On a personal level, the richness and mystery of life have intrigued me since I was a child living in rural Pennsylvania. I reveled in the sensuous beauty of forests and rolling hills. My childlike kinesthetic joy eventually developed into an appreciation of form. Playing in the shadows under the sweet fronds of a cornfield, climbing trees as imposing as cathedrals, and wading through shimmering streams--all evoked the same pleasure as exploring a favorite playground. Through these early encounters with nature, I learned to love FORM for the pure joy of it!

Then I learned that the omnipresent and serendipitous beauty of the world was expressed in great works of art. From Beethoven symphonies to the paintings of Kandinsky and Klee, exuberance was the payoff, simply for the act of looking (or listening)!

For me, the activity of creating art is an affirmation of life, a consciously nurtured jubilation in the miracle of form at all levels of the universe. The interrelationship among forms and organisms reveals itself at every level of nature. Each level of organization, from the atomic to the cellular level, through tissues and organs, and up through the level of organisms and species, is at once a microcosm and a macrocosm to the levels above and below it. I think it is this profound organization and similarity in form and function at every level of nature, this brilliantly-orchestrated unity-in-diversity, that makes natural objects like flowers, seashells and fractals appealing to so many people. It's not strictly the beauty expressed by the object, but also the relationship of its form to the greater "FORM" in nature, to the cosmic "WHOLE," that implies something much more profound and far-reaching than a single moment of beauty. When something refers to eternity, evokes the infinite, we feel inspired, whether or not we tie those feelings to any specific view of God.

Something transcendent happens, in my opinion, when the image of an object, pattern, or scene refers to another form or aspect of nature. A quality of ambiguity or mystery calls up a crossover between forms at different levels of reality. (An example would be a leaf, for instance, rendered in such a way that it resembles tongues of flame as much as a leaf.) It also blurs the line we draw between "organic" and "inorganic," as well as other intellectual distinctions and dichotomies that we use to define (and fragment) our perception of the world. For me, the experience of mystery confers a feeling of elation based on the complex web of interrelationship on this planet and in the universe. Pure joy.

One of my favorite books is The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher, by Lewis Thomas, M.D. In this 1978 bestseller, Dr. Thomas outlines similarities in structure and function at ascending levels of organization, from the cellular level to the level of species, and beyond. To me, these intersections of form and function bring up a paradigm of interrelatedness, the All-is-One feeling of Zen. Or Freud's "oceanic" feeling, if you will. Why do certain principles govern the cosmos in a way that is expressible by both mathematical formulae, the rules of physics, while being yet perceivable in some intuitive way, to the human eye?

The quality we call "beauty" is inherent in every inch of the visible universe, as well as at levels too small or large to be apparent to the naked eye (i.e. both the microscopic and telescopic levels). So why would I necessarily paint a "picture," a scene with the recognizable and familiar spatial and thematic elements of our everyday world, when I can just as readily, and perhaps with more purity of concentration and perception, find magic in a shred of tree bark or the contour of an ocean wave? The act of painting a recognizable scene is just as limiting to me as it may be exciting to someone else. And the camera, of course, can do the job of realistic portrayal much better than I.

Robert Henri said, "The object of painting a picture is not to make a picture--however unreasonable this may sound. The picture, if a picture results, is a by-product and may be useful, valuable, interesting as a sign of what has passed. The object which is back of every true work of art, is the attainment of a state of being, a state of high functioning, a more than ordinary moment of existence."

Traditional versus Abstract

A traditional "picture" is content-reliant, representing a single viewpoint at a particular moment in time. In it's beauty or mystery it may imply or evoke universal mysteries, the way Mona Lisa's smile is at once provocative and timeless. But for me, art that confronts the unknown, looks at the non-visible, or explores visual and existential relationships just for the experience of it, is more vital. For example, an autumn, 2003 show of four women at the Nassau County Art Museum featured Louise Nevelson, Mary Cassatt, Georgia O'Keefe, and Helen Frankenthaler. An overarching truth for me was that although Mary Cassatt's drawings and paintings of women and children were beautifully done, they were just "renderings" when compared with the effusive and exuberant non-objective works of Helen Frankenthaler. One sort of art is a rendering, the other a creation.

