JIM MOTT ROC-ART 2010-2011

Transitions / Connections, December 15-17

2011-01-22T15:44:00.000-08:00

Shown above: Morning Light, Nye Park at Norton Street; and The Pines Near Lookout Shelter, both oil on panel, about 6" x 9".

These are the last two paintings of the 2010 phase of my ROC-ART project (the project will continue through much of 2011). Despite the contrasting subject matter, they share enough in technical approach and spirit for me to consider them a pair. And the way in which they wrap up the first year of the project while opening up a fresh sense of direction has prompted a relatively long reflection:

While all of my 2010 ROC-ART stops were both challenging and rewarding enough to make my local "tour" as valuable as anything I've done with my Itinerant Artist Project, my last stop of the year, in north Rochester, stood out as the most affecting.

No doubt that has something to do with my having felt at least a tentative sense of belonging in a setting – a depressed, racially mixed neighborhood with little sense of social mobility – that contrasts starkly with the world I grew up in. Yet it’s also part of my hometown, only a few miles from where I live. I knew, of course, that such contrasts exist in our community. But I know in a different way now, having been a guest there for a few days. (I’m also aware that the west Norton neighborhood is a place where someone with my artist’s earning power might more reasonably be expected to live).

At the same time, I gave my best while I was there. This may not mean anything tangible to anyone in the neighborhood other than my host. I can’t pretend that people walking home form work in the dark, in a blizzard were especially uplifted to see someone out there sketching the way a certain telephone pole slanted or how street lights clustered in the distance. But I know I was engaged in an energetic dialogue with the place, being as present and responsive as I could. The artist in me thinks that matters somehow.

And then there were the gifts (apart from my host’s much appreciated hospitality) that the place gave back to me. Most unexpectedly, I came home with a chunk of red rock from the Genesee gorge that I’ve been working into some of my paintings (see “Rock Art” post, two entries back). Second was the painting of houses on Norton Street, which I felt compelled to do even after I’d wrapped up my visit. The composition had caught my eye when I first arrived. And the morning light on the third day demanded to be documented, even if I felt too spent at the time to tackle another painting.

I was essentially heading home at the time and could only allow myself 45 minutes to work. The result was an exercise in reflex and instinct – and more fun than I usually have when painting. A few days later I tried to bring the same approach to different subject matter, in Mendon Ponds Park. I don’t know if it’s the resulting images that I enjoy so much or the spirit behind them, but both paintings feel like a special gift from north Rochester.

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At any painting stop – whether on a US tour or here in Rochester – I have to come to terms with an unfamiliar setting, try to establish a sense of belonging through creative response. Finding subject matter that I respond to and then finding a way to paint it more or less effectively can transform my sense of dislocation into a bigger sense of connection with the world. And sharing this experience by showing my paintings extends the sense of connection – or communion – further.

These are some of the reasons why I paint, even though I usually find painting to be a very uncomfortable and difficult activity.

These are also some of the reasons why I like to embed my painting process in a dynamic social outreach context – such as the Itinerant Artist Project. Art is a deep medium in an age of shallow media. For both my own sake and art’s sake and (to the very small extent that I can contribute) for the public good, I want art to be all it can be, at least once in a while.

Art tends to be considered a personal act. Even humble artistic efforts, though, can have social value, too, because collective meaning is renewed through countless creative interactions. For me (and for most artists I know) the creative effort and the public good go hand in hand, at least ideally. In our culture, though, it’s hard to uphold that point, or even to allow oneself to take it seriously.

I do these outreach projects partly in order to take that ideal seriously, and amplify it. I also do these projects because I like how the outward risk, adventure, and reward reflect and highlight the inner risk, adventure, and reward inherent in any creative process. Plus, once in a while I like having nothing to do other than being an artist in residence.

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My warmest thanks to all of my 2010 hosts – essential collaborators in the process, who were uniformly wonderful; to my project sponsors; to everyone else who has offered to host or otherwise helped the project along; and to anyone who has read this far…

North Rochester, December 13-15

2011-01-19T17:07:00.000-08:00

In early December, when three people walked into the old frame shop near Culver and University where I was looking through a stack of abandoned moldings, I didn’t really expect one of them to be my next host.

Among them, though, was Danny Deutsch, the owner of Abilene, whom I'd met before. And he had heard of my project. I explained that for my last stop of 2010 I wanted to stay in a north Rochester neighborhood. Did he happen to know anyone who lived there and might want to be a host? He sort of grinned and pointed to his friend, Cheryl Bagley. This is the view from her window:

Serendipity plays a big role in my Itinerant Artist Project (IAP). Before I started doing art tours I attempted to control a lot more of the painting process and my life in general. I was especially cautious about exposing myself to unexpected influences, other people’s ideas, and new places.

The IAP and related projects like ROC-ART have encouraged a shift in attitude. Being fretful or guarded doesn’t work too well. So I at least try to welcome the unexpected and see where it will take me.

Nye Park, off of Norton Street, near St. Paul, is a street I’d never been to, in a part of the city I barely knew. I have to confess that I’d only been through the general area two or three times in my life, and the neighborhood was somewhat alien to me.

It was late afternoon when I arrived, with a bitter wind and lake-effect clouds bringing dusk on early. My host wasn’t home yet, so I drove a few blocks to the Genesee gorge, to get my bearings, more contact with nature, and a walk. Nature felt inhospitable in the gorge – icy cliffs, a roiling, dirty river, more wind – but I was glad for it. Glad also to recognize the Seth Green Trail, the paved road that took me from a parking lot off St. Paul down to the river, at a point more or less directly beneath the Driving park Bridge. I’d been there on a geology field trip in the ‘90s. And once more, several years later, to put in a canoe.

