Dancing-before-painting

When I started taking my painting seriously enough to leave academia and the analytic world of applied linguistics, I wanted to go beyond class-taught art skills. Courses in Intuitive Painting[1] introduced me to dancing-before-painting as part of the warm-up process. As an introverted Brit, I found it hard to move my body in a group and took to substituting Pilates moves to save embarrassment. But after some years, dancing-before-painting has become an essential opening stage of my studio practice.

Reading this post from Jonathan Rowson offered a new kind of sense to the dancing: the music and the dancing body together construct a particular kind of space, in the Akash sense, that encourages access to the imaginal, that provides conditions and affordances to support art-making, that gets me in a good ‘frame of mind’ for the work.

This is how it happens: I look through my Dance-around-the-House playlist or CD collection and take whatever first grabs my attention. The music, often a 90s disco track, fills the space and plays my history; my stiff old body moves through it, with it, in it. The dancing scopes the physical space in its rhythms. The movement and music energise my body, especially arms: wrists, fingers, shoulders getting ready for the brush. The heart beats faster, blood flows, oxygen pushes through. Dancing opens up the body to receive air, to notice, to extend.

But there is more than the physiological impact. It feels as if my body shapes the space through movement; as if my arms, moving air, energise the space. I feel my body extending, and the moving air seems to extend beyond the body, out of the room, just as the paintbrush will soon move across surface.

Our flying shapes the sky, original painting by Lynne Cameron (now in a private collection)

In normal mode, I am acutely aware of my vision – focus, distant/near sight, colour, objects – not just as a painter but from having early cataracts and operations to restore my sight, from short-sightedness, annual eye tests, and wearing glasses most of my life. In these moments of dancing-before-painting, it’s as if the music and physical response to it block some of this visual acuity and awareness. It acts like a relaxing massage on the eye muscles; visual focus shifts temporarily into neutral and stops its continuous adapting.

Dancing-before-painting also silences the inner chattering and relaxes ‘memory muscles’, freeing the mind’s attentional resources. Memories pop up, layers of memories: where I was when I first heard the music, how I purchased it or who gifted it to me. In this space, time relaxes; I am both young and old. I move through decades and through minutes.

The mental response to dancing-before-painting reminds me of daydreaming, of Alice drowsing in hot sun before going down the rabbit hole. Perhaps the space of dancing-before-painting is a kind of micro, suburban version of an altered state of consciousness? Before beginning to paint, a further process involves inner looking – quiet attention is taken inwards to find a form or colour that will become the first painted marks. Together, the dancing and the inward attention act as aphanipoiesis (a pleasing new term to describe emerging into creative practice, from Nora Bateson) to achieve the starting of the day’s painting, which will continue in a flow of intuitive choices of colour, line, shape.

Dancing to music is as old as human society, and is used to take people towards ecstasy. I don’t want to go so far beyond myself – it’s in service of my painting practice, after all – but putting the world and ‘the fat relentless ego’ (Iris Murdoch’s term) on hold for a while is good. Not dissolution of the self, or even transcending the self, but just letting it be and trusting in the music for a few minutes. Dancing-before-painting as music and body construct a particular kind of space and access to the imaginal.

[1] with Chris Zydel www.creativejuicesarts.com

Note: This post is slightly adapted from a Substack post on my new page there

Poetry interacts with Painting

An Experimental Poetry course that I'm taking online with The Poetry School has opened up an exciting new way of combining words with paint, and I thought I would share some of the work that’s ongoing.

I came to art from a career in applied linguistics (roughly, the study of how people use language). When I shifted to painting, I left that behind in favour of colour and the excitement of making images with paint. Creating something new rather than analysing what had already been said. I put words aside. But they refused to leave. And in the latest work they also insist on being more than just ‘visual objects’, refusing to be separated from their latent meanings.

Below you can see some of the layers. It began with automatic writing using the stubby, water-soluble crayons I take travelling: blue-green-yellow-and turned sideways for red. After washing and smudging the writing, long shapes were made by drawing lines that connect letters down from top to bottom of the paper, and the shapes filled with colours. Through these layers, some of the original words stayed visible and became a kind of poem - I increased their visibility with an acrylic marker pen. Finally, indigo curves printed with wet string, white drips and splashes, and magenta arcs to connect words and balance the whole.