This is the kind of art I prefer. Representation is best achieved by the camera. For academic purposes, a study may be enlightening. But for me, the term "creation" reaches deeper into the artist's psyche, and deeper into the viewer's psyche to elicit her reaction. Non-representational art allows the artist to break new ground in exploring his/her psyche vis-a-vis the truths of the human experience. The "rendering," on the one hand, is merely pleasing, offering both the artist and the viewer a level of psychic satisfaction. But a "creation" requires the courage to see the subject in a visually exciting and intellectually challenging new way.

WHAT IS ART?

When considering the question, "Just what is 'art'?", one is inclined to consider the ideas of form, color, and composition. I think that what makes a work of art singular is not its pretty, pictorial quality. It is it's ability to stand alone as a completeness, a totality that springs with its own life from the page. As long as it displays an internal unity, it could be anything! This is where the artist's unique personal vision comes in. While form, color, and texture are the most obvious external aspects of an object or scene to be considered, it is the individual artist's treatment of all three that makes the final differentiation as to mood and essence, the particular interpretation of that subject. One might render the same vase 20 times, but which rendering most aptly expresses the vase's essence?

Composition is the interrelationship of form. One determines the other. A composition can not work if the forms comprising it do not interact in a harmonious way. Likewise, beautifully rendered form falls flat if not embedded in a composition that is visually pleasing.

I feel that the surface texture of objects is a valid subject for artistic scrutiny. The treatment of texture moves us closer to an object's essence. Each surface is a microcosm in itself, a unique topography that at the same time, evokes similar patterns at ascending levels of intellect and experience. Isn't "texture," after all, the eternal and ubiquitous underpinning, indeed the most basic level, of "form"? Seemingly shallow topographies may refer to many levels of reality at once, thus transcending the moment. A representational work exists within the limits of three dimensions and refers to a single moment in time. And that moment is already "lost," if you will. On the other hand, abstract and non-objective works belong to the infinite. These works are not time-bound, referring only to a single, past moment; they continue to exist because they reflect the patterns and rhythms, i.e. the topographies, of the universe. They belong to time-unfolding, reflecting the eternal.

I am drawn to the ambiguous and open-ended subject, more than to the recognizable and time-bound. One involves a dedication and obedience to existing detail ; the other, a willingness to nurture new ways of seeing. One involves the safety of known parameters, taking refuge in the familiar, while the other takes risks. Representational art celebrates empiric reality i.e. what IS, while abstract art celebrates what MIGHT be, as well. One engages the recognition of the viewer, the other challenges perception. To me, this is the more active and exciting pursuit. Such works do not signify a departure from nature, but rather a synthesis of elements drawn from nature. While they may draw heavily on the seemingly random or accidental arrangements of form and content that abound in nature, a magnificent unity underpins the "accidental."

To me, it's more fun to see "what isn't" than to see "what is." I can see "what is," every day of my life. The fun of abstraction is that it engages imagination as well as arresting perception the way realism does. It's a visual syntax with it's own imperatives. I enjoy contemplating where my eye enters a piece, how it moves through the composition, experiencing the structure and nuances as one would savor a sentence that is poetically wrought. A standard "picture" refers to the conventional space of everyday life: one moment in time, contained in a rectangular space. How limiting! The relationships that exist in nature between repetitions of form and function from the cellular level on up, contradict the limits of having just four traditionally-defined dimensions.

I think memory and intuition may be two of the eleven dimensions theorized by String Theory. Because they bridge gaps in space and time, each is perhaps a dimension in itself. The frontiers of mind represent another example of something which we know exists, we are certain of by our own experience, but which we cannot always PROVE by science.