The painting of the bridge that leads off this blog entry was done from a photo I took near the low end of the Seth Green Trail. When it's 10 degrees, dark, and snowing outside, I tend to paint inside and sometimes will work from the 2" monitor on the back of my digital camera (with memory and sketches playing an important role).

Painting from life was pretty much confined to views from inside the house looking out, two of which I tried the second day. And I did some other paintings based on a snowy walk I took with Cheryl on the second day: north to Seneca Park, across the Genesee on a pedestrian bridge, and back, via the Route 104 bridge. It was a wonderful, long trudge. The best part was the elegantly engineered ramp that leads gradually up the west gorge wall from the pedestrian bridge. Half way up the ramp we were met by a large, mixed flock of birds, one of which I later painted. This next panel is really 2 small, separate paintings:

That evening, after a second exceptionally good dinner and a game of Dazzle (a board game of my own devising that I play with friends)... I wanted to do another painting from life, which meant finding a window to look out. I'd already noticed the Christmas lights next door and sort of wanted to paint them. So I did. Cheryl later told me that the curious mound of snow in front of the bush that I saw and suggested is a shrine to the neighbors' deceased daughter. If I'd known I might have avoided painting it out of respect, but maybe painting it was not a bad thing:

The Nuthatch painting and the second painting shown in this entry (a view of the neighbor's house) were actually done on the third day. By the time I left -- after a few days of getting to know my host and her cozy house, and after several exploratory walks at all times of day -- I felt a curious attachment to the neighborhood. Going back to Brighton and Pittsford, my usual stomping grounds, felt like a bigger transition (and almost a longer journey) than coming back home from California. The suburban world I was returning to did not make as much sense and somehow did not feel as real or honest after my short stay in north Rochester.

I found myself unwilling to drive straight home and instead drove further north, to the lakeshore, where I stood a while, as churning gray-brown waves battered the long, snowy beach, and the wind blew light flurries from ragged snow clouds.

Rock Art, December 23

2011-01-18T17:35:00.000-08:00

During my December stay in north Rochester, I took an evening stroll down the Seth Green trail, into the Genesee Gorge. While gazing at the massive icicles that had formed along the shale and limestone exposures, I noticed a layer of rock -- about a foot thick -- cutting a reddish line across the otherwise gray cliffs.

Then I recalled having been there before, in the '90s, on a geology field trip. This was the Furnaceville hematite, a low-grade (oolitic!) iron ore. It had been used, I'd been told, to make a reddish brown house paint in the 1800s. It had been popular especially for painting barns.

I climbed up a short, snowy slope and grabbed a small chunk. I was intrigued by the possibility of painting with Rochester's only mineral pigment. A week or so later I used a hammer to break up the small rock and then grind it into a powder. I mixed some with water and made a few quick, improvised watercolor sketches.

I mixed the rest with acrylic medium to make a sort of gesso ground for a few panels. Lacking proper grinding equipment, I was left with a very gritty gesso -- rather like sandpaper when it dried. But, still, I like the thought of painting some future Rochester scenes on Rochester rock. Rock-art for the ROC-ART project.

Atlantic Avenue Postscript

2011-01-06T14:22:00.000-08:00

My time in the Atlantic Avenue area was quite pleasant, except that I'd come to the stop with my creative expectations raised too high. Because I already liked that part of the city so much and had wanted to paint there for so long, I was constantly aware that two days was not nearly enough time to do justice to the subject matter. I could work there for months, and probably should.

So when I got home I did another painting of the area - this view of Atlantic Avenue. I hope to do more eventually.

Atlantic Avenue, November 3-5

2010-12-31T11:58:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been quite sure where – or what – the neighborhood of the arts is, but the area loosely defined by Atlantic and Anderson Avenues has always been one of my favorite parts of Rochester.

In the comfortable mish-mash of residential, industrial, and commercial development I have found a lot that interests my eye (and mind). There are billboards and weeds, smokestacks and factories. Some of the city’s most important cultural institutions and cafes are found just few blocks from train yards, tilting houses, and crumbling wasteland. There’s something both dynamic and arresting in its endless array of odd juxtapositions, pleasing geometries, unexpected oppositions, and the fine balance between down-and-out and up-and-coming.

For some reason I’m especially intrigued that a place like the Barrel of Dolls is right across the street from the New York Figure Study Guild – one of the region’s more vital art centers, where the human body is studied attentively but (one assumes) with such different intention. Yet both are there, at the margins and off the beaten path for different reasons.

Here is an enlarged detail from the second painting shown above:

When I started the ROC-ART, the one thing I knew is that I had to make a stop in the Anderson-Atlantic area. Finding a host proved easier than expected. When I was at the Dryden Theater one day in early spring, I asked the sometimes ticket-taker (and sometimes writer for City Newspaper), Kate Stathis, if she knew anyone in the area who might want to put me up in exchange for a painting. She said she would, and that was that.

Here's the view from the 3rd floor of Kate's house. The back of the flatiron building is my favorite wall in all of Rochester:

Being a guest in unexpected places has its benefits. I'd been curious about the Greek wine, retsina, but had never tried it. Kate had some on hand, and it went well with her feta cheese, garlic and tomato pasta.

The first painting I did at this stop, of Anderson Alley at night, isn't shown here, as I have yet to make a scan of it. That painting was made for of the opening show at the Shoe Factory, which took place a few days after the painting was finished. Meanwhile, here's another view of Atlantic Avenue:

On a somewhat sunny late afternoon, at the very end of my stay, I decided to look for inspiration in a different direction -- the other side of University Avenue. Because I'd met my host at the Dryden Theater and because we both like the Eastman House gardens, I used my last hour of daylight and energy to paint this final composition.

It's something I'd wanted to do for years, but the complexity, the difficult scale, and my sense that the sundial garden (as I call it) is more an experience than a scene had kept me from trying. On tour I think less and paint more. And there's sometimes a sense of urgency or necessity that keeps me from talking myself out of taking chances.

