“The real purpose of painting is to give pleasure.”
–Robert Ryman

When one’s thoughts turn to the topic of white paintings, artist Robert Ryman comes easily to mind. Ryman, born in 1930 in Nashville, was first a jazz musician until he moved to New York in 1952 and subsequently took a job as a vacation relief guard at the Museum of Modern Art. His exposure to the artwork there, including contemporary Americans Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, and Mark Rothko, was instrumental in his decision give up music and turn to painting. He never had any traditional art training, although, as Suzanne P. Hudson recounts in Used Paint¹, he was directly influenced by MoMA’s “widespread institutional ethos of experiential learning whereby museum educators … promoted values of thinking and making ‘outside the lines.’” He took one adult course at MoMA in experimental painting, although he would later say he didn’t remember much of it. Other than some life drawing done in the class, he never went through the traditional stages of learning to paint or draw representationally. Instead, he was interested in discovering what could be done with different kinds of paints, substrates, and other materials.

Robert Ryman, Surface Veil (detail)

Although beginning in the mid-1950s he spent many years exclusively making paintings with every type of white paint, using a seemingly limitless variety of techniques on every possible surface, and he is known for work most commonly described reductively as “white squares,” he would say that he was not making white paintings. “I never thought of white as being a color. White could do things that other colors could not do. White has a tendency to make things visible. You can see more of the nuance.”²

Speaking of one of his earliest works, Untitled (Orange Painting), he said in 1992, “I’ve always thought that if I ever wanted to paint a white painting it would be in the order of the way this painting was done, because this is definitely an orange painting but there are many nuances and many oranges (and black and green). And if I were doing a white painting I would approach it the same way, and there would be whites and warm-whites and cold areas and then you would have a white painting. As it is, the way I use white it’s more as a neutral paint, in order to make other things in the painting visible, color for instance.”³

Robert Ryman, Twin (1965)
6′ 3 3/4″ x 6′ 3 7/8″ Oil on cotton. Collection New York MoMA.

The interesting thing about Ryman is how he became so well known in spite of (or because of?) his unapologetically unconventional approach to painting. He confounded the critics, who tried variously to categorize his work as minimalist, or anti-form, or process, or conceptualist, while admitting that none of these could be perfectly applied. He resists the idea that his work is abstract, saying “I don’t abstract from anything. [My work is] involved with real visual aspects of what you really are looking at, whether it’s wood, or you see the paint, and the metal, and how it’s put together and how it works with the wall and how it works with the light.”⁴ 

Robert Ryman, Untitled (1958)
10.125 inches square, enamel on linen. Collection SFMOMA.

He also resisted attempts to place him into a specific box or frame within the greater art world. “I’m not involved with any kind of art movement. I’m not a scholar, I’m not a historian. I just look at it as solving problems and working on the painting and the visual experience.”⁵ There is no attempt at illusion; the paintings are not “about” anything other than what’s right before your eyes. What you see is what you get – nothing more, nothing less.

I read parts of Used Paint a couple of years ago when I was doing research for a school project. It was a treat for me soon thereafter to be able to go to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and see some of these paintings in person. They are just what you’d expect, but somehow in person they have a surprising presence. I’m drawn to Ryman’s work aesthetically, and I admire his ability to put forth these seemingly simple objects as paintings and get them hung in the most prestigious of museums. I have an impressive number of partially finished textile works lying around my own studio, suspended from completion because I love the raw edges and I don’t want to cut, bind, or hide them in some “professional” way. If I were Ryman, that would be the end of it – I’d just hand them over to the Guggenheim and up they’d go as is.

Robert Ryman, An all white painting measuring 9 1/2 ” x 10″ and signed twice on the left side in white umber
(See full view here) 

I first became aware of Ryman’s work from the wonderful PBS art:21 series. In this video from Season 4 (2007), Ryman demonstrates how his paintings consist not only of the support and the paint, but also the edges, the fasteners, and the wall itself. He tapes panels to the walls with blue painter’s tape, and then paints right over the tape and onto the walls beneath the panels. Then the tape, which has functioned as a resist, is removed. The process is repeated multiple times. This creates a variance in the surface and edge surrounding each panel. The quality of the light in the room is extremely important to the aesthetic experience, including how it changes throughout the day. Speaking about his intention, Ryman says, “It should be a soft, quiet experience that’s nice to look at.”

