March 1, 2020: Having freshly signed on as artist-in-resident for Hotel 1110, the boutique hotel in Monterey where I’d been bartending the last six months, I moved into a dream apartment in the Salinas Valley, also known as Steinbeck’s Pastures of Heaven. At this point, talk of the pandemic was still out at sea and we hoped it might not reach our shores. By the middle of the month, the hotel shut down and we were all sheltered-in-place. I found myself in this beautiful space with no work obligations other than to make art. I started painting the view out my window because it was easily my favorite thing about living there and I couldn’t believe my luck that this was the place I was quarantined. The first thing I’d do every morning was look out this window to see how the sky appeared that day. Some mornings those hills were blanketed in a fog so thick you couldn’t see past the first ridges. Some mornings the sun rose clear and bright over the eastern ridges and light played across the hills like piano keys. Love for these daily miracles is what propelled me to grab my brushes first thing, sometimes even before my first sip of coffee.
“Nobody looks up at a real sky for more than a minute without making a wish related to some current fear or hope.”
Painting is my ritual to stay humble and in awe of my surroundings, and through the process little homages of gratitude are created. This valley/window became my motif to communicate while I lived here; I put my thoughts, feelings, observations, hopes and fears into my brushwork. Some mornings I awoke with restless thoughts and so I’d go to the window and paint, grounding myself through this meditation. Some nights I began to make dinner and then was distracted mid-kitchen prep by a particularly intriguing sky color--and so I’d stop what I was doing to run over, mix some colors and tackle down a quick study.
My copy of The Letters of Vincent Van Gogh, from the Marchutz School of Art.
I started painting these first on masonite boards that were cut and primed, and after I ran out those, I used bristol board that I gessoed and cut down to 5”x7” panels. This idea came from my last summer in college when I studied at The Marchutz School of Art in Aix-en-Provence, France. We prepared our canvases by gessoing cardboard that we cut to smaller sizes. This was to remain true to our intentions of quickly and authentically capturing an impression of a place and time, rather than being too attached to achieving a perfect rendering. Somehow subconsciously, when one paints on finer materials, it instills a pressure to not waste it—to make something worthy of its quality. This in turn can result in the desire for perfection to choke the life and breathe of creation.
The true gift of this quarantine for me was the opportunity to get to know the Salinas Valley. I read John Steinbeck’s Pastures of Heaven when moving in and was just smitten to be there. Cascading hills, almond and olive trees, a hillside of wild rosemary, sage bushes and lavender, sounds of woodpeckers, owls at night---all of these kept me in a state of wonder and I asked myself how can I honor and give thanks to what Nature and life are giving me? Some days that meant making a small oil painting of the light and sky particular to that day, and some days it was experimenting with natural dyes found around the property. I learned how to harvest and cure olives from trees (thank you internet), made teas and steam treatments to keep my lungs healthy, and took along my sketchbook on every nature walk. I also opened an Etsy shop, Loreandlandscapes, where I sell my prints and selected small paintings, and include a homemade herbal sachet with every order.
In April, United Way of Monterey County opened the project Notes from Home. This requested locals to create colorful notes with words of encouragement in Spanish and English to be included in care packages for families hit especially hard from the pandemic. I happily hopped onboard, and created my window sky devotions in the form of watercolor cards. I then lined these with encouraging phrases and a passage from the beautiful beloved poem ‘El Cantaro Roto; The Broken Water Jar’ by Octavio Paz. I hope wherever these are, they’re bringing their viewer hope and warmth.
I now find myself in a different place, looking back on these pieces like little windows of memories. When thinking of how to eventually display this series, I knew I wanted to keep them together and present them as a set, but wasn’t sure exactly what that would look like. After playing around with many ideas and rough sketches, this arrangement was created. It honestly took on a life of it’s own and I merely did what I could to help bring it to fruition. It was important to me to keep the display informal and unique, as that is how these paintings were created. It was also important to me that all the framing elements be native to the landscapes depicted. The frame is made of coast redwood pieces, the abalone shell is from a nearby beach. In turn they are a gift back to Nature, mirroring the original intention and inspiration from which making these paintings was conceived. I really enjoyed this process and see this idea as a long river I’ll continue exploring!
These last pictures are a view into the current exhibit Shelter from the Storm at Gualala Arts Center, which I’m honored to be a part of. The gallery is open seven days a week, and one family/group is admitted at a time. On display through February 21.
Thanks for reading, hope you’re well—and if you aren’t, hope you feel better soon!
Take care, happy trails, and always travel in braids.
Love,
Charlotte