acrylic abstract painting by emily weil

daily painting | skylines

Did anyone see the PBS show, “American Masters” about Oliver Sacks? I was floored and inspired by his transparency and openness about his life—his missteps, his insights and honesty. And his incredible empathy (I watched it twice). He talked about his journey without hesitation or obfuscation. Which is helping me feel bolder about my own blatherings about my personal adventures and challenges. As I struggle to wrap my mind and heart around the reality of my younger sister’s death, and how difficult it was to connect with her, it is becoming clearer how my childhood wounds shape me. I have healed a great deal and worked very hard for my wholeness. At the same time, wispy fragments of longings as well as my aching quest for human connection that haunted me as a child float through my soul, and I see how I have felt ashamed of these normal and human needs. Like somehow I should be above the desire for intimacy. I should buck up, or something asinine like that. Ridiculous. Today I embrace my humanity and natural and beautiful desires. What is more precious than human connection? Yet I have often thought this was a deep flaw. Boy howdy am I letting that one go!

I worked on this small abstract on the weekend. I didn’t feel like painting at all. But it was a tonic to be in my studio and work with colors and shapes and wet gloppy paint without any attempts to make it pretty. It was a soothing experience, even with tears mixed into the chromium blues.

9″ x 12″ acrylic, oil pastel, pencil on claybord = $140

 

 

 

watercolor painting of calla lilies by emily weil

daily painting | april callas

“I relinquish all resistance to the present moment.” That’s my mantra today (thank you Eckhart Tolle); I stumbled into Monday morning feeling drugged. I think someone slipped me a grief Mickey. My vocab is that of a demented magpie and I seem to be in the intense process of rooting out family sorrows, which is all mixed up with my sister’s illness and death. Slogging onward, but progressing. This too shall piss. Uh, pass.

But still, aren’t calla lilies amazing? I am madly in love with them and my ardor is not fading. They are all over the place, growing in many unexpected corners, and the gorgeous Georgia O’Keefe simplicity of the unfurling blooms takes my breath away. I am quite greedy for them. This arrangement, gracing my coffee table, inspired me. I hesitated, thinking, Jeez, haven’t I done enough calla lilies, already? Nope. They are endlessly lovely, and I will keep painting them. Spring gifts — beautiful bird songs out the window, swallows returning to build their mud nests, grassy green hills, explosions of California poppies. What wonderful feasts for the senses. And I’m hungry.

9″ x 12″ watercolor, pen, acrylic ink on paper = $140

 

 

 

abstract by emily weil using acrylics

daily painting | january abstracty

I’m working on a commission this week (woot!) and may not be posting much, but since I’m kind of sitting around with my doors open on this lovely day in Alameda, recovering from some digestive woes this morning (it happens sometimes; a super sexy condition), I thought I’d shout out a hello. I did this abstract a month ago, and can’t decide if I like it, so I thought I’d post it anyways. I may or may not toss it, but it was a day in January I needed to express my fierce grief and strong emotion with acrylics and oil pastels and big fat graphite pencils. As always, the catharsis of that process helped me release more sadness and grief. Today I am fully enjoying working on the consigned painting and resting while the paint dries between layers, enjoying various distractions — sparrows squabbling at the bird feeder, catching up on the sad news about Tiger Woods’ smash-up, doing research on making art videos, noticing the local diver walk up the docks in his wetsuit (likely checking out problems in a neighbor’s hull), and reading a scary mystery that’s too creepy to read at bedtime but I have to know what happens. My heart feels full — sure looks like my years as an old lady, should they continue, will be all about making and teaching art. That’s a marvelous thing to contemplate and I am grateful.

12″ x 12″ acrylic, oil pastel, pencil on claybord

 

 

 

daily painting | abstract amaryllis

I tried to ignore the impeachment trial today. I really did. And I failed. But then I did turn it off for a bit and crank up a few blues tunes and work on the deliciousness of yet another blooming amaryllis stalk, v. 2 from the bulb I received as a gift. The first set of flowers faded and dried up and were replaced by these! And there’s another shoot visible, popping out. Woot! I wanted to be super loose with this painting and use bright colors and pastels and be freewheeling and splashy, so I started with sticks-and-ink, then added big splotches of watercolors, followed by pastels and acrylic pens. Didn’t really care if you could ID the subject. I couldn’t tear myself away from the news so I did this at home, and that was fun too though I often suffer from quarantine cabin fever. But I’m safe. Vaccines are on their way and I’m ready. My gosh I’ll be squeezing my kids and grandkids and great-grandkids until they squawk. Not soon enough. Oh! And Happy Valentine’s Day! You know what? Here’s another thought. Such a damn loaded day of the year, right? I’d always longed for a romantic celebration of this day. And I’m truly fine with what is. And I got wonderful prezzies from my daughter in San Diego (which included a darling mug printed with the words, “Best Effin’ Mimi Ever” [I’m Mimi to my grandkids]). So sweet and it makes my heart so full. Accepting what is is the best. I resist so much, often. But trusting, and letting go, and “non-resistance” equals contentment, and — dare I say? — joy.