Gibbs Street, September 7-8

2010-12-31T00:17:00.000-08:00

Having a mentor can be a good thing. I think this is especially true in a field such as fine art, where the “career path” is not at all clear, the incentives are mainly internal or invisible, and it’s easy to feel lost when just about everyone else you know seems to be moving through the game of life more briskly, with the reassurance of collectively valued trappings: job, salary, family, retirement accounts, etc.

In my efforts to follow an artistic path, I‘ve often been sustained more by the assurance that someone understands what I’m doing than by anything else. As Mark Twain said, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.” Good criticism can be useful, too.

I’m fortunate to know people who care deeply about art and whose insight, wisdom and interest have helped to keep me going – not only lightening my spirits but helping to illuminate the way. A few of these people may even understand my art better than I do. At least I like to think so sometimes.

For example, I was feeling discouraged by the results of my 7^th ROC-ART stop – at a residence on Gibbs Street – until I showed the paintings to Jeff Ureles. Jeff is someone who can see a landscape painting I’ve done and tell me what philosophers I’ve been reading (or should be reading). When he looked over the set of Gibbs Street panels and declared them among the better paintings I’ve done lately…I decided to believe him. Although by “better” he may just have meant more alive with creative struggle.

Shown here (above) is an enlarged detail from the second painting I did at this stop: a rainy night scene done on a black panel. The detail shows how loosely I was working. The painting shows more or less what I was seeing from the guest room window around 11 pm my 1st night. However, what had really caught my interest was the pattern made by lamplight on the textured sidewalk, so I tried again:

This second night scene was rushed; I was too tired to focus and wanted to get to bed (although I was also avoiding trying to sleep because I didn't think I'd have much luck - too many loud vehicles, car doors, a student outside my window playing harmonica).

Since I was staying near the Eastman Theater for this stop, I might be forgiven the presumption of invoking the names of Mozart and Beethoven when discussing my painting process. It’s only because I found this wonderfully insightful thought in a recent music review:

A composer’s greatest achievements are often inspired as much by his [or her] deficiencies as by his natural talents. Beethoven [did not] have the easy facility for counterpoint that Mozart possessed, but… it seems to me that his difficulty in working it out is perceptible to listeners, and this gives his counterpoint a force that we find nowhere else, as if we experience the willpower necessary for its conception.

Charles Rosen, New York Review of Books 12/13/10

Similarly (though on a much humbler scale, of course), I tend to think that the emotional or spiritual content that some people notice in my paintings makes its way in not as the result of any skill I possess, but through the struggle involved. My perpetual sense of not knowing what I’m doing when I’m painting can be very stressful. However, it may allow something into the work that’s better than anything I could control.
Not being in control or finding oneself in unfamiliar territory (external or internal) can feel threatening, but such states can also call forth the creative self’s best energy. I guess that’s one of the main ideas behind the Itinerant Artist Project. Yet in painting I still tend to want control and to resist disorientation. When the painting process gets the better of me on both counts, it usually takes me a long while to feel at ease with the results, even if they are interesting.

But I digress – and have failed to even mention my wonderful hosts:

Tom and Marianne Kroon were among the very first people who offered to be hosts for my 2010 ROC-ART project. I believe they saw my December ’09 IAP exhibit at the Mercer Gallery and responded to a notice on the wall about my plans for a local “tour.” The offer was made irresistible by their address. Unlike many of my friends, I don’t get to the Eastman Theater or Java's very often, and when I do I don’t tend to cross Main Street. So residential Gibbs Street was an exciting and novel prospect. It also made clear early on that my project would indeed take me not just around the county but into the heart of downtown Rochester.

As some of my previous stops show, I like urban subject matter. When I finally made it to Tom and Marianne's, though, I had trouble figuring out what to paint. I felt very much at home with my hosts but could not come to terms with the surroundings. Maybe my energy was just low. At any rate, all else being equal, I decided to make the most of the comfortable chair and table in my guest room and did most of my paintings looking out the window - first at night, and then in the daytime:

It made sense to paint the Eastman Theater, an important landmark that was staring me in the face. As a painting subject, though, it was awkwardly situated – a grand structure spread across the end of a small street. And the perspective was tricky. There were students walking by at all hours, even in the rain, so I painted them, too. That was another challenge. People rarely find their way into my paintings, partly because I want to focus on the abstract poetry of landscape or present it as a contemplative setting; people introduce a narrative element that can interfere with that. But it's also true that I don't have much practice painting people, so it's safer to leave them out.

In the end, though, the difficulty I had with the surroundings forced me into a position where I was willing to take some chances and work a little bit recklessly. That's probably a very good thing, even if it was uncomfortable at the time. By the same token, these could become some of my favorite paintings from the ROC-ART "tour" – once I can associate them with what I gained rather than the discomfort of the experience.

Meanwhile, back in the Gibbs Street neighborhood, I finished up by grounding myself in a simple, straightforward scene:

Pittsford, July 26-28

2010-08-25T22:19:00.000-07:00

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"This is the strangest painting stop I've ever made," I said in greeting, as Bill met me at the door of his Pittsford house. Strange because it was so close to home: I'd gone to the same high school as my hosts, Bill and Laura; and they live in a small housing tract just a stone's throw from my old junior high school - and not much further from the house where I'd spent most of my life.

Plus, at our level of acquaintanceship it would have been much more normal, natural, and appropriate - at least by conventional standards - to be meeting for dinner somewhere. Instead I had my duffle bag full of stuff and was moving in for a few days.

"Hi, Itinerant Artist," said Bill.

(Bill, among other things, plays lead guitar for the Chinchillas).
After a tour of the lawn and garden, I met the two cats and the two kids - Patrick and Simon. This was my 1st local "tour" stop with children in the house. On other tours I've always liked having youngsters around.

