Yoga & Enlightenment Through Art

Yoga & Enlightenment Through Art


Yoga teacher Ronald Lewis Facchinetti has a unique view on art and yoga. He leads yoga practice in museums and galleries, and he has created a focused meditative practice on art.

His manifesto:

"Practice yoga through art."

"Change from spectator into contemplator."

"Find catharsis."

Facchinetti began with a yoga discipline called Trataka, which is a form of visual concentration. Instead of applying his focus to a mandala or candle flame (a more common yogic meditation practice), he applies Trataka to visual art.

Yoga is about the union of mind and body. Art, too, can help us create connections. This seems to be what Facchinetti is after. On his website (http://www.interstitialism.com/), he writes "Our path of self understanding and self liberation runs through the fields of visual art."

I know that I find greater self-awareness through the expression and creation of my art. This must be something every artist feels. In this case, he is also talking about all viewers of art.

In one of his online forums, he asks, "Ever weep, faint or get upset in front of a painting or sculpture? Any hallucinations?"

Well... I felt a little embarrassed crying in the New York Museum of Modern Art a few years back. But, I guess compared to hallucinating or fainting, it was a mild experience. It was my first visit to the NY MOMA, and I came upon Picasso's Les Mademoiselles d' Avignon, and I simply started crying. I sat down for a while in ftont of it, and just looked and cried. And tried to be as inconspicuous as possible.

Sure, I was already emotional because I was thrilled to be there, and yes, I think I remember reading that this particular painting was pivotal in Cubism (maybe Picasso's first?)... but my reaction seemed much simpler than that.

I don't know how to explain it any better than to say -- It just hit me.

It was bigger in size than I must have imagined (it's nearly eight feet square), and the image was powerful and intense. Apparently, it was intense for Picasso too. He referred to this work as his "first exorcism painting." (NY MOMA website for the image and comments: http://moma.org/collection/browse_results.php?object_id=79766)

Did I experience a moment of enligtenment? I don't know. But my emotions were strong, and despite the tears, my experience was much more of joy than sadness.

Namaste to Picasso, I say. And to the artist in all of us.

(For you non-yogi's, namaste is about the divine spark within each of us. Namaste is a gesture and greeting to acknowledge the soul in one another.)

Inside the Painter's Studio

Inside the Painter's Studio

I think I've figured out why I like to watch Inside the Actor's Studio. I've never been much of a celebrity-watcher or reader of People magazine. So, watching this show didn't seem to fit.

But I like it. I've realized the appeal is the subject matter. Yes, the actors and directors talk about themselves. But more importantly, they talk about their craft. About the process of creating.

When it's a particularly good interview, you see how the actors feel about their work. How they put the essence of themselves into the parts. How they create something. You can see their passion and determination, and their utter enjoyment of the art of acting.

So, a-ha. It's not People-magazine-type talk about who's dating who, and who has nice or ugly outfits. It's about art.

And I really dig those ten questions at the end. I imagine myself on the spot, being asked to respond to those ten questions, never quite sure what my answers might be. Such a brief opportunity for cleverness and insight.

However, I am facing up to the fact that I'll never be on the show. So, I'll take a crack at it here. And given that I'm interviewing myself, I've given myself permisson for more than one answer in a few cases.

1- What is your favorite word?
Cacophony.
I like the sound of it. And because it sounds like what it means.
Alizarin Crimson is a good one in the painting realm. Also like this one for the dramatic sound (as well as the color).

2- What is your least favorite word?
Hesitation.

3- What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Art-painting-expressing-experimenting, sitting on my deck looking at the trees -- and simultaneously enjoying the squirrels and cursing them for eating all the fruit from my trees.

4 - What turns you off?
The corruption of politics. Corporate speak.

5- What is your favorite curse word?
Cluster-f--k.
It just sounds extra-messed up.
Also, swearing in a foreign language. Merde. Scheisse. Even the relatively benign, Dios mio. They sound either more sophisticated or sillier, depending on mood and how you pull it off.

6- What sound or noise do you love?
An orchestrating warming up before a concert.
You hear snippets of melody, tuning-- none of it goes together, and yet it blends into a really interesting sound.
Also, the beeps and screeching of a modem line (but not too loud).
Laughter. I love the variety and freedeom of laughter. In the right mood, and in small doses, I even find annoying laughter amusing.
Of course, many kinds of music.