The end result is both painting and poem. In each of my various career strands, I have wanted to bring together what is kept separate by convention or history: academic disciplines, creative practices, modes of meaning, words and paint.
The connecting project continues ...

What is there? poem~painting, Lynne Cameron

Paintings from an Exhibition (2)

Here’s a further page from the catalogue of my recent exhibition.

My mother once said to the 10 year old me, “I can read you like a book.” Silently, I vowed she never would be able to.

Decades later, I know for sure that one person can never understand another so completely.

On the left: Only this moment, acrylic, charcoal on collaged handwriting on paper, 84 x 59cm On the right: Opting Out, acrylic on paper, 61 x 86cm

and a connecting text.

Newly added on the Writing Page is a collection of essays from our exhibition panel discussion Connecting Conversations.

Paintings from an exhibition (1)

Back in early spring, I exhibited paintings in the Jacqueline du Pré Music Building at my old college, St Hilda’s, in Oxford. I used the opportunity to bring into the light two series of works that had missed their chance to be shown because of Covid. The two sets, although painted at different times and in different places, seemed to speak to each other, so I grouped them in pairs (and one triplet), and called the exhibition Silent Conversations.

I sat with each pair, noticing and writing, to produce a poetic text that was hung between them, to spark ways of looking - looking into, looking across, looking between.

The painting on the left is Caught Whispers from the series Conversations with Ideas. This series was created during a residency at Cinepoetics Center for Advanced Film Studies, Freie Universität Berlin, 2015-17. In their dynamics of contingency and response, disruption and contemplation, these paintings offer metaphors of how we try, and try again, to build relationships across gaps of difference  and misunderstanding.

The painting on the right is Other People, the title painting from the series with the same name. This series with its emergent figures was painted in the long absences of lockdown on a Scottish island. Words, ripped up and collaged, create textured surfaces for Other People, leaving echoes of meaning as they disappear under layers of paint. Swooping lines of pencil or graphite further break the broken surface – and suggest figures engaged in unheard conversations that are brought into presence.

Brought together in the exhibition, the paired paintings engaged in fresh dialogues of colour, form, and gesture. Viewers were invited to listen in, to reflect on how conversations create, shift, and shape our experience, and to respond.           

The full catalogue is available to view on the Exhibitions page                    

Condensing the exhibition ‘Silent Conversations’ through an artwork

Soon the paintings will come down from the wall. Months to organise, to prepare paintings and texts, physical work to hang, events to hold - it’s been a major project, and it’s over. I will remember how family and friends turned up from various corners of the country, and beyond, to support me and my work on the wall. How precious these people are.

In the making of this digital print, I felt the exhibition reduce, condense, and fade under my hands.

On one of the final days, I took my crayons and made a quick drawing - six of the paintings are pairs or groups of mysterious people engaged in silent conversation, like stills from an unmade film. I drew the angles of their faces as they talked to each other there in the exhibition. Ephemeral conversations, as my friend and colleague Cornelia Müller described them. Soon to be lost as the unmade film rolls on.

Face-angles, crayon drawing

Back home I set up my living space as studio for the first time in months, spent time looking at notes and sketches for unfinished projects and ideas not yet taken into practice. I made a copy of the face-angles drawing to preserve so I could work into the original. The ‘woody’ crayons I used are water-soluble; I worked into them with a wet brush, pulling the colour across the page so that the lines lengthened.

face-angles, crayon drawing brushed with water

In response to the wet page, printmaking suggested itself. On the paper that had wrapped fresh bread, crumpled and uncertainly absorbent, I re-drew the original nest of face-angles, dampened it and pressed down on to it clean sheets of paper. The 4th and 5th prints pulled off were interesting to my eye. A hint of chrysanthemums - related to mourning here in the UK but, in Japan, symbolic of rejuvenation and rebirth. I’ll take that.

face-angles, monoprint

I hang the original copied, the original made wet, and the print on the wall.

face-angles, triptych

I remember the zig-zag book I had thought about producing months ago. Scan, copy, print, collage until I collect the three on one page, and fold the paper into a zig-zag.

Layering

Layering has long been important in my painting process. It’s a simple notion: on day one, I paint the first layer; on day 2, I paint on top of the first layer; on day 3, I paint on top of the second layer; at some point, the layers, what’s hidden and what’s revealed, form a composition that satisfies, and the painting is finished.

