"Why do you paint abstractly?", the elderly man asked.

One thread that ran through the whole month of my recent trip to Scotland was related to art. Of course that would be the case. Being an artist is a way of living, of seeing, of being in the world. When I told people I met on the trip that I was an artist, they naturally asked about my work. It was a good exercise in trying to describe my non-objective work.

One lovely elderly man named Jock engaged me in a lively conversation. When I mentioned to him that I am an abstract painter, he told me he liked high realism. That comment set the stage for an interesting conversation. He was very curious about why I wanted to paint abstractly. He asked intelligent questions and gave me the gift of focusing intently on our conversation. I told him that my work is about light, that I'm interested in painting the essence of light. I described my earlier representational work-landscapes, still life and vessels. My abstract work had come from a solid background in drawing, composition, and the elements of design. My friend wanted to know how he could understand an abstract painting. I could only tell him my story. I told him that about five or six years ago I felt I needed to move beyond representational painting in my work, that when I visited art galleries, I found I was only interested in abstract paintings. And while I made the decision one summer to give up images, it has taken several years of work to get to the place of knowing that the work I'm doing is where I have been wanting to go. I told him that when a person looks at a landscape, they think, "landscape". When they see a vase of flowers, they think, 'still life'. They put a word or words on it. I'm interested, I said, in trying to paint something that is beyond words. A place of silence. Light and silence.

I had another delightful conversation about art the same day, with Phyllis who said she loves to make things. She loves baking and making jam. She also loves doing pastels and making quilts. She asked me if my travels influence my painting. Yes, I said. I seem to gather things on a trip-ideas, thoughts, images, conversations. They might come out as colours or feelings in my work when I get home. They might not. I never know. But there is always something of the place in the work. She understood me and told me how she saw the most beautiful sunrise the other day. That sunrise inspired her to bake a cake that she would then give to her granddaughter on her wedding day. She had gathered in the light and used it to inspire herself in a way similar to what I do. We understood each other.

Two suns rising over Iona, Scotland

Callanish Standing Stones-Isle of Lewis, Scotland

Earlier on in the trip, I visited the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides and saw the Callanish Standing Stones. They are works of art that are nearly 5000 years old. They are abstract stone sculptures which have endured. People visit them, care for them and make pilgrimage to them. But no one really understands why they were constructed where they are. There are theories that they are oriented to a recurring 18.5 year lunar cycle. Like all stone circles and passage graves, they are oriented toward the light. These ancient art forms hold a mystery. Art has the potential to elevate us out of our ordinary lives. It can fill us.

Callanish III-Isle of Lewis, Scotland

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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