a flash of glowing white- the glint of bone. It was a skull.

I had seen things like this many times before in varying states of decay, and if you know me, you know I am inexplicably inspired by these states of metamorphosis, the transformation of a thing into the undercurrents of its being- the gestural sketch in which skin and flesh hangs loosely. I always wander by without gloves, or on a jog, I might still see eyes and a face but in this case it was just bones. I gathered my bravery and I dislodged the head of the creature. There was nothing gory about it, not a noise as there was no longer any attachment to its once living body. It was as clean as if it had been neatly polished, which was a marvel in itself.

When I got home I began to clean the dead leaves and dirt from it, and wondered at what it was. I called my cat over to investigate, and though it seemed a similar size to his own head, I wondered if his fearless meant anything. If it was a cat, would he not sense it and fear it, or is that a process of purely human intellect? I knew it was no squirrel as the weight set neatly into my hand, more than a palm, and its molars were nearly as large as those I'd seen in my own mouth.

As if in some process of anatomical teachings, I had learned of both the living and the dead closely in a way only I could be satisfied with: the skull belonged to a raccoon. The animal I longed to reach out and touch only feet before me, suddenly I could touch its very realest structure, smoothed and bleached by the transformation of living and then dying. It makes me thankful to realize that these ideas exist, and that mortality is a concept I rarely get to see, let alone, touch.

Word

I don't feel like writing anything.

Stuff

So we have the mural sketched out- next week on Tuesday, the paint will show up, and then week after- it'll be done. I'll be documenting the process and will post a time lapse on my youtube... I forgot to record us projecting and sketching but it wasn't the cool part anyways. All the freehand junk will be recorded as long as I'm around to record it. I enjoy blogging but I also enjoy watching Youtube so I figured, YOU PROBABLY DO TOO :) I'll link it here, and all of my other accounts when I get there. 

ONWARDS.

This portrait has been supremely challenging and lengthy, but dos skin tones doe.

Been hacking away at some other stuff. Tried out a brunaille and a Verdaille, now I need to try grisaille. 

Cute dog progress. (Brunaille, starting to add colour)

New portrait commission base coat- trying out Verdaille.

I really want to start varnishing my work, but it's almost all commission and I don't have time. I mean that's a good thing because I'm being a grown woman making money and stuff, so there's that.

Ciao!

-C.

"Artspeak"

In a recent Instagram post by the lovely Jessica Joslin, she featured an image containing a wonderfully highbrow artist statement. Following this admirable act of word smithery, was this text:

"Artspeak (aka International Art English) and the way that it is typically used to obscure meaning and intent, rather than communicate ideas, really puts a bee in my bonnet. However...this automatic artist statement generator really is a thing of beauty... 😃 http://500letters.org/form_15.php" @jessica_joslin

 How this thing may ease my mind in future endeavours, in proposals, shows, reviews, features and any kind of sales, is unmistakeable. But the fact that this translator so successfully creates this 'Artspeak', a language unto itself, in a way not so unlike Google Translate, is a bit troubling... and it says a lot about the contemporary art world. In fact, the way it loves to leave some people out has perhaps a purpose that can be read into further.

Artspeak is an exclusive language, and most people like to be part of the 'in' crowd. Beyond the art school students who pour thousands of dollars into an education with a requirement of this knowledge as a basic, who really knows how to speak it? Intellectuals, maybe linguists, and probably wealthy collectors. I struggle to see where the 'average' person fits in, and I see it often on a more visual basis, with the contemporary ideal of fine arts (in Vancouver) appearing to be highly conceptual.

I will never forget the day when my grandparents, parents and I visited the National Gallery of Canada. There had been some recent news of a painting bought for $1.76 million, and I remember, in my awkwardness as child-artist, feeling ostracized by its simplicity. At the time I only really understood art of realness, as I had spent most of my time understanding that the renaissance was a good time for painters, and Robert Bateman was my mother's grail.

This basis of understanding wasn't so different as a child, as it was as a parent. My family felt significantly less pressured to like it, in that I felt I SHOULD like it, or get it, as I really, really wanted to grow up and be an artist.

The painting was called 'Voice of Fire' and it was by a painter called Barnett Newman (I'd post it for you, but I'm not sure licensing, so I'll just link to it HERE).

As an adult, I understand its importance as the type of art it exemplifies, and after reading further I have understood that this piece was intentioned as an investment- it was a good idea, not in aesthetic or even in artistic sensibility, but for a wallet. The idea of art like this is to generate funds, an item symbolizing commerce instead of a coin. This work was essentially worth the cost of supplies, when it was made, but when it was purchased by a national gallery they gladly put a cost of over a million dollars because- guess what?

