What to Make of This Artist Statement

“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death”

-Jesus of Nazareth

This life offers no shortage of experiences with sadness, hey?

Personal encounters, stories of loved ones,

and taking in the daily news leads to appointments with grief that seem both too common, and never comfortable.

Grief can be a catalyst for despair;

leading to feelings of hopelessness,

disillusionment, and unfathomable,

emotionally excruciating pain.

Through the making of abstract large-scale tapestries, I explore how the repurposing of material — often clothing — from one form to another, applies to the nature of transformation. This creative practice involves a complete change of things I hold in my hands. Due to rips and stains, their purpose no longer applies, and I find sadness, and comfort in the cutting and re-purposing of these daily objects that at one time clung so closely to my body,

or those of my loved ones.

From my experiences, when it comes to tragedy, it seems there is a very thin, and almost invisible silver lining.

It’s almost as if you have to squint, and at times, believe, you are seeing it,

A tiny ring of light behind dark, stormy clouds:

tragedies present opportunities for personal growth.

This is not some kind of consolation prize, but rather a mandate to make meaning out of experiences appearing entirely senseless, and unjust.

Repurposed materials, like the body, like the earth, are a composition of elements and therefore a site of inevitable transformation. The collection and reworking of otherwise discarded material is linked to this idea of life as a cycle, one that inevitably involves dying and death, but also the creation of something new, and it seems, no matter how hard I try to parse the two; they are eternally, inextricably linked.

The tapestries are reminiscent of blankets, an enduring universal symbol of comfort through the ages. The paintings reference emotional landscapes, suggesting that the way through the grief processes is inevitably a journey through the terrain of the psyche, and for those who conceive of it — the soul, and the spirit. While much of the journey is overwhelming and out of control, there are some possible directions that can lead to the cultivation of interpersonal growth. As a fellow grief experiencer, I reach for a semblance of control and when it comes to the artistic process, I for once, get to be the storyteller. I transform found materials into artworks, and explore the nature of grief, creating a visual language of lamentation, and comfort, all the while taking my own time to heal, question, and process.

The textile works are both intricate and large, inviting the viewer to look closely and step back, mirroring the process of tuning into emotional needs and also reframing, or gaining perspective.

While the process of change as a result of grief is inevitable, it does seem there is one aspect of this arduous journey that remains possible to control, or at least, to hope for: that transformation leaves room for interpersonal growth, despite all the heartache, headaches, anger, rage, insomnia, and inexpressible sadness.

Growth is an open word that can mean many things for many people: For me, this has meant abandonment of fear, deepening of empathy, humility, appointments with divine love, gratitude and joy. This art is the means by which I explore the nature and outcomes of transformation, and that elusive silver lining, if I am squinting hard enough to see it.

Spirited - Artist Statement

Here is my artist statement for my recent series, Spirited

Spirit is ever the evasive word. Slipping in and out of conceptions of reality, it is the very definition of something loosely held. It’s root word being breath, describes something

of the expanse beyond, and tiny spaces within.

Her Element, Marcie Rohr, 2023

In the end, spirit may mean different things to different people, but spirited seems to be something rare in this world we can all agree on. Gritted teeth. Tenacity. Advocacy. Vibrancy. Relentless stubbornness doused in good fun. Determination. Endurance.

I make textiles because they connect me with a past marked by habits of work done by hand. Reminders of the endearing, enraging, monotonous grind of “women’s work” are not far off when my hands are busy. Stitching large scale tapestries, I think of old hands, maybe from one hundred years ago, chapped from washing dishes in scalding water, or arms hauling a load of wet laundry to hang on a line. I try to find the balance between bemoaning this archaic domestic work, and accepting it’s essence as a dying art form. When I’m bent over a textile, holding it in my lap, or stitching yarn as it hangs on the wall, I feel a kinship, a connection, a kind of doting tenderness flowing through me, that is, devoted attention to what I’m doing, right then and there. I’ve found that in this practice of artmaking, nothing I do can be overlooked; every square inch calls for intention. I could use a sewing machine, but I don’t. I could sit in a chair at a desk but I don’t, I sit on the floor, feet often falling asleep, surrounded by scraps of found cloth and glue and paint. The devotion to simplicity in the making is so fierce it could be called perverse, with all the ways I could make things easier for myself, but I don’t.

Hooray for Life, Marcie Rohr, 2024

There is something in the makeup of these textile pieces, and the layers of the paint, grown from all that focus; puzzles woven into their form, not unlike complex emotions colouring personalities; myself, people in my life I call family and friends, and undoubtedly you, too. The artwork, woven or painted from undivided intention, and determination, takes on its own unique vibrancy, similar to a person: unique, beautiful, obstinate, sometimes hard to love.

In short: spirited.

The textiles hanging like that, all loose on the wall, especially exude a kind of vulnerability that I’m aiming for. They are anything but performative. In this way, they remind me of a stubborn streak I have,  determination —much to my ego’s chagrin— not to make art to evoke a sense of wonder, and therefore, detachment from the grind of reality — the wet laundry, the dough, or whatever work that so far today has been left undone in my world. I want to build art for connection, a kind of embodiment of the posture that we as humans might adopt when we want to relate to each other, and not impress each other. It’s a very hard thing for an artist to do, all poised for performance, and I still don’t have it right. This series is simply another iteration of my attempt that for years I’ve been working on.

