karenpat

[karenpat]

BLUE

In her book "The Secret Lives of Colour", Kassia St Clair, in the chapter dedicated to shades of blue, describes how central blue - in this instance blue light -  is to our lives:

"(...) everyone, even the non-sighted, possesses a special receptor that senses blue light. This is crucial because it is our response to this portion of the spectrum, naturally present in the highest concentrations in early daylight, which sets our circadian rhythm, the inner clock that helps us sleep at night and remain alert during the day." (p 179)

She also mentions how the colour blue has been connected with everything from divinity to sadness through various eras and cultures - it really has a range of connotations, and that's just blue in general: St Clair devotes the chapter to explorations of many different shades and pigments.

The descriptions are all fascinating and entertaining, but what made the chapter even more interesting to me is how it made me consider the relationship I've had to the colour blue in my work - it's a decade long love affair, with its ups and downs, but still going strong: I may drift away, but I always seem to come back.

I first became aware of using a lot of blue shades about 2008-2009, it was the second art school I was in and was given more room to explore and find my own style, interests and angles. For me that still meant exploration within painting itself rather than venturing into other art forms, but I had been challenged to dip my toe into unfamiliar waters and leave strict figuration for a while. I was working with abstracted but human-like forms that suggested a human presence or interaction without over-explaining or focusing too much on technique. My palette at the time consisted largely of process cyan, black, white and process magenta, not a lot of earth tones (except for the occasional dab of raw sienna). In a way I suppose I wanted to communicate (though whether is was a conscious decision I don't know) a cool, detached air; something uninviting, something to keep the viewer at arm's length with more questions than the image could answer - after all, I was trying to get away from an image that gave away all the answers at first glance. After a year or so I began to realize that the cool palette made me feel like I was repeating myself, that the images looked more and more like each other and that it was difficult to add something new. There was an element of melancholy which, as opposed to sadness, does have a sense of nostalgia or a hint of something bitter-sweet, and that may have made it more difficult to let go.

My colours of choice probably shifted to a warmer temperature when I switched to water soluble oil colours a couple of years later, perhaps because of the intensity of the reds and yellows seemed so new and brilliant to me at the time; working with translucent layers, making streaks of red stand out against a dark background, adding layers and layers of raw sienna to achieve the right, just ripe saturation. I used cooler shades and blues as well, they just didn't dominate the paintings in the way they used to.

Fast forward 5 years.

During this whole time I'd been working almost exclusively from stills with an urban subject matter - people, architecture, busy streets. But then gradually as I started to really think about the impact of digital culture I started adding pieces of landscapes to the images, as a contract, not meant as a sort of conscious sanctuary or polarization (digital culture is bad, analogue/nature is good) - rather just juxtapose two representatives from the same social media hype/instagram culture; the urban trendy image as well as the kind of #blessed-inspirational-quote-background type of image. But the more I started using this kind of imagery, it started taking on a meaning of its own in my work, a meaning that seems to go ahead of my reflections on the subject and drag me along with it - it's something that always seems to be relevant in my work, if not the result then at least in the process, and until recently I didn't really know why it was obviously so important to me.

Recently I began thinking about a work I was shown about 14 years ago, at the first art school I attended. One of the teachers was giving a presentation of her own works and there was one in particular that had made an impression on me, and that still resonates with me even as I thought I'd forgotten about it:

(The work in question is shown above in the photo, entitled Himmelfoto) The three simple elements; the red carpet, the spring board, the wall of blue sky. This is not the blue of melancholy, but the blue of divine, of hope, of opportunity (which of course makes the cliché pitfalls even more difficult to avoid). But in analyzing my own working process it seems as if I'm somehow including a little bit of the feeling I get whenever I look at that image - the unknown, the letting go, the vastness of it, the seemingly simple act that leads to it but also the paralyzing fear involved. The image of the sky in my paintings, whether it be clear, spotted with white cotton wool clouds or with the sun just starting to set, represents both the positive and the negative in a sense: the holding on as well as the letting go.

The various meaning and connotations of the colour blue, as Kassia StClair maps out in her book, helps me to understand that its role in the work I'm making may have a meaning beyond the simple and glossy "be free and do what you want to do" type of message, and that it's not simply a tool to lend the image a melancholy or distanced quality either.  And even more important, I find - when its message can be so ambiguous, it gives me a lot more license to explore its possibilities, without feeling I have to excuse or explain myself too much along the way.

[karenpat]

Drawing from life

I may have mentioned in my last blog post that I'm attending monthly life drawing sessions to brush up on old skills and go back to basics for a couple of hours. First session of 2018 was arranged yesterday evening and for some reason I felt, at first, reluctant to go - I had an early appointment the same morning, I felt sluggish and drained of energy. I was (and still am, to a degree) battling a creative dry spell which makes me question what and why I'm doing every day. A part of me would have liked to curl up on the couch and watch TV - but I gulped down a post-dinner espresso, grabbed my drawing pad and pencils and went.

And after those two hours I knew not only that it had been the right thing to not succumb to mental fatigue and sluggish inactivity, but also how much these session affect me on different levels. I'll explain:

1. Re-introducing play

I'll be the first to admit I'm terrible at drawing exercises involving being playful and "not thinking". My self sensorship hat is pulled tightly down over my head, blocking my eyes - sometimes I can't make a mark on the page without knowing it will look "right", or that it will be up to the standard of, say, other participants in the exercise. But I suppose that when the task is as specific as "draw the body you see in front of you", it gives me something to hold on to that I can then build on - a preset framework that I can allow myself to fail in, to be hesitant, to make a mess of the page, to start again. Unlike other times when I experiment with drawing on my own and the demons appear the minute the pencil line diverges from the plan of my mind's eye, I can draw torsos that are too long, legs that are too short, arms cut off at the elbow because I couldn't make them fit into the page. And somehow it doesn't matter, because there are only a couple of minutes at your disposal, or even a few seconds, and within those set rules I'm allowed to translate a female body into an abstract blob of lines on the page.

2. "Mindless mindfulness"

10-15 people in a room around one model. Silence but for the sharpening of pencils, the turning of pages. Absolute consentration. I find that for those 20 minutes at a time (sessions are divided into cycles of 20 minute drawing/10 minute break) I'm intensely present in a way I rarely am in other contexts. However, I don't think it's really like mindfulness because you're more focused on the drawing itself than on the fact of being focused and aware of the present as such. It's not about focusing on breathing or anything like that either or shutting out everything else around you - or that thing where you're supposed to let all your thoughts flow freely without taking notice or judging them. I find it's a different kind of mindfulness, a profound and intense consentration on a task which involves both the eyes and the body - for me it's a concscious experience of being present in the moment while doing something actively, specific and meaningful. At the same time though, this way of working becomes a flow-like state where I do shut out other things both around me and in my mind, which makes it a form of meditative state after all. Drawing in this way seems to be about both and neither states at the same time - I call it "mindless mindfulness" for want of a better term.