Art prices snowball. This piece has likely multiplied in value, just like anything you might put in a gallery space, in front of a highbrow crowd. This is why we constantly have this discussion about what art means to us, because there is something deeper, and if the average crowd had a more transparent idea of where their tax dollars were spent, they would understand why it was done. Newspapers didn't get it, it wasn't explicitly placed in the galleries for people who didn't attend art school to read about, they didn't get the memo because they weren't part of the 'in' crowd- but hopefully, one day they'll hear that this piece is loaned out to some other rich schmaltz and they pay us an extortionist amount of money that will pay for our subsidized health care, get more special needs assistants in schools and maybe even give us a nicer tax return because we invested in art!

Artspeak is separating our investments from a casual art-viewing culture. It's the barrier that stands between 'us' and 'them', and the verbal embodiment of the white-walled, high-ceilinged gallery that makes us all feel like we're looking at something important. I suppose, what I've been missing, is the understanding that pure visual art can speak for itself: when in fact, throughout art history it has been the propaganda of the art, the divination of it, that has made it so important.

-C.

Secret Murals- SHHHH!

I Can't say too much, but I have some exciting events coming up. In terms of the information I can give you, I can tell you it's part of the Beautification of Surrey project, and I'll be planning and making it with my fellow artists Hailey Logan, Shandis Harrison, Andres Salaz and Jess Orrin. I'll be keeping a play-by-play of the progress and when it's finished, perhaps I can show you how we went through the proposal process. 

I'm very excited for this opportunity and wish I could show everyone our preliminary sketches- they came together so quickly, and I would say as a team we work incredibly well!

As for images, I can show you NOTHING, haha. But here's some updates on old things, moving slow but getting close (ahhh, glazing...)

I will be featuring summaries of art events I've attended or interesting pieces I've encountered... Tried out the video thing but I suck. You may get a review of the ECU grad show at some point, when I learn this stuff.

Ciao,

C.

Short Blurb

I really like how this looks in black and white.... I've done so many layers on this thing and yet for some reason in colour it looks unfinished. So here's the edited version, which I prefer because it's harder to tell that there are so many muddy colours; only contrasted by the chalky blue background. But without colour, I would pass it as near finished.

Here's to crossed eyes.

-C

Nothing is Easy

As a gift to my friend Manuel, who modelled for me a few months ago, I decided to give him a small portrait. Considering the ease of the last one, I really thought it would be quick... 

No.

Nope.

Nada.

...oh it looks a bit like-

-NOPE.

:$&3&3&7$:&3

Ok ok...

IT FINALLY RESEMBLES HIM. :|

Just goes to show you it isn't WHAT or WHO you're painting, but the abstract shape, colour, form and tone within it. Always try to flatten the image- take away all meaning, twist it upside down if that helps you. Make it so you don't recognize it. Never paint 'Manuel'- just paint colour.

Good luck. 

Weeks

Waking up at 2:33 on a Wednesday, because of GOOD IDEAS.
I wonder how to make a perfect mold of a pyramid.
I wonder how to properly pronounce Spanish words.

Friday, I visit him.
Get into a deep sleep, it's as if I'm catching up every weekend
the bed is small, but I love the silence outside
the backyard is an organic hay farm
the house is under 500 square feet
we listen to owls and watch airplanes dip, I run up a steep hill.

I'm back home on Monday, visit some friends
some days we sit on the beach, I wonder about my white legs
against their natural tans, we all speak with a different accent
but together it's a jumble, fantasy language of noises and gestures
I don't care if anyone gets it but us.

                               Sebastian: Quick, chalk pastel on toned paper. C. Fralic 2014

Work.

Today I walked through the music department at my school. 

Through the soft plinking of keys and the blare of a horn, I struggled to differentiate the sounds- which were good, which were mediocre. My untrained ear was a probable cause- I can't read notes and can only stumble over a few guitar renditions of simple songs.

The problem was that, when I listened, it all sounded good to me. Every sharp note, softened croon, and pluck of a string was a beautiful noise, every song a talented honorarium to it's original maker.

This made me think, is this not all art?

Are we not all honing our skills, building our flexibility-our mental and physical strength? Are not most of us "talented" at this point? 

I wonder if my work is just part of the noise- like most people, very good. The fast-playing pianist ahead of their classmates sometimes but beyond their educational cloister, very small. A studio class of 15-30 students. A town with thousands of people. A country. A world.

A lot of people with skills of just the same. Strong, talented, ambitious. What sets them apart. There are a whole lot of us "talents". We are really nothing special, and you could say it's better to imagine it's for yourself. It's softer. 

