Part 1: How to get into the creative flow on the road
Turns out being unsettled is a good thing
Life as a creative! Life on the road as a creative! They are kind of two different things…
This is how it all began...
This past winter, I suggested that Michael and I needed to "head to Italy" for a self-imposed artist residency to step away from the stress of a new home build. "Maybe we should put it on the calendar for early Spring?" I casually suggested. New Englanders, I believe, spend a good portion of the gloomy months plotting escapes. I also knew we just might need to squeeze this trip in before we actually begin the looming job of cleaning out our large studios and house of combined belongings, which would be the focus for most of our summer. Doesn't that sound good on paper?
If I examine my intentions more closely, I see a pattern within my path pushing me forward creatively. I feel the pull of something unseen inside me and find excuses to have it play out.
When I dramatically remove myself from my studio for a more extended amount of time and change my surroundings (my art supplies in hand), I allow myself to be pulled into something new within my work and my spirit. Italy anyone? While this trip was a much-needed break from the dream house building (read: drama with the builder), I subconsciously understood that my best breakthroughs as an artist happen when my normal flow gets disrupted with a new discomfort flow. The uneasiness that can come into play when trying to "get comfortable" in a new environment forces me to become more inquisitive and expand.
Case and point, when we arrived at Pieve di Caminio, the agriturismo we stayed at, it took me a day or two to just absorb the stunning views, to decide whether to trust the 6-month-old half-dog, half-wolf named Aria, owned by Emiliano, whose family had owned the farm since the 1800s. It was gorgeous and unruly, or what our host called not luxurious but romantic. That seems right up my alley, pass me a glass of wine and let me soak it all in.
I quickly learned it was much more than a simple organic olive farm. It had a dramatic and storied past involving Christian martyrdom and a stream flowing with "healing holy water," which Emy, our host, described in a typical pragmatic Italian manner as "water minus malaria." Ahhhh, It all seems just like yesterday instead of centuries ago. Italy has a strange way of making time seem irrelevant.
As I am taking in the stunning view, trying to figure out if I am going to spend the week being eaten alive by bugs, petting the wolf-dog, wondering if our host has adequate liability insurance to let this large "puppy" roam freely amongst guests on the farm, I am also adjusting to the energy, past and present of this new space.
I knew I would have to settle myself and find my "way in to find my creative flow." I have become increasingly sensitive to deciphering my "way in." I have put it into a category that I call a sense of place, but I am expanding it to the spirit of a place. So it wouldn't be just the fertile, vibrant surroundings that I would let speak to me but also all the things that make this entire region so alive and so suspended in time.
Over the next few days, my question became, how do I paint it? Do I pick up the entire "Spirit of Tuscany" or narrow it down to everything I was experiencing on the farm (did I mention there was a cork forest on the property?) or hone in even tighter on the small abandoned chapel on the property that kept drawing me back?
I began by painting somewhat traditionally because the vistas were incredible; everywhere in Tuscany has picture postcard views, so the landscape becomes an easy target. Then I leaned into my familiar way of seeing, which tends to be the snapshot view, where everything appears as if I were looking through a keyhole. As a young college student, this explanation was used when describing Degas Bather's paintings, and it has resonated with me ever since.
The bright red poppies that wildly clung to anything so they could grow with abandon immediately spoke to me.
I began to play and warm up, drawing at first and then playing with shapes and colors, asking if the poppies wanted to be blue for a day.
But I felt like there was more story to this place and this trip than I allowed myself to see.
Whenever I moved to a new spot to paint, I would have to readjust and reset.
I felt unsettled, unable to remain in one spot with the disruption of rain storms, the direct sun, and even lunch! If I set down my brush to think of anything outside myself, it felt like a slow climb to get back into a relaxed open state or flow state of creating...
Here are some things I was grateful that I already had in place:
Practice using your packed supplies before you leave home. I learned this lesson in France during our residency. I knew I wasn't bringing canvas and wanted to try canvas paper, and fortunately, I tested the product a couple of weeks before I left. The only "new supply" I added to this trip were these mop brushes I picked up from our favorite art store in Rome. I was experienced with the watercolor paper I brought and the paint pans, which prevented any learning curves in a new environment.
Know your comfort zones. Michael mentioned that the grass we might be sitting in was tall. Frankly, I am not a tall grass girl, and even though I love a good picnic, if it's not too wild, I knew I would need a blanket or chair. I packed both. My best work was when I spread all my work out in front of me on a flat surface. Michael can paint with everything propped in his lap precariously. That is a meh proposition for me.
Know yourself. I wrote about the 'idea" for this trip for a reason. I am getting to know what makes me the most inspired and productive. I realized that I constantly comb through the snapshots from the trip to France for little inklings and ideas, and I am confident that the over 300 photos I took on this trip will do the same thing. This type of travel moves my spirit in the direction I want to be headed.
More on that in the next article! Part 2 is coming this week!