3. The bigger picture vs minor details

I seem to always have had difficulty in considering both details and the bigger picture when making a composition. Beginning the outline is always difficult, never knowing where to start, the feeling like the first mark on the page is irrevocable and has to be "perfect". And then, getting down to the details - feeling like I should stop before I'm finished, reconsidering, adding a detail, being happy with it but realizing it doesn't add up with the rest. It's like an endless conversation between the act of drawing and the desired result, a conversation which keeps on changing at both ends. Life drawing provides a great setting to work on these skills, especially those 10 minute sessions where there's time to go back, reconsider, add and remove. I'm allowed to "kill my darlings", start again, work over the same drawing with softer and softer pencils until it's almost just a black silhouette. And, perhaps related to the previous point, there's nothing like life drawing to make you really SEE - the relationships between shapes, distances and lines and volume in space, and with seeing, understanding is also likely to follow (even though it often seems a complicated connection).

4. Body image

Another thing that came to mind after a while is that when media and perhaps social media even more, bombard us with images of "perfect" bodies, it's hard to talk your mind out of the fact that skinny, toned and/or enhanced bodies are the most desireable. However, studying a more realistic example of a body in that way really makes you appreciate the beauty of body as such - isn't a body supposed to be strong? To show traces of a lived life, mark an identity, be what we ourselves want it to be and not everyone around us? In such a discussion, (although it's too vast to go into here) celulites and cup sizes have absolutely no importance.

5. Community

Talking, having coffee and discussing art is also an element in these sessions. But just being joined in the same activity - which I have discussed the personal importance of in these paragraphs - is also a form of community which adds to the reasons why I keep coming back every month.

[karenpat]

Drawing or what is it anyway

What is it anyway?

This is a question that's been on my mind lately. Not applied to art in general, which has already been done so many times, in so many contexts and by so many people  - but more specifically to drawing.

I've recently started to draw more than I have in the past, in part as a refuge; somewhere other where I can go when questions relating to painting take over and cause frustration, but also to consciously explore something that, although it took up a lot of my childhood and adolescence, I haven't worked much with for many years.

The reason for that lies perhaps exactly in those childhood years - drawing is so basic, it's making a lines, several lines, dots, scribbles on paper, and learning how to structure them to create the illusion of form and space. It follows from this that the degree to which you succeed in creating this illusion determines how "good" the drawing is - a least that's how my 10-year old art brain concluded.

Not that I minded. I drew landscapes, my family, everyday objects, and, perhaps what I spent the most time and dedication on, I copied from magazines. I drew all the boybands popular in those days, what would typically be called fan art today, but I took the work very seriously - it had to not only look like a plausible likeness of a person, but that celebrity particularly. In addition I gained my "15 minutes of fame" at school where I got new commissions every day to draw people like Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls. I continued this pratice and way of looking at drawing into my teens, and although I stopped creating the fan art and perhaps drawing less in general, by the time I went to art school the philosophy of the right and wrong when it came to drawing only grew in my mind:

Drawing was preparatory, what you do before painting to mark all the elements in their right place. If your drawing construction has errors, the painting will also mirror this and will have to be altered along the way. Life drawing classes  and anatomy lessons helped us draw the body correctly. When I got praise for life drawing studies, it was because I had succeeded in creating a sufficient illusion of space - and subsequently, I had to change my drawing or painting if the angle or placement or some body part or other broke with this illusion - my work was either good/right or bad/wrong.

Over time I developed a strategy of painting that I felt comfortable with and kept me from defining my work or process in such strict terms. But drawing remained in the background - if drawing was preparatory and I started painting directly onto the canvas every time then it was obsolete anyway, right? I sketched very little and only used pencil and notebooks to write or jot down very basic ideas, always defining the canvas dimensions first; a tiny tiny square with squiggles to indicate painted surface in general. If I sat down to draw I would end up gazing into nothing, my hand completely paralyzed, my mind likewise succumbing to apathy - and I would end up frustrated, feeling like a failed artist and making myself miserable.

No wonder then that it took my so many years to even start drawing again at all. I took my first tentative steps a couple of years ago, trying to teach myself to draw the human form from a photo again, kind of continuing where I left off. Perhaps I wanted to show myself, or prove to myself that I still had it in me, that I could reproduce spatial relationships on paper. Even though I continued this sporadically, while mostly painting as my main focus, I slowly gained a little bit of confidence in my drawing. However, not enough to keep my confidence up even when I drew something I wasn't happy with, days where the pencil seemed to go in the opposite direction of what I wanted, when my mind-hand coordination seemed to have been severed completely: I would close my sketchbook, swallow the lump in my throat, put away the pencil and ask myself why I'd even bother - if it's doesn't look exactly like the photograph it's not worth looking at, right? That's what I grew up with and what I'd made myself believe, and what I kept making myself believing while scrolling through a social media feed full of 3D drawings and new realism artists with a tail of likes and followers,

But then, lately I discovered a talk by Amy Sillman on youtube - a third of which is a slideshow of different drawings, or different kinds of drawings, each assigned a verb to explain all things drawing can be. I found it immensely fascinating. A lot of the works and the verbs to go with them did not find their place in the old -fashioned, simplistic definition of drawing I had held high through my childhood and youth - but they were nonetheless valid, visually interesting, inspiring, and showed me first of all that drawing can also look like painting, like sculpture, like installation - and still be defined as drawing.

This taught me two things - one, that when I thought I went back to basics I had in fact gone back to a view that I had absorbed too readily without giving it sufficient thought. Maybe back to basics is better understood as returning to the mark on paper, nothing more and nothing less - it can be a mark made by anything really, it doesn't have to look like anything, not refer to construction of space or form, and as such be neither right or wrong (what then defines the drawing as good or bad art is a different discussion, obviously). And it is with this in mind that I try to explore drawing in my practice these days. I still do the odd traditional drawing exercise, but I can already feel my wall of self-censorship starting to crumble; my line is becoming more free. It doesn't have to look like anything, it doesn't have to become anything, it just have to be. So, to the question what it is anyway - I have no specific answer and that will be my answer for now.