7- What sound or noise do you hate?
The background din of technology and machines.
Granted, it usually becomes innocous because we all tune it out most of the time. But I'd love to have the convenience of computers, refrigerators, Tivos -- without the fans, motors and hard drives whirring.

8 - What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A few-- sculptor, writer, jazz violinist, interviewer.
Sometimes I think I'd like to have either Terry Gross' or Ira Glass' jobs. They interview and meet interesting people, and tell interesting stories.
I'd also like to publish a couple children's books, and play like Stephan Grapellli.

9- What profession would you not like to do?
Toll-booth collector.

10- If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Welcome. Good job. Relax.

... that's my ten cents-- from inside the painter's studio.

Arrived or Becoming?

Arrived or Becoming?

"An artist has got to be careful not to think he's arrived somewhere. You have to realize that you're constantly in a state of becoming. As long as you stay in that realm, you'll be all right."

- Bob Dylan, No Direction Home

Photo: Close-up of Picasso guitar sculpture, from The Picasso Museum at the Château Grimaldi in Antibes, France

For someone so prolific and poetic with his songwriting, Dylan has been notorious for being obtuse in interviews. He never quite explains himself, sometimes turns on the interviewers, and he consistently shys away from the labels of icon or "voice of a generation."

But he has some real honest and direct moments in this documentary. It's interesting to watch simply because he's Bob Dylan, and well, because he's an icon. But it's also been interesting from an artistic perspective.

His comment above was intermixed with the story of when Dylan went electric. Dylan was already famous at this point for his folk-style songs. Crowds literally booed him for playing with his electric guitar, backed by The Band.

People were so attached to who he'd been that they reviled who he was becoming. He mostly appeared to take this in stride. He just needed to do what he needed to do, whether people liked it or not. He had certainly arrived, but he was also becoming.

That struck me as taking a tremendous amount of courage and determination. Or maybe it was simply a strong sort of self-knowledge, and a desire to grow, evolve and be true to himself.

Whether painter, musician, dancer, sculptor, photographer -- his comment rings true. It's challenging as artist -- you think you've done one of your best pieces, and you want to hold on to it or capture that moment in time somehow. But you have to keep moving, growing and creating.

You have to stay in that constant state of becoming.

Art Everyday, Everywhere

Art Everyday, Everywhere

As I've become more immersed in my artwork, I'm spinning with ideas -- which is exciting and dizzying (and also tiring). I see art nearly everywhere. In the endless shapes and colors around me. In people's faces. In pine needles. In computer components. In visual pictures I form while listening to certain songs. Even in the trash alongside the freeway.

Apparently, the clothing company Banana Republic has been thinking the same thing. In the midst of all their ads, you'll find the url, www.findtheartintheeveryday.com. When I saw that, I thought, "Yeah, that's what I've been thinking!" Turns out their idea is a little different than mine, but it's still a cool little video. The image above is a cut from a video where people come out of a building to form different shapes while the tune 'Mad World' plays.

This art video is contrived vs. really being 'everyday,' and it's been created for a commercial advertising campaign at that, so it's not quite the spirit of what I had in mind.

But I still love the thought. There is art in the everyday.

My challenge as an artist is to take all those spinning thoughts and inputs, and soak it all up. And to dive in and start creating from all that inspiration.

Yeah, but you didn’t.

I have never really understood the all-black canvas. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems that of the handful of modern art museums I’ve visited, they each had a plain black canvas. Granted, maybe there was some texture, but it was all black. Or all blue.



Ad Reinhardt, Abstract Painting, 1960–66.
Oil on canvas, 60 x 60 inches.
Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum

And that’s where the disdain starts. You hear it right there in the museum. You say it. I say it. We ALL at least think it: “Well, shit, anybody could do that.”

I repeated this sentiment to an old instructor of mine.

With a bit of irritation he said, “Yeah, but you didn’t.”

To some degree, maybe that’s the case with all art. Anyone could do it. But everyone isn't doing it. It’s about the doing, the exploration, and the sensory experience that happens at the end. Whether that’s looking at a textured all-black canvas. Or a smooth, almost iridescent blue canvas. You see something. Maybe you feel something.

And if you don’t, move on to something else. Maybe a Rothko that at least blends two colors.

Or go paint your own all-black canvas. Ad Reinhardt apprently spent fourteen years doing it. He described his black canvasas thus: "A free, unmanipulated, unmanipulatable, useless, unmarketable, irreducible, unphotographable, unreproducible, inexplicable icon.”