I wonder if cushioning the blow is what holds some of us back from reaching far? If my nihilistic (perhaps mechanically realistic) way of doing things will ever set me apart. If I might pass on one day feeling like I never achieved the thing I wanted most (that I think everyone wants the most) not just being an "artist" but just to become something. To have some worldly purpose beyond just eating, sweating and shitting. If that is really unrealistic or if there's a way beyond. Dino Valls once told me, "work, work, work" but what type of work? 

Make more?

Be more?

Do more?

Work. 

I guess there's no harm in trying. 

Commitment Issues

Sometimes I have commitment issues.

Too pale...

Why did I put purple on it? Wtf

Let's use retina-scorching red instead!

Let's just scrub it with solvent and start again...

Voila! One layer... That was just one :(

What you don't see is that I make lots of mistakes... And it's perfectly normal to wipe, repaint and experiment.

Having no knowledge of colour theory (warm or cool) everything is pretty much trial and error. Luckily I have friends who DO know it, and that's why progress critiques are valuable to me. 

Also, lots and lots of paint thinner.

Manganese Blue Hue

My favourite colour, to paint with right now, is Manganese Blue Hue.

               Mmmmmm, juicy.

I happened upon this colour in a Gamblin starter set, and I suppose it's based on some old, toxic colour that disappeared for awhile. I had the same experience with my beloved Flake White (which used to be full of lead) and now I'm starting to think I am attracted to things which could potentially kill me one day.

The reason I am posting about some colour, is that people seem to comment most on the coloration of my works. 

I've always gravitated towards certain types of work with a juicy type of luminescence. I feel that pastels have a glow. All of my under paintings are done in a pale colour, very thinly, and I like to work up into the darks. I like to do this because I'm interested in the transparency of the layers of oil paint.

Without any technical understanding of colour theory, I began by looking at my favourite colourists and wondering how they worked. One artist who inspired me deeply was Mark Ryden, who isolated himself with white during the Snow Yak Show and used only bits of very pale colour. 

       "Long Yak" Mark Ryden, 2008.

I believe this lead him into his signature tonal style, which has shone through his work since. When I first saw his work, it was still beautiful enough to capture me, and as a preteen I obsessed over a CD cover he'd designed for Jack Off Jill- but I would say the Snow Yak Show was a discipline based exercise that created some of his best work.

For that reason, I am isolating myself (as a colourist). I have been for awhile, and I think it's working. I haven't forced myself into the same paleness as Mark Ryden, but I'm sacrificing things... I only really let myself pick a few colours and white. Right now my paintings are about the red family- a consistent mix of oranges, reds, and pinks that remind me of the sugary Kool-Aid I drank as a kid. Then there's white- and when I get to really important parts, I use Manganese Blue Hue.

    Angels singing, trumpets and stuff!

It's like magic. Wherever I place it, colour comes to life. When I mix it, I notice things I didn't notice before. It's the secret ingredient in an Italian grandmother's recipe (it's more Garlic). I am madly in love with a colour, but I know it's only sheer luck. I know if I use it too much it'll become tasteless like a favourite food- eaten too often.

It will be fleeting, I know my love will disappear one day if I ever leave this family of colours... But for now, it's a fresh new romance.

If my boyfriend reads this, I still love you, but can you be my Manganese Blue Hue?

Sincerely,

C.

The Artist as GOD

Are you an artist? Do you know an artist? Are you trying to think of the politically correct answer? Most people will know a safe answer- maybe DaVinci. How about Monet? 

                 "Can I be one?"

There is something to be said about "what is an artist?" and in my opinion it seems to bring some spiritual significance in that some people might think they're not "talented" enough. Maybe they don't make big waves, turn water into wine, invent things, or paint everything blind with just the stubs of their malformed arms...

But they're still artists, and it's still art. 

An artist is not a title. It is not knighthood, or sainthood, or superpowers. Artists aren't alchemists (although some are) and they don't all start sculpting marble with their chubby infant hands (although some do).

What an artist is, is anyone that makes art. For tax purposes, it's maybe anyone selling their work or working within the field of art. If you just read about art, or think about art (sorry, conceptual artists...) I don't think you're an artist.

I promise you I am just like a plumber. If plumbing was art, I would love to fix toilets. I would unclog, cleanse and drain sinks every day, and relish the sound of a leaky faucet. I would spend each night making complicated solutions for new types of drainage systems and create the perfect flush.

But you would never question whether I am a plumber, so why question whether you're an artist?