[karenpat]

Let me explain (or not)

In the artist statement on my website I stress the importance of ambiguity in my work; they have no one correct interpretation or specific story, and it's a good thing if people can see whatever and whoever they want in the paintings, that they take on a life of their own in the viewer's imagination. Still, sometimes when people approach me at my show openings I get comments like: "I don't get it." or "I don't understand why you put that thing there" (meaning anything from blob/brushstroke/field of colour to a human figure) - even "It would look good if that thing hadn't been there". Often I get the well-meaning but (to me) dreaded comment "well, what does this painting mean, then?"

In general, I get a little annoyed that both subtle and not so subtle comments clearly demand me to explain exactly what I've created means. Because for the most part, I have no idea myself. I usually find image material by playing around in Photoshop or in my sketchbooks, picking and choosing, discarding, adding, erasing, layering - it's a specifically visual form of thinking and not a process where I have an idea and then sit down and try to find the aesthetic tools to best express that idea (my practice is, not as of yet at least, that conceptually driven). Then, when I start painting, I also make numerous choices about what to get rid of, what to keep, what to add, what to do next, choices that are also very much centered around visual thinking. There and then I rarely stop to consider what it might mean - because I know that if I go down that road, I will start constructing my own specific story to the image where any detail I add or remove will be defined as right or wrong according to that narrative. And if the story gets that specific, people's readings of it will then by extension also be true or false according to the meaning I've constructed, and I will therefore always be somewhat disappointed by people's reactions. So I see no point in going down that road.

But there's another aspect to my irritation, too. With few exceptions, the type of comments mentioned above  have come from middle aged to older men, and occasionally with an undertone which comes across as almost accusatory: "explain me this and I'll tell you if your expression of the idea is valid".  I can feel myself shrink while trying to come up with something that can serve as an answer and simultaneously I rebel against the idea of having to be the one to justify what I've created, not only as an artist but as a woman (however I'm not going to go into that discussion right now). Why do some people seem so afraid of what is not clear cut, quantifiable, straightforward? Is it really necessary for people, regardless of their knowledge of art, to have all the so-called facts before being able to enjoy a piece of art?

I say no. At least i truly hope not. To paraphrase Tracey Emin -  art should make people stand still and make them feel something. I'm not the one to dictate what that something might be. I think it's a wonderful thing to consider how many possible interpretations and readings people might have of my works and how they might carry those stories with them in their everyday lives - or discard them like a crumpled old shopping list on their way home. I don't mind. The work has still been part of their imagination for just a second, and that for me is a wonderful motivation to have.

That's the best explanation I can give.

[karenpat]

so...2016

It's that time of year again when both traditional and social media remind us to look back, sum up the year and spew out lists of best and worst, what we should take time to remember, (perhaps more appropriate this year than ever, given how many celebrities passed away in 2016), and what is better left forgotten. Not to mention how to get the best start to the new year, whether it be "realising your full potential" or signing up for a core strength challenge.

I don't want to add to that jungle of lifestyle advice , but observing it from the outside does make me smile a little, albeit a sad smile. Here's why:

Even though such lists and advice and inspirational instagram posts don't seem to have changed the last five years (at least I see no difference from last year), it's amazing in this day and age how fast something becomes noticeably old. I have, naively perhaps, gone through life the last 16 years thinking everything from this milennium is "not that old" or "not that long ago". I'm sorry to have to use such an instagrammable example as eyebrows, but it's one of the first things that came to mind. 10 years ago I (and probably no one else) wouldn't be caught dead with the heavy, thick eyebrows that have flooded social media and everyone's faces the last year. Now it's trendy; now it's natural. The norm. The over-plucked fine line of the late 90's and early 00's have become as eye-roll inducing as the 80's mullet.

I'm sorry to venture so far into the make-up/fashion world in a blog post that is supposed to be art related. The point is though: Time does seem to be moving at double speed, and social media decide when to switch gears. Given the fact that "post internet art" and probably art in general use these channels to work, sell and promote, it's interesting to see if art will have the same novelty value. Does a work from 2014 qualify as "older work"? Will dealers, galleries and art world people lose interest in artists that are not "up and coming" or with a fresh MFA? I'm not saying that's the way it is or that is an inevitable outcome, but it's a fascinating thought.

Personally I think I will be more focused on the passing of time and time intervals in my work in 2017. It may not employ social media or qualify as multimedia art, but it will be my work and I'll have to see where it takes me.

(just goes to show how hard it is to stay away from "inspirational blog rhetoric" after all)

[karenpat]

In between...

I'm writing this while I probably should be very focused about planning new paintings, getting inspiration, thinking through ideas, all sorts of "what does an artist do all day" things. My guilty conscience always has a habit of haunting me like a ghost in such periods of apparent inactivity, filling my mind with questions like "Why aren't you working? Why haven't you started a new painting yet? Why haven't you written those applications? Why aren't you thinking about the upcoming exhibition - there are so many things that could go wrong, you know!"  But instead of making my anxiety levels go through the roof, such "accusations" have now left me in some state of apathy or fatigue. After a few such days - no, let's be honest, more than a week - I think I know what's going on.

My mind, the artistic and creative part of it specifically, must find it hard to deal with the state of being in between. And, since in Grayson Perry's words, the art world rebukes ordinary English for its lack of nouns (I'm paraphrasing his Reith lecture), I could call it in-between-ness. But I actually think it would be a good description of my current state.

Because I've now completed all the paintings for the exhibition in October, I'm working on one painting for my next project, which is not settled yet so I don't know exactly when it'll be. I'm making a contribution to a mail art show in the US in November. I've sorted out what applications to write, when they're due and what they should contain. So I have more or less finished working with a project that has been 2 years in the making, and before me lies the vast, foggy, scary and unknown future.

Yes, I know it's part of the job description. It's not like I didn't know about it or that I don't think it has its charm really, to not know what you'll be doing next year - after all, anything could happen. But this sort of heaviness that seeps into my creative thought process and leaves it temporarily paralyzed has usually waited in the wings until after the exhibition project is over, the rent has been paid and the pictures taken down. I'm both between a known project and an unknown future one - as well as between preparing this known project and actually living it, seeing the preparation come into fruition. Perhaps this “2 for the price of 1″ state of being in between has made the feeling more identifiable - and more frustrating.

I'm now curious to know how any fellow creatives and artists feel about the matter - feel free to post your thoughts or experiences.

