A Gallery Talk

I was asked by the Georgetown Art Center to give a gallery talk in coordination with the show "The Great Outdoors" (on view Sept. 5-28, 2014). Two of my paintings were chosen for this show so I was, of course, happy to be asked.  My experience with public speaking is limited and fraught with long held fears. But I did discover, last year, when the same organization asked me to talk about my work and present a slide show, that I actually was able to speak. The sky did not fall. BUT, for this talk,  I would not have my slides to prompt me, so I decided to write it all down here and then post it, after my talk, so that anyone who had an interest would have an opportunity to read what I managed to say.
 Except, when we were driving to Georgetown, about a 45 minute drive, and were about halfway there, I realized my carefully crafted and perhaps overly rehearsed notes were not in my purse. No, they were at home on the coffee table in the living room. Ugh. So with no other choice, I gave my talk without notes. Which was probably for the best and strangely liberating. I did, however, hastily jot down certain points on a napkin but I didn't even use them, just held the napkin like a kleenex wad while I spoke.

Anyway here's an excerpt of the original written speech...

.....But since I was asked to speak, well,  I will tell the origin stories of these two paintings. And I'm amused to do so because these two particular paintings, chosen for this show, actually have very specific stories to tell and they are each about one of my two children.

Spring, Everything Changes, 2010, oil on canvas, 54x42"

This, mostly pink one, Spring Everything Changes, was painted about my daughter and a peach tree.
A few years back, I was driving through the Texas hill county. It was very early spring, still chilly in the morning. My daughter was in the front seat of my truck beside me. She was on the cusp of becoming a teenager, changing rapidly. As we drove near the town of Stonewall, an area known for it's peaches, we passed row after row of peach trees, all in extravagant bloom. Peach trees bloom before they put out their foliage so the trees seemed to be all covered with the most ethereal pink puffy clouds. Meanwhile, their trunks looked jet black, perhaps still wet from the morning's dew. The ground was a ruddy red, and what little, new spring grass present was bright lime green. The light was crystal bright and clean and as the sunlight came through the windshield it illuminated my daughter 's face and I knew all in an instant that these two visions were connected. It was all connected. My daughter's beauty and the peach tree's gorgeous potential were all intertwined. I continued on, driving and conversing with my daughter, but I was secretly pocketing the exquisite vision. As soon as I was no longer driving I made notes, a laundry list of colors and shapes, and my emotions, and as soon as I returned to my studio, I set to work. When I needed to remember a detail, I could think of my daughter and the moment would all rush back. I just had to pay attention and follow the vision.

Negotiating Safe Passage, 2008, oil on canvas, 36x36"

The other painting, the mostly blue one, Negotiating Safe Passage, is about my son.
When my son was in 6th grade and starting middle school, he particularly dreaded school. He needed to be there before dawn for a "zero hour" class which began before the regular school hours. Since it was still dark out I would walk with him. The route we chose to take brought us along a small greenbelt, a wooded path near our house, and that autumn, it was especially overgrown and wild. The vines were thick and the trees' canopy blocked out the city lights making it pitch black in spots. My son was never afraid of the dark, what he dreaded was getting to school. As we walked the foliage and tangled vines seemed to be acting in sympathy, a mirror of his emotion. I could not spare him these fears but I could bear witness. When I walked back home, without him, I saw the same vines and thicket of trees in the new day's dawn and I knew that that was what I had to paint. I tried to capture nature's awe inspiring dark and terrible power--along side it's fearsome beauty and I tried to remember that evil is not inherent in nature, evil is a trait we humans sometimes attribute to nature because of our own fears. My son was not afraid of the the dark, the outdoors, or even nature itself, he was afraid of what harm humans can do.
 
Here's another take on this painting. Something I wrote a few years back. About fear and good and evil in nature in general and human nature in particular.