On Process: How I approach my mural work

Photo by: Brandon LaJoie

What begins as a concept, an idea, grows out of my mind, beyond my hands, and into a fully realized dream. Taking on greater depth and meaning outside of myself.

The beginning phases of my process are always play. Lines following lines. Color chasing after color. Shapes bend and intersect and blend into the next one. Defining boundaries that keep the form supported and well balanced. Intuitive though it is, momentum is my realest muse. She keeps me going.

Once the drawing starts to feel cohesive enough to stand on its own, then I start to find new pathways and accentuate the human elements. Hands. Feet. Eyes. All play. No rhyme or reason really. Balance in color and composition.

Momentum is my realest muse.

Starting in on the wall is an act of creation in and of itself. The process of recreating the original drawing. It isn’t my goal to replicate the work perfectly. Because that’s too much pressure, and doesn’t actually work. However, when I first started I was using a projector as a way to white-knuckle my process. Really striving for perfection. But it was so much pressure. And I suffered great anxiety because of that.

And to now, where I’m able to free-hand all my work, I feel a renewed sense of freedom and fulfillment.

The wall then becomes another blank page. No mistakes are possible when there is nothing to control. And the last thing my creativity wants to be is controlled. So I keep letting go. Leaning into the memory my hands hold. As I take what was made on a small piece of paper and recreate it on a large expanse of wall space. My only trick, if you can call it that, is using photoshop to build the comp and place it on the wall as close to a final product as possible. This allows me to find visual clues that I need when I’m up there on the lift.

No mistakes are possible when there is nothing to control. And the last thing my creativity wants to be is controlled.

I prefer using visual balance rather than calculated balance. Meaning, I’ll draw a line 2 or 3 times until it feels right, rather than rely on a measured approach. Training my eye to feel when something is off up close and then far away is another part of the process. I can’t stay all up in the details for too long. So it’s good to take a step back and gain perspective. But once everything is penciled on the wall all I need is time and plenty of paint.

Photo by: Brandon LaJoie

thinking more about my process

What is that saying, “there is nothing to fear but fear itself” … thank you FDR.

So then what is this fear I have? Let’s start at the beginning and see if I can’t navigate my way through this. Not in any linear fashion but in the reality of the situation, which seems to bend and break and zig and zag all over the place. My fear of starting. My fear of approaching a form that wants to take hold but too timid to see it through to the next phase… not completion but maybe something more like appreciation. My constant game of playing what-if when I look at the work in process in front of me.

Sure I can easily rationalize my way around these fears. The solution in my mind seems easy. Don’t stop, don’t think too much, just continue working. My mind is really strong and stubborn. But I want to learn how to feel these feelings and not just think my way through them. In my experience I’ve often found that in any situation fighting my thoughts with more thoughts is pointless. An endless cycle. But when I am able to distance myself and give my attention to something else for a while I find the feeling and solution I was looking for without even thinking about it. And it’s good to remember here that there is no need to label anything to do with the mind as good or bad, right or wrong. Simply allowing the fear to be here, acknowledging its existence, and then being kind and curious with it like I would with my own children.

For aren’t fears really like children anyways? A fear is only asking for something it needs. But too often I forget how to be attentive to my fear and instead neglect it or go on with my fingers in my ears not listening.

When I set about to start a new work. Anything. I always like to throw myself into the middle of it. I like the confidence it builds in me to stand up to my fear and keep going anyways. So the fear of beginning, that at one time was most difficult, has now subsided a little bit and feels easier to grapple with. I can move my brush around and start making connections in an instant. My brain on fire. I can be moved by my instinct very easy. Letting my brain take a rest and instead rely heavily upon intuition. Never with a clear roadmap in mind but trusting that I’ll find what I’m looking for as I go along.

The middle, however, is where I find I’m getting lost. Once I have a couple days spent in total surrender to instinct and surveying the landscape of what’s emerging is when I start to feel it. Caught in quicksand I’m at once surrounded by this beautiful landscape I’ve created and also scared I’m sinking into the unknown. Is it possible that this unknowing is what makes it so impossible to move forward? How often have I felt I was moving in a good direction and then spun on a dime and went off on some other path? What will happen on the other side is always unknown in the moment.