Of course, it is much more complicated, and more contingent, than that.

I paint with acrylics, which means that layers dry fast. On top of acrylic paint or ink, one can layer oil paint, oil sticks, graphite, pencil, pastels, acrylic markers, more paint. A layer of paint over paint can be scumbled (applied very dry) or glazed/washed (very wet). Layering the same colour intensifies the hue; layering another colour changes it.

Through the fence, Lynne Cameron, acrylic on canvas, 100 x 100cm

A layer of water on top of fresh paint, sprayed or dripped, will remove some of the paint and leave intriguing forms in the fresh paint and views into the next layer down.

As well as layers of paint, materials can be layered. I use a layer of ripped paper to give a textured surface to paint on. Marks can be layered, with lines on or under solid colour. In the Other People paintings, there are words written on the ripped paper, adding another visual layer, and graphite and charcoal on top of the paint (see top of post).

Art critic Harold Rosenberg described American expressionists as treating the paper or canvas as “an arena in which to act” rather than a window on to reality. Layering in abstract painting adds timescale, offers the viewer an archaeology of that action. A painting becomes layered with memories and meanings.

Built on risk and resilience, Lynne Cameron, acrylic on canvas, 100 x 100cm

usually right ... what, me?

“Our instincts can be honed through use and experience. And you reach a point in life where they are usually right.”

— Lucy Easthope

I’ve been preparing for an upcoming workshop which will provide a space for exploring intuition, what it sounds like, how we pay attention to it, via the process of painting. And I’m currently reading this book, after hearing Lucy Easthope talk about her work in disaster planning on a podcast. It’s really fascinating, although the details of disasters can be hard to read. This morning I reached Chapter 11 and the synchronicity made me sit up straight and notice.

Whether or not intuition can be described (only) as “instincts…honed through use and experience”, it’s the next sentence that struck me:

you reach a point in life when they are usually right

How unusual to hear this from a woman. How wonderful!

I’ve been journalling on what I might do differently if I (finally) accepted this … and wanting to share that thought with all the women who read my blog.

Also - there’s still time to sign up for the workshops and explore what your intuition has to say.

Becoming an artist: responding to Simone de Beauvoir (3)

In The Second Sex, Chapter 14 The Independent Woman, Simone de Beauvoir offers a devastating critique of the problems facing women who want to be artists and writers. Much has changed since she wrote it in 1949, but also much has stayed horribly familiar.

In earlier posts, I’ve shared how I’ve worked with her words since first encountering them, constructing ‘turnings’ from her original. These turnings are not statements of ‘how it is’ but rather motivations/values/desires. In this summary, I group my turnings under four themes. Her critique turns into something like a personal manifesto and/or set of affirmations.

Speech Flowers, acrylic on canvas, 100 x 100cm, Lynne Cameron, 2018

the woman, the work, the world, and transcendence

 My wings are not clipped

I go beyond the given through artistic expression

I throw prudence to the wind to try to emerge beyond the given world

I dare bold flights towards goals, and thereby risk setbacks.

I do not lack audacity to break through the ceiling

I adopt in front of the whole world, the disinterested attitude that opens up wider horizons.

I can be counted on to blaze new trails

I dissipate mirages and do not exhaust my courage - I do not stop in fear at the threshold of reality

I penetrate other shadows beyond clarity

I go beyond the pretext

I traverse the given in search of its secret dimension

I project my spirit with all its riches in an empty sky that is its to fill

the woman, the work, the world

 I fully assume the agonising tête-à-tête with the given world

I abandon myself to the contemplation of the world: I am capable of creating it anew

 I set the world apart. I question it. I denounce its contradictions. I take it seriously.

 I approach nature in its inhuman freedom, try to decipher its foreign meanings and lose myself in order to unite with this other presence

 I feel responsible for the universe

I think myself authorised to work out the fate of all humanity in my particular life

I make my history, my problems, my doubts and my hopes those of humanity

I attempt to discover in my life and my works all of reality

 I enrich our vision of the world

the woman and the work

 truth itself is ambiguity, depth, mystery: I acknowledge the presence of this enigma, and then I rethink it, re-create it