Why does beauty exist?

For years I have been asking myself: "Just why is there beauty in the world at all?" Our need as a species to groom, to acquire, to procreate, to hunt and gather, to stake out territory, all come from the survival imperative that has impelled us through the ages. But in addition to these more obvious needs of the human condition, there is a universal recognition, pursuit, and enjoyment of what we call "beauty." Though the apperception of beauty varies according to time, culture and temperament, it nevertheless is pervasive and universal. Whether there exits an objective validation or proof for the idea of beauty matters not, for if the perception of beauty is universally wired into our senses and intrinsic to the human mind, it exists as powerfully as if it had an objective life outside of us. The effect is the same: a compelling and powerful moment of arrested perception that illuminates our thoughts and impressions with an image, either natural or manmade, that moves us inexplicably.

I wonder if our "biologically unnecessary" recognition of beauty means that we were programmed to aspire towards the transcendent, the logical outgrowth of which is a belief in a higher power, rather than for mere survival. Though I do not believe in the generally divisive structures of organized religion, I believe our universal recognition and pursuit of beauty and our proclivity for wonder, so thoroughly programmed into the species, offer proof of the existence of God. How could magnificence be so universal and compelling, if not by design? Why would it exist, by virtue of evolution or any other force, if not to inspire us to recognize the higher values implicit in the idea of "Deity"?

I once heard the expression, "the metaphysics of cloth." This simple phrase resonated with a truth I had already recognized. In my experience, the beauty that occurs by chance or accident is often more beautiful than the beauty achieved by consciously manipulating an arrangement. Which is not to say that a painting (of the "accidental") isn't premeditated and planned as the artist ponders the visual presentation she would like to create.

The dynamic and difficult balance between inspiration and technique, passion and restraint, is the yin and yang of art. This dichotomy reflects the "Grand Paradox" that is evident at every level of our existence.

I think most of us would agree that producing art gives us power. I see it as a power over ourselves, over our energy, perception, motivational systems. And perhaps most important, I view it as a supplanting of our need to achieve a social equilibrium (which in my mind is never really possible anyway), by a need to achieve harmony within ourselves, in relation to the universe. The truth wears six billion faces, and each of us has different life circumstances, a different life script, if you will, and a different mode of being. For me, doing art takes me to a place from which I can accept all scripts and embrace the subjective and relative nature of truth. Because my own script is to me so engaging, at times enthralling, and always varied and full of mystery, it teaches me both tolerance and hope. It gives me confidence in the infinite potential of the universe, for hope, harmony, and healing. In short, it gives me joy.

I've heard it said that artists, in doing art, are participating in a God-like Creation process, and indeed it is true. While we are by no means transmuted into gods by the creative process, we at least become His humble hand-maidens. We see glimpses of beauty and wonder in places where other people may fail to look, unearthing it at every turn. We see new relationships, both visual and metaphoric, sociological and scientific. And this is our reward for stepping back from the tendency to power struggles, that so often escalates into dangerous conflicts around the globe.

I've heard it said, also, that we artists make art in order to find love and to be loved. I think the apex of this is that in the tender connections we make to the universe, we find some degree of self-love. I think this is a balanced form of self-love that perceives the relative and tenuous nature of things, including the subjective nature of our own lives. Therefore, in my opinion, it is a mature self-love, not to be confused with narcissism.

THINK SMALL!!! (No, I'm not joking...)

Actually, I do have a reason. Its very simple. When you fine tune your vision, turn it towards detail, new worlds await! There is magic in minutiae.

Its a paradigm weve grown up with: more is better--look at the big picture--earn more money--enjoy the panorama, the big cars, the big houses, the big stars! Might makes right, and may the best (and biggest, or most muscular, or wealthiest) man win!

