Square Dance Method

My eldest daughter came over for a painting lesson last week. Let’s call it more of a guided refresher course — both my kids, Esther and Casey, are good artists, though neither has chosen it as a career. Anyway, Esther said she wanted to rekindle her creative fire a little. She arrived in my studio, put on an apron, and we started. 

My approach is a bit like square dancing. Sort of a call-and-response type thing. 

“Take that big brush and make ten lines,” I said. Esther laid down ten broad blue squiggles. 

“Take this pallet knife and make fifteen circles…” She made these blue too, but in a different shade.

“Now, rotate your canvas and drip paint from one edge…” A layer of purple rain washed down. 

The cues are just improvised. The dance steps are not rigid and the learner has room to be as creative as they want in responding. But they are relieved of the burden of control, the worry about where the big picture is headed, how the dance will end. Using this approach, I’m pretty sure I can teach anyone to make a successful abstract painting on the first try — “successful” meaning something they will like. 

Over-thinking is the enemy of creativity, especially when you are getting started. But veterans have to fight this tendency too. Artistic expression is so often about getting out of your own way, out of your own head, drifting down to a subconscious level where delight and surprise are born. 

To get there, you need to just push paint around for quite awhile. This is the beauty of using opaque paint, like oil or acrylic. You can just keep adding. Most paintings you see have many previous layers buried under the finished surface. The finished piece is just the end of a meandering journey — one of false-starts, experiments, second thoughts, side trips, detours. Maybe some day I will do a series of photos of a painting in progress, to show this evolution.

Back to my Esther….. She pushed paint for two hours, and was suddenly physically exhausted. I forget how tiring it can be when you aren’t used to it. One thing you do develop with practice is stamina. I can go all day. 

It’s true that anyone can paint, but newbies may need a nap. 

Some new work is attached — as always with many layers under the surface. 

Enjoy!

My New Wild West

Another move, another view. Last summer, I said goodbye to the warehouse studio I built with my man, and we moved to a very downtown apartment. From my new windows, I can see two bridges, three church spires and the famous roofline of a certain Chateau-style hotel. Paris of the Prairies. I am grateful for the roof overhead. Down in the streets, not everyone is so fortunate. Bells from the churches and City Hall toll throughout the day. When I hear them, I try to be mindful. 

My studio has shrunk somewhat to fit into a spare bedroom. But it is enough. The light filling it is much more than I am used to though, gallops in from all directions in this new, south-facing abode. And the large florals that I was making back in the warehouse studio have refused to shrink for anything. The dahlias and hydrangeas have a feeling of wanting to bust off the canvas, as though reaching for the light. Sunlight is the new sheriff in town, shaking up my palette and sense of colour. Bella, the real-life fig tree we live with, is revelling in the light and producing little berries. She’s already over six feet tall and seems to swagger in my living room. This is my New Wild West.

But when the bells ring, I try to hear them. A few weeks ago I had a back injury and it has lead me, many days, no farther than flat on the floor, watching the sun move from there. Mostly I’ve painted and shifted colours in my mind. I am once again, at long last, more upright than not, finding hope in the growing late-winter light, overjoyed to be putting down marks again. In deep gratitude….

If you want to see the new canvases up close, studio visits are still very much possible at the new location. So don’t hesitate to reach out. Come for a look, and tea!

Flowers and treehouses

Romy’s Place, Marlene Yuzak, 2022.

Lately, I’ve received as gifts two large-format books which have found their way into my work flow. One, from my daughter, is about flowers—and you know how I feel about flowers. Another is from my man, Cloudy, one about treehouses. You may not know that I have a thing for treetop living in general, and would like to try it someday. I did a series of nests a few years ago when I was in Los Angeles. Each nest contained a city or place, such as Venice, California, pictured here.

Venice Nest, Marlene Yuzak, 2015

I like small, hideaways (who doesn’t?), whether they are flowers, nests with cities in them, treehouses, or the lounge at The Cave restaurant in Saskatoon. I also have a thing for reversible clothing, though it is very hard to find nowadays. There are many more examples, but I can’t tell you about them. If I told you, I’d have to kiss you. Wink.

Years back there was a delightful show at the old Mendel Art Gallery called Small Worlds. It was a hit with our family. Some of the pieces featured little windows you could put your eye to, whereupon you would discover a small world within. 

But anyway, aren’t all paintings small worlds, little windows opening onto other realities if we just lean in? Aren’t all flowers? Aren’t all people? I find intrigue and hope in hidden potential and am always on the look-out for it. Maybe that’s what my nests and treehouses are about. And maybe I’ve said too much. 

The recent watercolour below is called “Flowers with Tent.” My friend Marni wrote this poem about it:

Floating yet grounded

High in her tree,

Lifted with love,

My Sprite and me. 

Flowers with Tent, Marlene Yuzak, 2022

New Work

Greetings!

Painting pure abstraction is not straightforward for me. Representative imagery has a way of creeping into everything I do and taking over, like Lily of the Valley in the garden — which I’ve mentioned before in posts. This recent cycle of paintings started from representation and morphed into abstracts, which is something brand new for me.

Most of my canvases have many layers of paint beneath the final surface you see. These at first told stories — a misty landscape, symbols from mythology, a bouquet of pastel flowers. Next, I began layering solid colours down, leaving pieces of the “story” showing through the grids of circles. The pattern reflected the mood was I was interested in conveying. Besides the tug-of-war I have between abstract and representational, I also have a deep love of folky patterning — polka-dotting, beadwork, stripes, stitchery — the kind of thing that can give you carpal tunnel syndrome.

So while these images are rhythmic abstracts, they contain those other two modes as well.

Enjoy. And please contact me if you would like to see the pieces up close.