What Goes Around-a Personal Vision

Sitting in my somewhat beaten-up but oh-so-comfortable studio chair the other day, considering a painting I was working on, I began to think of earlier work I had done that had some similarity to this new work. I pulled out an old slide album from 1992. I documented my paintings with slides in those days. In 1992 I made my first foray into abstraction, spurred on by a trip to Baffin Island in Canada's arctic.

I had the good fortune that year to travel with the well-known Canadian landscape painter, Doris McCarthy. We travelled to Pond Inlet in the month of January when the sun had not yet returned to the arctic. The thermometer in the window of our church/home remained at a steady -40C (which is the same as -40F)....maybe it was frozen at that temperature. The wind chill took it to a place that was beyond reckoning. Doris was 82 years old then and as fit, strong and hard-working as a woman 20 years younger. We bundled up in our down jackets with real fur trim on the hoods (which warmed the air making it possible to breathe in that cold), and ventured out two or three times a day for short periods to walk and observe the colours and to photograph (quickly so the battery wouldn't freeze). The days were short: two hours of dawn and two hours of dusk with no daylight in between. The days were turquoise, mauve and indigo blue. We stayed in the old wooden Catholic church which stood empty for several years because of the declining Catholic population in Pond. Someone had fired up the old oil stove for us so it was cozy and warm when we arrived. I slept in a bunk bed that was jammed into the narthex, beneath a mural of Jesus in the arctic. I slept well there. Oh and there was the time when Doris and I had to flag down the twin engine aircraft that was firing up, preparing to leave us on Broughton Island, our bags and purses still on the airplane. Ah but enough stories......that trip was one adventure after another.

It might look like sunrise, but it wasn't!

When I came home I spent the spring and summer working on series of abstract paintings I called Iceworks. I worked outside, pouring indigo, turquoise and purple inks onto elephant-sized watercolour paper, spraying with the hose at a certain moment to make crystalline patterns. Then I worked into that with white ink. I had never worked abstractly before but it seemed the best way to describe my sense of the silence and power of the arctic in the winter.

Iceworks 1 Ink on paper 29x41" © Janice Mason Steeves 1992

Iceworks 2 ink on paper 29x41" © Janice Mason Steeves 1992

I showed the Iceworks series at the Burlington Art Centre as well as at the Inniskillen Winery in Ontario. After the exhibitions, my enthusiasm for the series dissipated and I went back to working again in a more representational way, with images in my work.

About five years ago, at the opening of a group show in Oakville, I spoke with one of the other artists in the exhibition, who commented on my work. A complete stranger. She suggested I take the plunge, get rid of my images and work abstractly. I was ready for that suggestion and welcomed the nudge. I spent the summer and fall that year working 12-15 hour days, committed to the process, trying to find my way in abstraction. Even though I'd been painting for 25 years by that time, I was like a fish out of water. Surprisingly I had forgotten all about my earlier journey into abstraction.

Only in the last few weeks have I revisited the work I made that summer. Amazingly, the work is very similar not only to the earlier Iceworks series, but also to the series I'm currently exploring.

Although I have experimented with various styles of painting and mediums over the years, my main interest has always been in studying light (and the contrast between light and dark), and my emotional response to place-the land, a sacred site, or an inner experience. This way of working keeps coming back to me in a slow circular motion that I would not see if I had not kept working all these years. Just showing up each day in my studio. Painting. Making messes. Painting. Making mistakes. Disappointments. Successes, sadness, happiness. Painting. Unfolding.

Meet the Owners of a Scottish Castle

Anne Tristine Nguyen, Ali Orr Ewing, their children, Ava, Atticus and their dog, Harriet Beecher Stowe. Dunskey Estate, Portpatrick, Scotland Anne Tristine Nguyen and her husband, Alistair Orr Ewing are the owners of Dunskey Estate near Portpatrick, Scotland where I will teach a painting workshop in September. Dunskey is a splendid Edwardian castle on 2000 acres of ocean-front land with miles of walking trails. As well as daily workshop sessions in the studio on the top floor of the castle, our small group of artists will enjoy breathtaking hikes, superb accommodation and fabulous meals. Not having met owners of a castle before, I asked Anne if I could interview her to hear a little of their background story and that of the castle. Can you tell me a little of your personal story and that of your husband, Alistair Orr Ewing? Anne emigrated to America when she was ten years old, but it was at an art gallery in Saigon, her birthplace, where she met Al

The Importance of Silence in Art

Gathering Light 60x60" Oil on canvas © 2014 Janice Mason Steeves Michael David Rosenberg, the musician known as Passenger, sings, "See all I need is a whisper in a world that only shouts." In the workshops I teach, I find that one of the most common problems with paintings is that they shout. Most have too much going on: too many small shapes, too much texture, extremes of colour, too many lines, too much, too much. One thing I say most often as I walk around the classroom working with students individually, is 'make bigger shapes'. But not only bigger shapes. Quiet shapes. Where can your eye go and rest in the painting? That isn't a consideration in much of contemporary painting or much of contemporary life. Ours is a noisy world both visually and auditorily. Ours is a world that shouts. People are afraid of silence. I wrote a blog post 3 years ago about planning a retreat in my own home, where I shut off the computer and the phon

Liminal Time

The word liminal comes from the Latin, limen meaning threshold. an in-between place, a place of transition, a time of waiting and not knowing. Dawn and dusk are considered liminal places. Crepuscular animals, like foxes and coyotes are most active at this time of day, a time that is considered a magical time in Celtic spirituality and to Indigenous people which is perhaps the origin of their designation as tricksters. As I write this, the northern hemisphere has just passed the vernal equinox, where day and night are of equal length.We are in a liminal space between winter and spring right now, unsure if we will have one more storm or snowfall before spring finally settles in. We're also in a liminal place as we live through this pandemic with the anxiety and discomfort of not knowing. A time of great transition for the entire world, wondering what we've learned from this and what lessons we'll carry forward. Author and Franciscan friar Richard Rohr describes limi

Janice Mason Steeves

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