“In painting, something has to look easy even though it might not be easy.”
“The painting should just be about what it’s about, and not other things.”
“In all of my paintings, I discover things; sometimes I’m surprised at the results⁶

1Suzanne P. Hudson, Used Paint (October Books, 2009) 7.
The title of the book comes from an anecdote Ryman tells. In 1968, he was to have an exhibition at the Konrad Fischer gallery in Dusseldorf. In order to minimize customs fees, Fischer listed the shipment as “paper” instead of “art.” The customs official said that the duty on handmade paper would be expensive, so Fischer told him it was used, and the paintings were shipped with the designation “Used Paper.” Ryman says, “Since that time I have wondered about the possibility of paintings being defined as ‘Used Paint.’ Then there could be ‘Used Bronze,’ ‘Used Canvas,’ ‘Used Steel,’ ‘Used Lead … ‘”

²Robert Ryman in “Paradox,” segment from PBS series art:21, Season 4.

³Ryman, cited in interviews with Catherine Kinley on April 11, 1992, and Lynn Zelevansky on July 1 and 7, 1992. See Catherine Kinley, Lynn Zelevansky and Robert Ryman, “Catalogue Notes,” in Robert Storr, Robert Ryman (ex. cat., Tate Gallery, London/MoMA, New York, 1993), p. 48, quoted in “The How and the What,” Suzanne Hudson, Flash Art n.263 November-December 09

⁴Ryman, “Paradox”

⁵ibid.

⁶ibid.

Paris, France, ©2009 Deidre Adams

It’s snowing again today – yeehaw. We’ve had a lot of snow this winter – I mean, a lot. I’m not inclined to go to the trouble of looking it up, but I can say that my shoveling muscles have had way more use than in recent years past. I do love winter, especially since I’m no longer required to get up early and drive through it to go to a regular desk job every day, but really – enough is enough. However, if I must endure more white outside yet again, then it’s a good day to think about white work. Here are some inspiration photos to help set the mood.

Surface Tension (detail), ©2011 Deidre Adams

New Year’s Day is my favorite day of the year. Starting with the prior November, the craziness of the holidays takes hold and makes me feel anxious, and I kind of just hold my breath until it’s all over. Normally, I don’t watch a lot of TV except for Stewart & Colbert on Hulu and movies on Netflix, but in the past couple of months, I saw a lot more than usual, and the holiday commercials were just surreal. Somehow, our priorities got very out of whack, and everything feels forced and fake. The bulk of what I saw seemed to be about enhancing one’s experience of having one’s eyes glued firmly to little screens at all times, enjoying who knows what inanity and making no attempt to connect with live humans in one’s vicinity. Or if not that, how to make your woman feel special, because hey, we all know that every kiss begins with Kay®. The defining moment of our sad slide came last night, when we briefly turned on network TV to find a countdown to midnight, and there was Toby Keith singing an ode to a Red Solo Cup, while mindless plastic-faced automatons in the audience waved their red cups in unison.

Now, finally, we have a new year and a chance to refresh, renew, or just plain restart.

I’m really glad 2011 is over. It was a good year for me personally, but for my country, it was unbelievably terrible. I hope that in 2012 we can find a way to come together and start caring about one another and about our planet before it’s too late. I don’t really know where I’m going with this train of thought, but I’ve been feeling guilty lately about enjoying making my art in my own happy little world while so much is going so wrong. Making art can be a very selfish endeavor, as I do it for myself alone, and I don’t attempt to use it for any greater good. I want to change that in 2012, but I don’t know how. Any ideas?

We all have different definitions of success and happiness, but whatever yours may be, may you experience them in the coming year.

After finishing the Anythink commission, which had occupied the better part of my time for about three months, I felt a little rootless. I tried working on another textile piece, but it just didn’t want to cooperate. So I brought out all of the paintings that I had started but not finished in the preceding months. During the contemplation of them, a couple in particular were calling to me more emphatically than the others.

