Jasper

A little known fact about me, I am obsessed with teh 1930's and 1940's. If I had to guess I would say that I likely had a past life during the art deco era.



Paint Brushes.

Mid-Atlantic Printmaking or Reborn Painter?

As I mentioned early on, I was introduced to printmaking by graduate advisor and his wife. While I had a background in painting, drawing and a hybrid of the two (involving cattle markers, which I promise to post about), I didn't have any formal training in printmaking. This is where Adult Ed came into play. Let's face it, I was a graduate student and beyond broke. Without Santa Barbara City College's Adult Ed program I would never have had the money to afford the materials for printmaking and I certainly wouldn't have had access to a printing press. For just $45 for a 13 week course, it was a bargain. (Given the current economic crisis in California, the future of these classes remains unknown. But losing them will be like losing a part of the community). Each class lasted about 4 hours. I learned about classic oil based monoprints, but also learned about intaglio, chine colle', etching, and linocuts. For the first hour we learned a new technique and then Siu would allow us to work freely. From there I would plug in my iPod and go to work. I lost hours in that studio.


When I appeared in the class for the first time, I was nervous. (I can be shy in first meetings.) So I stuck close to my advisor, who reassured me that everyone was very nice and introduced me around. Little did I know I would meet some of the most fabulous people there, and learn a new technique to boot. My teacher, Siu, was committed to creating a friendly classroom environment. I was definitely the youngest participant in the class (Adult Ed attracts many retirees, they make up the majority of students), but no one seemed to care. We all had stories and images to share. Age was irrelevant. I grew to think of women like Jessica, Christine, Jana, Nancy and Margaret as my extended family. They were and are fabulous artists. I deeply miss the people who were in the class and who were members of the Santa Barbara Printmakers Association (You can see a lot of their work and learn more about them on their blog and see some of their work at the annual printmaker show). I think as an artist part of your essence is displayed in your work. This explains how these artists created such remarkable works. Their work is a reflection of who they are as people, and the classroom environment that Siu inspired.

Moving to Washington DC meant that I had to sort out a new venue for printmaking. As many artists know...it is mostly about practice. You evolve and develop as an artist by committing yourself to the work on a regular basis. So, once I arrived in DC I began the search for a printmaking studio that mimicked my experience in Santa Barbara and allowed me to continue to grow. I wanted to work in a space that gave me freedom, was a green environment, collaborative and had a sense of community. Nearly five years later, I am still searching.

During my first year in DC, my art was taking off. Not only did I have clients from shows and connections I made in California, but I was meeting new people in DC who were interested in purchasing my work. I needed a work space and quick. So, I signed up for a class at the Torpedo Factory. I was hopeful. When I had visited the galleries there I had met some nice people.

While I drove toward the studio I rethought everything I had in my bins and bags...baby oil and rubbing alcohol to clean my hands, brayers, plates, inks, q-tips for ink removal, paper and other necessities, like an old telephone book for discarding ink. When I walked in, it seemed to be a competitive environment from the get go (welcome to Washington, DC). While our class in Santa Barbara (which really became more like an open studio space for us to work in) was friendly, encouraging and collaborative, the studio here was very cold and quiet. I thought about Siu teaching us techniques to help maintain a non-toxic environment. There was really no need for turpentine. But here the instructor seemed to revel in the toxicity of the chemicals. When I asked her where we could clean our hands she said that she loved the idea of pouring turpentine directly on her hands to wash them off. We never looked at each other’s work, and people seemed to be there to take the class and then leave. There wasn't any sense of community.

I have since found art classes at Glen Echo, but I am not sure after my last class experience that more classes is what I need. I also found that you can rent printing space at Pyramid, but at $20 an hour for non-members, that can add up quickly. (It takes me at least an hour to ink a single plate). Pyramid sounds like the type of place that is best for well established printmakers who rely on master printers to press their work while you role plates. That is just not my cup of tea. I did find a resource for printmakers who hand-pull prints. But I still feel like I can't connect. Maybe what I am looking for is to move all my wonderful friends and colleagues from Santa Barbara to DC.

SO, what is a printmaker who has no venue to print to do? Throw on my Ben Davis Overalls and return to painting? Or continue to work with a rolling pin in my apartment? I supposed we will all have to wait and see. It might just be a time to return to cattle markers and oil paints.

Gifting Art

I recently donated several pieces of my art for a fundraiser that would benefit a local charitable organization called HomeFront. This was not the first time I have been asked to donate art. For me, it is a great opportunity not only to help organizations I care about, but it also allows me to expose my artwork to individuals who might not have seen it otherwise. After much debate, I decided to donate two pieces from the series I am currently working on inspired by New York. I narrowed it down to the following three pieces, and ultimately selected the bottom two:

"Empire State"
11"x15"
Oil-based Monotype


"New York Series I"
11"x15"
Oil-based Monotype



"NY Bricks"
16"x20"
Oil-Based Monotype

Single, Never Married, and about your Age.

"Are you still single?" This is a question I am asked a lot; mainly by women who are older than me and married. When I answer "yes," I am frequently presented with offers to set me up, "Oh, I know this great guy..." Before I can ask, they say, "He is single, never married, and about your age," as if these are the only criteria I use to find a partner. I know that these women mean well, and singledom isn't something I strive for, but the search for me has been a journey to find someone who understands my essence. This journey is a theme that is prevalent in my artwork as you can see in the painting above, “No Te Olivides Quien Soy.”