It must be true that making art is a slow, monotonous grind.

Signs of Life, Marcie Rohr, 2024

Grandmother-root-word spirit is connected to the ancient and ephemeral, but the picture we imagine in spirited is the exact opposite— to be unflappable, a stick in the mud. Is someone spirited really ephemeral? Not so much. They fill the room with themselves, in all their human imperfection, entirely unapologetic for the fire in their eyes.

Spiritual Transformation. Marcie Rohr, 2024

These pieces, I hope, exude something similar. Rooted in desire to encourage the expression of being alive, not just despite, but through the grind of monotony that is the work of my hands. (While I have skin and bones structuring my essence, what am I doing with myself)?

Spirited illustrates a desire to rise to an occasion with strength, and courage, despite a host of imperfections and obstacles — and believe me when I say in my life, there is an abundance of both. Spirited articulates a desire to say “I am here” while I am here, in the here and now. With the love and tenderness, the slow grind of cultivating many layers of these works, they feel complete when they resemble topographical landscapes, often areal views. They speak of a relentless craving to see beyond circumstantial obstacles, and to soar, weightless.

At the same time they are expressions of intent to dig inward, journeying through layers of mind and essence and finding things inside, strange and beautiful pieces of a grand puzzle that will never be quite complete, but still, I fiercely love.

She, too, is a Soft, Growing Thing. Marcie Rohr, 2023

If spirited connotes a desire to rise to an occasion, what occasions does this life relentlessly call for? Ones of connection, vulnerability, the slow grind of kindness. Relentless compassion. The granting of wisdom, the monotonous work of forgiveness.

I slog through in hopes of crafting a life that looks a little bit like art.

And about these works, I hope, if you sit long enough with them, they will begin to look a little like life.

Blossom Pressure

Blossom Pressure

Am I the only artist who feels a mixed pull to create flowers?

Symbolic beauties that they are…well

— I mean —YES,

they are beautiful.

So why do I have so many mixed feelings about painting them? Maybe just for that reason.

Part of me is contrarian by design. Growing up, art was a way to resist unspoken expectations, especially about womanhood. That could be a whole different blog post.

I remember the tension between the expectations of female loveliness, and my own awkward human experience. I was unsettled with myself. I’ve never seen myself as elegant. When I was younger, I had bad posture, awkward limbs (I was affectionately nicknamed Gumby in my pre-teen years), and I could (and still can) be seen wearing my heart on my sleeve. I was enamoured with visions of what a perfect female was, and the mythical woman of my imagination was always evading me. She was gentle, I was forceful. She was alluring, and I felt like I drove every  one away. She was cute, I was gangly.

She was, she was, she was, she was…not me.

So when it came to painting flowers, it felt disingenuous. Art was an extension of myself. Flowers didn’t seem to be. I found myself painting them here and there, while feeling heaping dose of imposter syndrome.

Over the years, as art became more and more an extension of myself, but sales and financial success evaded me, well-meaning friends and family would sometimes say, “You should paint flowers — people ALWAYS buy paintings with flowers.” And while this advice was well meaning, it did make my inner conflict worse. I know it wasn’t meant this way, but it felt like a reminder that the symbolic loveliness everyone wanted didn’t represent me.

The meaning I made up in my head was that everyone wanted something in their life.  That something wasn’t me. And still, I wanted me in my life. I really liked who I was, awkward and all.

Over time, I pushed deeper into the realm of human emotions and painted abstract pieces like Complex Notes, and In Formation, that I felt were true expressions of my inner world. They still represent the deepest, fullest extent of my artistic and emotional worldview, and for this, I will love them till the day I die.

Collectors who have purchased some of those paintings are my people.

They don’t tell me to paint flowers, just because flowers sell.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

There the flowers were, in my mind’s eye — in my eye’s eye, blooming and swaying.

And as I took them in with deeper awareness, I realized they didn’t always seem so elegant and perfect. What I began to notice was their unfathomable variety.

Long, short, big; tiny, confident, or demure.

Flowers that smell amazing, and some that don’t.

Flowers that grow in swamps, in deserts, and everywhere in between.

They aren’t objects of beauty — they are the earth’s artwork, unparalleled in variety, shape, and form. They represent the most elaborate array of colour nature offers. They are bold, bright, brave, and, yes, beautiful. Their connection to the earth’s ability to pollinate plants and trees suggests that they are a visual reminder of the health and wellbeing of our planet. Subconsciously, I think they remind us all that we as a planet are alive, and at least for today, we are, at least somewhat, okay.

While my aversion for painting them didn’t grow, my fascination with them did. One day, while contemplating my own artistic practice, I thought, again, about flowers.

This time, I thought about a single flower. Closing my eyes, I imagined a bud opening to the world. With that, I imagined a feeling of doubt. What if every flower unfolds with a mix of fear, and questioning of their own loveliness?

What if every flower that ever existed, when still a bud, worries they will never bloom?

One day I ran into an acquaintance. He was holding a SLR camera, taking photos of the blossoming cherry trees. While he adjusted the lens for another photo, we chatted about the time of year that Vancouverites converge upon cherry trees with cameras.