[karenpat]

Same procedure as every year...

It's the end of another year and yet again I have to ask myself - where did it go? New Year's Eve of 2014 just doesn't seem that long ago. However, when I reflect and look back it seems like more than a year has passed, given everything I've experienced.

No, I haven't climbed mountains or tried sky-diving or any kind of typical bucket list, "carpe diem" kind of thing, but it still feels like I've gone through the mental and emotional equivalent of extreme sports.

I distinctly remember spending last New Year's Eve in Rome and hardly being in the mood to celebrate due to all the stress I had on my mind about my local solo show in February of this year. There were details to settle, people to e-mail, a press release to write, a poster to design, not to mention planning the opening. As this was going to be in a cafe and not strictly a gallery, it was an "everything is the artist's responsibility" arrangement - which in a way is a good thing because you get to make (most of) the decisions yourself, but it was also very stressful because of the pressure and expectations I put upon myself. At that point - the last days of 2014 - I felt I had too little time to get control of everything, finish the last paintings I was working on, settle every tiny little detail. Add to that the feeling that this was my big break, my big chance, the expectation, or at least hope, that it would be a big success, and it's safe to say I was a nervous wreck.

January 2015 came and went - I wrote my first (albeit not a very good) press release, finished all the paintings I wanted to show, designed a poster and put them up wherever I could, spent several days hanging the paintings (since it was a cafe it was better to do a little each day than to practically close the place down for a whole day).  February came with the opening day - and practically no one came, which I could only admit was a great disappointment after all the hard work.

All through the spring I kept working and sent out numerous applications to various galleries and had just a few responses - I almost got a one week slot at one of the galleries but it turned out it had a higher rental feed than I could afford, so I had to let it go.

What could I do but to roll my sleeves up, try again.

Early in the summer I applied for a juried grant exhibition with a small entrance fee - didn't get through to the short list. As luck would have it however, while I was at my computer to check the results, I discovered a small gallery through facebook and sent off an application right away. After all, what did I have to lose?

The next day I heard back and was informed that a slot was available for me in December if I wanted it. So in a couple of days' time I had faced rejection, picked myself up and triumphed, with a new goal to work towards!

And so I spent most of the summer and autumn working - the work load increasing along with the building anxiety. Will it be a success this time? Will I sell any paintings? Since it was  my first show in Oslo and thus beyond my local community, I also had that feeling of it being my big chance - "this is it"! I felt everything had to be perfect so that no one could say afterwards that I hadn't made the most of the opportunity I had been given.

December arrived - and I was a mess of nerves and anxiety. This time, luckily, I had help getting all the paintings to the gallery a couple of days before the opening and was able to hang the show by myself in peace and quiet within a few intense hours - an accomplishment I'm still proud of.

And then: opening day. A handful of people turned up, which after all was better than in February, but still left me feeling kind of numb after I had, once again and yes, perhaps foolishly, convinced myself that this would be a great success. This anti-climactic feeling wasn't helped by the meager attendance the following days - or the fact that the gallery space was unexpectedly cold and damp and therefore uncomfortable to spend 5 hours a day in. When I finally handed in the key and got home with all the paintings there certainly was a feeling of "this is February all over again": I had worked hard, sold nothing.

But I learned so much about responsibility. About work, not giving up, always thinking ahead, knowing that I can make things happen myself and not being entirely reliant on others - as well as knowing when and where to ask for help. More than anything, probably, I've learned the importance of the consistency of work. Not in terms of style, obviously, but in intensity, relentlessness. I don't remember who said it initially, but I'll borrow the quote from Grayson Perry who included it in his Reith lecture series - "An art career is a marathon, not a sprint".

So here's to 2016 then - another lap of this amazing marathon.

[karenpat]

Some recent thoughts on books

I've always loved books.

As a teenager I would go to the library and come back with stacks of novels that I would go through in a couple of weeks. My love of reading has been more or less constant since then - the main difference being, perhaps, that I've added a lot of theoretical and art related books to the pile of novels and fiction. However, lately it occured to me that my relationship to books has branched out into yet another category - using them as opposed to merely reading them.

A good example of that is a book I bought in the museum shop at Gothenburg Art Museum about a month ago - entitled "Mess" (I've since discovered it's only one of a series of books by the same author, with intriguing titles such as "Wreck this journal" and "This is not a book"). The point is not, according to author Keri Smith as written in the introduction, to make a good end result or something that looks beautiful. The point is to let go of control in order to ultimately gain a kind of artistic and creative freedom. Every other page has a specific task that is designed to challenge any need of control. You have to colour in a shape with eyes closed, spill tea and coffee between two pages, crush charcoal with a hammer, wipe your hands on the page, sand an image down until the paper disintegrates. Breaking the rule is the norm, and the whole thing becomes an act of therapy as much as a creative process. However, it doesn't come across as some cheesy, sugar coated self-help scheme - it's not so much about being present in the moment as being present in the process. The refreshing humourous touch and the design of the book itself adds to the integrity of the book as something completely different from any mindfulness or anti-stress colouring hype.

Solving the tasks in the book made me more conscious of how I use books in my daily life - books that I don't read as such but that are still an important part of my life as well as any creative process. The most evident example would of course be my sketchbook. Since about 2008 I've sworn my Moleskine - preferably the sketch book, that has heavy, smooth pages in a kind of creamy yellowish tone, however not all book shops have that specific type so many times I've had to settle for the note book with blank pages - it has thinner and therefore a higher number of sheets in each book, but to more or less the same price. I use one of these as my sketch book right now, it has about 20 pages left and I have a brand new "proper" sketch book waiting, still in its plastic wrapping.

Regardless of paper thickness, my sketch book is, in a way, my life. I don't really use it for drawing or sketching the actual motifs (I normally use the computer for that), but I write down ideas and quotes, make very rough sketches, write longer passages on art related topics I might be interested in. If I'm on the go and don't have the book with me I jot down something on post-it notes or napkins and paste it into the book later, which adds to the argument that the book is being used in a wider sense than just written in. It almost takes on a significance of its own, as an object. Which is probably why I'm more anxious about taking it with me now that it's almost completely filled up; it contains too much of my life as a whole to risk losing it or leaving it behind. Losing it would be a traumatic experience.

