The best relationship art depicts the highs and lows of the authentic couple.
The Craft That Made Me
Since as far back as I can remember, yarn has been a part of my life. I remember getting pulled out of Kindergarten to learn how to finger crochet a long chain. I remember the woman who taught me had a stroke earlier on, so half her face was paralyzed. She had a piece of metal in her eyelid to help her blink. I was told the finger crocheting was to help keep me focused in class. I loved it and gladly taught the skill to anyone who wanted to learn. I still am astounded that humans came up with ways to turn one string into many, and the many woven together to form ropes and yarn. I can't imagine being the person who figured how to make a cloth out of a single thread.
Tamara de Lempicka
La Musicienne, 1929 by Tamara de Lempicka Tamara de Lempicka, a prominent female artist of the Art Deco era, was famous for her expressive and sensual female paintings. Her interwar artwork earned her the nickname "The Baroness with a Brush."
The Practice of Perfection
When I was younger, I would sit at the obnoxious grand piano in the middle of my living room every day. It pained me to play the scales and classical songs integral to my lessons. Every song was the same bland ascent of notes expected to be played at the same speed and volume - the practice of perfection. Instead, I would make the piano’s rich and elegant timbre thunk vigorously or groan at painfully slow speeds; belt piercingly high or grumble in thundering low octaves on the keys, completely forgetting the flavourless songs I had to practice. It was an exciting spit in the face of classical music. That was until I heard the low rumble of my father’s car ominously creep into the driveway. In those moments, I’d sneak away.
Creating calm - one detail at a time
There was, I think, a gap of about ten years between when my parents believed that I was old enough to sit through a church service and behave myself, and when I actually began to pay regular attention to what was going on and to think it had much to do with me and my life. Not that I never heard anything the preacher said during those years. I did hear many things and I even remembered some of them. I also enjoyed singing all the hymns, which might have been my favorite part of any church service. But when we settled back to listen to the sermon, I doodled on the margins of the church bulletin. I had begun drawing as soon as I could hold a crayon without eating it (or so I tell people) and drawing was one of my favorite activities.
The Day Art Came Home to Stay
It was in the third grade that my desire to create art was stifled. The class was in the midst of a hot and heavy spelling competition, and I was a good speller. The reward for missing a word was that you got to sit down at your desk and draw. When I misspelled a word on purpose in order to pursue my artistic designs, the teacher (who knew I was faking) chastised me and told me I should never, ever “cheat” in such a fashion.
Pearls and Cast-Offs
Having moved back to my home after a brief stay with my dad, I'm out of work at the moment. I sit at home surfing through job sites and ads begging me for experience I don't have, bored out of my mind but at the same time feeling as if I'm under a monumental pressure as my bank account continues to dip lower till D Day. In the moments when I fight with my sister, which is too often for me to admit, or feel this pressure I take off some time from the internet and instead, work with my hands. I like to knit. I can't do anything fancy like a million other people who knit, I just like making little 20x20 stitch squares (though to be honest they look more like rectangles).
My Own Language
Ever since I can remember, I have had a hard time communicating my thoughts and feelings. It’s not that I don’t know what I’m thinking or feeling, it’s just that getting the words to go from my brain to my mouth feels like trying to merge onto a freeway during rush hour and my car will only drive in reverse. I don’t know why I’m like that, I just am. I’ve tried and with a great deal of effort, clear communication has become a kind of a second language to me.
An Accidental Weaver
My Mother’s Son: I grew up playing with all the tools my mother had acquired over her years of practice. In college, a woman I dated performed its rituals. At age twenty-eight, I took a two-day beginner’s class from a master. I became a guild member on January fifth of this year, just before I turned thirty-eight. Seven days later, I stood outside an over-filled storage unit in Van Nuys writing out a paper check as exiting cars squeezed past me and my new machine.
My therapist made me do it. I had fought, bitterly, against it. Every fibre of my being screamed at me that she was wrong. How dare she treat me like a child? I did not start painting because it was a hobby, or a joy, or even a distraction. I began drawing because I had to, because she forced me to, and, literally, it saved my life.
Japanese Artist Toko Shinoda
Toko Shinoda, Genji, 1967. Image from Sotheby’s. All through the twentieth century, Japanese artist Toko Shinoda assembled her own Modernist custom. Her profession endured more than seventy years, taking her from the shores of Japan to the thriving craftsman networks of New York. Shinoda was firmly connected with Abstract Expressionism. Be that as it may, she varied from any semblance of Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko with her experience as an expert calligrapher. Shinoda joined the old and the new to get one of Japan's most darling Modernists.
Taking My Art Back
As long as I can remember I have always had a pencil, marker, coloured pencil, or paint brush in hand. My very first work of “art” is proudly framed in the living room. It’s a disaster of colours thrown onto paper by a toddler - looking at it now aggravates me at how messy it is. But my mom likes to say that I planned where each colour was to go as if I knew what composition was.
A Brief History
A Brief History By Stephen Donnelly Recently I have taken up a hobby of three dimensional drawing and art. I was never good at drawing on a second dimensional plane no matter how hard I tried. And the way my grandmother tried to ‘teach’ me makes it hard to want to pursue it. A lot of memories of her scratching out what I had done. Drawing over what I had drawn to make it look like she wanted it to.