He said, “You know, I feel this weird blossom pressure. Like every year I feel this need to go and get that perfect shot.”

And the phrase struck me like lightning. Blossom pressure.

I immediately knew what he meant. I felt it too; I’ve been feeling it all my life.  Pressure to exude loveliness. Pressure, to bloom in my own fragrant way. Pressure to be beautiful. Pressure to capture beauty, and exude it while doing so.

And yet, truly, I’ve always identified and loved the more awkward, less conventionally appealing parts of myself. Parts that reflect my imperfection and humanity. It’s always been a hard thing to explain, but I don't say things like “I’m awkward” wanting to change that, or because I’m chronically insecure. It’s something I recognize in myself and celebrate. I just don’t know always how to express that. I honestly can’t find a better quote about this than by John Reuben, I heard as a teenager: “I’m insecure, no big deal.”

Blossom pressure.

That one flower, ever wondering if it will ever bloom.

With this phrase in my head, I went back to the (quite literal) drawing board. I decided to resist the pressure to render anything perfectly. I tried my hand at “ugly” flowers. I found inspiration in awkward, unconventional ways of rendering blossoms; in the spirit of Paul Klee’s Sky Blossoms Over Yellow House, or Flower Field by Eric Carle.

With new creative direction, I started a one hundred day drawing project. At the time of writing this, I’m on day sixty one. Each time I want to draw a flower, I remind myself to resist the pressure. I celebrate the variety of shapes, not just of the flower pedals, but of the wobbliness of my own lines. I celebrate all the variety. Some of them do end up looking elegant, some don’t. I love them all. To see updates on the project, check out updates on Instagram.

I also began exploring each flower’s unique story. I’ve learned their names, origins, and symbolic meanings. Incredibly helpful to this process  has been Flowers and Their Meaning, the Secret Language of Flowers, by Karen Azoulay.

As I become more comfortable with retelling the stories of flowers, I have a feeling this is going to lead to a spring series, to share flowers that are perfectly imperfect, a tad bit awkward, but absolutely delightful in a thousand different ways.

When the new blossoms emerge in the spring of 2025, I’ll whisper to them.

“I knew — I always knew — you were going to blossom.

You are meant to share your unique loveliness with the world around you. Don’t ever try to be something you’re not. You are perfectly imperfect, lovely and lovable just the way you are.”

YES, it’s a bit eccentric. But let’s be real. If I was a flower, I would not be a rose. Not every flower is a rose. (I would probably be more of a burdock).

In the great garden of life, there is room for unspeakable variety, and there is room for every one of us.

Sights for Sore Eyes

I’m writing an entry that I started when I was recently in Mexico. Moments of rest during my times away from home have become really important nuggets of inspiration. I’ll start with my entry written one morning in a beautiful jungle town.

Some days aren’t quite as idyllic as this one. This morning I woke up in the picturesque town of Sayulita, in a dreamy boutique hotel with a rooftop pool overlooking the town and surrounding jungle hills.

We will probably take a stroll toward the oceanfront cafes to find some breakfast, and that will be the most pressing task for this effortlessly beautiful day. Looking around, everything is a delight to admire. When it comes to finding inspiration, there are far worse places to be.

Some days are not nearly as dreamy, and I’ve found that days like these can seem so distant, that I wonder if they ever truly existed.

As an artist, I’ve realized that just having a collections of photos on my phone is not adequate. I found I don’t take the time to really look through the photos, and when I do, I focus on the look of the photo, not always connecting to the feeling of the moment as it was my experience back then.

For my series Before the Fall, I wanted to figure out how to keep a repository of positive memories handy, as nostalgia became an increasingly important element in my work. One of the ways I did this was through music. I kept a playlist of songs that took me back to certain moments, just by the feel of their tune. I kept adding songs to my “Before the Fall” playlist all throughout the year that spoke the feeling I wanted to be evident in the painting. That and I made SURE TO DANCE while painting. This was absolutely essential to the making of this work!

Another way I accessed memories, and also planned a future painting, was in taking a lot more time than usual to look at the light and shadows, and the people, and any other details that I might not have noticed even when I took the photo. In the era of constant scroll, I have found there is so much to be said about simply taking the time to look longer at my own photos.

The songs, taking the time to look, and lean into the happy feelings there, have kept me dancing while painting on many a rainy Vancouver afternoon.

Remembering the warmth of the sun on my skin, sunlit mornings, and humid jungle air in my lungs, has elevated my mood and energy levels on more than one occasion. This habit has also led to my focus on representing the uplifting essence of a memory, as I did in my painting After Spring, shown above, as opposed to the form and structure of an image, like the beautiful one below, even though I like to represent images sometimes too (I can’t wait to paint this one!).

Through my recent paintings, I feel as if I’ve started an experiment. Do the joyful, playful feelings I entertain while in the process of making the work radiate out and become obvious to viewers?

From my recent experience at the Harmony Arts Festival, the answer seems to be a resounding yes. The word that kept coming up in response to the paintings was “refreshing.” As viewers walked into my art space, I could see their eyes light up as they looked over the paintings. So many of them said, “these paintings are so refreshing!”.