I passionately lose myself in my projects

I commit myself entirely to my enterprise. I am not tempted to give it up

I do not settle for a mediocre success. I dare to aim higher

I forget myself and generously aim for a goal

I aim for an object rather than my subjective success

I envisage art as serious work

I do not consider it to be a simple ornament of my life

I acquire technique. I do not balk at the thankless solitary trials and errors of work that is never exhibited, that has to be destroyed and done over again a hundred times. I do not cheat or hope to get by with a few ruses

I work

I do not attach too much importance to minor failures and modest successes

I have the courage to displease

I dare to irritate, explore, explode

I disown reasonable modesty

I refuse to orchestrate the mystification intended to persuade women to ‘remain women’

I can be a creator

the independent woman

I may feel alone within the world: I stand up in front of it, unique and sovereign

I posit myself as a freedom

I refuse to be object and prey

I will not waste my time on shopping and dress fittings and such

I do not deny my intelligence... or my age

I will not repudiate everything in me that is ‘different’

I have this madness in talent called genius

I will not stifle my originality; I trust it

I am solidly sure that I have already found myself

When the struggle to claim a place in this world gets too rough, there can be no question of tearing myself away from it; I emerge within it in sovereign solitude to try to grasp it anew

I learn from the practice of abandonment and transcendence, in anguish and pride

I dare to construct myself (and cherish myself)

TURN, TURN, TURN: responding to Simone de Beauvoir on creative work (2)

In my previous post on The Second Sex and what it has to say about women’s creative work, I showed the technique of OWN ~ TURN ~ OWN. In this post I share the quotes and ‘turnings’ that I extracted from Chapter 14 The Independent Woman. They are offered for anyone who wants to do their own work on this insightful and challenging text; to take or to leave, to contemplate and maybe dismiss. Even perhaps to serve as fuel for your practice.

Not for the faint-hearted!

Example:

“Throwing oneself boldly towards goals risks setbacks: but one also attains unexpected results; prudence necessarily leads to mediocrity.

TURNING:
I throw myself boldly towards goals, and thereby risk setbacks. ”

— Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex

And just like that, oil on canvas panel, 20 x 25 cm. Lynne Cameron, 2023

“Her sterile vanity comes from the fact that she cherishes herself without daring to construct herself.

TURNING:
I dare to construct myself (and cherish myself)”

— Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex

From Chapter 14 The Independent Woman, I extracted statements that Simone de Beauvoir makes about women artists and writers, in particular and in general. Doing this is an act of noticing and attending that you might want to do for yourself. If not, you can find the list of quotes here: List of quotes from Chapter 14, in order.

The next step was to TURN each statement*, using I … rather than she, woman. For example:

she tries to deny her intelligence as an ageing woman tries to deny her age

becomes

I do not deny my intelligence... or my age

Each act of turning took me deeper into de Beauvoir’s ideas and my responses. I recommend doing it yourself but if you want it, my list of quotes and turnings/reversals is here.

This list has accompanied me throughout the last 8 years I have pondered it, read it aloud while walking the room, hidden it, refound it, and been re-energised by it countless times. They have become a list of affirmations, a kind of creed, a manifesto.

————————————————

*I’ve come to appreciate TURNING or reversing as a technique from the Byron Katie’s Four Questions in her book Loving What is, from Jung’s ideas of the Shadow, and David Richo’s book Shadow Dance.

In the next post, the themes of Chapter 14, a summary.

Why these workshops, why now?

“...she will go beyond the given in the way she expresses it, she will really be an artist, a creator who gives meaning to her life by lending meaning to the world. ”

— The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir

House by the sea, acrylic on paper, Lynne Cameron

For years, I engaged in rational, analytic study of metaphor and empathy in dialogue. Despite my best academic intentions, the imagination resisted being quietened.

 In the middle of life, after cataract surgery, I plunged into painting. Years of painting that required an intensive search for my lost intuition via personal development courses, including Tara Mohr Playing Big, Julia Cameron The Artist’s Way, Chris Zydel Painting with Fire, Wild Heart Expressive Arts Teacher Training. And contemplation of women’s lives through the lens of women philosophers: Bracha Ettinger, Iris Murdoch, Simone de Beauvoir, Simone Weil. And teaching my own online course Catching the Whispers. And continuing conversations, shared readings with creative women friends. Filling notebooks with ideas and thoughts.

 Now, I’m bringing all this life together to offer exploratory workshops to enrich others’ creative practice.