Duh!

The moment. Staying in the moment. Being present. And as good as this reminder is I still feel it’s lacking. It needs substance. I need to know the weight of what the moment is offering me. The balance of bliss and elbow grease. I’m searching for it. Somewhere in the drawers of my past I hope I’ll find it. Whether it be a person or a place or a thing unspeakable. And that unspeakable-ness is what I’m struggling with in painting. At once I’m confronted with the fact that I’m attempting to give rise to new language and imagery and yet still I try and make my paintings look too much like paintings I’ve seen before? Why do I insist on recreating the past when I have so much to learn about being present? This. Right here. This is as brutally honest as I can be right now.

But I can’t get ahead of myself here. The outcome is not mine to control. Today is enough.

…

PS // This desire has been growing in me to talk more openly and candidly about how I work and what my process looks like. As much as I enjoy the immediacy of inspiration and beauty found online it is also a heavy burden. One that I take full awareness of is my own doing. But it is an odd thing to bring awareness in a space that so often goes unnoticed and is almost acted upon with impulse and a desire all its own. That, of course, being addiction to technology. But as I’ve been reminded lately; transcend and include. I don’t wish to completely remove myself or my work from the social atmosphere that has been a huge help. Nor do I wish to dive deeper into its framework and play the games that social media has designed. Instead I want to continue to draw and shape healthy boundaries around what I choose to let in to my inner world.

Thank you to those who read this and those of you who are deep wells of inspiration in my life. You know who you are.

The waiting is my work

I am all the things I am and even those I’m not.

So what do you do? How many times is that our first question? In a room full of strangers we are so conditioned to find a connection with someone based on the doings. We all desperately crave connection and understanding. But depending on the environment we can feel shy, embarrassed, or sometimes ashamed, to answer that question. Even the answer itself it loaded with a lot of other questions. For me, being an artist, comes with its own set of follow up questions. It may come as a surprise, but honestly I don’t know where to go from here. So most of the time it’s safe to stay on the surface; what are my materials? What style? Where is my work shown? All of which is not to be discredited, but also not the complete picture.

The bigger questions for me is how long did it take to bring to form all the ways in which my life has lead me to the now. The formless nature of my work. Because I’m not a “what you see is what you get” kind of person. I like the contradictions. I enjoy the unexpected. I appreciate the questions without answers. The space between our words. My lack of formal training is not a crutch. Instead it has left me to discover things in my own way. A kind of scenic route if you will. I’m not the type to immerse myself in book and study the historical significance of certain movements. I am all the things I am and even those I’m not. So it doesn’t surprise me that I might arrive at some of the same decisions as those who have come before me have arrived at.

But looking, seeing, is the minds way of categorizing and creating order. This compulsion we all share to label and keep things in order. Art has nothing to do with order. Or is it that the act of creating has nothing to do with order? All the years I’ve spent trying to keep order and make my work cohesive or have a consistent look has kept me from my truest self. To control ones own work is to not trust ones own self. To truly feel what I feel I have to wait. Honesty with myself requires space for silence. The same silence carved out by rocks and trees and birds. The acknowledgment of the urge, the desire, to make what someone else expects of me. All of it someone belongs in a messy tangle of the give and take of life.

To control ones own work is to not trust ones own self.

I am not complete in my doing. My doing comes from a deep well of being. The formless that breathes and give life to form. Not some definition of style or system of rules but a practice of trusting myself and being open to the only constant; change. Allowing myself to change and evolve. I want to develop a body of work that is honest. I want what it left, what is surrendered, when I walk away to be a bigger question than a definitive answer. All of this I feel when I sit down across from an empty canvas. Mind blank. Siting under the weight of making mistakes. Fearing the first move. Then and only then do I begin the process of forming new paths when I make the first mark.

Enoughness

What is this feeling? Can you feel it too?

There is this shift happening in me. And as I’m in the midst of it I have no solid answer. And still I can’t help but observe what this shift feels like and how its simple, but profound, effects are evolving my consciousness.