It’s hard for me to find the words to describe how happy that made me to hear; because that’s exactly what I was hoping for. People felt the brightness, and the essence of what a vacation (or any moment of peace and joy) is meant for, just through viewing the works.

If you take a gander through my series, Before the Fall, and feel like you are on a sun soaked, bright and colourful adventure, I’ll be so glad to hear about it! It is yet to be determined if bright, colourful forms are what people want to collect, but I’m okay with that. I want to infuse a little brightness and joy into someone’s life, even if it’s just enjoying the work for a moment.

I’ve already selected some images from my recent trip that will be the inspiration for future paintings. But lately, I’ve also been finding lots of peace and joy in drawing flowers, and taking walks near home, and I can’t wait to take those happy feelings to the studio when the sun is a little less warm and the fall rains come.

That, and I’ll have to start working on my new playlist.

Do you have an incredible moment from a recent adventure that you want used as inspiration for a commissioned work? This fall I am taking a few commissions, and space is limited. Contact me if you are interested.

How do you hold on to your special memories? I would love to know.

The Making of Before the Fall

This last series of work began with an impactful experience one year ago, and it’s not an exaggeration to say that this has been the most impactful painting experience of my life so far.

In August of 2023, my spouse Carmen and I were able to take an anniversary trip to Mexico. We arrived at the hotel to learn that they gave us a room upgrade. We opened the door to the most beautiful room, with a sunlit vista of the ocean. I was completely overwhelmed by the beauty of that moment. It wasn't just one thing. The ocean was beautiful. The evening sunlight pouring in was wonderful. The room itself was beyond our expectations and incredible. But what hit me was something else-- it was a realization that after a tragedy, beauty itself can be incredibly healing. In that moment, I was truly encountering something transcendent and I knew it would change me. I spent the rest of the week, and months to follow, remembering that moment, while nurturing an awareness to the beauty around me. I realized that it was a way to move through the grief I have experienced since the loss of my sister to cancer in 2021.

The lingering thought might sound really basic, but it was really important to me:

If, through my artwork, I can help someone experience something even close to the joy and peace I felt through beauty, why would I ever want to do anything else?

If, through my artwork, I can help someone experience something even close to the joy and peace I felt through beauty, why would I ever want to do anything else?

Art is said to be a tool used to confront, provoke, and bring about discussion, and I am so thankful for all the artists that do that. It's just that in that moment, what I experienced was so impactful, especially in the wake of a life changing loss.

Because life will ALWAYS confront, provoke, and bring about plenty of discussion. Maybe in the past, this was the pinnacle role for art. But is it possible that in an era of information overload, we are totally overwhelmed? and that maybe now, art does not need to be responsible for bearing the responsibility of confronting and provoking, because life itself is doing that quite a lot?

I liken my joy-seeking practice to gratitude. For the past year, in painting these artworks, I've been focusing more on the beautiful things, such as beautiful memories of the trip we took to Mexico, and even placing myself right back in that sunlight moment when we first opened the door to see the ocean view for the first time. I take time to remember that moment, how the gratitude and serenity washed over me. I also am remembering the joyful things in my daily life, and my heart has become saturated with gratitude. Even thought my circumstances have not changed, because I have been choosing to see the world in a different light, I truly see everything differently. If there is more beauty in my art, I see that as a symbol of the gratitude that I am practicing, and the joy I am finding. This has been the most transformative experience for me, and as I lean into it, I am convinced that it is all I want to contribute to the world of art. At least, until the world becomes unbroken!

Through this series, I have realized my mandate— that I want to make soul nourishing art.

Through this series, I have realized my mandate— that I want to make soul nourishing art.

If the experience of seeing the ocean was really impactful, what happened when we came home, and I started to respond with painting what would later be known as Before the Fall, was more like a heavy miracle. Speaking of miracles, a recent conversation with a close friend of mine has led me to ask — do miracles ever happen if there is not a juxtaposition of a crisis? It seems miracles and tragedy inexplicably, deeply interrelated.

I came back to Canada with a potent drive to find, and convey beauty with my own artistic voice. For me, the essence of beauty is wholeness and flourishing, and in my mind’s eye, that included a lot of jungle foliage. This was a way to convey the essence of something tangible to me — “What happened before the Fall was the Summer, and I went to Mexico).” But it was deeper than that. It was an homage to the garden of Eden, this sense that before now, this present moment, there was something lush and abundant, and idyllic. The mindset I adopted could be related to anyone who knows what this feels like — to look back on a beautiful, perfect moment, that happened BEFORE something tragic. I was curious about why this idea even came to mind. Because my sister passed away in 2021, I have been living in the wake of her passing, and I’ve been focused on that. What was this subconscious longing to linger in the sweet memory of the ideal BEFORE? I wasn’t sure, but I knew it was important, because the impulse to stay in that headspace kept nagging. I made a playlist that also spoke to the feelings I wanted to search out and convey. At first it felt REALLY FAKE to seek out this nostalgic, happy mindset on my harder and more emotionally low days. It felt like I was lying to myself, which was a really strange posture for me as I pride myself in being a very honest person! In the past, art was there for me to delve into and express any and every emotion. But this series was different — I was looking for joy, nostalgia, and serenity, and I wanted them to bask in their own light. Ultimately, I wanted to give my collectors the gift of this experience of joy through these works. And If I had to sum up the feeling with just two emotions, they would be joy and peace.