Whatever you do, don't just stand there in the museum talking about what you could do.

Always Take Time for Art

I was on duty today as docent for the Peninsula Museum of Art (www.peninsulamuseum.org) and had the pleasure of several appreciate visitors coming in. As a volunteer docent (something I began last month), I welcome folks and explain a bit about the current exhibit.

Photo: Vistors and clock inside Musée D'Orsay in Paris.

One fellow came in just as I was about to close up, but I decided to stay a few minutes to give him a chance to look around. He had been walking around while his car was being serviced, and he seemed so pleased to have come upon the museum.

A woman and her teenage son also came in today. When I asked if they'd been in before, she said no, they'd just been in the area and spotted the museum.

She said with a smile, and almost a giggle: "And we always make time to look at art."

Good thinking. Me too.

Art-Talk and Wine-Talk

I’ve decided that talking about art is very similar to talking about wine. Grasping to find words to explain the sensory, the visual, the tastes on your palette.

It’s funny-- I have the same caution around wine talk as I have with art talk. I enjoy my share of wine, but I'm not so adept of articulating what I like. Thankfully, my husband keeps track of which wines I like, in addition to which ones he likes.

Sometimes I can go so far as to say “fruity” or “oaky.” I think these are the most obvious of flavors. Once I think I said “seems like hints of chocolate.” But I don’t feel adept or comfortable going much farther. I can’t rattle off, “berries, pear, tar, tannins, acidic, not acidic, long in the somethingerother, etc.”

Much of my wine talk has been sadly limited to “I like it.” (or “I don’t like it.”) And, “I’d love another glass.”

Sometimes my lack of description is about not being sure, not being able to identify the particular taste. Sometimes, it’s that I’d rather just appreciate it and drink it than talk about it.

Sounds a bit like an art-talk experience.

At my second artist reception (just yesterday), art and wine came together. My husband had picked out a nice New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and for a few minutes, it was the talk of the reception. A couple of us, including me, said, “Wow” on first sip.

“It really has some unusual flavors,” I said. “Not sure quite sure how to describe it, but it’s got a lot going on in there. Rich and flavorful. I like it.”

Sounds like a good art experience.

Hey, even Picasso couldn’t find all the words.

“I do not say everything, but I paint everything….” Pablo Picasso (Feb 21, 1966)

You’re inspired by ME?! Likewise.

Having just recently taken a step from anonymously painting alone, or painting once a week in an adult-ed class, to being what I’ll call “out and about,” I’ve been shocked to find that people think I know what I’m doing. And even more jarring, they have been inspired by me.

On the one hand, I certainly do know what I’m doing. I’ve been painting a dozen years. I have developed my own unique style. I have a dedicated studio room in my home. I know what Alizarin-Crimson, Cadmium Red Light, and Pthalo Green are.

But despite all this, on some levels I feel like a newbie.

• I’ve never stretched my own canvas.
• I’ve never done a mixed-media work.
• I don’t know how to price my work (or perhaps I do, but I’d like to earn more than the market and protocol suggests).
• I never went to art school.
• I just learned about the existence of Zinc White!
  (How could I have not known about a semi-transparent, mixing white acrylic paint?! All this time, I’ve only had Titanium White. A current instructor said-- Not to worry. He’d had a similar late-discovery of Zinc White. Incidentally, he also told me about a painter who exclusively painted in white, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.)
  

So, as a relative newbie and someone ignorant of Zinc White, you can imagine my surprise when other folks were inspired by me. It’s humbling, and uniquely, equally inspiring.

From Store Aisle to the Art Institute
While shopping for new supplies (including Zinc White of course) I met another artist, the woman helping me in the store. I was asking her about brands of paint, and we got talking a bit -- I’ve found I’ve become overly chatty since I began diving into my artwork; hence the blog. The blog also provides an alternative outlet vs. boring my husband to death with every art-related thought that my mind is currently exploding with.

But anyway, we got talking a bit, and I mentioned my class. She asked where I was taking it, and when I told her it was a continuing education class at San Francisco Art Institute, she was interested to hear more. She said that she too had always been impressed with that college and interested in their classes, but, we agreed, it was a bit of an effort, especially getting up there from the peninsula area. She said she was inspired by my enthusiasm with this class. "Now I’m inspired to think I too can take a class up there soon," she said.

If You Can Share, Maybe I Can Too
During my first artist reception, a friend said, “This is so exciting for me. It’s really inspiring.” He has been writing a book, but he said he hasn’t yet shared it with anyone. “It’s great to see you sharing you work with people,” he said.