Not unsurprisingly, when winter in Colorado sets in for the long haul, my mood turns away from color and yearns for something subtle. I love winter and snow; I love to go for a walk in snow, when everything is covered in uniform whiteness. And I’ve long been drawn to create what I think of as “white” work. Even though there are many colors in the work, on first look they read as “white.” Last winter, I started a couple of white paintings, but set them aside as other things became more pressing.

According to color expert Kate Smith, white aids mental clarity, encourages us to clear clutter or obstacles, evokes purification of thoughts or actions, and enables new beginnings.* White has connotations of purity and cleanliness, which could be a source of ironic comment in context of my own immediate surroundings, but putting that aside, what I enjoy most about working with white is how interesting and challenging it can be to work with subtlety.

 Sublimation, detail, ©2011 Deidre Adams

I’m exploring effects of depth by varying the transparencies of the whites and by adding layers of mediums and glazes in between. I’m also using small amounts of interference colors. They don’t show up in the photo very well, but when viewed in person, they create an interesting reflectance effect that varies depending on your point of view.

My fascination with whites goes back several years. My first “white” piece was Shades of White, done in 2006. I was thinking about the appearance of old walls that have been painted over with white in an attempt to obliterate something, but despite someone’s valiant effort, what lies beneath is often still visible like a kind of determined ghost.

Shades of White, 48 x 48 inches, mixed media textile, ©2006 Deidre Adams 

This one also has a landscape feel, so it’s ambiguous. It could just as well have been a Horizons piece, but that was secondary to the white idea.

Shades of White, detail, ©2006 Deidre Adams

Here’s another one, not technically a “white” work because of the strong dark circles and a bit more color, but never miss an opportunity to show some older work, I always say. This is the first of what later became my Façade series, based on walls.

Façade I, 38 x 62 inches, mixed media textile, ©2006 Deidre Adams

We’ve had what seems like a lot of snow so far this winter, but since it’s been in the high 50s for the last couple of days, it’s melting fast. That’s the great thing about winter in Colorado.
 

*All About the Color White by Kate Smith

Hanging a textile piece can be done any number of ways. Some people like to frame them, but I’ve decided that that particular aesthetic doesn’t appeal to me. I believe a textile should be free to assert its own identity, and it shouldn’t be forced to pretend it’s a painting just because that’s what people are used to. The wrong kind of frame (too ornate, or calling too much attention to itself) can also, in my opinion, reduce a textile piece to functioning as mere decoration, looking like something you might find mass produced for display in a model home. Of alternative hanging methods, probably the most common involves stitching a sleeve to the back to accommodate a wooden or metal slat which can then be nailed to the wall. This allows the piece to hang free, and it’s what I usually do for my larger pieces.

However, this particular piece needed something more substantial. For another commission I did a couple of years ago, I had custom canvases built to size and stitched the pieces to them. This worked great for 36×36-inch pieces, but due to the sheer size of the current one, the ultimate problem of transportation ruled out that idea. So I enlisted the help of my very resourceful husband, and here’s what we came up with.

This frame is built of light-weight but sturdy 1×2 (actual measurements .75 x 1.5 inches) hardwood. It was preprimed, so painting it black was very easy. The frame was built in two sections that bolt together, which meant we could fit it into our old Ford Explorer for transport. Library facilities men attached it to the wall.

To attach the quilt to the frame, I used hook & loop tape from Uline. It comes with or without a sticky back. I bought sticky hook side, which I stuck to the entire perimeter of the frame, and some strategic spots on the inner supports. I didn’t think the stickiness alone would be enough, so I reinforced it with staples about every 5-6 inches. I bought the non-sticky loop side to attach to the quilt by hand stitching. I had said in a previous post that I’d found one aspect of making art that I really don’t like – this is it. Nope – no fun at all. When I am rich and famous, I shall hire someone to do this for me.

Because the hook & loop tape works quite well to attach the quilt to the frame, it also tries to stick itself anywhere it gets a chance, even if that’s in a spot you hadn’t intended. So it took all four of us to do the final hanging – two getting it into position, and two holding out the bottom so it couldn’t stick in the wrong spots prematurely.

