Roots of Courage in the Studio

November 2013

I have been thinking about courage, specifically courage in the studio, the courage it takes to paint. The courage required to let go of what I think my idea of a painting should be, the courage to risk listening to the painting and engage in the paintings’s dialogue and not my particular monologue.

Since the evening of September 11 of this year I have come to learn about the courage it takes to live in these mountains of 9,000 feet surrounded by national forest lands. In the past three months I learned about the power of torrential rains turning meandering creeks into raging rivers carving out crevices 40 feet deep as homes, roads, people and animals disappeared. I learned about the power of winds sustained at over 100mph rushing down mountain peaks as century old trees crashed across my driveway and into the corner of my home. I learned about the silent bravery and unfathomable courage of fire fighters, rescue workers, neighbors, friends, people and animals standing in the face of devastation with tears streaming, hearts breaking, hands bleeding, bodies aching, and the sheer strength of purpose in humbling awe of the universe.

I learned about my strength of purpose as an artist engaged in the seriousness of painting. In pouring, relentless rain with the studio flooding and foundation walls collapsing my husband and I worked to save my studio. I realized this was no passing dream, no on again/off again affair, no part time dalliance. This was my work, I was fighting to save my life, so connected is my soul to this work, this place. This is as real and clear as it gets, this being an artist, a woman in the face of destruction.

It is only now, in the still aftermath and the season of snows and silent darkness that I come to claim this gift.

Has not bravery itself its root in goodness of heart,
and does it not proceed from sympathy?
It is only when it cries from goodness
that bravery is genuine.
—Kyuso