I also have another book I use in a similar way - but unlike my sketch book it never leaves the house. It is my calendar/to do list/day to day appreciation book, or the book of general ideas. It's more personal than my Moleskine calendar that I usually carry with me and that reminds me where I'm going to be and what I'm going to do next week and in six months. The need for such a book arose while I was working on my thesis and I needed somewhere to write down exactly what was needed to be done that day, because my calendar only had so much space. At first it was just things related to the thesis, but it gradually evolved into general deadlines, people to e-mail or call, household chores, no matter how small, I would write it down. Because then I could cross it out and at the end of the day I could have a cup of coffee and feel like I had accomplished something, that I was moving along and that I didn't just have an unspecific, looming pile of work that I wouldn't know how or when to get through.

However, this didn't keep me from gradually sinking into some kind of overworked, still depressive state leading up to the completion of the thesis. Inspired by a facebook campaign that was dominating my news feed at the time, I started leaving space on each page of the book to write down five positive things that had happened to me that day, no matter how small - and since the book was personal I didn't have to worry about what everyone else would think. Maybe some of the things I write may not have much significance compared to what someone else would choose to highlight in a day, or maybe some things will be very nerdy and only meaningful to an introvert, but in the end, it doesn't matter. I'm not doing it do get likes - just prove to myself that if I feel overworked, stressed, depressed, or inadequate, I'm still able to find things to smile about and be thankful for, and it helps to pick myself up and move on - as well as having the fortunate side effect of working as a personal diary where I can look back and trace my life through big events as well as what I had for dinner or the weather on any given day.

And even more recently, my use of books has entered yet another field - the making of the book itself. Since I'm in need of a new personal planner as described above, I was thinking of buying a new one, when my mum, having received a book from a book club by mistake, wondered if I could put it to good use.

The genius thing about this book is it doesn't claim to teach you how to bind books "properly" - Arne & Carlos have developed their own method for making books with tools and materials that a lot of people already have at home. Another remarkable thing is that you're advised , in much the same style as in Smith's "Mess", to let go of control and be completely free of self censorship when choosing the paper to go into the book. It is made clear from the start that such a book primarily should be for use and not for writing in; the examples shown are almost completely free from traditional blank or lined pages, but rather they are crammed with wrapping paper, magazine clippings, note book paper, even outdated invoices - absolutely everything and anything that goes under the definition of paper. The combination of the easy DIY method and the availability of materials made me want to try to make my new planner myself instead of buying one - it will be a book specifically made for using, not just an adaption of a book made for writing.

Since I've now gone from reading books to using books to making a physical book, the next step would naturally be to write one. Let's just say that's still on my to-do list.

[karenpat]

One year on (or why there’s no escaping Hopper)

I remember one vacation in Rome when I was working on my thesis, I had written sufficiently to be completely immersed in the project but had enough work left to feel stress and anxiety at any mention of Edward Hopper. I was walking across Campo di Fiori, past a simple café with a lunch menu translated into English to accommodate tourists, and on the poster was a print of Hopper’s Automat. That was all it took to grab me from my temporary Italian vacation bliss and throw me into the ice cold pool of my uncertain academic future. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The painting that was supposed to stir endless curiosity and fascination already made me cringe.

It’s now the month of May and it struck me that in a week’s time it will be exactly one year since I handed in the result of 2 year’s work and, with my heart racing from the adrenaline, concluded I would never have anything to do with Hopper again. I was done.

While I admit I still get a feeling of uneasiness when I see the three paintings I spent such a long time analyzing, there is also the fact that something about Hopper’s aesthetic seems inescapable - regardless of whether the painting is by Hopper, or other artists.

Take Peter Doig, for example.

(Peter Doig: House of Pictures, 2000-2002)

This painting instantly reminded me of Hopper, not just because of the title or location which on an immediate level can be connected to New York Movie (which was also one of my objects of analysis) - the lines and fields of colour also seem Hopperesque.  Not to mention the theme of the viewer being on the outside looking in, or the viewer IN the painting being echoed by the viewer OF the painting, which has also been discussed in relation to Hopper. However, acknowledging these parallels was not necessary for me to be immediately drawn to Doig’s painting - my artistic unconscious responded to the style of the painting before my conscious mind could connect the dots and confirm the connection.

While in Doig’s case it was the lines and colours and overall style that attracted me and that could be defined as similar to that of Hopper, the modelling and representation of figures and people as subject matter can be defined as Hopperesque in the paintings of Eric Fischl.

(Eric Fischl: Krefeld Project Bedroom Scene 1, 2002)

This painting is taken from a series in which Fischl hired actors to play out scenes for him to photograph and later paint from. The inclusion of actors on a “stage” can serve as yet another connection to Hopper’s subject matter, but more than anything it’s the psychological layer that’s added to the figures - the emotional distance, the seemingly dysfunctional relationship between the man and the woman, the woman’s look avoiding that of the viewer and thus adding a sort of mystery to its meaning, much like what has been frequently pointed out in discussions of Hopper. However, other paintings by Fischl, like those involving nudes in unorthodox poses, evoke Lucien Freud more than they do Hopper.

(Jack Vettriano: Sweet is the Night)

The paintings of Jack Vettriano may draw even more direct parallels to Hopper because of their retro-style subject matter - he began his art career in the late 1980s, but is more aesthetically linked to Hopper’s paintings from the 40′s (like the famous Nighthawks) than any of what was going on in the art world proper in the 90′s. In fact, the autodidact Vettriano is by many not even considered to have any place in the contemporary art scene, and his traditional style may play a large role in that argument. His simple way of portraying figures in relation (or non-relation) to each other do however resemble Hopper’s use of figures - the light effects, which again lead to cinematic associations, also deserve a mention.

All these three artists have been put into context with Hopper at some point. However, it fascinates me that my unconscious still to a large degree is set in Hopper-mode, so much so that it is drawn to and appreciates the connection before it’s stated by the conscious - by the writer, interviewer, curator or artist himself. So even when I claim to deny any preference for Hopper or any aesthetic that can be linked to his work, something else within me continues to contradict that claim. And one year on, perhaps that recognition is proof that working so closely with one artist’s work for two years was still worth it.

[karenpat]

On finishing a painting

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... or rather, if paintings should be finished at all?

I came to think of this question the other day and while I could have made this into a more scientific art historical inquiry, I'll stick to the personal perspective - because the whole question seems to be tied to subjectivity.

I came to think about this because I'm working on a new series of paintings (or works, I should say, since I'm not just using paint this time) and while it's liberating to work with several pictures at the same time, the conscientious part of me keeps telling me to finish at least one of the works before I start on a new one: I have to have something to show for my hours of work, I have to have produced something than can be displayed. If I work and work and nothing comes out of it, it doesn't matter how much the process has matured me as an artist and/or human being if the world in general don't get to see the results. This is still the control freak in me talking.