If you join us, you will

·      experience the impact of intuitive painting techniques (bring your painter self or your non-painter self)

·      be led in intense conversations around your process

·      discover what can happen when you ‘go beyond the given’

Click below for more info and to sign up.

OWN ~ TURN ~ OWN: Responding to Simone de Beauvoir on creative work (1)

When I read The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir seemed to unroll my life experience like a map of the world, pointing out continents and oceans, showing how routes across this world of my life were somehow predictable. She showed me centuries of history and myth that made this inevitable. She gave me words to describe my experience, and a new way to own my experience.

The little pink book is a thin slice of The Second Sex, containing the Introduction, Chapter 14 The Independent Woman, and the Conclusion. Over several years now, it has kept me coming back, repeatedly pummelled my mind, made me sit up and take notice.

Chapter 14 holds the real challenge for me as a painter and writer. Her words about women and their creative work hurt. I wish they were less accurate. Here’s just one example out of nearly 50 pages:

extract from p63, The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir, 1949.

I am brought up abruptly by the truth and relevance of her words. They make me want to throw prudence to the wind and to try to emerge beyond the given world. I’d even like to claim a bit of the madness in talent called genius.

This kind of energising effect points to how we can respond to her words. Take this for example:

“She may feel alone within the world: she never stands up in front of it, unique and sovereign. ”

— Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex

One way I respond to her statements about what holds back women is to feel how they apply to my own art practice/life, then turn them around, and affirm the reversal:

i stand up in front of the world, unique and sovereign.

I have found reversed statements like this both bracing and encouraging. They have given me courage on days when being an artist feels so hard, such a waste of effort and precious time.

i throw prudence to the wind and

try to emerge beyond the given world

I can even try:

i have this madness in talent called genius

and if that sounds too much, I can still ‘try on’ the statement or ‘hold it against me to see how it might fit’.

This OWN-TURN-OWN practice of working with de Beauvoir’s words has been very formative for me. It has given me energy to continue on bad days, and to place my work in a larger perspective. It moves beyond a reprimand into spine-strengthening encouragement.

Next time: Themes and metaphors in Chapter 14, all the words

The wall of experimentation and the wall for contemplation

I’m finding this interview in the artist’s studio inspiring in several ways. I love their description of what is on the wall and why.

“One wall of Bastos’ studio is lined with a huge piece of mass-produced wallpaper, featuring large-scale roses in an almost dreamy but restrained colour palette of soft pinks and greys, and overlaid with a smaller painting that pops with lurid green and blue scrawl. This is the process wall, where works are made and composited and amalgamated. It’s the wall of experimentation, Bastos tells us. The wall opposite is the space for pseudo-finished work, where many works go into a space for contemplation, and from there sometimes they go back to the other wall. It’s currently dotted with belts that hang and curl sculpturally. On this wall, Bastos comes to perceptively understand and link the evolving visual gestures in their work. They liken the process of placing the materials on the wall to tarot card reading, a process of divination that works by confirming what intuition and the right side of the brain already know. “I’m obsessed with salon hangs. I love it, because with a practice like mine, form really navigates. You find the commonality in the gesture, in the materials, but it’s not necessarily like everything is gonna look very similar. And when you do a salon hang… it’s easier to pinpoint the thread.””

— Berlin Art Link, Dec 12 2023, Studio Visit with Cibelle Cavalli Bastos

You can read the full interview here

Meanwhile, on my wall ….

Crime Fiction, acrylic on canvas, 30 x 40cm, Lynne Cameron 2024.

a slipping glimpse

Today I wanted to revive this post from nine years ago, and to remember Jo, who offered me these words in the first place.

Baltic landscape, acrylic on paper, Lynne Cameron

Abstract painter Willem de Kooning, talking about his practice:

Each new glimpse is determined by many,

Many glimpses before.

It's this glimpse which inspires you -- like an occurrence.

And I notice those are always my moment of having an idea

That maybe I could start a painting.

....

Y'know the real world, this so-called the real world,

Is just something you put up with, like everybody else.

I'm in my element when I am a little bit out of this world:

then I'm in the real world -- I'm on the beam.

Because when I'm falling, I'm doing all right;

When I'm slipping, I say, hey, this is interesting!

It's when I'm standing upright that bothers me:

I'm not doing so good; I'm stiff.

As a matter of fact, I'm really slipping, most of the time,

into that glimpse. I'm like a slipping glimpser.