Lots of adjusting was then required to be sure it was in the exact right position to the frame.

Later that afternoon, the library held a small reception for all the people who had participated in the project.

Since the painting over the fabric made it difficult to see, I had also made a map showing where in the piece each person’s fabric was used.

People seemed to be having a great time picking out their fabrics and telling one another about the meaning each piece had for them. 

I had to say some “official words.”

Then there was an afternoon tea with delightful refreshments, and a chance to talk to some of my new friends once again. The high point of the day was when a young girl asked me for my autograph and had her friend take a picture of us together. I felt like a rock star!

The last step of the painting process is to add small details, fine lines, and handwritten text to provide another layer of visual interest as well as give me a way to incorporate the words of the community members into the work. The writing consists partly of words from notes I took during the interview process. Names of animals, thoughts about the community, friends, schools, daily chores and activities – these are layered into a network of text which isn’t specifically meant to be read, but rather serves to “weave” these experiences into the texture of the work.

One of the interviewees, Charlotte Kerksiek, was a farmer’s daughter who spoke of her experiences growing up on a farm. Her father had come from Germany to live with an uncle in Iowa when he was 15 years old, and later started his own farm with his wife. Charlotte spoke very fondly of her parents, who were “country folk” and “so in touch with the land.” She remembers the lessons they taught: “to work hard, be honest, and pay our bills.” She brought written notes describing her memories:

I can see Dad walking through a cornfield, changing the irrigation water, leaning on a hoe in the garden to view the sunset, then pausing to point out a ‘Sweet William’ flower to me. His name was William. I can see mother hanging out the wash, separating the cream, gathering the eggs, walking down to the barn, hoeing in her garden, baking a cake for the afternoon club meeting, curling my sister’s hair.

On a farm you see and feel life around you and you learn to respect it. You know the real origins of milk, eggs and bread, that they don’t just spring up from the super market.

She also gave me some photocopies of pages from her father’s daily journal and some pages from his financial ledger, with a meticulous listing of receipts and expenses – for groceries, gas, hens, equipment, loan payments, payments to laborers, and various & sundry – including $1 for 2 lbs. Rat Poison, $6.60 to a furniture store for a baby bed, and $1 to a doctor for a baby checkup.

I also have photocopies of two letters he wrote, which allowed me a fascinating window into one man’s experiences as he built a life for himself. From a letter written from Kansas in 1935 (before he started his own farm):

Dear Friend:

Another year has run its course, we are again a year older, but have not much to show in financial gain, only a little knowledge added to our store of thought, but I am ready to admit that I have not gained much, even there. Am afraid that I do too much reading of rubbish and not enough of the kind that would improve one’s mind.

I am sure at last that farming will be my Life’s Work, although other things may be added, they will only be side lines. Farming will be the Main Feature, and it will be absolutely diversified. Cattle, Hogs, Chickens will the the main stay until I get a stronger hold, then Horses and Sheep may be added. Grains of different sorts and Silos when possible.

I scanned some of the text from the journal pages and made Thermofax screens for printing onto the painted piece. Because of the very rough surface, though, this didn’t work as well as I had hoped, so I switched to writing directly onto the piece itself, copying words from the journals and from my notes. I use a small squeeze bottle with a metal tip to do tiny details and writing.

Did I say the quilting was my favorite part? No, that’s not right. It’s really the painting … or is it? There are very few aspects of creating art (as opposed to aspects of marketing and selling art) that I don’t love. I did find one this time, though – more about that later. But here – even from the back – I look happy and serene, don’t I?

Once bound, the quilt goes back on the wall for painting. I now need to give it a few more layers of white. This helps prepare the surface to take more paint, and it starts to begin the unifying of all those crazy colors and patterns that don’t really go together very well – okay, not at all.

One of the questions I’m most often asked is, “What kind of paints do you use?” The answer is artist’s acrylic. I don’t use textile-formulated paints because I’m not interested in maintaining the “hand” (original soft drapy feeling) of the fabric. No one’s going to be wearing this or putting it on a bed when I’m done. For the first few layers, I use inexpensive Liquitex Basics. When I’m nearing the end, working on the topmost layers, I bring out the Golden brand acrylics. These cost more, but they have the best color and coverage, so you don’t need to use as much.

