First published in the Chronicle and the Transcript May 2020 (Note; due to technical difficulties this is the unedited version, the edited version appeared in print only for this piece.)
Regular Readers may have noticed from past columns that we have an ‘art block’ on most days during quarantine. And while we are not hosting the Bob Ross hour here at Casa Baird, it’s been fascinating to see quarantine through this lens.
Here in QW8 (quarantine week eight) we’ve completed around 25 pieces. And if you take out the wild and crazy #springbreak2020 that’s three or so paintings a week.
When we first started with our beginner acrylics we were bold and sloppy. It was chaotic and silly… we stunk and we knew it. We didn’t know what brushes to use, or what a water wash was, or frankly what side of the paper to use. Because, it’s paper. By definition it’s two-sided. When we realized there was a correct side to paint on it made all the difference. (Please! No it didn’t, I just like to sound like I know what I’m doing.)
We did landscapes and big bright sunsets with dragonflies and perky trees along vibrant tropical waters. Our paintings were of remote, exotic places (for example places where beaches were open) and climates that had nothing to do with us (for example, warm).
In our mid-quarantine era we moved into watercolor painting and close-ups. We painted objects instead of landscapes: vases of lavender, doors with floral arches, single lanterns hanging from single branches, melting popsicles, and lone owls. Our focus turned inward away from the lands we could no longer visit and focused on what was right in front of us. We painted dreams that were still alive, but now were in contained, manageable units.
But here in this later quarantine phase things are getting even smaller with an air of resignation laced with a growing strain of, well, I don’t know, let’s call it… unrest.
For example we painted butterflies that seem to be simmering with pent-up frustration, their overly large black trimmed wings straining to get off the page, forever trapped mid-flight. And our supposedly charming donuts, sure they were frosted and glazed, but they were also uneaten in a blank nothingness. Where were the sticky fingers, the crumbs, the signs of life?
It came to a head earlier this week with the unfortunate appearance of a psychotic rabbit.
I explained to the girls, “Today we’re painting cute meadow bunnies!” and that was in fact what the tutorial was about.
At first my bunny was wonderful and charming. Peter Rabbit was emerging in front of me. The instructor on YouTube, with her soothing voice explained, “This is just a loose bunny, no sharp edges or lines, just the impression of fur and perhaps a hind foot.”
Perfect! I am at my best when painting mere impressions of things since painting actual things is a step beyond my ability. I was calm, my mind was at peace, and time blurred as it often does when we paint.
When we were nearly done the teacher explained, “We’re just going to add in some cute little eyes and the hint of a nose.”
I thought my bunny’s face was already obvious with the eyes and nose implied through the white spaces in the grey, but I gamely proceeded and painted actual eyes.
In that moment my impression of a bunny resting in soft grass, turned into Monty Python’s Killer Rabbit. It stared with dagger eyes at its unsuspecting prey, ready to leap through the air and attack with its sharp teeth that hid behind the newly painted, sneering mouth. In a word, it was alarming. I glanced at my daughter’s bunny.
She shrugged, “I think I accidentally painted a mouse with big ears.”
I agreed, it was certainly not a bunny. But whatever she had created, it looked kind and trusting; not at all menacing. However, it also look confused. What was it? Why was it in this meadow about to be eaten by my vampire rabbit?
Emerging moments of hostility and confusion. I knew both animals well.
Today, just before I sat to finish this column I painted a boat floating in an unidentified body of water. Where was it going? Why did the oars hang off the side? Would it float adrift all night? Would anyone know it had gone missing?
So many questions about where or why and certainly about when . . .
Tomorrow, I believe I’ll paint a margarita.