March 25, 2004
In response to the question from Rachael at Honest Art Talk : How do you work in your studio? What surprises you about the process?

On a good day ...

At the start of a studio session, I sit in front of the easel and look. Sometimes this process lasts 20 or 30 minutes. My husband calls it "staring" ("What are you doing in there? Oh - you're staring again.") I see the painting in front of me as if it was the first time. I see where the painting has been and where it can go. I decide on the direction for today and imagine how I'll proceed. If there are unresolved problems from the previous session, I "try out" different solutions in my mind. When I have a clear idea of the first few steps, then I pick up the brush and begin.

Once actual painting has begun, I go into a kind of pre-verbal state, that feels as if my brain is being bypassed. There is a zing of energy that goes from eyes to heart to hands to eyes... and so on, in a continuous loop. If you were to ask me a question at this point, I would have a great deal of difficulty locating the words and then placing them in the proper order to construct a sentence. Sometimes, in the middle of this process, I hear my impatient questioner say, "Earth to Anna..."

Strangely, although I have trouble saying words, I can listen to them. Once the painting is well under way, and humming along nicely, I like to turn on the radio and listen to "This American Life", "Philosophy Talk", or "New Dimensions". Books on tape are good too. It's as if the body and spirit have gone painting and the intellect is forced into coming along, like a recalcitrant child who is told to be quiet, sit still, and and don't touch anything.

April 15, 2004
Drawing (and by "drawing", I mean the whole process of seeing, drawing and painting) is a means of possession, and a way of dropping out of time. When I see something that attracts me, my first reaction is to take a deep breath and examine the scent. Then my mouth waters. Then my hands twitch - I want to draw. Drawing from life is the best, most sublime way of knowing and taking in. I discovered this the first time an instructor made us draw contours without looking at the paper. After I got past my initial resistance, I discovered that the act of drawing is its own reward and is unrelated to the production of a "work of art." To draw something or someone is to look at the subject for so long and so deeply that the artist seems to merge with the subject and time fades away. This way of seeing seems archaic in our hurry-up, flash, click-through times, but I've found it to be very satisfying. I can lose track of time by examining the shadow of a tree as it falls across a sidewalk, over a dog tied to a parking meter, and out into the street. Years of drawing have taught me how to drop into that state with ease. Once I watched the sharp-edged shadow of a building until I was convinced that I could see it move with the rotation of the earth. No pencil necessary.

May 18, 2004
Today I tackle the water. I've been putting it off for over a week. One of my "Cave" paintings, a long narrow vertical canvas, is two-thirds done. The bottom third, the foreground, is ocean waves (so far, only the underpainting is done.)

Most natural elements are easy to paint. Skies, trees, rocks - no problem. Urban scenes are a little trickier, but I've been doing them for so long that buildings and cars (a former nemesis) don't cause me any anxiety. I can even listen to NPR while I paint a busy freeway overpass.

Ocean waves are another story. I need to be alone, calm, focused. No telephones, no Abu Ghraib testimony, no music. I paint by an open window, overlooking my raggedy little garden. I refilled the bird baths and I'll listen to the birds today. If I wasn't half deaf, I'd be able to hear the ocean - I'm only a few blocks away. You'd think after living by the ocean for long, I'd have it figured out by now (visually, at least.) But I'm still working on it.

So, as soon as I post this, I'm turning off the computer, taking the phone off the hook, and getting back to work. See you in a couple of days.

May 26, 2004
Elise Tomlinson, about working under pressure:

"If I don't have a show coming up I find that I work a lot less. I do like showing my work (I just wish I didn't have to go to the openings) but really I think that if I didn't have some obvious goal to work towards, I'd be a lot less motivated to work. And I do consider making art work... I'm curious if other artists work better when they have all the time in the world, or under the pressure of some kind of deadline."

Ask a bunch of artists what they would do if they won the lottery and didn't have to sell their work. Would they still show the work? Would they still paint? I ask those questions now and then and I'm often surprised at the answers I get. One artist told me that he wouldn't paint anymore - he'd collect art instead! I'd still paint, but I don't know about showing it. I think I would slow down and take much longer on each painting. That may or may not be a good thing - I think I have a tendency to obsess over details past the point of diminishing returns. Having deadlines prevents me from doing that too often. Even when the deadlines are self-imposed. Which they usually are. So no, I wouldn't work fewer hours, but I might work differently.