It Bears Repeating.

The Men Who Don't Fit In
Robert W. Service

There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they're always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new. They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!" So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake. And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last. He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life's been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha!  He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in. I've posted this before but goshdang that's good.

A Painter Without Her Paint: Laos

 

I should say that I am a pretty...particular...painter. I am slow. I take months to finish a painting. I find myself spending lengths of time making the tiniest adjustments to a painting to make it just right. Just so. I love the process and I love searching for that punch in the gut that happens when you nail it (rare, by the way) but it can be frustrating to work day in and day out, for hours, and not have finished pieces to show for it more often. 

The photos above, though thought about and considered, are snapshots in comparison to how long I labor over a painting. They are awkward. Angles seem off and shapes and colors are disproportionate to what I usually create in my paintings. They are mostly vertical while my paintings are mostly horizontal in reference to the landscape. I'm thinking about this discrepancy, and trying to figure out what these, and other,  tendencies mean. 

While my paintings don't look anything like the compositions above, they are helping my painting. This attraction to things being "off" is nudging me into some new territory, where I am letting go a bit, allowing things to be as awkward in my paintings as they are in reality.

It's all really, very exciting. 

Eventually, you'll get to see the paintings that result from all of this. Just you wait...I'll wait too. 

Forever yours,

Beatrice

A Painter Without Her Paint: Thailand

I took over 4,000 photographs while away - it would have been more if I hadn't lost my camera. I wasn't drawing or painting but I was constantly taking photographs that I knew I'd use later for painting reference. About half my photos are documentation of things I experienced, the other half are more...compositional studies. Below are some that I took while in Thailand. Eventually I'll post ones from all of the countries. 

I go through my photos at least every couple of days and it makes my heart ache a little each time. I miss these places. Going through and posting and writing about them slowly has become another way for me to process the experience. I'll be posting them along with painting developments. 

Thanks for reading and looking.

Your Friend,

Bea

Various States

It's hard to put photographs of unfinished paintings online, but I wanted to let you all know I am hard at work and painting, painting, painting. It has taken some time to remember how I best function in the studio (two months of no painting is disruptive, who knew?) but I am feeling the rhythm return. This is a good thing...I've got a solo show to prepare for...

So, above is evidence of how I'm spending my time. IN PROGRESS! BE KIND! 

Love,

Bea

Truth and Beauty

I memorized this poem in high school and find myself repeating it a lot. I thought you might like it.

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth - the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names. 

- Emily Dickinson