Rather than working in one area until it’s finished, I work all over in stages, adjusting each area relative to all the others as I go. It makes for a lot of climbing up and down for a large piece, but as you can see, I really need the exercise.

The best way to tell the rest is to show:

 
There are a few details I want to point out. The first comes from the doily I talked about back in part I:

I just couldn’t think of a way to incorporate this piece in its given rectanguler state. So my solution was to cut it up into individual 4-pointed stars. Also visible in this detail (below) is the log cabin block I received. I wanted to keep the red center square visible, so I avoided painting on it too much. The red in a traditional log cabin block represents the hearth, or “heart” of the home.

This photo (above) shows the area where the Celia’s Kitchen towel lives. I was very excited about the holes in this towel, which to me represent how much it was used and therefore loved, and how the experience of living on the plains is wrapped up in the spirit of frugality and the shunning of waste. I tried to accentuate the holes with machine quilting, followed by hand embroidery stitches.

People who know me well might have a good laugh at this, but I have a bit of this non-wasting DNA in my own blood. Like many artists, I save a lot of weird stuff, thinking I’ll find it useful some day. (I have my understanding husband and my large basement to thank for supporting my habit.) In part 3, I talked about how after quilting and blocking, I trim off the edges of the piece to square it up. Well, with wool batting, some of these come out of the wash very beautiful and delicate, like a strange kind of lace. The trimmings are not discarded, and they frequently find themselves recycled into later work. You can see them in this photo – the textured strips came off of this very quilt and got put right back on. They work well for suggesting strata in landscapes and skyscapes.

In process photo showing the piece partially quilted. Safety pins remain in the unquilted areas.

Once the quilt top is pieced, the next step is to create another same-size layer of fabric for the backing, either from a single piece of fabric (ideal, in my mind) or stitched together from multiple pieces if needed (as in this case). Then batting is chosen to go in between these two. I like to use wool batting because it’s very easy to handle and has the right amount of loft (puffiness) for the texture effects I want. I bought a 25-yard roll of Hobbs Heirloom wool batting a couple of years ago, which was great because it lasted quite a while, but it’s getting down near the end after this particular project.

The three layers must then be basted together. The traditional method is to use needle & thread, creating a network of very long stitches, while more modern methods involve special tacking guns or adhesive sprays. The goal is just to hold the layers together temporarily so they don’t shift during the stitching. My preferred method is to use safety pins, an admittedly low-tech solution, but I find it quick and easy, and I don’t have to wonder about any chemical side effects. I used to do my basting on the floor, but now I do it on my 4×8-foot studio table – it’s a lot easier on the back. If the piece is larger than the table, I just start at one end, baste that area, then shift the whole thing over and continue. For this 90×90 piece, squaring up the layers was a bit of an issue, so I started with the middle section first so I could have an equal amount hanging over both edges of the table and I could see that the layers were lined up properly.

After basting, I can get down to the business of one of my favorite parts of the process: the quilting. This large beast was by far the biggest challenge I’ve had as far as quilting. I had originally thought about creating it in sections, but I decided I didn’t want any interruptions in the continuation of the quilting lines, so I had to just struggle with it at full size. Because of my machine & table setup, I was able to do it by rolling & re-rolling periodically to get to all the areas as needed, but it was a strain on the shoulders to wrestle with it so much.

My quilting process is called free-motion stitching. This just means that the fabric is guided entirely by one’s hands, and not by the normal forward motion of the machine. There is disagreement on whether feed dogs need to be disengaged or otherwise rendered inoperable – on my Bernina, I keep them up, and on the Juki, they’ve just been removed entirely – so I can say from experience that either works. The key is to have a darning foot which doesn’t press down on the fabric the way a standard sewing foot does. There are also some gadgets you can buy to help with guiding the quilt as you stitch, like gloves with grippy dots or foam-backed “steering wheels” or blocks, but I’ve found just using my hands alone to be the easiest.