The other part of me, the one that embraces the process, play, freedom and pure creativity is the one to bring up the question: why is it a goal in itself to stop the process?

A lot of other artist could argue at this point that the process just comes to a natural halt when a painting is finished, that one last brush strokes just makes it perfect and the process isn't interrupted - no kind of psychoanalytical traumatic experience takes place. But that perfect sensation of completing a masterpiece is rarely, if ever, part of my work process. Rather, it plays out like this:

 1. I apply the first paint layer rather hastily to map out what I want things to look like, dividing the surface into separate fields

2. This stage involves working with different parts of the painting, often one field at a time. I realize in certain places it looks unfinished and rough but, loving those particular brushstrokes, I promise myself to keep them just as they are.

3. Working a lot on one part of the painting that's causing me trouble. When that part is almost finished, I realise that the rough part I wanted to keep looks to rough in comparison and I forget all about point 2 and paint over it.

4. I finally reach a point where all the parts of the painting seem to come together in similar stages of completion. I plan to add one last brushstroke that should look perfect.

5. I add the last brushstroke. It looks either too hesitant or ends up in the wrong place or in the wrong colour so I try to paint over it...

6...but realise that I should have let it dry first because my other attempts just blend into each other and the result is a very non-descript form with a bland, strange colour.

7. Insecurity gives way to full blown panic. Consequences are unpredictable at this point.

8. I leave the painting and come back to it. I try to bring the painting back to life by destroying it. I apply layer upon layer and wonder why I painted over the perfectly imperfect areas in the first place. I eventually think the painting is finished save for one little touch-up, just one little thing that has to be corrected. I either end up back on stage 5, or feel quite happy with the result.

9. Until the next morning when I turn the lights on and see that the paint texture or colour looks different now that it's completely dry. Often the brush stroke is absorbed into the previous layers so that a brush stroke that looked very bold right away can be less visible 24 hours later. Repeat from stage 5.

10. At some point I give up and just tell myself, it has to be like this because I can't do anything more to it without destroying it completely. That doesn't mean it's perfect, or the ultimate expression of the idea I started with, or that it has reached some kind of glorious stage of fulfillment as a painted surface. But it just feels like I can't do anything more with it.

 So my point, after that elaborate 10-step process, is that I don't really know when the painting is finished in the conventional sense. Rather, it's the production process that starts to slow down while another process, the process of finishing rather than one specific moment in time, picks up pace. It becomes two processes overlapping. When I struggle through stage 5-10 of the process mentioned earlier, the part that could be described as the finishing process, some of what makes it so frustrating is not only wanting to make it look a certain way and not succeeding: It may also be a more general resistance to finishing the painting and to end a process of play in favour of structure and order, and ultimately preparing for a judgement.

 So if half of the painting process really is about resisting to finish the painting, we're back the initial question - is there any point in finishing a painting at all? From a practical and financial viewpoint the answer is obviously yes, but from a more philosophical point of view, I think the answer is less straight forward.  A painting could be called finished in the practical sense while still on a more profound level be open to change - a painting can be exhibited and sold and still be classified as unfinished because the idea is not exhausted or because you intend to work more on the same subject matter or theme. For me personally it's opened up for a new source of inspiration in that if I at some level always think of a drawing or painting or anything I've made as unfinished, it never becomes so "sacred" that I can't use it as the basis for a new work. I recently found an old discarded watercolour sketch that I cut up and used to form part of a new piece. It's like organ donation with paint and paper - a part of the old lives on in the new, and in that sense, ultimately, none of the works are ever finished.

 As with so many other things in life though I think somewhere in between the two extremes is a healthy way to go - just as I think it's important to reflect on and be aware of both processes. (I also realise now that I may have included more open-ended questions and inaccuracies than I intended, I'm sorry about that...it's a good thing perhaps that I'm sticking to blog posts instead of scientific articles)

[karenpat]

Christmas (and where did 2014 go?)

In some respects I feel like it was January last week and that the year has just passed by in a second - but at the same time it's been filled with ups and downs and even milestone events, some of which will have consequences for 2015 and beyond.

Let me elaborate.

The ups and downs is a fitting description of the first few months of the year, as the previous blog posts also explain - even now there are a few weeks in April I have no memory of, I just know I must have been working on the third draft of my thesis because that's what it says in my calendar. But to get that diploma in the glossy UiO folder and see the B in print as proof that hard work really does pay off, was indeed worth it.

I spent a lot of the summer just trying to become my old self again though - it was more difficult than I'd imagined because I had lived with my thesis and been in that mode for so long I could hardly let myself relax and allow myself to think about nothing. That two weeks of that period were spent in Rome probably helped speed up the process, though.

After getting through the "everyone else is going back to school or new jobs, what the f am I supposed to do with myself" panic (read the previous post for details) I spent several months diving into the dark unknown sea of work applications - both regular part time jobs (a regular full time job that leaves no time or energy for painting is not what I'm looking for right now) and applications for galleries. I didn't get any of the regular part time jobs (but to be fair I only found a handful I qualified for in the first place) - but I had more luck when it came to getting my paintings shown.

In February next year I'll have a solo show in the old station building where I live; it now serves as a gallery, coffee shop and caterer (Details about opening date/time will be posted either here or on my facebook artist page when I get the info). I'm currently working on the last few pieces to be included there and after that it's all about logistics and planning, really - it's a little stressful but not in the paralyzing way I got to know all too well this spring.

When that exhibition is over I'm shifting my focus to new work - hopefully I can get into a group show or two in 2015 and maybe sell a few pieces here and there (in other words some months after the exhibition will also be application writing time), but the next big project is a solo show in the local art society (Ås Kunstforening) in October 2016. Maybe it doesn't sound very glamourous but it is a big step for me, and hopefully - fingers crossed - it will lead to other opportunities. I do like the fact, though, that I officially have one solo show in 2015 and one in 2016 already, and I can't wait to roll up my sleeves and work towards those projects with renewed energy once Christmas and New Year's have passed.

But for now I can't wait to relax (I admit I still have a little trouble allowing myself to do just that; I'm turning into a bit of a workaholic) and spend the holidays with my family. So Merry Christmas (Happy Holidays) and Happy New Year to all followers - here's to 2015!

[karenpat]

Withdrawal

A few months back I probably didn't think I'd ever write this: I'm in withdrawal.