This was no exception, except that my guest room turned out to be Simon's. I didn't mind his Sponge Bob sheets or anything, but had to wonder if he resented being displaced. When he responded well to my painting of a plastic pink flamingo a couple of days later I sensed that, if there had been a problem, I was at least briefly forgiven. Later Simon showed off some of Patrick's very cool artwork. It's nice to be accepted by younger people. But still, as curious as it felt for me to be moving into a house a few miles from home, it must have been curiouser (to borrow a word from Lewis Carroll) for Patrick and Simon.

Bill, meanwhile, seemed to think I'd be painting mostly around the house, yard, neighborhood... which is what I sometimes do. But I had come already knowing that I wanted to spend my time painting the rolling farmland of south Pittsford. Just a quarter mile away, big puffy clouds were floating over wide fields striped with greens and the bright gold of freshly cut wheat stubble. Off I went to get a painting done before dinner.

This is the 1st painting I did at this stop. I only had about 45 minutes, so it was hastily done.   The next image is an enlarged detail from the painting (as is the previous bit of cloud):

Speaking of intentions, I'd timed the stop to coincide with the full moon. I didn't just want farmland but to be out near the farmland when the moon was brightest. It's the sort of thing - especially with my own house closer to the city, that I dream of: easy access to moonlit countryside.

I have something of an obsession with the moon. After dinner I rushed off to see (and quickly paint) the moonrise.

And later still, when all the neighborhood was getting ready for sleep, I went out to observe the effects of moonlight on the tract houses and their lawns and driveways. I walked around for quite some time, sketching and marveling and seeing not a soul. What could easily be described as an ordinary setting during the day became a realm of mystery and wonder - even moreso because of the contrast with how most people conventionally view such a place (even those who live there and like it; even me two hours earlier). I felt like waking up everyone in their sleepy houses and telling them to come out and see where they lived: not in suburbia but in an amazing universe.

(The sense of being a lone witness was happily banished the next day when Laura later told me that she and some friends had enjoyed a similar walk with similar feelings some time ago).

Unfortunately, my late night inspiration didn't translate very effectively into art. Maybe because I was too sleepy. Maybe because Bill was still up watching TV, and I got too caught up in an episode of Futurama to concentrate on painting. Maybe because painting night scenes isn't always easy. But I made a try at it. One can sometimes learn by trying:

On the second day I started to do stronger work. I'd come to paint picturesque farmland and was surprised to get better results by sticking around the house, doing a painting of the front window and garden; a painting of the pink flamingo who resides in the backyard hosta patch (see painting at the start of this posting).

As Bill sort of had to remind me, this is how the project is supposed to work. My hosts' world turns up new and unexpected subject matter; new things provoke fresh creative dialogue. Turning life in a subdivision into a painting may take more conceptual effort than painting a pretty field, it may force me to give more of myself to the enterprise.

That evening, Laura and I went to a nearby hilltop to watch the full moon rise. It was a highlight of the visit, but I decided not to do another moon painting.

For my third painting on the second day, I went back to open space and night, but with more conviction and confidence and better energy than the day before. Also, Bill and I were watching Jon Stewart while I painted. Maybe that helped.

Using a black panel, I could suggest the telephone lines by scraping into the blue-gray paint with the sharp end of a broken paintbrush. This technique can make a painting a lot more interesting or ruin it in a few seconds. Here's are two close-ups:

Choosing what to paint is almost always a big challenge. At home I seem to spend most of my time trying to decide what to paint. On tour, I force myself to spend more time painting than choosing, but by the last day I always have such a backlog of ideas that the strain of choosing often shows. Sometimes the last few paintings have a special intensity of very focused, direct action (see my 1st stop), but if my focus doesn't hold, they instead show signs of indecision and scattered energy.

The three paintings from the third day are a mixed bag. The sky paintings were meant to convey my fleeting sense that the big puffy clouds floating over the little houses carried some sort of judgment. The contrast between the clouds' grandeur and out little lives below could be uplifting, but I decided it should have an ominous edge...and painted too much darkness into the clouds.

On reflection, I think the dark gray in the big cloud sits too heavily, but the next close-up shows a part of the cloud where the paint still has lots of life:

The second "house and ominous cloud" painting was done after I'd taken a small tour of the Mendon Center Elementary School grounds - which are located right behind this house.

Incidentally, my school tour consisted of jogging barefoot around the playground for 10 or 15 minutes. 35 years ago, when the place was a junior high school, a friend and I got out of dodgeball and baseball by running during gym. We ran outside, even during thunderstorms, and our classmates probably thought we were odd, especially when we stopped wearing shoes.  At age 49, I may have appeared even odder, but my feet and the grass enjoyed a 35 year reunion.

Speaking of the past, this last painting (done from sketches made the night before) was an attempt to recapture something I'd seen in the same place several years ago, when the houses were new. The trees had filled in, though, and I couldn't find the right composition.  Insistent memories can be turned into strong paintings, but sometimes they distract from the process of seeing what is at hand.

High Falls Postscript

2010-07-31T22:53:00.000-07:00

My favorite thing about the High Falls “studio” was seeing the Genesee brewery outside, just across the gorge, with its amber buildings, the bright “Genesee” sign, the curious little array of smokestacks and scaffolding. For my first day or so at High Falls, I was walking around with the Chinchillas' Genesee Beer song continually (and cheerfully) popping into my head. I might even have been humming it when no one was around.

I’ve always liked the falls and the brewery – the “beer factory” as some people living nearby call it – but I only had a sightseer’s superficial acquaintance with them. Being on site for two long days, I felt my relationship with that part of the city taking a big step forward. In a strange and pleasant way, I became a part of the whole scene.

Usually on tour I do all the paintings I can while staying at a given place but don't do any more paintings from that location after I leave. That’s partly to avoid getting too drained – the 2-3 days takes a lot out of me – and partly because there's always the next stop, and my focus moves on. With a local tour, that changes a little.

