What do you want to be when you grow up?

Jones, Sarah; Abstract. Oil/acrylic/collage, on paper. 33.5” x 39” (matted) (framed), 1996. Early work completed at University of Wisconsin. Believe this is first work actually purchased from the artist. She has continued to progress and add works to many family and other collections around the country. Presently resident of Princeton, NJ, and looking forward to returning to the Washington DC area.

I knew the artist as a well-developing young drawer before I was presented with this and a number of other student works. Impressed by evocative strength of juxtaposition of strong shades light and dark with overlaying of rich colors, and structure. Clues to the artist’s development and strength of conviction as well as search for spiritually consistent path in home and career is found (the devil is sometimes in the details) may be found in collage items. There is strong internal direction through the chaos, and peace is projected by the image as a whole.

I come from a pretty traditional family setting. My dad worked like crazy when we were growing up and my mom stayed home to raise us, my sister and I. So, when my sister and I were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, my answer wasn't that surprising. My ever-pragmatic sister answered "a plate." When asked why she simply responded, "Because I want to know what it is like to go through the dishwasher." I, on the other hand, wanted to be an orthodontist. Growing up as a country club kid (one that we belonged to but that I certainly did not fit into...my sister was always the popular one) my main image of success was someone who worked a lot and made a lot of money. The person I knew who had the biggest house and most money was my orthodontist (this might explain why I had braces not once, but twice!). It didn't really matter that the inside of a mouth thoroughly "grossed me out" and I nearly passed out at the sight of blood, I wanted that lifestyle. I wanted people to keep up with me, one of the Joneses.

We lived next door to the MacGregor boys whose mother was our art teacher at the elementary school I attended. Everyday after school, the boys and I would attend After School Program to wait for their mom to wrap things up. At that point we would all load into the grocer-getter and were off to the ever growing number of activities we were involved in...art camp, softball, swimming lessons, soccer, and science camp.

I never was much for team sports. I preferred activities where I could be lone warrior and where my performance couldn't impact another player. I am a good leader and teacher, but not such a good follower. I definitely beat to my own drum. I was very shy as a young child and didn't have much confidence. While I had a tremendously supportive family (I think every drawing I ever made was plastered to one of the cabinets in our laundry room), I don't think they ever saw art as a real career choice. Ironic, given that when my dad decided to declare an English major, my grandfather exclaimed, "Great. So, what are you going to be when you grow up? An Englishman?" While art wasn't a viable career choice according to my parents, I distinctly remember some key moments in my life that did teach me that art can be of value and that I had something to offer.

It may sound silly, but the first time I became aware of my abilities and the possible value of my art, I was in kindergarten. A teacher entered one of my drawings into a contest at my school. To be honest, I can't even remember what I drew, and frankly, I don't even know what ended up happening to that drawing. What I do remember was that I won first prize, a hard copy Disney version of the storybook Cinderella. I remember feeling so proud that I made something that someone else liked.

The second experience occurred during high school when I went through a phase drawing pictures of eyes. I am not sure why I chose an eye as the subject matter. I suppose it was something that I felt confident drawing. I gave one of those drawings to the boy I was dating. I honestly didn't think much about it after I gave it to him. In my mind, I liked him and one way to show him was to give him something I made. One summer morning I woke up and went downstairs for a late breakfast (I had probably snuck out the night before, a habit of mine in high school). My mom gave me an envelope she had found in the mailbox when she went down to get the morning paper. I opened it and read it. It was a letter from the boy I was dating. The night before, he had snuck out and in a drunken state ridden his bike over to my house and and delivered the letter he had written. The letter talked about what he did that night, and how much he liked me (love was such a loaded word at that age. Well, I suppose in some ways, it still is). The part of the letter that stuck with me the most was the part that said he still had the drawing of the eye. (I still have the letter.) He had hung it on his bedroom wall, and loved to look at it. I realized that he had a piece of me with him, and that no matter what happened to me, to him, to us, that I had made something for him, and that would last forever, most certainly longer than our relationship did.

