Ping Ponging

I have spent a month in my studio ping-ponging from one thing to another with an itchy feeling of missing the ball every time. No focus, no inspiration, nothing. I did the usual exercises to jump start my ideas: cleaned the studio, organized my thread drawer, read about other artists, and walked aimlessly through the neighborhood with my phone camera.

Nothing.

This often happens after finishing a piece that consumes my imagination. I had just finished Encounter, a piece that really birthed itself made up of pieces of canvas on which I had dribbled paint and ink. After that cathartic experience I wasn’t sure where to turn for the next inspiration.

Encounter, 34x41, 2021, Paula Kovarik

I needed to move into a new headspace. A friend of mine gifted me yards of Silk Noil. The fabric is luscious, soft and raw looking. I decided to use it to revisit an idea I have worked on before: exploring marks that could illustrate words not spoken. Inspired by hieroglyphs, runes and Arabic script this visual language can be a way to communicate broader concepts.

Glyphs, 27x18, Paula Kovarik, 2017

Better Not Said, 41x26, Paula Kovarik, 2019

I started with a drawing to remind myself how these marks can be put together. Generally I try not to have a preconceived notion about how they should look. Instead I draw each mark in a random way then start to fill in the spaces that become available. I have noticed that I naturally follow an implied north/south east/west underpinning. I wonder why that is? I also like connecting the disparate shapes with unexpected lines.

Glyphs doodling.

Glyphs doodling.

Once satisfied with the density of the marks and the feel of making them I was ready to try it with stitch. I set up three 21”x21” silk noil sandwiches with some wool batting, drew a chalk circle onto each one and started stitching. Here are the results.

I don’t spend a lot of time on these exercises. Each square takes about two days to come alive. Using a neutral thread that matches the fabric to create the outer texture defines the circle a bit more and adds an element of energy to the composition. I don’t bury the threads on those end points preferring instead to use my machine’s automatic cutter that knots the threads on the underside. The back is not pretty.

I’m not sure I have broken the cycle of ping ponging. I am about to travel and teach so that might bring more inspiration when I return. Hope so.

How do you break the cycle? Drop me a note!

rushing toward stimuli

Preparing chicken soup today I was chopping onions with the inevitable result of teary eyes. I mentioned this to my grandsons and they both rushed over, one with the scientific explanation of why that was happening and the other eager to chop onions so that he could cry too. We all ended up with wet cheeks and sniffling noses.

cloud_tree_PaulaKovarik.jpg

Rushing toward stimuli.

It's a trait that is tempered with age. Caution sets in. Doubt and preconceived ideas define our comfort map. We stop, look and listen. We teach our kids about the incautious moments of our lives so that they won't have to sustain the shock, hurt or disappointments that we did. We put up fences, set up passwords and require more IDs. We box in the acceptable and fence out the challenging.

I'm glad that kids often dismiss what adults say, preferring to experience the thrill of discovery themselves. I once read that to stay young you must remain curious. You must let the onions make you cry.

I will learn from these boys. Oh yes, I will. Pass me some tissue.

It's about the inside coming out

Ladders, clouds, arrows and eyes. Especially eyes. These are common motifs that show up in my work regardless of the subject. The thread is trying to tell me something.

Reach for higher meaning.
Float above it.
Find a new direction.
Look within.

While preparing for a couple of studio visits by local curators I looked for a consistent, underlying message in the work. Something that tells me that I have a point of view -- a recognizable voice that makes sense to me. And it came down to these: ladders, clouds, arrows and eyes. Pathways to understanding, swirling confusion, angular edginess, underlying monsters provoked by overwhelming current events and an inner dialog.  Its' the inside coming out. They are about the edges as defined by line. The layered, ripped, cut, and sandwiched together. Some are more successful than others, but all share a common bond: The work reaches for mystery...an elusive target.

edginess

I've been thinking about edges today — how they define differences and beginnings and decisions and boundaries. How the term edgy feels comfortable in my skin. How edginess often helps me to push on but at the same time reels me in with fear.

Standing above this pool of wetland gives me the feeling that I could dive into a separate reality. The edges here are about perception versus reality.

I'm one of those people who, when confronted with the edge of a cliff, cling to the nearest tree. I am not one to join others at the edge peering into the unknown. No, not me. Edges are too scary. I know that I will be tumbled into the abyss by the slightest breeze. 

But art is all about the edges. And sometimes I am, in fact, tumbling.

The edges of this hole in a sycamore tree beckon curious creatures. There is darkness within.

It's not so much that I don't want to navigate that journey. I think it has something to do with trusting myself to navigate well. Inner dialog is easily obscured by outer pretense. Bare naked exposure can make my skin crawl and my thoughts scrambled. Am I really showing my truth? Or is this an exercise in mending?

Edges of thoughts can be raw, jagged and tongue-tied. Beast (detail) Paula Kovarik.

Sitting down with needle ready can make the silence roar. The edge is near. Sometimes I have to tie it down in neat and syncopated rhythm. It's a mending or bringing together that makes sense to my sense of order and calm.

Suture stitches mimic mending, holding together differing sides.

Other times I let the static in and the edges can feel like the needles. Hairs on end.

connections to the past

I've been thinking about time passing in a whirl, without a governor switch. Life in the fast lane — even though this is supposed to be the languid, restful stage of life. Contemplative, serene and insightful.

No doubt about it, I am an adult. Can't confuse that fringe of dark hair at the back of my head for youth and vigor. It's just a fringe of memory now. I used to be able to dance into the early morning hours, now I am tired at nine. I used to wear mini-skirts, now I focus on floaty body covering clothes. Some memories are questionable, some persistent, some are life-affirming.

The back of my head reminds me that today is bolstered by the memories of yesterday.

So all of a sudden I am over 60. Yesterday I was 35. Can these feelings of flight and avoidance be part of aging?

Trimming my memories to highlights gives the glitter of life a balance to the darkness.

Now I am more concerned about legacy. About mistakes. About environment. About authenticity. Pretty doesn't do it for me anymore. More stuff gives no solace. Nor does order or constraints. As a designer the constraints of budget, format and timing often dictated the solution. No longer. I can do whatever I want. And that can be a problem. (whining on mute for now). I must pursue this art with urgency. It is about connections. Plugging into the highlights while recognizing the base of the dark and mysterious.

Wired up for connections.