Through September and into November this was my focus — happy paintings, joy, peace, serenity, nostalgia, and I was deep into this work when I got an earth shattering call from my brother, with the devastating news that my three year old niece was diagnosed with a rare, and terminal disease.

It is quite the understatement to describe this season as a new wave of grief, and it is hard to put into words what it feels like to grapple with the pending loss of one family member in the wake of losing another.

In that somewhat strange and tragic light, this series has become something of my own personal Ode to Joy. I’ve decided to keep looking for beauty, I’ve found out that leaning into happiness is anything but contradictory in the face of grief.

After that call, returning to the happy place felt, at first, totally inappropriate, and absolutely impossible. I gave myself a lot of space, and even took three months off from working on these. But I realized that avoiding their completion was not going to get me anywhere. Their completion became synonymous with leaning into gratitude, and remembering beautiful moments in life. Their completion was both a difficult terrain to cross, and the only way out for me.The final push came this spring, and with a big, colourful burst of song and dance, they came into their own. 

I truly hope you take the time to look at these works. In this age we’ve become really accustomed to rushing. I hope we all learn to slow down — art is always asking for that. Sometimes I think of the old adage “stop, look, and listen” and apply it to my art practice. When life, and these days, gried, gets a hold of me and feels just too unbearable, I stop. Take a breath. I decide to look — I look at an old photo of the ocean. I look at the sunlight. I look at a flower. And then, I listen. I listen to words of healing and hope (see the book list below for examples). 

It is with so much gratitude that I share these works. I hope they do bring peace and joy wherever they are experienced.

Now, I would be missing something if I didn’t share what books I’ve been reading while making this art. I’d like to recommend them to anyone facing anything similar.

The Book of Joy by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, and the Dali Lama,

Renewing the Christian Mind by Dallas Willard and Gary Black Jr.

Life Without Lack by Dallas Willard

Amazing Grace by Kathleen Norris

The Light We Give by Simran Jeet Singh

1000 Years of Joys and Sorrows by Ai Weiwei

The Bible with a good commentary, starting in the Gospels

Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela

The Struggle is Real by Nicole Unice

and for relationship issues that will come as a result of the grief experience,

The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work by John Gottman and Nan Silver

The Best Advice in Two Words

An art practice is a lot like life.

There are many phases and stages, kind of like a trendy haircut I’ll get one year, and then I’ll look back at a photo and cringe a bit, five years later.

Because it’s a continual exercise in vulnerability and experimentation, there are many things about the artistic process that can seem a little embarrassing later on. That, and it’s also common to look back with a kind of admiration that only hindsight can bring, and wonder why I stopped using a certain technique, and when.

Looking back on the stages of my life as an artist, I’m reminded of the encouragement from creatives who are a little farther down the road in their practice. Two of my favourite pieces of encouragement are so simple; they both just have two words. One was from an awesome artist, Zoe Pawlak. She simply said something to the effect of “start somewhere!” I was inspired, both by her, and the simplicity of her advice. Around that time, I decided to open an instagram account.

Ten years later, with those two words still in tow, I imagine that one day, I will look back on today, and remember the ways I decided to take myself just a little more seriously as an artist. “Somewhere” can be anywhere, or anything, and I agree, it is indeed, a great place to start.

“A Tall Order” Marcie Rohr 2016, pen and acrylic paint on paper, 4 x 6 in

Looking back at some older artwork, I’ve always enjoyed the phase that I made these small, intuitive drawings. These little pen and acrylic paint works were a nod to a simple life. I thought they would look great in a tiny home! I sold them at different fairs, like the Royal Bison art Fair, and a little shop in Edmonton called Habitat. Through these works, I was able to start somewhere, in a few different ways.

“She Brings a Promise” Marcie Rohr, 2016. Ink and acrylic paint on paper, 4 x 6 in.

The other two word, favourite phrase came from Gathie Falk, when She said “keep going!” in an interview, in response to a question of how to encourage new artists.

After years of keeping going, just like She said, I can see what She means. It seemed I would always call myself an emerging artist. This is how I thought of myself for twenty years. Suddenly, with two galleries representing my art work, and many solo exhibitions under my belt, I have to say, I must be a mid career artist. This is, of course, just a title. What matters is that I believe anything behind me is small in comparison to what is ahead. Deep down I truly believe I will always be emerging. I have big hopes and I’m excited to see what happens as I continue to start somewhere, and keep going.

“Make Believe” Marcie Rohr 2017, acrylic on birch panel, 30 x 24 x 1.5 in.

If I was going to add anything to these amazing little bits of advice, I would say, “start anytime!” because anytime is a great time to start. I would tell myself and others, never ask if I am/you are too late so start learning anything — anything at all! There is no such thing as being too late when it comes to a creative practice. If you are an emerging artist, keep going! If you are a mid career artist, I hope you are challenging yourself to keep things fresh and new, by taking a new class or experimenting with fresh materials in the studio.

Here’s to embracing experimentation, and looking back on the past with a cocktail of admiration and cringe for all that was expressed in that previous life.

Let me add here that when I was looking at what paintings to show for this post, there were a few I laughed at and also cried a little on the inside thinking that at one point they were my best work. If that was my thought back then, what would I say about my work today, in twenty years from now?