So my High Falls work didn't feel complete until I'd done a more careful study of the Genesee Beer sign, something from the railroad tracks where I’d walked on my last evening, and a finished painting of the falls. The last will have to wait, but shortly after getting home from High Falls I painted the first two.

Here’s the Amtrack station at dusk. This improbably rural-looking scene is in the heart of downtown. The buildings, lights, cars, and noise are abundantly present, just outside the frame.

High Falls, June 29 - July 1

2010-07-24T13:28:00.000-07:00

In my 25 years since grad school, and with the exception of a few stray months in residencies and subletting friends’ spaces...I’ve never had a real studio. By real studio, I mean a bright, spacious, open room with high ceilings, big windows, not much clutter, and nothing much to do except paint.

That’s part of why I was excited to set up shop in the Small Gallery at the Center at High Falls. For two days I had about 1000 square feet of space, two wide desks, and a wall of windows looking out over one of Rochester’s most distinctive settings.

My first painting of the High Falls stop (above), however, was done from the nearby Pont de Rennes footbridge.

I had arrived later in the afternoon than anticipated and was anxious to get a pretty good scene painted pretty fast. I chose the view looking north because I wanted to start out with something picturesque that included the river. And the drama was a lot subtler and easier to work with than the view of the falls. For some reason I’d misplaced my black and gray panels and had to resort to red ochre (the color is evident around the edges of the brushwprk). The colors in the landscape that I was trying to capture didn’t harmonize with the red so much as fight to overcome it, or match its pitch. So the result is kind of bright and active.

I later attempted a quick painting of the bridge and brewery. The light was going fast, and so was my focus...so it ended up looking pretty slapdash:

In an urban setting such as High Falls, the biggest challenge is deciding what to focus on; everywhere you look there’s something interesting. In a more natural landscape I can often find a scene that encapsulates or distills the general look. In the city, I’m always trying to choose and feeling torn when I have to pick one view over the next. During my stay at High Falls, I had more trouble than ever, partly because for those two days Rochester was treated to an ongoing succession of the most delightful looking cumulus clouds: Even the most mundane scene looked a little bit enchanted.

The lower part of this painting (above) is the gray shale of the gorge wall. And here is is an enlarged close-up of the sky:

The next painting is an early morning scene from the second day, done on a black panel. I left it less finished than most of my paintings. It has a sense of mystery and abstraction that I thought would get lost if I kept painting:

A view of the falls from an office building was left unfinished for a different reason: I thought it was interesting as an exploratory sketch of a complex space from an unusual perspective. But I didn’t think the scene would make much sense visually if I painted it in. It’s the edge of the falls, railroad bridge and a hint of the Inner Loop seen from a window 6 stories up:

Another falls painting started but not developed:

As a High Falls artist in residence I felt some obligation to be accessible – and some interest in the interactions. Among the more memorable visitors were a young woman who seemed to like watching art in process and a young father who discussed how having kids had taken him away from art – except for sketching children (something I wish I could do better).

When I painted outside, I seemed to become more of an overt curiosity, and people were more likely to come up and talk (instead of pretending to understand why I was there or assuming I wanted privacy).

At any rate, the wide array of subject matter, my difficulty focusing and fluctuating energy level led to more "unfinished" paintings than I usually end up with on tour - and more variety of style. This set of paintings from High Falls almost looks like a group show.

With the falls, the factories, the old buildings, the railroad, and forgotten paths, one can have a pretty memorable ramble through the High Falls district – especially at night.

These night scenes (above and below) were done after a long exploratory walk on my second night. The people I ran into and the places I went left me pretty fired up. Even if I’m not checking out spots that most people would avoid because of their inaccessibility or potential danger, walking around at night can feel charged with a sense of mystery and newness. Even with cars driving by I felt, at times, like the first explorer on an unknown planet.

Because I like to show enlarged details of the brushwork, here are 2 close-ups of the State Street at Night painting:

Curiously, I never finished a painting of the falls themselves. On my last morning I had planned to. But the morning light - and the novelty of being in the gallery before the general public - put me in good spirits, and I decided to jog around the 2nd floor galleries while they were empty. On my 3rd lap I noticed that the view out a certain window might be a good backdrop for an interior scene. Not having done an interior for a while, I decided at least to make a quick pencil sketch. One thing led to another and soon I was sitting there painting, while the public trickled in.

Later I only had time to get another painting of the falls started:

A final detail (and special thanks to High Falls director and host Sally Wood Winslow for making this stop possible):

Clifton, June 2-4

2010-07-09T20:45:00.000-07:00

When Bob Emens contacted me last December about hosting, I knew I’d have to make his place part of my local “tour.” Not only was he the first person to make an offer after reading about my project in Mark Hare’s column, but his location – the hamlet of Clifton in rural SW Monroe County – added useful geographic diversity to my list of stops. And there was an added hook: Bob farms and pickles garlic scapes (see: Luke's Originals). How could I resist the chance to paint a garlic scape landscape? The time for that, Bob said, would be early June, right before the scape harvest.

A scape, incidentally, is the flower stalk of the garlic plant – typically cut from the maturing garlic plant before flowering, to allow the garlic bulb to develop more fully. The scape has been gaining popularity as a vegetable in its own right. This painting of a scape (above) was done on my second evening, as I waited for a dinner of pasta with garlic scape pesto.

I arrived on a hazy Wednesday afternoon. First off, I got a tour of Bob’s handsomely built house (he’s also an engineer and designer), and his extensive property. Then, after months of eager anticipation, I settled down to do my first garlic scape landscape. More exactly, it was a small field of garlic plants with the neighbor’s house in the background:

Here’s a second version:

I have to admit that painting garlic scape landscapes wasn’t as fun as thinking about painting them, but the effort connected me to the place and made me appreciate dinner more: grilled salmon with garlic scape pesto, and dill pickled scapes on the side. Fortunately my brief adventure in Clifton was just beginning.

