Chasing Elusive Butterflies
Two overprinted cyanotype images of Moonah trees, still not quite ‘perfect’.
Not everyone will like the work you do. You might not even like it yourself. Then one image will work and you’ll feel a wonderful rush of gratitude for all your stubborn doggedness to keep going, despite everything that life throws at you.
Every day I try to spend some time connected to my art practice. It may mean working on a submission, making a sketch, planning or finally working in the studio. It can be as little as half an hour, but it is often enough to feel that thread of connection tighten.
It doesn’t always pan out that way. Unexpected events crop up continually or there may be days of travel, appointments or downtimes when all you can do is rest. I no longer beat myself up for surrendering to those type of days, as long as I can walk into the studio and say hello to my artworks. I’ll get back to you, I promise.
It’s a bit like that with the garden. There will be weeks of every day doing something; a bit of weeding, planting or pruning. Then periods of nothingness in the heat of summer when you get to enjoy eating breakfast in the garden, communing with the flowers and your days consist of watering and keeping the garden alive.
I was told that that plants respond to human interaction and energy. That when you are away, your garden experiences the loss of your vibrational energy. I know about the experiments done with water by Dr. Masaru Emoto where water responds to human emotions. Plants are made up of 95% water so it’s highly probable.
This led me to think: what if it’s the same for my creative practice? What if, when I stand in the studio having my first cup of coffee for the day, the studio energy ‘wakes up’. A sense of anticipation quivers. New projects hover in the air like elusive butterflies. Possibilities suggest themselves.
I look at the works sitting on my bench, often the ones I made the day before. I feel like the cobbler who cut the last piece of leather out for a pair of shoes and found them made the next day by the elves. Ideas germinate and I pick up a brush or try out a new composition. I don’t know if the next work will turn out but I’m willing to give it a try.
It does mean I end up with an awful lot of artworks that are not that good. Some of my recent cyanotypes are like that. I repeatedly overprint them in the hope they might turn into gold. Usually they don’t but then one image is a good one and hope returns.
Now that I make my own paper I don’t feel so bad about wasting time and materials. I can always make more paper and keep trying, always chasing those elusive butterflies, the golden images that resonate. Ones that grow wings and soar high.
Cyanotype printing in process. Anticipation abounds: will these work (or not)?