There’s only one way to find out!

Finishing off this post with a photo from around 2017. I can’t believe how much I’ve learned about curating my booth since then. I’m dying a bit while also looking at that young emerging artist momma with a lot of admiration. I am a big believer that time is not linear, so I’ll send me a big hug and whisper some encouragement to keep making art!

If you are a creative, I’ll send it your way too!

Peace,

Marcie

Dancing, and Making Friends with Monsters

“Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness," "joy," or "regret." Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, "the happiness that attends disaster." Or: "the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy." I'd like to show how "intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members" connects with "the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age." I'd like to have a word for "the sadness inspired by failing restaurants" as well as for "the excitement of getting a room with a minibar." I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever. ”
― Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex

I don’t think I’m alone, as an artist, in thinking that I take a lot in. At the heart of my practice is this continual absorption, followed by expression. I don’t know what comes first — I’ve been feeling, and making/doing since I’ve been able to remember. To my benefit, and some days, to my detriment, I see, and feel things incredibly deeply, and these feels are nothing close to straightforward. This seems like a sixth sense, or maybe more accurately, the sense below all the senses —the meta sense. Beneath my mind, there is a set of stairs, and a door to the subconscious, the basement beneath feelings where they emerge. Right as they enter the realm of noticing, they don’t seem to be simplified yet. Like Eugeneides suggests, they seem to be more like hybrids. By the time they enter my mind, and head out my mouth, I’ve processed them, and like anything processed, they’ve been cleaned up and broken down. But there is something so precious, and hideous, about the recognition of them before they can really be named.

There is no end to the sources for input in the feeling department. These days we have the internet, and especially, social media, this open world/(wound?) of exposure to so many stories, experiences of lives and bodies not our own, and I don’t think I’m the only one who sees it all, absorbs it, and am left with so many complex feelings that I’m not always sure how to name, much less what to do with. This is all on top of my own subjective experiences in my personal narrative, which, like most people I’ve met, is enough to bear.

It is a beautiful, exhausting honour to be able to make art out of all these complicated feelings. Sometimes, the phrase “ignorance is bliss” pops into my mind, like a temptation to search out the green grass on the other side of the fence. It always feels like a longing for rest in a reality that isn’t my own. Being new on a grief journey following the passing of my sister, I recognized how important it was to process feelings, to try not to hop the fence. They always had a way of hopping over and finding me in the end. And some time later, I’ll admit that I’ve hopped that fence more than once. I still want, and need, to jump that fence some days. Sometimes the immeasurable sadness is nothing but crushing, and it feels sadistic and cruel to sit anywhere near it.

I’ve heard some artists say that they make art as an escape, searching for a bit of a relief on the other side of the fence, sometimes quite literally painting the green grass found there into whimsical landscapes. Others I know go down into the emotional basement, their ear to the cold surface, listening intently to all the rumblings below, painting without a need to show their work to anyone else.

I don’t believe there is a right or wrong way to process feelings with art. I’ve definitely painted and made art with both motivations. Depending on life and the circumstances, I think it is good, and very much okay, to do both. We can approach artmaking as a way to move through feelings, or as a happy distraction from them. Personally I’ve found that I benefit from a balance. I need to grieve, mourn, and lament. I also need to dance, laugh, and goof around. I’ve also learned that the proportions of these postures are based on a deep internal compass of some kind, one that doesn’t always seem to lead me in the same direction as the flow of the collective unconscious.

My creative headspace is something I can’t always explain to myself, much less to anyone else, and, thankfully, I don’t really have to. The feelings I engage with on an artistic level are raw, unprocessed chunks from the subconscious. I can see them, but I often don’t quite know what to name them. And let’s be real. They can be kind of ugly. The emotional equivalent of morning breath. Authentically me, but, not in a way I’d like to share.

For anyone new to artmaking, and perhaps, becoming newly acquainted with the strange/familiar forms these feelings take, I think it’s wise to venture towards them while also planning some good self care. And it’s very human, very, to want to hop the fence sometimes, and do a little dancing on that green, green grass. Those unsightly feelings will find you, yes, and they will call you back. They always do. The friendly monsters that they are, no matter how hideous, have their own stories to share.

Push - Pull Elements of a Creative Journey

YOU GOTTA PUT YOURSELF OUT THERE! BABY, YOU’RE A FIREWORK! Oh boy.

Is it just me, or does it seem like the path to all artistic greatness is a yellow brick road paved by extroverts?

Just me? Ok.

As an introvert, I’m always looking for the back road, the side entrance type of path to success as an artist. A way around the way that requires me to meet more people. There has to be another way besides the general route that extroverts claim is the minted path to artistic success. There has to be another way…

Ever since I was young, I created art as an escape from a kind of reality where I was expected to show up in the world very much as an extrovert. It often felt a bit like turning my skin inside out. If you didn’t open your mouth and get in the middle of the room, sorry hon. No one was going to come looking for you. That’s life, and life isn’t fair. A perfect home to set me up for a world that also demands the hustle on a regular basis. I was the youngest of two sisters who sure knew how to speak up and speak out. I, on the other hand, was prone to emotional outbursts (my introverted soul, maybe only protesting every inch of this realm ruled by extroverts a tiny bit). As a way of coping, I drew pictures. And drew and drew and drew. And drew some more.