(Sketchbook 1: Three Americans, 1960)  

How do we belong to the world?

“In what ways do we belong to the world?”

 This question lies at the core of the work of John Berger, according to Nikos Papastergiadis in an essay Forest (A Jar of Wild Flowers: Essays in celebration of John Berger, 2023, p.83.)

Such a profound question ~

It’s a question that helps me think about my painting in general – how I want to share something of my experience in the world as an older woman – and about how I can develop it through the particular and specific.

Currently I’m working on a series of abstract paintings that arise from walking the canal path in Oxford on my way to my new studio. Houses and gardens back on to the canal, some humble and some grand. Each meeting of garden and canal is different. What people do with their 3 or 4 metre stretch of bank is fascinating to me. Each has some way of holding up the small bank, while often including a step down to the water. There are old trees in random positions along the canal that have been built around. Some board their canal edge and place chairs there. Some keep canoes. Some incorporate it into the garden. Some keep it very trim; others let it grow wild. Many have little sheds there, some turned into offices. And from my vantage point across the water, I see what’s happening at canal level – broken steps, weeds, shadows, and ducks.

 On sunny mornings, the low English sun strims through buildings and branches on to the green water. Sometimes the brightness lies beyond the dark bank, pulling the eye up into the garden. Sometimes patches of sky lie on the water.

My paintings take from the experience of walking and looking. They take the random patches of light and shade, the horizontals and verticals of planks and steps and sheds, the secret tangles below the bank and the overhanging tangles of branches and brambles.

In choosing colour and combining forms, I am speaking of how I belong to this world –committed still to the practice of attention and noticing, starting over in a new studio, priced out of houses backing on to water, privileged to walk on this path, while slightly wary as a woman alone.

 Half a world away in New Zealand, I transform this particular, specific belonging into little studies on paper, in preparation for big paintings on canvas.

Investigations continue

The work of self-knowledge and understanding is never done. It guides and informs everything.

This quote, from an academic paper on self, identity and the danger of narrative*, spoke to me - and with a recent painting that is called Interference, (acrylic on raw canvas, 60 x 80cm).

Other sources of insight currently include:

*Camila Orca, K., (2018) Opaque Selves: A Ricœurian Response to Galen Strawson’s Anti- Narrative Arguments, Études Ricœuriennes / Ricœur Studies, Vol 9, No 1 (2018,) pp. 70-89 . DOI 10.5195/errs.2018.387

Midnight Blue

In the beautiful Oxford Botanic Gardens, I was sitting in rosy sunshine  contemplating the possibility of using plant dyes in painting. A core colour in my artwork is the dark steely blue of indigo, and, yes, there was an indigo plant in the gardens. A helpful gardener showed me where to find it -and in flower (below right), although it’s the leaves that make the dye.

Walking home I passed a pen shop and noticed that it sells ink in a range of delicious colours. There was no indigo but I came away with the beautifully named Midnight Blue to try out.

 I love using ink on wet watercolour paper - as it spreads, it creates unexpected forms and weird edges. It also changes colour as it dilutes into the wetness of the paper. Black India Ink dilutes to shades of grey that verge on browns

Midnight Blue lets loose its underlying colours, revealing a vibrant turquoise and a surprising pink.

This contingent emergence of form and colour fascinates me. I prepare the surface, allow the conditions, then the ink does its thing. I can adjust the process to a limited degree by tilting, adding or subtracting water.

As I get to understand what a new material can do, a dialogue starts with earlier work as I think back to past paintings and processes for possible new ways to work. I wondered what would happen on a disrupted surface, and over handwriting. AT the top of this post is the outcome. I wrote out the opening words from and Iris Murdoch’s text (The Sovereignty of Good Over Other Concepts, 1967) on to thick watercolour paper, ripped them and glued them randomly to construct an almost 3d surface. Then I experimented with Midnight Blue ink spreading on this disrupted surface. This step draws on the word-collaging technique I developed 6 years ago in Berlin Notes in the Dark. That technique was used on a larger scale in the series Other People. In those paintings, pairs or groups of people engaged in unheard dialogue, their individual stance and the space between them conveying something of their relationship. You can see both series on this page by scrolling down.

The final step was reducing the insistence of the words with a layer of white paint on some sections..

Without a loss of substance (detail)

A deeper layer of questions

Finding new ways to interconnect my writing and my painting is a continuing theme in my studio practice.

