“I learned a lot,” one of my students said as she was walking out the door.

“Me, too,” I replied. She smiled broadly and laughed a little.

With teaching there can be a period of hours, sometimes days, when you are paddling the boat but can’t see the shore on the other side. You know its there, but you don’t seem to be getting any closer. And then, suddenly, you feel the tug of water against the paddle, the power of the stroke, the progress you are making as you slice through the current. And then you are there, pulling up onto the sandy beach. Yes, you have arrived!

That moment – the moment you know you are actually getting there – is a great moment, even sweeter than the victory dance when you are high and dry. It is the feeling of seeing the seeds bear fruit, feeling the surge of joy at accomplishing a difficult task.

That’s what I feel tonight. Tomorrow we will return to our canvases with the hard work behind us, and faith that we can tackle what lies ahead. That we have the right tools. That yes, we can do this thing. And we will.

But first, we will relish this sense that we ARE learning, that we can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it is a sweet sight indeed.

Erin at her window, enjoying Sunday morning

Yesterday I worked an art festival in Carmel Valley, a place I love to spend time  and hardly ever do. 

How was the festival?  people ask me.  Which usually means, did you sell anything.

And my answer is always the same.  Sometimes you are planting seeds, and sometimes you are harvesting crops.  And sometimes you get to do both.  But if you take the long view, each art event (opening, show, sale, class) is about nurturing relationships with your clients, students, patrons.  It is about deepening your, and their, understanding of the art you do, and the meaning of art, and the value art objects and the art process brings to their life.

Sometimes that translates as a sale.

Sometimes that translates as someone signing up for a workshop, or passing your card on to a friend. 

And sometimes that translates as spending a day connecting, talking, laughing, listening, looking, being together.

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday, either way.

Arrived last night the slow way – a gorgeous drive along the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway, trees rampant with autumn color three thousand feet below us.  Yesterday was a day in the middle of a pause in our trip between teaching, showing, interviewing.   Now we were absorbing, seeing, relishing, breathing in deeply – replenishing the well.

We arrived in Roanoke, Virginia, at dusk, surprised to discover yet another thriving downtown scene replete with art and craft galleries, upscale restaurants, sidewalk markets, chic boutiques, a prosperous city that seemed to be in the midst of major downtown renewal.  

We took the pedestrian bridge over to the majestic Hotel Roanoke, passing walkers and bicyclists going in the opposite direction.

Wandering through the lobby of the impressive Hotel Roanoke we imagined ourselves guests, perhaps the California contingent of the just arriving RenewAmerica convention “dedicated to bringing a Christian education to every American child. ”

We ended our evening drinking beers, eating pulled pork and fried okra, and talking economic revival with the bartender, comparing notes on the various city centers we’ve seen on our journey, and heading back to our cheap hotel before the evening Karaoke began.

Week Three, Day 7

First stop, the River Arts District.  With signage on the sides of buildings, on sandwich boards on every sidewalk, its distinctive wheel and spokes symbol plastered on every conceivable surface, this uber-successful arts community is hard to miss.  One artist has even painted every inch of his Chevy Express van in his distinctive flamboyant palette.

Riverside Arts District feels like a reclaimed industrial wasteland, transformed by artists and artisans into a community, a marketplace, a paradise for creative souls seeking cheap space to live, work, and show.

Greg Vineyard, an artist, potter, and marketing expert who works out of one of the Riverside arts complexes, took some time to share with us his own story and the story of the revival of Asheville’s extraordinary arts economy.

Taking his work to an L.A. gallery many years ago, he was rejected by the gallerist out of hand.  “I was crushed – for all of a day,”  Greg told us. “Then I decided to launch my own regular art salons out of whatever space and budget I had,” …  from a tiny studio in Glendale, CA., with his wheel wedged into a closet-sized space off the kitchen, to more ample digs he could afford later on.

From being rejected  to creating his own solutions for showing and sharing his work to becoming an expert in the field of creative arts branding, Greg’s story suggests a kind of parallel to Asheville’s own history.  A key element in creating change is believing in the value of your vision and investing in it.  Having done that, and found success, Greg (and Asheville) serve as a beacon to others who are seeking to transform their own art/work and communities.

How did Asheville do it? Tom asked.

“It all began very organically,”  Greg told us right off the bat.  “Most of these buildings were bought up  by artists.  The artists then rented out  spaces to other like minded people, artists, craftspeople, or services they wanted – like cafes and brewpubs.” 