In my teens, after all that time, I was starting to show some signs of talent. My brightly shining, ever so extroverted sister embodied the voice of the friendly hustler in my world. She touted promises of exposure and fame; looking back, they were laughably exaggerated. But in the mind of me as a fifteen and sixteen year old, she was my world. And in my world, She knew everything. I just kept my mouth shut (very, very easy to do when everyone else around is speaking), and followed orders. She was right — I wasn’t going to get anywhere if I sat on my butt and didn’t put myself out there. It turns out, She was indeed right. There are a thousand artist blogs, podcasts, and creative self help books that echo her words.

And I would rather wipe butts.

No, seriously.

I took the career path as Registered Nurse, an incredibly rewarding gig that has shielded me from the expectations of extroverts everywhere. You, extroverts, can shine your light everywhere. Meet all the people you want. I’ll be at the hospital, wiping butts, among other very rewarding tasks.

And yet, I am feeling a pull— a pull to be pushed! My oldest, and most extroverted sister passed away from cancer two years ago. And from the depths of my heart, I would give anything for one of her pep talks.

In thinking over this, I see that there is a push—pull relationship in the creative process.

The push, for me, feels like facing social fears and insecurities, especially fears of rejection and judgement, (which if you haven’t already noticed along this path, are extremely common — best to get comfy with them). Pushes feel like getting out the door to go to an art opening. Pushes feel like signing up for a class to learn a new art form. Pushes feel like sending off yet another artist application, even when I am well on my way to collecting one hundred rejection letters. Even the most simply put, pushes feel like getting out of bed on a dark and cold morning just a bit earlier to make more time to be creative, or to brainstorm another way to…you guessed it, push. Pushes are the deep dive into a freezing cold pool of water. Terrifying, awkward, unfamiliar, unenjoyable, and yet necessary to being alive in the world.

For anyone with a more introverted nature, what kind of torture is this?

And yet, it’s all worth it for the pull.

For me, pulls feel like coffee dates with a like- minded artist to talk at length about one fascinating topic we have in common and could talk for hours about. Pulls feel like listening to the same album three hundred times over and still finding something new to love. Pulls feel like reading the poetry of Rilke under the covers on a rainy day. Pulls feel like a liminal experience in the studio where time is flowing in a sublime and unexplainable way and I don’t know whether I am alive or dead, but I know that whatever I’m feeling— it’s good. Really, really good. Pulls feel like listening to “After Dark” with Odario Williams on CBC radio, feeling the inherent connection between visual and auditory art.

And after an incremental life of pulls, pushes feel fair and necessary, even if they DO feel like necessary EVIL (who hasn’t thought of that feeling of waking up at five am as pure, unadultured evil!)

It seems there would be no need to push without the pull, and without a push, pulling would pull, and pull, and pull, until it feels like I am at the bottom of some kind of hole I dug for myself.

A beautiful, deep, lonely hole.

One of my goals in 2024 is to examine this push - pull relationship. If I’m going to push myself, I’m going to find ways to let the pull do it’s thing, too.

I’m a pull girl, through and through. If you are also someone who vomits a little in your mouth when you hear the phrase “Do one thing that scares you,” you might be a pull girl, too. But what if we found out that artists who have stumbled into success through either the front, or the side doors, are also pull girls, who just decided to grit their teeth jump into one more push?

(also, what is success, anyways? that, of course, is a question for another day ;))

What about you? Are you a push, or a pull person? How do you plan to live your push - pull creative life in 2024?

I’d love to hear from you.

And pushers, obviously, please keep doing your thing.

We need you.

The Dark Matter Degree Program: Weekly Routine

I wrote about this a bit last year, but I think it’s time to touch base again with my home made framework for creative growth. I see all the advice given to artists; these days the internet seems to be flooded with ways to make it as an artist. Something about the intensity and aggression of these sponsored posts makes me think that a far more lucrative undertaking is not actually being an artist, but being a person who tells artists what to do!

Of course I’m not immune to wanting to know these magical secrets of the successful artist. I’ve spent my own share of time researching and trying to come up with THE framework for a successful creative practice. I didn’t realize that it doesn’t matter how perfect THE framework is, I needed (and still do need) to find MY framework. Every artist does. Once I’ve learned to settle in to this realization that there are thousands of variations of what a successful creative practice looks like, I’ve enjoyed settling into the stories of all kinds of different artists and creatives. Without the illusion that they are leading the perfect creative life that I just need to copy and paste into my own algorithm, I’ve learned to absorb their stories (for example, right now I’m reading about the life of Mary Cassatt), and sift through what I can adopt into my life vs. what is not for me, at least not at this time.

All the bits and pieces of what I’ve come to adopt as my own, I’d like to share. Right now, I’m playing with the idea of my own, “Dark Matter Degree Program.” That’s what I call the phase that I’m in: after finishing my undergrad, wanting to still take on the habits that I was happy to practice in art school, or the ones that I knew I wanted to practice as an artist when I graduated.