We have been conditioned to think big at any cost, even though it means overlooking sources of joy, wisdom, and inspiration. For us artists, especially. Perhaps I am overstating the obvious, but Ive discovered a truth that wasnt always obvious to me. This past year I have rid and relieved my mind of the big picture paradigm. I dont do it regarding politics, education, the environment, or public health issues, for in these realms we must not abandon the big picture. But I do it perceptually, with aplomb and abandon, much more than I used to. In other words, I sit (or stand) and stare. And Ive discovered new worlds this way.

True, many people will not get turned on by morsels of pine bark whose texture is delicately illumined by afternoon light. Or by the abstract composition a lichen laced with pine needles on the forest floor proffers. But for us artists, such details are a treasure trove.

Maybe the catalyst for my newly cultivated interest in the small view was our canoeing on a Maine lake this summer. My husband and I would head out to the marshy end of the lake after sunset, when most people had gone inside for the evening to numb out in view of the boob tube. We would paddle eagerly into the grassy shallows, lay our paddles across the gunwales, and wait. A smile and a prayer later, we were freshened, soothed, and inspired. With the sound of the soft wind in our ears, we watched the swallows winging their way into the glow of twilight for a dinner of dragonflies and mosquitoes. In sunsets aftermath, the rose-glow would spread over the lake with the same grandeur sunrise imparts, only with diminishing instead of increasing intensity. Crimson and orange ringlets burnished the ripples all along the lake surface, like so many shimmering bracelets of light, changing every moment. They would meld and flow and metamorphose, texture and breadth and frequency interacting like the counterpoint in a symphony. A crescendo of beauty, free for the taking. It is difficult for either of us to remain quiet for very long, but this light show, running a new variation every evening, was special. It was good enough to watch in awed silence.

This year I surrendered myself to the phenomenon, and saw much more than I have in past years, seen. And I vowed to take the experience home with me.

The fact that Im writing about it, means I probably have taken it home. Ive always caught myself staring in fascination at a beautiful pattern of iridescent soap bubbles on my soaking pots, or at frost on my windshield (no, not while Im driving!). But always with the barely-conscious injunction against doing so. Why are you staring? Why are you wasting time? the echoes of ancient voices would ask. This year, Ive whisked away those wisps of constraint on my conscious process. No guilt, no compulsion to move right on to the next thing. This is my life, my only life, and if I want to revel in minute visions of beauty contained in everyday moments, thats my business! After all, arent I supposed to be an artist? At least, this is what I aspire to be. How can I do this if Im afraid to let myself absorb my world?

In my artist statement above, I wrote this about texture:

I feel that the surface texture of objects is a valid subject for artistic scrutiny. The treatment of texture moves us closer to an object's essence. Each surface is a microcosm in itself, a unique topography that at the same time, evokes similar patterns at ascending levels of intellect and experience. Isn't "texture," after all, the eternal and ubiquitous underpinning, indeed the most basic level, of "form"?

What Im saying now is about more than texture. Its about detail--details of form like the seeds in the pepper you have just sliced, or the multitude of abstract compositions lying in wait for you on the sunlit pine bark.

Krishnamurti, the consciousness guru who wrote Think on These Things, told us we were in trouble because in all the affluence of modern life, we have come to expect entertainment at every turn. Instead of living life, we substitute entertainment for experience, seeking a passive, mind and motivation numbing, artificial busy-ness at every turn. We are culture and entertainment consumers, and our appetite for all manner of escape never ceases. In living this way, we each truncate our perceptual and cognitive ability and deprive our spirit. We let problems go, as if they will solve themselves, while we fixate on the artificial adventures concocted for us by Hollywood. Instead of living, we build a vicarious perception, based on commercials and false images of what has import in life. We ignore fundamental questions about how we are going to survive on this earth.

Wouldnt it be wonderful if we were to nurture and grow our sense of wonder, then use our new perceptions and energy to form new visions for a new age? And as artists, isnt it our job to bring beauty into the world? So, narrow your field of vision! Zoom in! Tune in! Get myopic! Experience the microcosm! My guess is you wont regret it.