With ample parking, each space close enough to walk to, several different trolleys that deliver tourists to the area, and artists working in studios adjacent to their gallery spaces, the district is incredibly user friendly.  Over  100 local artists have joined forces to publish a comprehensive directory, organize a twice-annual Gallery Stroll, and work together on other marketing efforts. 

Sunday morning, Tom and I walked through downtown Asheville.  A very polite gay rights rally was in full swing (Tom noted that it was the first civil demonstration he’d ever seen that refused to jay walk.)  Though the downtown is prosperous and colorful, offering coffee houses and upscale restaurants of an astonishing variety of cuisines, and arts and crafts boutiques and bookstores on virtually every corner,  we soon found our way back to the Riverside Arts District. 

Smack dab in the middle of the district is the terrific Wedge Brew Pub. A pint of Abby ale, a shared sampler of their other brews, and a bucket of peanuts enjoyed in their outdoor courtyard under a blazing November sun made for one of the most memorable “meals”  we’ve had on this trip.  

Later in the day we dropped in on a weaver dressing her loom, interviewed Greg Vineyard for our You-Tube Championing the Arts series, and said goodbye to a wonderful city we hope to return to soon.

For the next two weeks we are preparing for our cross-country Championing the
Arts Tour. In the midst of travel logistics I try to make space for painting and
find it hard to grasp the heart of the matter. Spinning, circling, dancing with
the paint and the brush, finding myself frustrated, hanging in there, giving up,
trying again. Sometimes the harder you pull on a knot the tougher the knot gets. My strategy is to work sidewise, keeping multiple canvases going so that no one
becomes too precious that I can’t change it. So out come old canvases to try new ideas on, each one a place in which to practice risk.

Being prepared to take a risk is a big part of doing something creative. Painting a blank canvas red is one way. No drawing skills required. No expectation: no stress. It doesn’t have to be red, by the way. Choose your color. It will serve, later, as the underpainting of your “real” painting. Setting yourself an assignment is another way. I will paint 100 roses, for example. Or lemons with their shadows. One day this spring I painted 100 little seascapes for The Surfrider Foundation and found my groove at #36. Settling in to do the assignment is a way of tricking yourself into working on getting to work without actually realizing you are now, actually, working. Rituals help.
I light a candle as a way of stating that now I am working on this (painting)and not that (you name it.) Carving out this period of time doesn’t always mean I put paint on the canvas, or that if I do it adds up to much of anything, but it does mean that I have set aside the time and don’t allow myself the other usual distractions. Sometimes it is only at the end of this self-appointed time that the idea begins to gel.

My uncle Kaffe says “art makes sense of our lives.” Showing up is important. Creative practices – writing, painting, singing, cooking – are the ways we connect the inner and the outer lives. In that personal connection we make connections beyond ourselves, bridging the gaps between our selves and others. Creating community. That matters!

xoxo Erin

Coming Home, Big Sur c)2010 Tom Birmingham

Carmel Art and Film Festival – Devendorf Park, Sat & Sun. October 9 & 10, 10am to 6pm

Looking for a creative conversation this weekend? Join us in downtown Carmel this weekend for a stimulating experience of art, film, photography, music, and more. I’ll be joining other artists in Devendorf Park while Tom has a beautiful piece in the festival’s juried photography show at Sunset Center. For more information go to Carmel Art and Film Festival.

I paint randomly, colors into colors into colors, allowing mud between pure chroma.
Then I get an idea and move up to a 4′x5′ canvas, all yellow – ochers, cadmiums, sheer, emergent, the suggestion off a horizon.
But within minutes I am bored, wanting more color, balancing impulse with restraint.
Pausing, I wash my brushes and am fascinated by the colors as they blend with
water and soap. I love these colors, all pastel version of the pure color notes I’ve been working with.
Back to the painting, now bringing in soft pink, sharp viridian moving into sky blue. The yellows dominate, but have given some ground.
I look back and see the cadmium yellow has dripped over the strokes of lavender, pink, transparent orange, but a horizon of viridian green has emerged. We are late for dinner, it is time to drop my paint apron and pull on a proper shirt, run to the car, rehearse my apologies.
But I see something emerging, there, behind me, the canvas at rest on the piano, waiting.
And out of frustration, I feel anticipation. Delight. Wonder. Where will it go tomorrow?