16″ x 12″ watercolor, pastel, sticks-and-ink, pencil, acrylic ink on paper = $250

 

 

 

daily painting | meanderings

Graphite crayons, oil pastels, pencils, chalk pastels and crayons are in the top tray of my art therapy toolbox these days. I love how the marks wander through a square of white paper. They are helping me walk through unknowable mysteries of intense emotion.

I’m reading a book called The Dog Stars by Peter Heller. I have an assortment of books lined up by my bed, waiting for me to discover their magic. Having books I look forward to absorbing is like having money in the bank — I know I can relax because great reads are piled up in my fat book account. I’ve had Dog Stars for awhile. Heller is one of my favorite writers, so when I go to Walden Pond Books in Oakland I head for the used book shelves in the back corner and see what they’ve got (Louise Penny always, Louise Erdrich, Heller; his book Celine is an all-time fave). Last summer I pulled Dog Stars out of my stack, but the description on the back had the word “pandemic” in it and at the time I thought better about reading a post-apocalyptic story. Too close to home. But it’s perfect for today. Heller’s books have themes of grief and loss running through them, but they are not dreary or bleak. Just the opposite — he writes of connection and humanity and love and beauty in the midst of loss and sadness and I find his words especially comforting in these times. The protagonist, Hig, makes no apologies for his feelings — or his weeping — and I’m attracted to that kind of fearlessness. I aspire to it. So today I follow my own inner knowing, my deep need to allow mourning to take me down her river. I know I will find dry land again. I’ll be OK. And I have a fierce desire to be true to my heart, for that’s where wholeness is. Isn’t it hard to give ourselves permission just to feel what we feel, regardless of what it is? To make room for it? I find it takes terrific courage and trust. And it is often quite isolating. But for me it is as essential as breathing. Today, I follow this encouragement by Eckhart Tolle: “I relinquish all resistance to the present moment.” That brings me peace, even in pain. Thank you for witnessing my journey.

9.25″ x 9″ oil pastel, chalk pastel, pencil, ink, crayon on paper = $110

 

 

 

daily painting | headlong

Lately I’ve been obsessed with making marks on paper with chunky graphite pencils, crayons, pastels and big fat oil pastel sticks which are vibrant and messy and slippery and full of pigment. This one also has ink, watercolor, and acrylic paint. It’s an abstract smorgasbord. Using all these different media (mediums?) is great fun, and takes me out of my thinking brain and deep into my instincts, intuition and emotions; I let the artwork guide me, and it tells me what it wants. These processes of creating art, as I have said a million times ’til you are bored to tears, dear reader, are essential to keeping my head on straight, a challenge more pressing than usual right now, grief being the gorilla sitting on my chest most days. Sometimes she weighs me down so heavily I question if I’m mentally unhinged. And then she lets up some. Or maybe not until the next day do I feel it’s OK to still be breathing. But I know it will pass and it takes time. Months. Years. Read this last night in the book, The Dog Stars by Peter Heller, a favorite writer: “Grief is an element. It has its own cycle like the carbon cycle, the nitrogen. It never diminishes not ever. It passes in and out of everything.” I’m cycling through, wishing it was on the gentle setting instead of heavy load.

6.5″ x 6.75″ ink, watercolor, acrylic, pastel, crayon, oil pastel, pencil on paper = $60

 

 

 

daily painting | inklings

Sometimes throwing away my usual routines is exactly the right thing to do. The other day in my studio I ripped up a few small sheets of paper and wet them and spattered India ink on them; after they dried I added watercolor and some oil pastel. I finished this small piece today and like it. I really love the way India ink behaves on wet paper — it can make beautiful patterns, and it feels like magic. To create — whether art or a yummy dinner or plans for the future — we must do it. It’s so easy to get sucked into dark places these days. Sunshine, time in my studio, dancing in my living room, being surprised by a shooting star (last night!) all help me keep moving forward. These are very difficult times, and I’m still vertical. More or less.