The third moment in my life that set in stone the value of my work was my first official sale. In truth, I never imagined I could make money off of my art. I simply did it for the pleasure and personl gratification. I was working on some very abstract pieces after I had graduated from college. They were literally collecting in my parent's basement. One day one of my dad's best friends came for a visit. He was like an uncle to my sister an I. I knew he collected art. He said he wanted to look through my collection. I promptly led him into the basement where my art had piled up on the ping-pong table. He said he really liked the work. Honestly, I didn't think the work was that good. And I wrote him off as being a polite guest. But he was persistent and offered to buy one of the pieces. And he did. Like my drawing of the eye, I sort-of forgot about it. Years later we went for a visit, and found, much to my surprise, that the piece had been beautifully framed and was hung in his master bedroom. What was the most remarkable part about this was that my father's friend is major art collector. He has some of the most remarkable works you have ever seen. When I saw it, it clicked, "I am an artist." Before that time I would say, "I do drawings," or "I paint," or "I do art." I never uttered the words, "I am an artist." That sale changed my perspective. It made me realize that art was part of my identity. It wasn't about the money I made from the sale, it was about the fact that collage I had made was hanging in a prominent place amongst works by other legitimate artists. My Cinderella prize taught me that people liked my art. The experience with my ex-boyfriend taught me that my art allowed me to connect with other people. And my first sale taught me that "artist" was a part of my identity.

At the top of this post you can see the first piece I ever sold as well as a critique by the owner.

Looking for inspiration

Less than a year ago, I changed jobs. I was formerly a Senior Research Analyst at AIR (American Institutes for Research) right on the waterfront of Georgetown in Washington, DC. I loved the people I was working with there, but I was looking for new challenges. The truth is, working in education research can be really emotionally taxing. You see things and hear stories that darken your spirit. (I genuinely believe that if people in this country had even an inkling of the truth when it comes to how bad the circumstances are in a lot of schools, they would be outraged...demanding better for our children. I pray for that tipping point). Sometimes you just need to take a few steps back in order to take a few steps forward. In other words, I needed a break from ed research. So I opened myself up to new opportunities.

Just at the time I was thinking about moving in a new direction, health research to be exact, a company called Mathematica Policy Research came calling. Going to Mathematica meant that I could do evaluation research in a variety areas including community health, work, and international development. The change in jobs, however, meant that I would have to relocate to central New Jersey. By relocating I would leave behind my favorite bakery (Baked and Wired, if you are ever in DC, don't miss it), the dog park that Digby and I frequented, a condo I loved, and many, many, many dear friends. It was a difficult choice, but again, I knew that if I wanted to be reinvigorated and return to education research, I would have to take a step back in order to take a step forward.

One of the great advantages of moving to central New Jersey is it's proximity to New York City...one of my all time favorite places to visit. There is something tangible in the air of NYC, you feel it as soon as you exit Penn Station. While most major American cities have modernized away their character, much of New York operates under the guise of "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." So, while New York consistently offers you the latest and greatest, it simultaneously provides you with constant reminds of its past...our past. My time here in New Jersey is winding down. I will be returning to The District the first week of June. Because of that, I know that I have to maximize my city time. This past weekend I did just that. I walked two-thirds of Manhattan searching for the very juxtaposition I described above. I wanted to photograph it and try to take it with me. My photos capture the image, but the prints I will create using those photographs will capture the sentiment attributed to those images. Of the nearly 100 photos I took this weekend, there is a set of three that I knew, as soon as I took them, I would use to kick off my next series of prints.






While I have not yet completed a print yet out of the photos I took, I have begun the process, and that is part of what I promised to share with you all in this blog. So, here is the first two drops of a print I am working on that is drawn from what you see above. As time goes on, I will share their development with you, so that you can see what I now see in my mind's eye.

A sense of my work.

This post gives me an opportunity to share with you some of my work. All of these were created when I was living in Santa Barbara. The photos aren't the greatest, but it is a start.




Title: Enjaulada



Title: Madison





Title: The Invasion

Title: Viscosity






Title: Paseos y Puentes





Title: Koi



Title: The Harbor

Welcome to my blog.

"So, printmaking, that means copies of your original paintings, right?"
"What is printmaking?"
"Oh, how do you do that?"
"Are they prints of photographs?"
"Like screen printing?"