If you’re looking for beauty in the quilting, you definitely won’t find it in my work. I’m using stitching to add texture to a piece, and I’m aiming for a more rough aesthetic. While I’m working, I’m thinking always about the transformative effects of time and weather and how to express that in my art.

Immediately after stitching, the piece is quite misshapen – a mass of hills and valleys, stretched out of shape in many places.

To remedy this problem, the quilt must be “blocked.” My blocking method involves first getting the piece wet – a rinse and a good spin in the washing machine. Then, while still damp, I pin it to my design wall (described in the last post). I stick in a few pins near the top just to hold it up, then I start in the middle and flatten it out by smoothing and stretching, adding pins as I go, trying to maintain the straightness of the sections as much as I can. When fully stretched and pinned, I cover it with a wash of very thinned white paint and let that dry.

Once dry, I take it off the wall and trim off the ragged edges to square it off and make it the size of the finished piece plus a small amount extra that will be turned back when I add my binding. For anything larger than my studio table, I do this in my dining room downstairs. First, the floor is scrupulously cleaned. Then I bring down the cutting mat which normally lives on the studio table, and I square up one edge of it to one of the very convenient planks of my wood floor, which help me to keep things straight without extra measuring.

I have a 6-foot metal ruler (from the hardware store) that I line up on top of the quilt and use as a cutting edge for this process.

The next step is to put on the binding. I do “faced” bindings, which means I turn the entire binding around to the back, rather than leave some of it showing from the front, as some quilters do. I use a 1.5-inch strip of fabric, folded in half lengthwise, and stitched to the front of the quilt, 1/4-inch from the edge, with the raw edges together. I use the Bernina machine with a walking foot for this step. The thin wash of paint added during the blocking gives a bit of body and stability to the fabric and helps to keep it from stretching out of shape again while the binding is stitched on.

Then I turn the entire binding to the back at the seam line, and stitch the folded edge to the back of the quilt by hand. There are probably easier ways to do it, but this is how I’ve done it for years now, and I don’t think I could be talked into changing it at this point. It’s secure, and it looks good from front and back, and that’s what I care about.

Next: I finally get to start painting!

After choosing fabric, the next step is to sew the individual pieces together into a single large piece called the “quilt top” (for any non-quilters who might be reading this). This process is greatly facilitated by having what is known as a “design wall” in one’s studio. In my case, I have one entire wall of my studio which is given over to said design wall. The studio wall was first covered in 8×4-foot sheets of Celotex, an insulation material which is light yet sturdy, and is easy to stick pins into. The insulation boards were then covered with gray felt. I had originally wanted white, but the fabric store didn’t have a sufficiently large amount of white. Not wanting to wait, I bought gray instead, and it ended up being a great choice – it’s less harsh and has a calming, soothing effect in the room. (In fact, I liked it so much, I’ve since painted several walls in my house a  nice cool gray). The felt was adhered to the boards with premixed wallpaper paste, a surprisingly easy process.

My design wall is 8 feet high, which was the outside limit of the size of piece I could make without radically altering my life. Practically, though, I needed some maneuvering room at top and bottom, so it ended up with 7.5 feet as the target size. I started with the smaller pieces, positioning them roughly about two thirds of the way up from the bottom, the area where I wanted the greatest amount of visual interest. The surface texture of the felt grabs on to cotton fabrics and lets you keep smaller sized pieces in place without using pins. (After putting lots of pieces together, though, it will eventually become too heavy to stick by itself and will require pins.) My main goal at this point was to fit the pieces together in the most efficient manner with a minimal amount of trim waste – rather like putting together a puzzle.

I use an industrial Juki to do all my quilting, but because of modifications made to my machine, it doesn’t work for the piecing process. For one thing, it only does a straight stitch, and I use a narrow zigzag to stitch my top fabrics together. Second, the Juki’s feed dogs have been removed. So I’ve kept my Bernina for piecing and some other purposes.

Working on a large piece like this was challenging, but on the upside, I got a lot more exercise than usual because it required a lot of up-and-down on a stepping stool to get to the upper reaches.

The piecing process was completed over the course of a couple of days. Here’s a little stop-action movie I made of this process.