Just two days ago waking up I felt like a giant weight had been lifted… a beautiful clarity left my heart feeling light and care free as my children. Then two weeks ago, in the middle of my meditation, I experienced what I can only refer to as a giant shift in my body. My mood, my physical health, all were empty before I sat down, and then afterwards I felt completely renewed. Where does it come from? There seems to be a connection between my growing practice of yoga and meditating and this letting go I feel happening inside. The heaviness is lessoning. The worry is not as worrisome. The self-criticism is transforming into a more kind and gentle voice in which I speak to myself.

One way this shift has been showing up in my day-to-day is this phrase; I’m not above it. And at first my wife was really confused by what I meant. But, hey, I’m not above that either. It’s not something I feel needs explanation, or something I feel is directed at anyone or anything. Rather it’s a constant reminder for me to try new things, let go of old things, and hold it all with an open-handed approach. Not taking things for granted. Not waiting for the future to happen to me. Not regretting the past behind me.

i.am.not.above.it.

And so while I sat over a cup of coffee this morning. Legs crossed in a seated position. I was reminded of my enoughness today. In the face of our constant conectedness there is much to be said about the effects it has on our desires and our endless need for more. And still it always leaves me feeling lacking. The ironic part is that with all the information I have access to, all the avenues of connection, they always lead me back to wanting. Meaning, I can no longer push against the natural rhythms and seasons of life. So I return to the present moment. I return to my inner presence and trust that I am enough. I trust that today is enough.

solid liquid gas

I hope we can all agree that texting is not the best space to have deeper conversations. The vast wasteland of white space around our little speech bubbles leaves too much room for assumptions and hurt feelings. I don’t even feel like the phrase “pick up the phone and call somebody” is even relevant anymore. Because what makes a phone now is so far beyond the basic concept of a phone.

But I digress, in the shadow of a recent lengthy text conversation I had with my best friend the time I spent processing my thoughts after really helped shuffle my perspective. And it comes down to truth. What is truth? Is my truth your truth? Is their truth our truth? Or does Oprah have it right when she urges us to “speak our truth”?

Who among us can own truth?

This is the bigger question forming in my mind. Well, fuck, not just my mind but my whole being. Wrestling with it and bending under the weight of it. I don’t think anyone has the upper hand on truth. Who among us mere mortals can begin to wrap our dirty, greasy hands around what beauty she is… truth.

So then the imagery came. Because that’s the way my mind works and fuck every standardized test I ever took. The version of truth I was handed as a child seemed so solid and sturdy. It was foundational. It was the rock you built your life upon. Then I survived tragedy of divorce and being caught between two worlds. If I didn’t know any better I’d say my version of truth started to dissolved from solid to liquid earlier than most. Leaving my youth behind and entering the decade of my twenties I still managed to exercise an exorbitant amount of control. Pretty much in all areas. My marriage. My beliefs. My career. But I was still keeping myself in the dark about all this control. To me it felt as natural as the blue sky or the grass being green.

Fear is all about letting go. Or maybe it’s the other way around? Either way, when I began to question my control is when I began to fear for my safety. Fear of letting go what I always believed to be true? Could I? Would I? How is it possible to believe in something and still let it go? Quite easy actually now that I see control as the illustrious being it is. You see, once I gave into my fears and fully let go of all I held onto then truth was able to be the river it has always been.

Ooph, the metaphors are a plenty here. But do you feel me? I don’t believe anymore that I can hold onto something that is bigger than me. It’s why my girls can run and jump on me and not pin me to the ground. I am bigger than them. So too why I know I can’t run and jump at a concrete wall and expect to knock it down. I am not that strong. Or, okay I’ll bring it down to earth, it’s the reason why I can no longer accept Jesus as the only way to God. And I really love Jesus. But I don’t have to convince you of any of this. Truth is only a lived experience. Truth is not a controlled substance taken every Sunday morning.

And now as I accept the flow all around me life is beautiful. There is nothing I can control. There are only choices I can make. To be in the flow or not. I feel like this may have been what Jesus wrote in the sand that day. Do you see the flow? Can we see the burning bush around us at every moment? All the subtle glimpses help me carry on each day. Knowing that one day this liquid will turn to gas. A mere vapor rising up to meet and become one with the air.