These are probably the most common questions I am asked when I tell people I am a printmaker. The truth is, I am an artist. I have been painting and drawing since I was little. I have always been able to lose myself in a creation. I get focused and everything around me disappears. I literally lose hours. When I first started to see myself as an artist, I decided to work with watercolors on paper. Then, I turned to oils on canvas. My work boardered on realism. Then came college...

The one major I never declared, but wish I had, was fine arts. While in Madison, I experimented with all types of media...acrylics, watercolors, pastels, and even cattle markers (some day I will post more about those), and I created all sorts of abstract images on all different surfaces. Then my junior year I moved to Madrid and then on to Perugia. During my year in Spain, I lived with all Spanish fine art students,a sculptor Simone, a restoration artist Sara, and two painters Natalia and Penelope. What sold me on renting the smallest room I had seen was the fact that they were fine art students, they were all Spaniards, and I was allowed to paint whatever I wanted on the walls of my bedroom. Upon moving in, I promptly painted an alien crawling in through the wooden window shutters (possibly an homage to my sister who at the time was going through her "alien phase?"). While I lived there, I continued to make art, and learn from them as much as I could.

After college, I returned to Europe and, amongst other things, continued my artistic journey. I made it a mission to seek out other artists and to continue to explore new techniques and ideas. During that time I created drawings with oil pastels on large wooden panels, carved wooden clothing hangers in a spanish taller (to help me pay the rent), helped shape windsurf boards, and pleaded my way into a formal art course in Granada tuition-free. I grew tremendously from the experience. I learned a lot about texture and emotion in art. I studied the architectural features of the Alhambra and memorized the view from the apartment I shared overlooking Granada. All of this, as well as my day to day experiences were coming out in my work. By working at a mountain outside of Madrid, teaching english part-time, and concocting fake lift tickets at Sierra Nevada I made enough and saved enough money to travel, write, take pictures, snowboard and do art. But, eventually my money ran out, and I had promises to keep back in the United States. I returned to the U.S. to pursue a PhD in sociology. So instead of dirtying my hands with different media, I was dirtying my mind, as it were, with the readings of folks like Marx, Weber, Foucualt and de Bouvier. But something unexpected happened. While I sought out a doctoral advisor who specialized in social interaction, I came across a sociologist with an artist's soul.

My doctoral advisor is one of the greatest human beings I have ever met. He is brilliant intellectually speaking, but more than that, he is kind, generous, and extraordinarily wise (wisdom trumps intellect every time). Lucky for me, he is also an artist, trained by his wife, who was an art professor at a neighboring college. When they first came to Santa Barbara in the late sixties, my advisor's wife took all of her husband's sociology classes, despite herself having a masters in public health administration. Now approaching the end of his career, my advisor enrolled in all of his wife's art classes, and found a passion for printmaking. One of the great things about my advisor is that he sees his students as people first. He never loses sight of who we are. Because of this, early in my graduate career he encouraged me to find balance (not something that is easy to do when you are teaching to barely earn enough to live while going to school full time), and nudged me to get back into art.

He invited me to attend his wife's introduction to printmaking class and I immediately fell in love. My advisor and I would talk about sociology and the progress of my research during the week. But on Fridays, those conversations were left behind and we spent the entire day in the studio with his wife and the other beginning printmaking students. I was becoming a printmaker who did oil-based monotypes (I will get into what that means in my next post).

At the top of this entry you will see my very first print. It is crude and one-dimensional, but I still see beauty in it. What I love about printmaking is the physicality of it. I love the way it feels when you have a perfect roll. There is an aggression that your brayer leaves behind on the plate that helps you forget everything else that is on your mind. I let out a deep breath everytime a Q-tip soaked with rubbing alcohol cuts through the inks I just rolled onto the plexiglass plate with which I am working. That clean line...it is so gratifying. With printmaking you can work with reckless abandon, adding inks on top of inks, clearing it away, adding in various objects to create relief images or different textures, and smooshing colors together to create something you didn't know was possible. But there is also a part of me, probably the researcher in me, that loves the orderliness of printmaking. It is with precision that we place the plates on the press and calculate the pressure. Prints with multiple drops means that we have to measure and align our edges so that the print will come out technically perfect. It is the blend of carelessness and rigor that brings me back to this medium time and time again.