Dawn E. Miller Art

Family Tree

2011-11-12T11:07:00.000-08:00

Bailey Island was veiled in gray drizzle when I returned from Vero Beach last Friday. A week’s worth of moving, a nasty cold, and chilly Maine rain were all the incentive I needed to tuck into my bed and hibernate. One can only take so much inactivity, however, especially when surrounded by the sirens of creativity: pencils, colors, blank papers and canvases all luring me to play.

I found the reference photos I had taken of my dear friend and her two children for a portrait commission. I sharpened my pencils, reached for my large sketch book and began to do my “research”. As I sketched, the likenesses emerged. Little things that we don’t consciously “see” about someone: the distance between the eyes, the width and curve of a smile, the shape of the bottom lip, the square of the jaw. It is like Malcolm Gladwell describes in Blink, we process so much information that rarely makes it to our conscious mind. But we still know, we just can’t tell you why we know. So we recognize our friends and acquaintances, but just try to verbally describe them and see what happens.

So I sketch and notice what emerges from the paper and make observations and smile a lot because I love these guys and I am glad for their company.

What is obvious is they are related. They have things in common. They share genes. Their similarities and differences are random rearrangements of very few ingredients at a cellular level. They can’t help but look “related”.

My bedroom/studio (fondly referred to as the shed), on Bailey Island, Maine is populated with plein air paintings. I have a small “crit” shelf, also known as, in non-artist circles, as a bookshelf on which several paintings are perched. Some line the window sills, others are propped against the wall. What a small, crowded studio offers is the opportunity to see them all in one glance. I notice the similarities. “Gosh, these look like they were all done by the same person.” I think with one of my other voices. (Yeah, I know they have meds for that.) The point is, they are all related. They have my genes.

I frequently hear student lamentations about not having a “style”. Very often, by their second or third work, I see it. I may not be able to verbalize the relatedness straight away, but I usually get it. Maybe it’s the subject matter, color choices, stroke work, or whatever mysteriously organizes itself to birth the flesh of our work. A very few ingredients rearranged to create an infinite number of creative possibilities. But, it is how we arrange those ingredients, often with little conscious awareness. There is a beautiful push/pull between what we think we control at the easel and what we don’t. We don’t choose our style. It’s already in there. We just provide a vehicle for its’ birthing. Our work is what we are. We are related to it, just like our families, at a very fundamental, cellular level.

Here’s lookin’ at you kid.

Family Tree

2011-11-11T12:38:00.001-08:00

So I sketch and notice what emerges from the paper and make observations and smile a lot because I love these guys and I am glad for their company.

My bedroom/studio (fondly referred to as the shed), on Bailey Island, Maine is populated with plein air paintings. I have a small “crit” rail, also known as, in non-artist circles, as a bookshelf on which several paintings are perched. Some line the window sills, others are propped against the wall. What a small, crowded studio offers is the opportunity to see them all in one glance. I notice the similarities. “Gosh, these look like they were all done by the same person.” I think with one of my other voices. (Yeah, I know they have meds for that.) The point is, they are all related. They have my genes.

Here’s lookin’ at you kid.