In a previous entry about my process, I described my biggest frustration in the studio: my favorite artwork takes less than a day to complete, while other work takes weeks of agonizing, only to end up discarded in the end. An insightful acquaintance pointed out that this predicament makes sense because I am (in his words) negotiating chance. His comment sent me on a thinking journey: what does it mean to negotiate chance, and are there other insights into my process that might help solve this studio frustration?
One of the most jarring examples of this problem happened after I participated in a residency program in France and completed about a dozen pieces in a month, feeling like things were picking up and going well. I left for another residency in Wyoming and tried making larger work in the same vein, when suddenly everything failed. Was it because of the new geographic location, the new studio, jet lag, a loss of momentum, or the change in scale? I concluded that it was the change in scale; something about the larger work required a different approach. I stopped working and stepped back for a moment to think about what went wrong. Ultimately, I did figure it out and was able to move on, which gives me hope that my current conundrum will have a concrete solution as well.
I also remember the opposite—times when I’ve experienced a genuine “flow” in the studio. One of those was during the early pandemic when I made 74 works on paper in less than three months, and was, to my own surprise, satisfied with most of them. This period of pandemic lockdown was probably the least frustrating of my artmaking career. I recently analyzed what was different about my process during that time, and concluded that there was a good balance between prescription and innovation. I had made a few primary choices that applied, at least temporarily, to all of the work. This global formula left smaller, bite-sized choices to be made within each piece. The creative decisions that varied from piece to piece thus became less complicated, easier to untangle, which in turn taught me what needed to shift in the global choices as well. The work developed.
There is excitement in not knowing. I am happiest with the finished work when it surprises me, when it opens up a new connection or question, revealing something that I didn’t already know. As for work in progress, my favorite activity is leaving a puddle of ink to dry and coming back to it the next day to discover completely unforeseen textures and shapes. When I step into the studio and look at the dried ink, there is occasionally an immediate spark in that moment, a way to proceed. Poured ink creates a limitation that paradoxically opens up possibilities. This use of chance is freeing to me.
But not all chance is the same. Why do some ink pours speak to me immediately, as soon as I see them, while others take days and sometimes weeks of pondering to reveal the next step, if at all? Once I crack this code, things will go smoothly again. Where do I begin?
First, I need to understand my path or direction. I hesitate calling it a goal because it’s malleable and will keep changing as the work changes. But yes, in a way it’s a goal, or as one professor back in grad school put it, it’s the current “question” that drives my work. If I phrased my current motive as a question, it would be: How do I bring out the animacies in poured ink?
Animacies. That’s the title of an eccentric and mesmerizing book by Mel Chen that influenced my process and thinking. The book begins with a linguistic analysis of the term, which immediately made me wonder how to apply it visually. What about a visual form makes something appear more or less animate?
Cannonball, 2024, 16″x20″, Ink and Vinyl Paint on Polypropylene
In my own paintings, poured ink is always the most animate element. I use this quality to talk about bodies and embodiment. In the past, when I juxtaposed ink with medical illustration, the ink ironically always appeared more animate than the body. A friend once commented that I was thus “queering” medical illustration. But as viewers generally focused on the medical illustration while barely noticing the ink, I realized that the point was lost. I needed to remove the illustration and do something else that makes the ink come to life. About five years ago, my goal/question was: How do I get rid of the medical illustration while still referencing bodies? I solved this in 2022, mostly by focusing on the ink color and substrate, leading to my current question: How do I bring out the animacies in poured ink?
In order to work through this question, I’ve focused my energy on what to do after the ink dries. I’ve made running lists of motifs while considering the materials, painting approaches, ways of masking, what colors and surface textures to use, etc. But I realize now that I’ve overlooked something fundamental: the poured ink doesn’t function as underpainting—it completely dictates the piece! How did I fail to recognize this?
I have already considered many of the ink’s parameters: surface pitch, surface texture, ink type and brand, dilution, moving the paper after pouring, color combination and ratio, air circulation, height from which to pour, amount, etc. I’ve figured out the perfect combination of pigments that result in a fleshy color. I’ve even purchased a powerful dehumidifier in order to change how quickly the pigments settle. But one thing that I haven’t done consistently is to thoughtfully consider why some ink pours appear more animate than others. This is what I need to do next.
Now that this question about animacies is almost resolved, the next one is beginning to reveal itself: How do I change the fleshy red color while still referencing bodies?