6″ x 6″ watercolor, oil pastel, pencil on paper = $45

 

 

 

daily painting | over a barrel

Survival is sometimes a challenge as a 6-decades+ old woman during a rampaging pandemic, terrifying insurrections in Washington (is it civil war yet?), watching a Death-Valley-like drying up of my freelance business, grieving a dead sister (did I miss anything?). So afternoons like today boost my heart, give me hope, help me live in the moment. I was graciously invited to join two sketching friends to explore a charming garden in Ballena Bay in Alameda to draw and paint and my god what a tonic. We sat at a table and enjoyed the sun with a spectacular view of the SF skyline at our backs and fun and interesting growing things at our feet. And bushtits hopping about the branches above us. And laughter at a nearby table in the yard as the innovative and hard-working gardeners joked and rested. Conversation sans Zoom! Laughing through our masks! Commiserating about today’s world that seems completely mad! I want more of these conversations and arty afternoons. I feel more sane and hopeful because of today’s gathering. As humans how we need conversation and time together! I will never again take things for granted like parties, meeting friends at restaurants, a good blues club. Even a brief interaction with a neighbor soothes and encourages. Sigh. OK. Soldiering on. Well, maybe “soldiering” is not quite the best word these days. But you get it.

7″ x 7″ watercolor, pen on paper = $65

 

 

 

daily painting | cross-wise

You know how strange bumps in the wee hours morph into a life-threatening disaster in your brain? And then, in the light of day, your fears seem silly? Last night was that night. Today, I understand my upset. We are all besieged and frightened right now for a zillion reasons. So if a funny mechanical noise at 1am sent me into a terror spiral, I can understand and have compassion for my battle-weary brain. Explanation: I live on a houseboat and depend on electrical pumps to discharge wastewater from a holding tank under my floorboards into another larger tank, operated by my marina, that connects to city sewage facilities. That marina tank is outside on the dock next to me, and I do hear it, but it isn’t noisy or annoying. As I drifted toward slumberland last night, I heard a strange noise — like something mechanical was trying but not working. It sounded strained. Immediately I thought of my own sump pump under the floor. The noise was regular, about every 20 mins. Now, dear reader who must be bored out of your mind by now, if a pump fails, you can imagine how disastrous that can be; if my electricity goes out, I do not run water or flush the toilet for fear of overflow (it’s happened and is messy). So. I was completely freaked out — imagining the mess, the expensive repairs, the inconvenience. In the middle of the night it felt life-threatening and horrific; rationality had long since flown out the window. I laid down on my floor, knowing if my pump was stressed out and breaking down, I would hear it under me. The noise happened again, and I could tell it was outside my house. PHEW. So then I thought it was probably the marina pump in the tank near me, not working. After a fitful night (the whining motor noise was really bothersome), I woke up and opened my windows to better hear if the marina pump was the source. The marina pump seemed to be working normally. And the noise stopped and hasn’t repeated itself since.

If you’ve suffered through this useless information so far, you probably know I’ll get to the punchline at some point. The lesson is — these are dark times. Full of grief and loss and threats. It makes sense that my stressed brain would pour miracle-grow onto a puzzling sound in the night and turn it into catastrophe. Once again, as I keep reminding myself, gentleness and compassion are the answers. To soothe myself I walked on Crown Beach this afternoon. I painted in my studio (results above). I will do whatever I can think of to comfort myself and hope that it doesn’t have long-term destructive consequences. And there it is. Bob’s your uncle.

18″ x 18″ ink, watercolor, pencil, pastel, oil pastel, crayon, acrylic, on paper = $425

 

 

 

daily painting | blues

Finding words is a challenge today, five days after insurrectionists tried to violently attack and disrupt our democratic process, egged on by a sitting president. I’m shocked, stunned, speechless. Having a hard time shuffling through tasks and chores and January plans. I’m sort of sure we’ll be OK. But never in my six decades have I questioned that our democracy would continue — until now. I’ve always taken it for granted, even if unhappy with voters’ choices and flaws in how we govern. Now, I’m rattled. Now, I’m unsure of our future. While I do believe we will get past this dark moment as a country, I have no pollyanna notions about how hard this will be and it was already severely challenging. I’m dodging puddles of grief and loss and isolation and loneliness. And facing worries for the country I didn’t know I loved so much. So today I counsel myself to employ gentleness and kindness toward myself and others. If foggy I will turn on the headlights. If knocked sideways I will get up and keep going and find my path again. I will keep taking sheets of paper out in my studio and “painting out” my overwhelming feelings. And if all I can manage is to vacantly stare at ocean waves at a Marin beach, that’s what I will do. As I talk to friends about these events, I know I am not alone in my stupefaction, which I just decided is my new favorite word. Tenderness and love for ourselves and each other will help us get through this. And rage.

22″ x 30″ pencil, pastel, ink, watercolor, acrylic, oil pastel, crayon on paper = $795