Into Each Life - Rainy Weekend and Some Longfellow

Lee Jones begins her street painting in the lower courthouse park

This part weekend was Janesville's Art Infusion event.  There were art demonstrations of various sorts, live musical performances, and street chalk painting.  Over at the fairgrounds the Rock River Valley Carvers were showing and selling their creations, and there were all sorts of other late summer events going on, fund raising walks, farmers markets, and fall festivals.  All had one good day - Saturday.  Friday and Sunday it just rained and rained and rained.

 Jones, a bit further along on Saturday

Another street painter at work on Saturday

I clumped around downtown on my sore foot, taking pictures, watching people of all ages chalk the sidewalks, listening to music, and munching Kettle Corn at the farmers market until my tootsies couldn't endure another minute and I went home to crash.

Then it was Sunday, and the rain just pounded.  When it let up a bit at about 11 in the morning I went to see how the pro was doing, and found her at work finishing up her scene of Rotary Gardens in a borrowed tent.  A couple of nice paintings across the street were covered with plastic, and all the kids' colorful creations were gradually washing away.  There was almost nobody else in sight downtown.

Sometimes the process has to be reward enough. I hope it was.

The Rainy Day

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
  And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
  And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
  Some days must be dark and dreary.

Street Painting Workshop - Lee Jones

When I was little I didn't know a thing about chalk art, street painting, except when my friends and I took some of our schoolroom chalk outside to put down hopscotch squares.  Never saw it.  Of course I lived on a farm where there wasn't much concrete except in the barn, and that wasn't any place I wanted to get down on my knees.  Living here in Janesville, I see children's chalk drawings on the sidewalks occasionally, but the only professional street painting I've seen has been on the internet.

So - when I learned that Rock County's United Arts Alliance, partnered with the Janesville Convention and Visitors Bureau were hosting an arts festival dubbed the Art Infusion, and they were bringing Wisconsin native street painter Lee Jones to demonstrate and give a free workshop I was excited. 

The workshop, held last night at the local PAC, interesting and fun.  Jones is a congenial woman, patient with the uninitiated, and well prepared.  She had spent the work day giving workshops to elementary and high school classes, and now was talking to a small but enthusiastic group of adults. Good note taker that I am after years of being both a student and a teacher, I came prepared with a notebook, but was pleased when she handed out notes on the history of street painting , as well as a list of suggested supplies and tips for creating a successful street painting.  She had lots of personal stories, comments about street painting festivals, and names of other well-known street painters.

The very short version of what she told us is that street painting is an old art, begun in the 1500's in Italy by itinerant artists who were too poor for paint and paper, but would use chalk (pastels) and paint in front of businesses, hoping for painting commissions.  Most of these early street paintings featured biblical scenes  with the Madonna (Virgin Mary), hence the group term for the painters - Madonnaro.
These street paintings are not permanent, they wear and wash away eventually, and only recently have been photographed extensively to make a record.

Of course street art isn't all religious, especially in contemporary times.  Jones told us that artist Kathy Koury from Santa Barbara saw a big street art festival in Grazie Di Curatone, a city in northern Italy, and was so impressed she started a festival in California.  Street paintings appeal has been steadily growing here in the United States, and now we're even trying it here in Rock County.

After her presentation Lee took the group outside to the sidewalk and demonstrated the process, then we had a half hour or so to experiment before it got chilly and the light began to fade.

Jones begins by selecting an image, something rather simple and bold.  Here she used a photo of a friend's child. which she enlarged and drew on a large sheet of paper.  Then she uses a transfer wheel, the sort of thing I used to used to transfer a pattern to fabric, making little perforations around the outlines of the drawing.  Then she takes the sheet down on the sidewalk, and shakes talcum power over the whole thing.

After "pouncing," tapping, the paper, the power goes through to the pavement below, and the paper can be carefully pulled away, revealing the outlines.

Her next step is to use her pastels to get the outlines down, and from there she adds thing layers of chalk to build up the image, adding highlights and shadows.  She uses things like foam brushes and chalkboard erasers to blend the first layer into the pavement, and after that uses a gloved finger.  It's hard work - hours on her knees, bent over, rubbing.  It's as hard as scrubbing a floor, which is one reason I will be an observer this weekend instead of a participant.  That, plus I don't have anything of the performance artist in me.  I love creating art, but am happiest in my studio.

I hope that lots of artists who have better knees and backs come out to create street art though.  This is something that is great fun.

