Lines

Crossing the line. Taking a hard line. Follow that line. I am a artist who draws a intense line, so I am told.

Janes art photos 2015 026
“Angel Tree” original art by Jane Callahan,graphite wash and ink
When I paint or draw, I am generally obsessed by the lines and texture. I find it necessary to  continually define and elaborate on the spaces. To find and develop the positive space and learn to let it be. I think this is somewhat akin to how I think. A thousand moons ago I had a graduate school interview. The o- so- lofty professor said of my art, ” it was tedious at best”…. He also thought I was a “pretty, white suburban girl without challenges who had nothing to say.” An artist is haunted by criticism and he did a number on me that day. My art was open season,sure, but he knew nothing about my experience as a human so far in life or the way that I personally experience things. He looked at me and thought he knew because of how I looked. Many moons later I am so glad that I didn’t somehow clamor trying to impress him or convince him. I was crying and could not speak to do that anyway. I was authentic in my art and being that day;right down to my mother who sat out in a lobby somewhere, unknowingly, in wait to prop me up. He would have had me distort myself and sights to suit his vision. I did not stop making my art because he invalidated me.My art  has evolved over the moons and it has patterns thru the years that I find .My abstracts take shape and drift into the world of nature, my surreal thoughts expand across the surface, geometry shows up and creates order. I still define the spaces with lines and textures that erupt from my soul. They are thought, energy, action and indecision, anxiety and purpose… tedious he said but to me are beautiful,coming from a place where I feel most like myself . They are complicated like the lives everyone of us lives. I suppose I’ve lines on my face now too.Would a person like that dismiss me now for my age? It doesn’t matter. It never mattered what he said or what I looked like, it was something inside, that had to be put on paper. Something I was born to report.

 

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