The following is what my “Dark Matter Degree Program” consists of. It’s a weekly routine where every day has a theme. Like in school, I have my own classes, only now they are self taught. I don’ follow this perfectly, because I am also a shiftworker, so whatever day my shifts (2-3 a week) fall on, I don’t follow the Dark Matter routine that day. I do however, try to carry the essence of the day with me — even if it means just taking part in it for 30 minutes if that’s all I can afford. The next week, after having missed that day, I just jump right back in wherever I left off.

By the way, I feel that working in a “day job” is important and beneficial to me right now in my life, even for the sake of my art practice, but that is a blog for another day :)

On Monday, I start the week with art applications. The reason I jump right into this is to remind myself of where I want to go as an artist. It forces me to take my ongoing artist goals seriously. I take the time to check out any changes and opportunities in my local art scene, and then I quickly check on a few international options that might be realistic for me. Art applications are important for so many reasons. They give me the opportunity to review my work, to see what is happening around me based on what the artist calls are about. Because I find this activity a bit stressful (inducing approximately one existential crisis each Monday), my goal is to pair this with physical activity. Shaking off all the stress, I get out and go for what is the longest run of my week. Ideally, I get a good night’s rest, going to bed early so that I am ready for Tuesday.

Tuesday is my studio day! I love studio days so much! They remind me of why I’m an artist. I have different bodies of work on the go, but Tuesdays are the days when I go down to my home studio and throw myself into painting. To keep in a creative flow, I try my best to make the very most of this day. My family will know that I’m not really available for much on this day (sorry, not sorry!). Ideally, this day involves 10-12 hours of working.

Wednesday is “What to Make of This” day. This is the name of a project that I started in 2021 following the call to action for those of us privileged white folks who don’t tend to notice racism and injustice. I read or listen to a book, (like the one I just finished, The Sun Does Shine) watch the news, check out youtube videos, or listen to a podcast. While listening, I make something, usually with discarded materials such as fabric scraps. This practice generally takes 1-4 hours of my day. These subjects are heavy, so I pair this day with exercise. After completing this, I take off for a 30-40 minute run.

When I come back from my break, I spend some time in the afternoon checking out my online world. I check up on, and fix broken links on my website, upload photos, and take on administrative tasks that need attention, and upload works to my profile on Saatchi.com

Thursday is writing day. It doesn’t take much to realize that art and writing are like peanut butter and jelly. I’ve decided to take this seriously, and give some time each week to writing. I currently am reading a book on writing poetry, Finding What You Didn't Lose. I take some time to read a chapter and complete a short exercise recommended by the book. Then, I take 15 minutes to engage in a free writing exercise. After that, I take a quick break to just chill, maybe do some light chores. Then I turn my writing attention to art, and take on writing a newsletter, a blog entry (like today!) or an artist statement.

Thursday afternoons I give myself time in the studio again, working on art studies. At the moment I’m currently working on a collage study series of 100 smaller works called In/Formation.

Friday and Saturday: These are flex studio days. Depending on home/family life, and how close I am to a deadline of some kind, I get about 2-10 hours of studio time in. I try to take a video and make sure I’m sharing my progress with the amazing people on Instagram, Facebook or Tik Tok who seem to like what I’m doing in the studio. I’m a really big fan of pairing my creative work with exercise, so I try to get in another nice run in on at least one, but maybe both of these days.

Sunday: Sundays are a total rest day, I try not to do anything and especially make sure I’m not on social media, to give my brain a break!

So there you have it, the Dark Matter Degree Program weekly routine! Incrementally, each day builds on the next and slowly slowly, good and wonderful things emerge. At least that is the hope! Let’s see what will happen when I do this every week. Do you have a weekly routine? I’d love to hear about it in the comments. Do you see something in here that you would add? I’d like to know! I’m always tinkering with my schedule to see what works and what doesn’t.

Ah so I bet you figured out that it’s Thursday—writing day. Now for a quick break, and then on to those collages!

A Brief History of Being

This is the artist statement for my series, A Brief History of Being.

This new body of work was a series that evolved in slow motion. Built up layer on layer, many of these paintings have been in process since 2019. As a result, there is a painterly texture that only time can create. When I was making these pieces, I revisited interests in astrobiology and the early formation of plant life, stretching my mental faculties to try to wrap my head around the very thin, and strange lines between the past and present realities of biological life on Earth. These works explore the idea of plants as ancient and mysterious, with lives and histories of their own. Humanity is deeply interconnected with plant life; we domesticate them, eat them, wear them, observe them. In my paintings, I try to imagine plants as something other than objects for human use.

The process of making these works involved the concept of negation. I find it important not only to consider what lines and shapes to add, but also, what to take away. In my art practice, balance and lyricism are also extremely important. I consider my paintings not only works of a creative process, but a design process. It is important that they are lively, balanced, and lyrical, as this gives the sense that they are true to life. Plants are inherently sculptural, and I wanted my works to evoke the natural design sensibility that plants embody.

One of the most formative books I have ever read was “The World Without Us” by Alan Weisman. I read it about a decade ago and it has stayed with me, coming to my mind almost daily. I suppose when I paint plant life, I often think of plants in a world without us. Even still, this series, “A Brief History of Being” considers the human timeline. Comparatively, humans are much younger than plants; the whole of human existence is incredibly brief. All of this prompts me to take pause, and look around this old world with a heart of gratitude and awe.