Interested in seeing more street paintings?  Check out these links:

Julie Kirk

Genna Panzarella

Melanie Stimmell

Kurt Wenner

A Couple Reflections

The reflective surface of a downtown bank mirrors Milwaukee Street

The same building, this time reflecting Main Street

I took these two photos last weekend as I was walking home from my walk to the local farmers market, and was struck by how interesting it was to see the street scene doubled in the mirrored surface of the bank.  The vanishing point pulls your attention into the center of the picture and makes you look to see which is reality, which a mirror image.

That sent me looking for a poem that featured reflections, and this is the one I found.  It doesn't have a thing to do with downtown bank buildings, but rather with how an artist, Vincent Van Gogh, used color to reflect the natural world in late summer and autumn, both in sunshine and in shadow.

Vincent, Homesick for the Land of Pictures 

By Peter Gizzi

Is this what you intended, Vincent
that we take our rest at the end of the grove
nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration
saying, who and how am I made better through struggle.
Or why am I I inside this empty arboretum
this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision
the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree.
O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that
or if you can indeed hear what I might say
heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty
of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection.

To not be naive and think of silly answers only
not to imagine answers would be the only destination
nor is questioning color even useful now
now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons.
That the sun can do this to us, every one of us
that the sun can do this to everything inside
the broken light refracted through leaves.
What the ancients called peace, no clearer example
what our fathers called the good, what better celebration.
Leaves shine in the body and in the head alike
the sun touches deeper than thought.

O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing
to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world.
There might be nothing greater than this
nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within
like in the middle of the flower I call your name.
To correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff
to toil and to reflect and to home and to paint
father, and further, the migration of things.
The homing action of geese and wood mice.
The ample evidence of the sun inside all life
inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too.

But felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect.
The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity
but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true.
The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun
at least what the old books called science or bowed down to.
The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside
and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that
the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time
in the time of pictures and refracted light.
Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night
the animal proximity of another and of nigh.

To step into it as into a large surf in late August
to go out underneath it all above and sparkling.
To wonder and to dream and to look up at it
wondrous and strange companion to all our days
and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us.
The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light
the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers
to be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing.
The sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it
the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms
these starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge.

Now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter.
To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane
and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread.
The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression
making so much more of itself here than where it signals
the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing.
Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing
thought nothing might be the final and actual expression of it
that nothing at the center of something alive and burning
green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet
into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone.

But what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar
the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling
what of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line.
To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die.
The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever
the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint
into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight.
That light was my enemy and one great source of agony
one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass.
The fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear
the gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun.

The gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun
the fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear
one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass.
That light was my enemy and one great source of agony
into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight
the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint.
The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever.
To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die.
What of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line
the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling
but what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar.

Into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone
green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet
that nothing at the center of something alive and burning
through nothing might be the final and actual expression of it.
Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing
the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing
making so much more of itself here than where it signals.
The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression
and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread.
To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane
now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter.

These starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge
the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms
the sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it.
To be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing
the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers.
The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light
and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us
wondrous and strange companion to all our days.
To wonder and to dream and to look up at it
to go out underneath it all above and sparkling
to step into it as into a large surf in late August.

The animal proximity of another and of nigh.
Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night
in the time of pictures and refracted light
the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time
and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that.
The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside
at least what the old books called science or bowed down to.
The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun
but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true.
The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity
but felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect.

Inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too
the ample evidence of the sun inside all life
the homing action of geese and wood mice
father, and further, the migration of things.
To toil and to reflect and to home and to paint
to correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff
like in the middle of the flower I call your name.
Nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within
there might be nothing greater than this
to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world.
O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing.

The sun touches deeper than thought
leaves shine in the body and in the head alike
what our fathers called the good, what better celebration.
What the ancients called peace, no clearer example
the broken light refracted through leaves.
That the sun can do this to everything inside
that the sun can do this to us, every one of us
now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons.
Nor is questioning color even useful now
nor to imagine answers would be the only destination
to not be naive and think of silly answers only.

Of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection
heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty.
Or if you can indeed hear what I might say
O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that
the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree
this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision.
Or why am I inside this empty arboretum
saying, who and how am I made better through struggle
nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration
that we take our rest at the end of the grove
is this what you intended, Vincent.