After dinner we drove to the local cemetery – a small, square parcel of mowed grass with simple stones and several trees, including a venerable, dark spruce. I’m not someone who is necessarily drawn to cemeteries, but this one made me feel pleasantly – if oddly – at home. The place expressed simple beauty, and a sense of being cared for, despite evidence that some local teenagers had driven a pickup truck through some of the rows of gravestones.

I think it was partly the ploughed field along one side of the cemetery, stretching out and up across a large, wide hill that gave the place a special resonance. My spirit felt settled and uplifted at the same time. Late dusk charged the setting with mood and inspiration rather than spookiness – although I was a little unsettled when Bob, in another corner of the cemetery, started conversing loudly with no one I could see or hear. I’d forgotten he had a cell phone.

I did some sketching and made a tiny oil study but couldn’t quite figure out how to convey what appealed to me through paint. To use one of Bob’s expressions, I couldn’t get my head around it. Two days later I tried again, but in daylight. To get the mood and effects of dusk I’ll have to go back sometime with better focus.

A detail:

That first evening Bob also took me by Clifton’s main church. The next night, after meeting a sister of Bob’s who helps to keep the church maintained, I made a painting of it. The thick stroke of pale yellow paint is meant to be the headlights of passing car.

I'd never heard of Clifton before this project started. "And that's the way we like it," said Bob (and a couple of other locals I met), who also referred to it as "the town time passed by." There's more pride than regret in that epithet, and whenever plans resurface for a NYS Thruway exit in southwest Chili, residents of this hamlet rally to fight it off. I'm glad they've succeeded so far. For me, living for a spell in Clifton provided a true break from the hustle and bustle and tension of urban and suburban Rochester. At times – walking quiet roads, poking around by old barns, hearing the birds and smelling wild roses – I felt closer to my childhood in rural Massachusetts than to what I'd known of Monroe County.

The dark side of this rural idyll was the poison ivy. I had been to nearby Black Creek Park before, and a walk around Bob’s property reminded me that poison ivy in this corner of the county grows about as aggressively as anywhere I’ve been. So for sitting down and painting I stuck to the cultivated portion of the property and nearby roadsides.

That was actually a good thing, as it got me looking around more than I might have. This painting and the one shown at the beginning of this posting were done along the road into Clifton center, between breakfast and a late lunch. In 5 hours, one walker and about 2 cars passed by. I sat in an aluminum lawn chair with old webbing that Bob said was about to break. It held up until I’d finished the 2nd painting, and then I fell through.

Here's the barn painting again, followed by some detail shots:

North Irondequoit Postscript

2010-07-04T11:42:00.000-07:00

Concerns about my upcoming California trip cut my visit with Peggi and Paul to a short day and a half. We agreed to get together for another afternoon of art and hospitality later on in the spring. And we did, in early June. The results were: another fine hike, a painting of a heron we saw at surprisingly close range during that hike, and an excellent lunch of homemade pizza followed by tapioca pudding – something Peggi and I share an enthusiasm for. Paul, too?

Meanwhile, after California but before the return visit, I’d been listening to CDs of P & P’s current band, Margaret Explosion, while driving around and thinking about my time in north Irondequoit whenever I got near Lake Ontario. This painting from west of Rochester, along the Lake Ontario State Parkway, was done in late May. In spirit it connects to the set from Peggi and Paul’s, so I'm including it here.

North Irondequoit, May 9-10

2010-07-04T11:33:00.000-07:00

On May 13th I flew out to California to be artist in residence at the Gunn High School in Palo Alto and to do a short itinerant artist stint in Napa Valley. Before I left there was -- barely -- time for my 3rd local "tour" stop, with Peggi Fournier and Paul Dodd. (For an insightful alternate account of this visit, along with a cute photo of a fawn, see this entry from Paul’s blog, Pop Wars).

I'd known about Paul and Peggi for a long time. Back in the late '70s my younger brother had told me about a Spanish teacher at the high school who fronted a New Wave band, Personal Effects. That was Peggi, and Paul played drums. Somewhat later I became a fan of their Xeroxed proto-blog, the Refrigerator. They were doing web design before most people knew what that meant and generally seemed to be on the cutting edge of local culture. I'd only bumped into them a few times before and was pleased for the chance to get to know them better.

I was also pleased to find that they live on a quiet street surrounded by woods, near the southeast corner of Durand Eastman Park; and that they are more down to earth and congenial than my imaginary conception of them -- abstract icons of coolness -- had suggested. On the negative side, I arrived with a serious sleep deficit and some anxiety about the upcoming California trip.

A good long walk helped. Paul and Peggi are serious walkers and have miles of trails to choose from, in and around Durand Eastman Park. I've lived in the Rochester area for almost 40 years but had never taken the time to explore this substantial pocket of woods and wetlands. It was a treat. So was dinner.

In between I tried to find something to paint. Not that there was any shortage of worthy subjects. But woods have an "all around" effect, more setting than scenery, and it can be hard to focus in on a composition. The more picturesque scenes I'd noticed on the walk were too far away to hike back to with my paints, so I opted for a view from the master bedroom window (shown above; details below).

The graceful trunks and branches, the delicate leaves, the rather diffuse atmospheric quality imparted by the window glass reminded me of a Chinese paintings. The effect would have been better conveyed with the calligraphic brushwork and delicate washes of ink painting. I felt very clumsy pushing oil paint around on a small panel, but some good energy came through. These details amplify some of that energy.