S.O.S. Venezuela

I bought two 3' x 3' canvasses knowing only two things. One of them, was that I wanted to paint my friend Rosaura, a fellow artist, and the other was that I wanted to use a certain shade of pink. When I think of Rosa I think of her pink backpack, her favourite colour, and her name "Pink Aura" in English. Yet she is no typical pink kind of girl. Even if she plays tennis and smells like flowers, she has a rare depth that few people I've met can match.

One of these many facets is Rosa's heritage. She is a Canadian citizen who was born in Venezuela. 

"Rosaura" (in progress), oil on canvas 3'x3'

In order to for my photographer (Hailey Logan) to takes the references photos I needed, I began to discuss the politics of Venezuela with Rosa. I saw a glimpse of her true feelings and that far off look told me she wanted to be there, fighting for the human rights her people deserve.

This spurned on my idea for the second painting. I asked a friend we had visiting from Venezuela if I could paint him. Once again, we used this process of discussing what he felt about his home, and through broken English, Manuel began to unfold just like Rosa had. 

I feel like the words of Venezuelan citizens are being silenced but the freedom of expression is here with them in Canada. They have the conviction of soldiers, and I hope my diptych will express it in the way I want it to. 

Thankyou to my soulful models and my talented photographer. S.O.S. Venezuela.

Inspiration

Inspiration is one of those things that I know a lot of artists struggle with. I see it especially frustrating when students are in upper level classes and suddenly face assignments without closed quarters. I know it scared me a bit as well, but I have figured out my personal formula. In that, I believe inspiration is something that never really comes and goes.

Yes, there are those days you will push out a masterpiece followed by a day of slogging through poorly drawn feet.

   "I hate when it comes to the feet."

In progress. 2014, 9' x12' pastel & pencil.

I think every moment, especially those moments where you find something your stuck on, is important to your work. The reason you can't do it is because you haven't learned it yet. To become an expert you must master all things, even feet.

For me, getting into a groove can be simple. I make a space for art. I always set things up the same way, and put on some music (usually the same kind). I burn incense. I draw or build. I look at art online. 

I think for me it's just setting aside this special corner for art in my mind, which isolates it and forces me to think. YES, it's work that I have to finish, but I want it more than anything so I'll do it.

In the scheme of things, each foot drawn is a challenge accepted. Each polished line, each piece completed is like an inch forward in the road to something I need. If you ignore these moments where inspiration is "lost", you won't see the leaps and bounds you're taking. Struggle, fight, be brave, and brace yourself. You will get through this and you will learn something from it.

Why I'm An Artist.

I can't remember when I started making art. It was just always something I did. I did it when I got up in the morning, while I watched TV and ate breakfast, while I sat in the car on my way somewhere, and in the margins of every textbook I ever owned. When my grandma asked me, "Where do you get all your ideas?" I said, "The pictures are already on the paper, I just gotta let them out."

I tried a lot of other things, tried to let myself work "creative" jobs, but nothing cut it. I'd get creative ideas and write them down on the back of my hand between juggling coffee cups, saving them for later. I couldn't wait to get home and slap paint all over the nearest flat surface I could find. I had to face what I always knew but was too scared to admit:

I'm an artist.

This sort of inner dialogue is what fuels my work. The expressiveness of a human being. What goes on in this somewhat flawed but beautiful evolutionary work of art that we walk around in: the blood, the guts, and most importantly - the brain.

"Symbiosis" 12x12 in, oil on canvas.

Money

I am thinking perhaps of participating in my first auction, but struggling to understand how to price my work. I've heard there are a few methods- hours worked + materials, square foot + materials, how much you like the customer...

          "How much should I cost?"

   "Sebastian" oil, 2014, 24 x 36 inches

I have only ever sold smaller paintings, 1x1 foot commissions at $70, and have found nothing but success with the accessibility of my pricing- but in the same vein, being a professional working artist is something my spirit needs to flourish, and for that reason I should probably start thinking about money.

"Consider this face permanently installed until I make some money."

I am wondering if, as an artist, it is wrong to think about money? In this generation of booming connectivity, of simple sites like etsy and eBay to forums tightening the gap between continents and generations, is it so wrong to present yourself as a business when you make "art"?

When for only a pittance, any artist could promote themselves in a never ending digital marketplace? With no consent of gallery curators (with questionable, self-gratifying agendas) nor galleries (who will suck 50% of your blood and still charge you a rental fee) can you make yourself into something... Recognized? Important? Profitable?

    "I hope so, because otherwise no smiling. Ever. Again."

I feel as if something big is coming, and it has to do with all of these ideas. I feel as if maybe my arms are strengthening in ready for a big climb. Hopefully... Up.

More soon,

C.