I spent a long coffee break going through my turquoise notebook – that’s the one where I write notes about my reading. In my mind that day was how to think about some ‘self-portraits’ I’d been painting, how to tie them in to my practice. I re-read notes from poetry workshops to see what spoke to me now. Notes from zoom calls with my friend. Notes about ideas and notes to self. Sometimes screams of agony. Notes and connections. More of an on-going conversation than notes.

The notebook’s timespan included encounters with Laurie Anderson’s Norton Lectures , Jane Hirshfield workshop at Coffee House Poetry, Bracha Ettinger on matrixial theory, Griselda Pollock on Charlotte Salomon, Gabriel Josopovici on Modernism, and the Weird Studies podcast. Iris Murdoch and Simone Weil on attention, on ‘unselfing’, linger in the background always.

My conversation with the notebook turned itself into a list of questions. I realised as I listed them that these were the questions I needed to ask of the portraits.

I gave each portrait half a day to answer the questions. By writing in response to the paintings, I wanted to lead myself deeper into the labyrinth, to explore the mystery while retaining the mystery. Not to ‘unpack’ or explain – impossible – to notice more. The answers became a starting text, to be worked into something more poetic until it fitted, resonated, joined forces, with the painting.

I’m still working out how to best present these hybrid artworks, exhibition or book or ... Meanwhile, here are the questions. Perhaps they would work for you? Or perhaps you could find your own set from your notebook?

Questioning a painting

What can be seen in the painting?

What happens with attention?

            where is attention drawn on looking at the painting?

what was my attention drawn to when I was painting?

How does the painting gesture to beauty and goodness and tenderness? and to the shadow?

 What’s being amplified?

 Where’s the uncertainty?

 What’s the weirdness?

 What’s oscillating? What dynamics are in action?

 Any collaborations going on? e.g. with ideas, with other painters

 What has returned in a new way?

 What transformation has occurred / is offered?

 What possibilities are being held in creative tension?

draft of Yay Day writing~painting artwork, Lynne Cameron 2023

Refound

We found the leaves pressed between two pieces of kitchen roll inside a book that I left here in NZ in October 2020. I have no memory of their collecting, pressing, laying aside.

Refound, they are making new memories as she turns 6, as she creates and owns her artwork.

And as I gather the new paintings I’ve made here for titling, signing and photographing, I notice how we influence each other, grow through each other’s presence. Grandmothering.

Deep Looking

Several years ago, I gathered a set of questions to support people looking at paintings. The power of attention and noticing has been important in all my work, academic and art. Visual attention as a painter is different from the aural and analytic attention I needed in my research into spoken metaphor.

These questions are an introduction to attending to paintings, particularly abstract painting. I’ve recently developed new questions that go more deeply into the theoretical aspects of painting - I’ll share these soon. Meanwhile here are my initial deep looking questions. They’ve been trialled in several gallery / artist talks - viewers are invited to sit with a painting for at least 5 minutes and then to respond to the questions on paper, through writing or mark-making. I am always amazed by what people find..

Residency reflections 6: Painting and other arts

At the end of my residency at the Berghof Foundation we held an event to celebrate what we’d made and discuss what we’d learnt.

It was interesting for me throughout my stay to hear about the creative activities of Berghof staff and how creativity inhabits people’s lives. I came with my painting practice and poetry; other people had experience in, and love for other art forms: theatre, photography, music. In our conversation, we talked about the performative arts and how they might offer ways of working with others to reframe situations and emotions.

Painting can be performative and collaborative, but is often a more private and silent activity. It is non-verbal, and there’s a power, I find, in losing oneself in colour, line and form. While busy with the material and mixing of paint with water, the body occupied with brushing and looking, the mind is quietened for a time and returns to some kind of equilibrium. From the time ‘lost in painting’, we can emerge invigorated and somehow more balanced. The activity is, in itself, restorative; the end result of the painting serves as a reminder of process and is not required to be more than that.

An edited summary of our conversation can be found here

https://berghof-foundation.org/news/transformation-through-art-talk-with-lynne-cameron

Meanwhile, the discussion around art, creativity, and conflict transformation continues …

An occupation of the body. Lynne Cameron, 2022. Acrylic, pencil and charcoal on collaged handwriting, 61 x 84 cm.