Yesterday marked the absolute, final, irrevocable end to my time as a student - I received my degree in June, my diploma/graduation papers followed about a week ago, and now (alas!) my student identity card has officially expired. I've moved on from being a student to - well, not a student. My status can't be described as being "in between jobs" per se and while that may be the more favourable description of unemployment nowadays, I don't exactly feel unemployed either, since I spend my days painting, writing, sketching and looking for exhibition opportunities. For the first time in my adult life I find myself in a specific state of in-between. But - to quote King Arthur in Spamalot - "Why is it called the Middle Ages when nothing yet comes after us?" - it's difficult to be in between when you don't know what's on the other side. Perhaps this state can be more accurately described (or at least experienced) as "after" - post graduation, pre Something Unknown - hence the feeling of novelty.

 When I sat down to think about this I discovered that ever since I started school at 7 I've always gone through the summer holidays knowing what would expect me come August/September. Of course, I could be nervous about starting a new school, like the equivalents of Junior High/High School; of changing class rooms, new faces, new teachers. At no point was this more apparent than when I first embarked on my 10 (!) years of higher education, with a 1 year course of graphic design. Another example was after 2 years of art school when I wasn't accepted to any of the further courses or schools I applied for and the panic that ensued made me take a year of theological studies at Uni. When I later went back to Uni to pursue degrees in Art History, it gave me a sense of stability that the previous years had offered only in part - not only did I know what I would be doing next term, but I knew what I would be doing for the next 3 years, and then what I would be doing the 2 years after that. And so after five years of this comfort, I suppose I've started taking it for granted.

This week has been the official back-to-school week in Norway and I find myself envying these pupils and students of all ages, for the stability and certainty they get to have (which seems like a paradox as the teachers' strike have left the kids uncertain of whether they actually get to have classes the first few days) - at least in a bigger perspective. I find myself longing to have lectures to go to, to take notes in brand new notebooks (preferably Moleskine, of course); having cheap but good coffee and coming home with a head full of thoughts and reflections on the day's topics.

 The problem from here is how to not let the nostalgia get in the way of productivity while still keeping the fond memories and retaining the same method and joy of working. So far the solution has proved to be simple: As with many other things, Youtube seems to be a veritable goldmine of lectures, symposiums, debates, talks and presentations related to art, whether it be organised and published by museums or galleries, or universities. Such events may also be available in iTunes as podcasts - let me mention TATE events as a wonderful example here. Making such events public enables me and anyone else to enjoy a free lecture anywhere and any time I want, where taking notes is optional and I don't have to pass a test to ascertain my understanding of it - I get to use my experience as a student to continue exploring and learning, taking with me what I want from it while enjoying the process. Perhaps that will be my key to move on from the state of "after" to "between" to whatever lies in the future.

[karenpat]

Processing...

I'm now at the very end of the long and demanding process that writing a master thesis has proven to be. A few months ago at this hour (8.36 am) I was typing away with books, binders and papers strewn all around my laptop and wondering if I'd even finish on time - this morning I'm going through the "before you hand in your thesis" checklist on the university web site. Very strange feeling.

 I remember going to the first meeting of the master program in August 2012, not knowing what to expect at all, how I had a lot of "almost-ideas", none of which seemed to stick, and how I had to reconsider and start over again many times once I thought I'd found something to work with. Restless would be a good word to describe the process as a whole.

This brings me back to my last post on painting vs writing - maybe that restlessness in the process has been the most valuable aspect to integrate in painting and other work. I have a tendency to become obsessed with one or two paintings, or one or two details within those paintings; I paint, cover up, bring back out, I'm never satisfied. Often these paintings end up as heavy, damaged canvases left for trash; several paintings in one, covered in several layers of thick paint. And then I will have nothing to show for months of laborious painting.

At this point I'm working on 3-4 paintings at the time: even more up until a few weeks ago when I finally completed a couple. There's no longer any reason for me to complete something before I start something new, and that's where the restlessness comes in: it makes this kind of painting process something that can be justified, even encouraged, instead of being a negative description of not being able to complete things. If a half-finished painting remains just that for months, even years, it's not the end of the world - it could in theory be "resurrected" at any time.

That realisation also came to mind when I looked through old sketchbooks the other day, in search of ideas - as always I was looking for a title for a recently finished painting and had no ideas whatsoever. The oldest sketchbook I leafed through was from 2008-2009, a period of time I remember as being very creative and fearless in terms of ideas. Not all of these ideas were that great, but at least they made it to the page - and I could use bits and pieces here and there. I put scraps of text from each of the other sketchbooks from the following years and it took on a whole new meaning. I may not use it, or all of it at least, but it serves as an initial push to get my mind to work. I did get to find the titles I was looking for (the result is ready to go up on the web site; I did upload it but in the usual fashion something went wrong and it won't show up), thanks to an active reflection on an earlier process.

Which again brings me back to the process of writing this thesis - or in a wider perspetive, the process of attending university for 5 years. Considering that (to me) the most important ability I take away from it all is to see and understand both images and text in a whole new way, I would say these years have had and will continue to have a very important place in my work as an artist.

[karenpat]

painting vs writing (some thoughts)

I recently started my last year at Uni, and even though I've only had two lectures, the work load is intense. I've been writing on my thesis all summer and at the same time I'm preparing a solo exhibition to open October 12, and I admit the balancing act can be tough - not only in terms of having enough time and energy for both, but I also tend to feel guilty when I write because I'm not painting and when I paint I feel guilty about not writing.

However I've discovered that the two activities are similar in a number of ways, and these similarities may influence both fields in a positive way - at least for me personally.

First, both text and image (and paint) can be understood as a mass that needs to be manipulated to get a certain result. I have applied that understanding to painting for a while (which may explain why I particularly like to paint on a used, discarded canvas that already has a history, with bumps and "bruises") but it wasn't until this summer I realised that it's the same thing with text - while I wasn't completely sure what or how I was going to write, I had to write something, anything, and not wait for the text to complete itself in my head before I could write it out: Only when the words have made it onto the paper (or screen) can they be manipulated, they have become more of a physical material. Just like paint eventually results in an image, words eventually result in a finished and carefully constructed text. Once I compared writing to painting in this way it was easier to accept that the drafts I had written didn't have to be perfect or even very deliberated; they were necessary for the process to start rather than the start of the process itself.

