Authentic Texas Figs

  I like to draw from observation--real life, and I try to use photos, as tools, sparingly. Photography is an art form all it's own and I'm primarily a painter. By drawing what I actually see in front of me I learn more about how I see and how I interact with the object or scene. It becomes more personal and contemplative.
  This week I wanted to draw figs. They're in season, and in all the grocery stores now, but I wanted to learn how to draw some particularly good energy, Texas figs, so I asked my dear friend Rose, who has a small farm outside of Austin, to bring me some from her tree the next time she drove into town. She graciously obliged. She likes a good art project and she grows some delicious figs.
  They are a mildly ugly fruit on the outside, but on the inside, once cut open, they reveal a seductively shiny center (almost bawdy) which is flesh colored on the edge and is an increasingly rich burgundy color towards the center. And they're sweet to eat.
  I could take a quick photo with my phone, print it up and work from that image but it would teach me nothing about figs. And nothing about my relationship to these figs and how we both change during the experience.

Figs, pencil

I  set the figs on a dish which I then placed on some vibrant orange velvet which set off the chartreuse of the fig stems and the purples of their skins. The first drawing took maybe an hour and a half, in pencil, just trying to get a reliable likeness, but I am a sucker for color interaction so I knew this still life should become a painting.

Figs, watercolor

   Watercolor seemed the best choice because it's necessarily quick to finish, and oil, which is my more accustomed medium, would take so long that the figs would dry up or mold long before the painting would be complete. So watercolor was the choice. It took about 3 hours, and indeed, in that time the figs' burgundy red grew darker and the pretty fleshy beige color grew slightly translucent and grey. The resulting painting is not that great--I am still learning to control watercolor.  So, unsatisfied with the watercolor,  I know that my next step is an oil painting. But now that I have shared the better part of a day with these figs I feel like I can take the drawing, the watercolor, and my new intimate knowledge of these figs and use it all to create an oil painting which says something about how I see figs and avoid the use of a photograph which I find to be so dulling--and I can go ahead and eat the darned things already.

This is how we've been enjoying them lately:
  Macerate thin slices of red onion in balsamic vinegar and a pinch of good sea salt. Let sit several hours or overnight, no need to refrigerate. When you're ready to eat, slice 10-15 figs (5-6 if they're large) in half and set them on a bed of mixed salad greens, preferably a mixture of tender lettuce and bitter greens like arugula and radicchio. Spoon out the sliced, macerated onions onto the figs, add goat cheese crumblings or shavings of manchego cheese. Drizzle on a few spoonfuls of the balsamic vinegar liquid and a few drizzles of olive oil, salt and pepper to taste--lightly toasted pecans or walnuts are a nice addition. You will probably have leftover balsamic liquid: I have been adding more onion slices to the leftover liquid so that I can have the salad again tomorrow---with strawberries, pear or mango. It's a sweet and sour treat.

Fig, red onion and goat cheese salad

Mom and Dad Go with Me on a Bike Ride

  Today I rode my regular bike ride, the same route I've taken, with very little variation, since 1991. I don't ride every week but I sometimes ride 3 times in a week. Lately I haven't been able to make the time. I knew I needed to ride and that it would be the one thing which would break me to the other side of how I've been feeling lately, mentally and physically. I know that it makes a huge difference in the quality of my life. I know this, but it had been probably 2 weeks since my last confession--er ride.

One of Dad's more controversial works, alter and mural with sculptures, St. Augustine church, Houston

  It takes about an hour to complete my ride. Once on my bike, time immediately stands still. The great thing about taking the same ride for so many years is that it sort of takes me for a ride. I don't have to think about which way to go. It's like my bike knows. I am freed up to THINK and when I do notice my surroundings it's all about the nuance. Everything that is different from the last rides I notice as if it's highlighted in neon. Certain trees in bloom--and trees actually relocated from one side of the street to the other (that was really funny) and so much development in this city...

  But I really meant to write about my father. I only mentioned the bike ride because it's what enabled me to concentrate long enough to know what was really holding me back for the last 2 weeks. My Dad died about a year and one half ago and this week I am participating in an art show/fund raiser to benefit his widow who is still digging herself out of the mountain of medical bills and financial ruin which resulted from his injuries due to a welding accident and his subsequent inability to produce work for the last few years of his life. He was an artist, a sculptor, mostly. His life serves as a confusing mix of what to do and what to avoid as an artist. It's just I don't always know which is which.

Dad with the "Zoo Friends", in front of the African Elephant sculpture, our driveway, Houston

 For instance, he actually made a living as an artist. His work sold really well, and for a long time, in the Houston area, throughout the United States and somewhat even in Europe. We had some tight years for sure and he didn't do it alone; my Mom was there at every step, lending her keen organizational skills and sheer aesthetic grace. But he and my Mom had a family of 7 to support and it's a rare artist who can actually make a living with their art, much less, support a family. So that's a success I'd do well to learn from.

  But he was complicated. I think today he would probably have been diagnosed as manic depressive. He had a horrible and damaging temper. He was incredibly intelligent. He had a weakness for alcohol. He knew how to work a room. He put his art and career before his family--or so it seemed to us. When my parents finally divorced after 26 years of marriage we were all devastated, including him.

   I loved him, of course, but there were times when I wanted to do everything different than what he did. I wanted a balanced artistic life and a happy family. I didn't want to be the kind of artist whose bad behavior people excuse because they're an Artist. Yet I never wanted to be anything else than an artist. Always and still. So for many years I cultivated more of my mother's traits. She worked tirelessly on the sidelines helping his career and gently raising their children. She did all his billing, his filing, his PR; she kept a beautiful house, gave dinner parties for important collectors and never appeared anyway but glamorous and chic.

   This approach has not necessarily served me well.

   So, on my bike ride I revisited this theme. I know that I tend to behave more like my mother and that tapping into my father's aggressive and even risky strengths is important for me if I want to thrive and grow. It is all the more challenging for me because some of the other things my mother taught me, consciously or not, are how to be ladylike, polite, patient; and how to demure.

  I gave myself a talking to. I recommitted to embracing the wealth of wonderful traits in both my parents from whom I've gained so much and I resolved to put my own particular spin on being an artist...this way of being, that I am still inventing.