To help explain what I am looking for and my journey to find it, I thought I would share one of my recent journal entries.

Tonight I took my dog Digby for a short walk. As we strolled over the wet sidewalk, I could hear a group of early teens coming up behind us. My heart warmed as I listened to their flirtatious banter. I remembered it and the feeling that went along with it.

Tag and kick the can were nightly events my seventh grade summer. Each night, before dusk, we gathered in the front yard and the games got under way. The truth was that I participated in these games because it was an opportunity to feel the butterflies in my stomach when John tagged me and said, “you’re it.” That feeling in my stomach wasn’t something I was familiar with. It scared me slightly, and I didn’t entirely trust it. But at the same time I knew I liked spending time with John and that feeling made me happy. I didn’t realize until years later that those butterflies I felt were the sensation of attraction. John really saw me, and liked me anyway. He felt my heart, and I felt his.

One weekend that summer, I was invited to my friend’s house for a slumber party. All my girlfriends were going to be there, and I quickly accepted. At the party we played games, ate cookies, soaked in the Jacuzzi, and laughed until we fell asleep. Late that night, one of my friends woke me up to tell me that a group of boys had arrived at the house…John was one of them. The other girls seemed to know that the boys had shown up because John was there to see me, because he “liked me-liked me.” But despite prodding, I didn’t go down to meet them. Part of me was scared of getting in trouble, and part of me was just scared of what going downstairs meant. I liked John, but by going downstairs, I would let everyone else know what I had been feeling.

Time passed, and before I knew it, I was in high school. My summers with John were a thing of the past. After the slumber party, the games of tag came to an end, and our relationship changed. John was in a few of my high school classes, but he barely acknowledged my presence. This hurt. How could a guy I had liked, and who had liked me not feel that anymore? I didn’t understand. I hadn’t changed. But not meeting John downstairs during that slumber party had had consequences.

Since John, there have been many boyfriends, dates, and good night kisses. Out of these many dates, there have only been a handful of men in my life who have really seen me and who have felt my heart. The sad thing is, like with John, with these men, I have been afraid and embarrassed of my feelings. I have freely given my heart to the wrong men. And then hidden it from the ones who deserved it. But at this point in my life, I am ready. It isn’t just about finding a guy who is my age and single. Now I am waiting for him to see me, to feel my heart, and to come to the door. This time, I am ready to come down the stairs.

Sexy as an artist!

I am a sociologist. And, while the main focus of my research is on education reform and charter schools such as the KIPP Academy, I received my graduate training in a department that had a high percentage of individuals studying gender. In fact, the only other sociology student with whom I lived during my graduate career studied gender and the medicalization of social problems. Namely, she studied the Viagra phenomenon. What this meant was that I was around a lot of other really strong women (yes, there were male feminists too, but they are not the focus of this story), and participated in countless conversation, lectures, and courses on gender, masculinity and femininity, and the disparities that exist between men and women. What I know from these discussions is that gender, as well as definitions of masculinity and femininity, are socially constructed and vary by social setting. Furthermore, gender is performative. That is, we do gender; we enact and reenact it on a daily basis.

All of that said, I still read US Weekly, Star, Lucky and Marie Claire, and have asked myself (as those magazines often ask you to do), what does it take to be sexy and to attract Mr. Right? A low-cut dress and high heels? Perfectly styled hair and make-up? The truth of the matter is, even when I step out for my cousin’s upcoming “black-tie preferred” wedding in Manhattan in my new Anna Sui dress and gold high heel sandals, I won’t feel nearly as sexy as I do when I am in my oversized Ben Davis overalls that I picked up in a second hand store in San Francisco when I was still an undergraduate. Those overalls, in all their inked-up and painted on glory, feel like a second skin. I genuinely couldn’t feel sexier than I do when I have those on with a baby doll tee and my hair pulled back into a messy pony. When I am wearing my overalls, I feel the most like me. For me, that is what defines sexy. This probably explains why I am more attracted to men who don’t dress up, who aren’t afraid to get dirty, and grow a little facial hair. Without the pretense of an upscale Thomas Pink suit or a Catherine Malandrino dress (don’t get me wrong, I love fashion), you can get to the essence of an individual. My essence is a creative, outdoorsy, natural woman, who is constantly looking to grow and develop. So, how do I “do being sexy?” I throw on my overalls and I print or I paint.

Interpreting the Image..getting into the mind of an artist.

I thought, rather than a lot of words, in this post, I would give you a lot of images. Below is a series of prints I created while living in Santa Barbara. They were touched off by some paintings and drawings I made while I was living in Granada, Spain. (I will include those in the next post when I explain my thoughts behind these images.) Before I tell you what inspired these prints, I wanted to hear how you all interpret them. What do you think my frame of reference was here? Can you get into the mind of an artist?

Title: I Piedi

Title: I Mani

Title: Feeling the Sun2

Title: Feeling the Sun

Title: Mad at Me

Title: Enjaulada

Title: Piedi Bricks





For the Record: This is a tough exercise. One of the benefits of being an artist is that you can share your emotions without having to explain them through words. Putting this into words leaves you vulnerable in a way that the sharing of images doesn't.

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.