Later I drove a few miles to the shore of Lake Ontario to look around. It was nice to be near the lake, but was too tired to finish anything. This might be called an oil sketch showing headlights, sunset and the road along the lakeshore:

By morning I felt rather desperate to do what I considered a strong, distinctive painting. I should note here that Paul is a noteworthy painter, and his paintings – usually portraits, often in series or in grids – tend to convey a sense of purposeful concept. While my Itinerant Artist Project paintings emerge from a concept-driven project, each one is an arbitrary, unpredictable and often (at the time of painting) frustratingly incomplete response to an unfamiliar setting, a new world, an experience of people and place that I’m trying to come to terms with and honor in some satisfactory way.

After some poking around I decided that the brightly colored chairs in front of the house could provide a key image – with structure, personality and even metaphorical value. Actually painting them was a challenge, moreso because of all the warblers in the vicinity.

I’m a low-key birder who gets fanatical during warbler migration. Sitting still to paint while life moves on is rarely easy. With over a dozen warbler species singing and passing through the treetops around me, it was impossible. Every few minutes I got up to look around with my binoculars. (In case you hadn't noticed, the finished painting is shown at the start of this blog entry).

There are no warblers depicted in these painting details, but the magnified brushstrokes do have a feathery, flitting quality:

This view of Lake Ontario at sunset was done with help from a photo taken the night before.

Most of my paintings are done from life, but sometimes I work from a combination of memory, sketches and the monitor on the back of my digital camera. The results are sometimes good, but there’s usually more interactive energy in paintings done from life. In any event, quality of response is my primary aim in painting. There are no strict rules about what works and what doesn’t, but you know when you’re getting it and when you’re not.

After another walk (see Paul’s blog), I drove back to the Lake Ontario shore to paint but chose a view looking south – across Eastman Lake.

When describing my personal approach to painting, I like to paraphrase Kuo Hsi from Sung Dynasty China, who said his ideal was to bring together the subject, the medium and the artist's spirit in a way that does justice to all three. And I often mention clouds or trees as examples when describing the wonder of one or two brushstrokes being able to convey the reality of paint, subjective feeling and the image of something observed (e.g. a cloud), all at the same time. This detail shows a cloud.

And finally a little study of the house without chairs, just before I headed back home.

Water Street: Part 2

2010-05-01T22:30:00.000-07:00

Although there was endless excellent subject matter to be found in smaller scale scenes I saw while walking around outside the apartment -- flowering trees, shadows across back alleys, ducks on the river, cars parked in front of stores and pizza stops -- I had trouble resisting the allure of the big view. Anyway, how often do you get to look at something like this from your living room?

Of course the whole view is much more vast than the section I chose to paint -- and focusing in on a workable composition was the big challenge. Painting it was also a challenge. Maybe because I'd done a similar scene the day before, I was a bit more relaxed for this one and more comfortable simplifying what I was seeing into color shapes:

By the way, you can click on any image to see an enlarged version.

At night I went back to the same basic scene, except with a wider scope. While working, the dabs of paint on the tiny black panel seemed much too simplistic for the effects I was seeing -- lights shimmering on the water, etc. -- and ridiculously out of scale with the immensity of the city at night.

But, still, painting allowed me to show some appreciation for it all. And the little marks convey honest interest and response. That's a lot of what art's about for me. If the painting also suggests the scene in a pleasing way, so much the better. I most like the shadow on the murky river (cutting diagonally up form bottom center).

On the thrid day I painted a view of the back of the Federal Building, with the County Office Building tower in the background. I'm more likely to protest an unjust war in front of the Federal Building than wave a flag, but I still like how the flag looked and how this quick suggestion with a coarse-bristled little brush came out pretty well.

Incidentally, while sketching and taking photos on Andrews Street, I forgot that I might raise alarms for guards at the Federal Building. A man milling around taking notes and continually stopping to set down a suspicious parcel (a calzone from Pizza Stop) and snap photos must have looked like a potential security threat. The guard who came over to talk to me was commendably polite and open minded, although I was told not to aim my camera at the building. Apparently sketching and painting are OK, though.

(SEE PREVIOUS POST for the first half of this stop).

Water Street, April 22-24

2010-05-01T21:43:00.000-07:00

(a detail from the first painting I attempted, which is described a little further on...)

From my first stop in semi-rural Pittsford to a 5th floor apartment on Water Street, in the heart of downtown Rochester was quite a shift. For further contrast, my second stop was a solitary venture. Host Joseph Becker was on hand only in spirit, having left town on business for a few days. Usually I prefer company on tour; the interaction is a big part of why I do it. And I'm more productive when I don't have to think about cooking. But the views were good and the apartment more comfortable with just one person on hand at a time.

Visually, I like urban landscapes for their hard geometries, tightly knit perspectives, the patchwork of distinctive textures, surfaces built of stone, brick, glass, concrete. I especially like bridges -- in my youth I considered becoming a civil engineer -- and although my treatment of bridges and buildings is loose and impressionistic when I paint, I think pretty carefully about their construction and arrangement.

My second painting shows four bridges and some familiar downtown buildings (one seen only in rather gaudy reflection). This detail (below) shows a bit of the Sister City Bridge. I rely much more on suggestion than delineation in my painting. It was fun trying to "capture" an array of international flags with quick, tiny dabs of paint (click to enlarge any image):

Looking around and sketching downtown can be very stimulating. Painting in a city, however, tends to take a lot out of me. This is especially true when I'm faced with a panoramic, high-angle view -- however exciting -- and trying to turn it into 6" x 9" compositions. I had some trouble with my first attempt: a view west toward Downtown United Presbyterian Church. Mainly, I'm not sure my suggestion of glare on a rubble-filled lot alongside the river contributes to a coherent sense of actual space. Hmmm.

