Wednesday, May 30, 2012
When I made this piece I was trying to figure out how to use the luscious scraps of painted paper that I had in my pile of things I'd made but didn't quite know what to do with, which is actually what all my piles of things in the studio are. The background painting was a small panel with many layers of paint, and it also was something that I felt compelled to do something with-it was just so lovely. When I finished the piece, I was pleased, feeling that it captured something very simple and honest. It was only today, when I looked at the piece and immediately thought of that small school picture from so long ago, that I realized it was most probably a self-portrait of 7 year old Holly.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
I was very shy as a child (and still am--I've just learned how to act like I'm not), and I didn't have many friends. Being around people was difficult because I didn't know how to interpret their emotions, or understand how they felt about me. In the third grade I met Jennifer, and she became my best friend. I was complete for the first time in my conscious life, and not alone anymore. However, I was a jealous and possessive friend, and by the fifth grade, Jennifer had dropped me for a new group of less demanding girls. It was a hard lesson, and even now, 49 years later, I can remember the overwhelming pain and sadness of being alone once again.
Monday, May 21, 2012
I did have to engage my brain once I started putting the piece together and finishing it off. Some of the colors I used were not water proof, and ran when I applied the finish varnish, so my brain had to come up with a solution. Cranky, it solved the problem, but wasn't happy, feeling under appreciated and under utilized.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
When the first car was invented, we started a slow descent into Hell. We've covered the earth with paths of asphalt, created enourmous amounts of pollution, separated ourselves from nature, and are in the process of making a world that gets toastier as each year goes by(and not toasty in a good way)-- all part of the huge price we've paid for our wheels. There is an evilness, a monster quality to what we have created. Our automobiles have become Frankensteins and we've lost control of the wheel.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wilson’s work ranges from pure graphite to mixed media works on paper, with colorful embroidery tattoos laid over and into precise pencil drawings. The humans and creatures inhabiting her images are at once terminally awkward and effortlessly comfortable with one another (imagine your summer family reunion, equal parts kinship and forced politeness). In attendance are family dogs, half-remembered houses, and fixed smiles that seem to have been lifted directly from the family photo album. Altogether, Wilson’s exhibition is a fond remembrance of an auspicious occasion, when a year of the horse was born into a family of rabbits.
Teal Wilson, Horse Hat, 2011
Monday, May 7, 2012
Home for the summer between my sophomore and junior year in college, I was out on a walk in the rural neighborhood where I had grown up when I came across two pure white German Shepards. A male and a female, they were very thin, and both had porcupine quills around their muzzles and into their mouths and throats. Happy to find me, they followed me home without any hesitation. Once outside our front door, I called to my parents. Without much fanfare, Nick, my stepfather, brought out gloves, pliers, and a bowl of warm, soapy water--we had been through this drill before. The two dogs were good, letting us remove most of the quills and wipe the blood away with a damp towel. My mother and I held and comforted while Nick did the heavy pulling. Once done, my mother filled two bowls of dog food for the two, which they ate with huge, heaving gulps. We put the word out, and within a few days the grateful owners were found.
That summer I was intensely angry. I had spent my sophomore year in college at UCSB in Santa Barbara. It was the year of the Kent State bombings, and on our campus the Bank of America had been burned, a student shot and killed in the process. The upstairs duplex where I lived with three female roommates was a hotbed of activity: two of my roommates dated black panthers who stored dynamite in our garage, the third was friends with "Roger Red Devil" who alternated between Methamphetamines and Seconal. Most nights our living room was filled with weed smoking activists planning the revolution while selling/buying drugs from Roger. When I returned to New Mexico for summer break, I was a different person--a very angry and intense different person.
It's only now, 40 years later, that I realize that I was suffering from PTSD(post traumatic stress syndrome). I was in trouble but didn't know it, and had been ready to go back and wage the war, fight the good battle. However, when I found those two pure white dogs something nudged my consciousness and told me to listen up. It was the way my parents had immediately known what to do with the dogs, and it was the care and love they showed--without any hesitation--that made me understand that was where I needed to be, home, healing. So, because of a pair of German Shepards, I stayed home that fall, got a job selling Indian Jewlery, wrote my memoirs about my year in Santa Barbara, and healed, slowly but surely.