This kind of feedback and enthusiasm makes me realize that, while there is much for me to learn and a vast world of art yet to explore and develop... I’m doing it. All of a sudden, I’m doing it. People are inspired and proud and enjoying it. And so am I!

Art can be an internal, lone endeavor, but it’s also about sharing and impacting. I’ve been surprised to find that I’ve already reached a few people.

When a friend told me the other day that she was proud of me, and brought me a beautiful bouquet of roses at my reception, I felt perhaps a bit proud, certainly very appreciative, and also humble. It’s an interesting mix of sensations that makes me feel both centered and like I’m floating on air.

It’s mutual inspiration.

Artsy-Fartsy Talk-- attempting to verbalize the visual

I'm entering into the world of art -- with a bizarre mix of excitement and trepidation, optimism and cynicism, doubts and grand dreams, and undoubtedly some naivete. I've been painting for a dozen years, but I am just now getting more "serious" about my artwork, getting involved in local artist groups, and I've just had my first exhibit.

I thought I'd start this art blog -- to capture my thoughts during this time of exploration, and to find another way to "be an artist." Meaning the blog can at least help me get started in "talking the talk."

So, I'll start with my thoughts on art talk itself.

My day job is in communications, so theoretically, talking and writing about art should be the easy part for me. But au contraire. Verbalizing the visual has proved more difficult than facing the dreaded white canvas.

There are two fears-- one, not wanting to sound like a stuffy, pseudo-intellectual, artsy-fartsy goon, and two, not wanting to sound-- or be-- completely full of myself.

It took me several months to write my artist statement, and I'm still tweaking it. In fact, I wonder if it will ever be final, or if I'll ever be completely comfortable with it. To get started, I looked online and found how-to tips... how long it should be, what it should cover, and sample statements. The general advice was that your artist statement should explain your inspiration. But for years I had avoided conversations of 'what is your art about?' or 'what does it mean?'

When I found artist statements where the work was an expression of something timely and controversial, say the diminishing ozone layer, or where the artist was from another country, I was honestly jealous. Everyone seems to have something to say about the ozone, for example. So, it seems safe or easy --natural and universal that there would be a sense of emptiness or concern to convey.

And from another country-- maybe it's just me, but I love that one! It feels like an automatic ticket to understanding. Ah, here I see the colors of Mexico or the reflection of the strife of the people in the Middle East. And when the artist and the work is from somewhere else, it feels somehow immediately special. It's different, otherworldly, more artistic.

My artwork happens to be particularly personal. Therefore, it carries the risk of sounding particularly self-absorbed. It comes from my emotions, and often from my struggles and pains. If I were painting images that were some type of social commentary, I suspect it would be easier for me to talk about it. I could comment on the outside world more readily than my inside world. But perhaps not. I think that all art-- or at least all good art-- is ultimately a personal portrayal or reflection of the artist. And it can be difficult to lay out your inner emotions in plain words. Then it's even trickier to somehow tie those emotions to why you chose the particular shade of Thalo green for the left side of the face.

Sometimes the answer is simply, "I don't know."
Or "Because."
Or "Do you like it or not?! Just look. Don't ask questions."

Other times it might be, "Because I was sick with doubts and self-reproach. Because I was on the verge of getting through a painful time, still a little sick on the inside but knowing I could get through it and find joy and optimism... Yeah, and that yellow part is the optimism."

I find that these types of explanations can sound simultaneously meaningful and trite... and back to fear #2 -- potentially full of myself.

But then I say to myself (dear God, is there also internal art talk?!), "Am I doing this art thing or not?" If so, I have to be able to talk about it.

An experience of art can simply be looking at it, and having whatever straightforward reaction comes to you. You like it, you don't, you feel happy or sad, or whatever.

Another way of experiencing art is to try to understand it, and to try to understand what the artist is attempting to convey. Inevitably, that understanding seems to require a conversation with actual words. I suspect that conversation and understanding may enable people to better appreciate and enjoy the art.

And I'm pretty sure that's the point in the first place.

So, I dive in, finding what words I can. Through trial and error, I am finding which words I'm comfortable with, which ones I wish I might have skipped, and which ones seem to make sense to people.

The easiest ones to find so far, have been "Thank you." For coming to my reception, and for looking at my artwork. And for listening to my artsy-fartsy talk.