Even if I'm just suggesting most of the details in a scene, or going for abstract composition, everything has to fit together right (more strictly so than in natural landscapes, where everything is flexible). Urban complexity is very different from the complexity of nature. In both settings I try to incorporate what I see into a sort of spiritual or poetic whole in the painting. I find it more challenging to succeed in the urban environment, except at night:

Night simplifies everything. This third painting of the first day (above) shows the view northwest, across the Inner Loop. It was done about 2 a.m., and I was too sleepy to finish it. Still, some people who have seen my Water Street paintings in person like this one the best. Like sketches, unfinished work often shows more of the raw energy of intitial inspiration, of instinct and process, than can be seen in more developed, "finished" work.

(this post continues at: WATER STREET PART 2)

First Stop: March 2-4

2010-04-17T17:46:00.000-07:00

(Painting #8, Tract House with Butterfly Plants, detail).

I'd planned to start my Rochester painting project in April, but my first hosts suggested winter. It seemed like a fine idea. How can a series of paintings of the Rochester area be anything like representative without some snow scenes?

My hosts, Steve Daniel and Joan Zeller, live just barely in Monroe County, near Powdermill Park, the Burroughs Audubon Sanctuary, and the Auburn Trail -- the latter a wonderful, little known resource that is currently threatened by a short-sighted development project proposed by the Town of Victor.

Because my NYSCA grant for this project stipulates creation of new work within Monroe County, I confined most of my sketching and painting to Powdermill Park and the Daniels' neighborhood. But my first paintings -- finished before I arrived at the Daniels' home -- were done near Burroughs Audubon. It's a special place and full of good associations for me. When my family first moved to the Rochester area in the early 1970s, one of our neighbors was Paul Ott, then president of the Burroughs Audubon Nature Club (BANC). Mr. Ott took me and my younger brother on birding trips that helped us get on more familiar terms with Western NY.

Anyway, the first painting of my first local Itinerant Artist Project (IAP) stop was a modest effort...but also the first IAP painting done in Winter. The second one (above) -- more of a lively oil sketch -- shows Irondequoit Creek as it meanders around one side of the sanctuary. This next one, below, is a wetland area inside Powdermill Park:

Adjusting to my new household for a few days was pretty easy. I couldn't have asked for friendlier, more congenial hosts. Nature walks with Steve were among the highlights. Steve is the director of Nature Discoveries and one of our region's notable naturalists. A nature enthusiast myself, I'd heard about him for years, even corresponded, but we'd never met. He and Joan heard about my project through the City Newspaper review of my latest IAP exhibit.

Here (above) is a view of Irondequoit Creek as it meanders around Powdermill Park. On this walk Steve and I found 3 or 4 species of flying insects and a centipede -- despite the snow. We were excited, but I couldn't help thinking that most people might not be.

The previous paintings were done either from my car or inside, from sketches and digital photo reference. This next painting is the first snow scene I painted while sitting in the snow...after taking a dip in the creek, no less. It was a bit hastily done:

Because of the nearby parks and Steve and Joan's interest in nature, I think we all assumed I'd paint nature scenes - trees, hills, the creek... And I did, for my first two days. When I finally got around to the paintings I wanted to do more for my own interest -- quirky suburban scenes reflecting the immediate surroundings - I only had a few hours left in my visit.

Tract House with Butterfly Plants shows a neighbor's house with "winter weeds" enlivening the foreground. It's painted from the Daniels' driveway, and the plants are (I think) verbena, planted specifically to attract butterflies. The scene might have appealed to me in a strictly visual way, but I was also drawn in by the thought that the verbena represented mindfulness in a setting known for a more formulaic, routine approach to landscaping.

I was hoping Steve and Joan would like my take on their side yard but didn't want them to like it more than the nature scenes. That seemed to be the case, though, so -- with 45 minutes before I had to leave -- I painted a second domestic scene so we could both have one. Feeder with Squirrel turned out just as interesting and more charming (getting a squirrel to look OK with just a few stabs of the brush takes a lot of luck; I'm grateful to have had it).

Here (above) is a detail of the Squirrel painting -- the one my hosts chose. Oil paint on a gray-primed panel.

Rochester-area Hosts Wanted

2010-01-19T12:44:00.000-08:00

I am currently looking for volunteer hosts in Rochester and Monroe County for the 2010 local version of my Itinerant Artist Project. Anyone with room (preferably a private bedroom) and interest is eligible. For more information about hosting, please see: hosting, or contact: jim@jimmott.com . To learn more about the project, see my previous blog.

Hosting can work any time of year. It requires a 1-3 day commitment to provide room and board. Hosts receive a painting done on location. Ultimately I expect more offers than the number I need for the project, and my selections will be based on diversity in setting and hosts' background. Please let me know if you're interested, and pass on this info to any friends.

INTRODUCING ROC-ART

2010-01-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

The first local version of my Itinerant Artist Project, the Rochester Community Artist in Residence Tour (ROC-ART) is my way of using art to learn more about my community and to share the exploration with others.

ROC-ART began in 2010 and continues through 2011. Like the Itinerant Artist Project, ROC-ART is based on the principle of gift exchange – “trading art for hospitality” – and on the rich quality of sharing that comes from situating my painting practice in other people’s homes for a few days.

This Project involves finding volunteer hosts in 12-15 locations in and around Rochester and at each location: living 1-3 days on site; making several small paintings based on the local surroundings; and giving one painting to my host in thanks for the food, lodging, and sociability.

Unlike my usual art road trips, this Greater Rochester “tour” will be done in installments - about one stop per month. This will better allow me to share the project’s development and generate a more meaningful interaction with the public, through this blog.

My goal for ROC-ART is to create a sort of composite portrait of Greater Rochester through a series of approximately 100 small-format landscape paintings (oil on panel) from locations that reflect a wide and representative range of physical environments, from rural outskirts to inner city neighborhoods. The resulting paintings will be posted on this blog and eventually displayed in a public exhibition.

This project is supported in part by the NY State Council on the Arts and the Arts and Cultural Council for Greater Rochester.