Another similarity between the painting and writing process, perhaps related to the point already mentioned, is the role of discipline in the work process. Just like with painting, it's impossible to only sit down by the computer and write when "I feel like it". I can't count the times I've worked on paintings in the evening while feeling tired and hungry and unfocused, almost giving in to any excuse to wait until "tomorrow" - but that's how it is. I have heard as a general advice that the times when work is most important is the times you really don't feel like doing it, and I think it applies to academic writing as well as art. I also have a hard time counting the times where I've sat down with my computer to write, written half a paragraph, deleted it again, put the kettle on, wrote one sentence, deleted it again, went on facebook/twitter/youtube....and so on. I may not have produced more than a paragraph or half a page at best that day, but I sat down at 8 in the morning with the intention to write - just as I picked up my brushes at 8 in the evening with the intention to paint.

Finally, the more I'm working on getting the exhibition ready I learn that the process is more about planning how to get from A to B in a given time frame, which is much the same conclusion I have come to about my writing process. No matter how systematic and well planned you think the project is, anything can change. Darlings have to be killed, any detail can be replaced with another one and the rest has to be changed accordingly - it seems almost intimidating to accept that at a certain point it's no longer "allowed" to make any changes - you have to take what you have and go with it.

That's more or less where I am now, in both processes - I have to find the balance between being open to any unexpected turns the projects might take; not close my eyes to potentially better solutions, and having confidence enough to stick with and stand by my projects without fear of what they could have been "if only..."

In preparation for the exhibition I'm also catching up on "administrative work" which includes web site management, and I'm glad to say that the last time I checked all the works on the web site can be viewed normally in Firefox again. I hope to find time to update the site with the works that will be included in the exhibition, as well as an updated text and CV - and of course the added link to this blog, as the site at this point only includes the link to the old blog.

[karenpat]

Back to work

Due to password trouble and the computer laziness of yours truly I've decided to create a new blog to be connected to my web site. The old one will still be available as an archive, while I'll update this one with new posts.But to start off this new blog I will allow myself to become a bit more personal than I usually have the habit of being online.

Every year I get a feeling of a new beginning around August/September - the beginning of the school year, or beginning of a new term at Uni. More so than in January I feel like I can start again and be ready for new challenges, that I'm ready to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty (since I paint I mean that in a literal sense...). But this year, things have proven not so straight forward.

To start with there's the master thesis which I started just about a year ago, the process of which I described in my old blog. Things have gone a bit up and down since then - I must have done something right, quantity-wise, since I've now written over 30 pages on the draft and got an A on last term's only exam, but I still don't feel particularly confident in what I do.

Someone who made me believe in myself when it came to the work on the thesis, was my grandmother. I used to call her almost every day and tell her about the progress; how many pages I had written on a particular day, or my anxietes over a forthcoming meeting with my tutor.  She never read any of it and was probably unable to grasp what it was even about, but she always made it clear that I was good at what I did and that I shouldn't let anyone tell me any different.

The week before exams grandma took a nasty fall outside her apartment and broke her hip. At the hospital it was confirmed she also had bilateral pneumonia, and she died that same day. On Monday my head was still slightly in a blur, but I had no time to reflect before exams started (it's the kind of exam where you get 4 days to write a paper on a given theme). I handed it in on Thursday, and grandma's funeral took place on Friday. My strategy, maybe unconsciously so at the time, must have been to just move full steam ahead and break down later if I had to, when "everything" (not sure what that everything included) was over. But I never felt like breaking down, the daily routine just slowly took over.

While all of this was going on I was also involved in an exhibition with a photographer friend of mine, a project that was a major source of positivity and confidence - It was in fact another thing about my life that grandma took a special interest in to the very day she died. The exhibition was even extended and I ended up selling two works. So I had every reason to be happy when I stepped on the plane to spend two weeks in sunny, beautiful Rome with my parents.

 However, to my surprise (I suppose the surprise of it made it more difficult to handle) that I had to spend a day or two to adjust to the weather, to learn how to give up my daily routine, or at least allow some flexibility. I was crabby, irritable, blood sugar values running riot. The two days turned into a whole week. I think that the crucial realisation for me was not only how dependent I was on my daily routine, but the fact that I felt, for the first time in my life, that everything related to art, directly or indirectly, made me sick.

This realisation came to me in the most direct way during a visit to Campo di Fiori, while walking past the fruit & veg markets and restaurants. One of these had a menu sign that included a somewhat clumsily placed copy of Edward Hopper's Automat - one of the paintings I attempt to analyze in my thesis. My stomach tightened into a knot there and then; I remembered thinking: Is there no escape from this? Why don't I have the passion for my work and the passion for every aspect of the art world that I used to have, albeit in a naive way? Has everything in relation to art become a duty or just another of the aspects of my life where I move in constant fear of not being good enough?

I understood then that I needed to take a break in my mind from art and everything related to it - if only for the certainty that I could be able to enjoy art in the future. I was so afraid that if I just kept going, as I had done for the past few months without even realising the cost, I would lose my interest in or most importantly, my passion for art - and with it, a substantial part of my life.

So I accepted that even though I'm in a city that offers something art related practically on every corner, I don't need to go to all museums and see everything I think I should see. I concentrated on enjoying myself, trying to keep my blood glucose levels in check (which sometimes seemed mutually exclusive, but that's another story), eating good food and convincing myself that this time off - from my strict routines, from my thesis, from painting, from my mind - was not something to feel guilty about or something that served just as a confirmation of my laziness, but something that I had earned. Had I not made that decision I probably wouldn't have felt as ready to get back to work again as I do now. I've already written 2 1/2 pages on the thesis today, I'm working on 5 paintings at various stages and have a new canvas wainting in the wings. So even though the new term is two months away, it still feels like a new beginning.

In that same spirit I can also announce that I've been given the opportunity of a solo show in the buildings of the art & culture program where I live - it's the same program I went to when I was little and the opportunity was given to me by the woman who was my teacher back then (and still teaches there), so it's a full circle moment to say the least. If all goes to plan it will open in the beginning of October.

And finally, since I'm in the habit of adding web site details or updates at the end of blog posts: I am very (and painfully so) aware that the site hasn't been working properly the last few months. I was going to update it and was annoyed when the last photos I added didn't show up, so I tried uploading the entire site all over again and suddenly all the photos were nowhere to be found - at least in Firefox. After some time in front of the computer in a state of total panic I tried to open the site in Google Chrome and all seemed fine. So the only advice I can give any faithful followers at this point is to stay away from Firefox... I'm ashamed to say I don't know what is causing the site to act this way in this particular browser and so I don't know where to start to get it fixed. So as always I have to ask for your patience!