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cabin fever

    CABIN FEVER CURE #1

    A Watercolored Return to Beginner’s Mind

    By

    I took a luxurious vacation last week into a world filled with lapis lazuli, burnt sienna, and yellow ochre paints; hake, dagger striper, and mop brushes; flat, graded, and variegated washes. The vacation was a virtual workshop titled “Watercolor: Absolutely Positive Beginners!” taught by artist Tim Saternow through the Truro Center for the Arts at Castle Hill.

    Through a class, a writer returns to her love of making art. (Photo Tessera Knowles-Thompson)

    Since I began working at the Independent, I’ve spent days glued to my writing desk while my dear drawing table has stood pushed against the window, neglected, waiting for me to once again acknowledge its existence. I did not have to travel far for this vacation — only to the opposite side of my office/studio/storage room. But for two hours a day, five days in a row, I felt worlds away from the drab monotony that is life in the time of Covid.

    I am not really a beginner, but signing up for this class, I wanted to return to how it feels to be a beginner. I’ve been stubborn in my learning as an artist, and, in some ways, I’ve been stuck. Maybe spending a little time at my drawing table, revisiting the basics with the help of a teacher, other students, and technology, would help.

    Before the class began, we received a materials list and class schedule. Luckily, hake, dagger striper, and mop brushes were not required for this class. But a word of caution for anyone taking a painting workshop: sign up well in advance, so you have plenty of time to prepare and gather materials — unless you have lots of disposable income.

    It is easy to unintentionally spend $100 on painting supplies at the local hardware store. If, like mine, your budget is closer to $10, ask around — there is bound to be someone living on this artist colony peninsula who has high-quality watercolor paints gathering dust.

    I can picture the classified ad: “Wanted: professional watercolor paints (preferably cobalt blue, cadmium-free yellow, French ultramarine, burnt umber, titanium white, etc). Can barter baked goods, art, and gratitude.”

    The first day of our workshop, Tim said that learning something new every day keeps you young. And so, he said, by taking this painting workshop, we are all getting younger. This was a relief to hear, because a week into the first lockdown, I found my first gray hair. It was approximately two inches long, and said, “Hello. You are getting older.” About a month later, I turned 30.

    I took a deep breath and began learning (and relearning) the properties of watercolor (translucent, staining, sedimentary), color notes (value, tone, chroma), and composition techniques (background, middle-ground, foreground).

    On a vacation to your drawing table, the landscape includes watercolors, brushes, and color experiments. (Photo Tessera Knowles-Thompson)

    On day two, we painted negative space and I was reminded of my art teacher at Brattleboro Union High School, Gary Blomgren. “Think about the space in between,” Mr. Blomgren would say. “That’s where you want to look.” Mr. Blomgren died several years ago, and I will never forget his lessons.

    When you paint in the negative space, you see the world in a different way. You learn to observe the spaces in between leaves on a beech tree, or the subtle shadows and gradient colors of lichen growing along a branch. You learn to delight in the details.

    Returning to the basics of painting was a return to my love of art. There were some things I had simply forgotten, others I’m certain I never learned. I signed up with the intention of tricking myself into having an open, beginner’s mindset. I didn’t need to do that. I absorbed every moment of the class.

    The experience was also a reminder of the importance of teachers. A virtual platform allows us to learn from and support the work of teachers and teaching artists around the country. Time is strange now, in this world of Covid, and the days blend together. But I will remember the week when I got to play with color, texture, and light.

    CABIN FEVER CURE #2

    An Accidental Collage, in New Colors

    By

    It’s a Sunday morning and we’ve logged onto Zoom for “Using Color With the Figure,” taught by Laura Shabott and Alana Barrett, via the Provincetown Art Association and Museum. Introducing ourselves, we each name our favorite colors. Mine, I say, is, and always has been, red. That, Shabott said, was “a very red thing to say.”

    I’ll admit to a certain obstinacy, at least when it comes to art. Growing up, I took classes at PAAM and Castle Hill. But I haven’t drawn or painted since high school. The reason, I think, is that I found making music to be less frustrating. Music is ephemeral, but making art feels too permanent. I would look back at something I had created and not like it anymore.

    Maybe Shabott and Barrett’s class would adjust my attitude. I first learned about Shabott by writing an article about her for the Independent. She sees herself as part of Hans Hofmann’s lineage, through her teacher Robert Henry, and the class is offered to “artists who want to learn

    Hofmann’s push/pull theory.”

    I had to dig through my closet for supplies. Behind Halloween costumes and defunct science experiments, I found some old paintings that my parents had salvaged from the garbage can, as well as crusted-over acrylics, brushes, pencils, and oil pastels.

    Because we don’t have good internet at home (curse you, Comcast) I took the class at my parents’ office in Wellfleet. I never found my easel, so I balanced one of those supersized clipboards on a chair. Then I just gave up and painted on the floor.

    I took comfort in the fact that several of the other participants considered themselves “recovered” artists — one even used to be a musician. Shabott said that, once you are an artist, “you have it for life — it’s in your DNA.”

    The first prompt was a three-minute warm-up. The model — a live nude who, yes, had her own Zoom screen — did three one-minute poses. We drew in charcoal — though I used pencil because I’d forgotten mine — then rubbed out parts, layering subsequent drawings on top of each other.

    Two acrylic paintings became a last-minute collage. (Photo Saskia Maxwell Keller)

    In between the prompts, we shared our work with the group by snapping a picture. This social pressure forced me to actually finish my pieces, instead of tearing them up — my usual urge.

    During critiques, the artist was not supposed to say anything. This was hard for me — I’m very self-critical. How does the artist use line, form, and color? Does the blue seem to come forward, or does it recede? I listened.

    The second prompt was a 20-minute exercise. Draw in charcoal or pencil, rip up the drawing, reconstruct it, then paint over it using a maximum of three colors. I realized, with much disappointment, that my red paint tube was dried out, so I used magenta instead.

    “Make a problem for yourself,” our teachers suggested, opening up a 30-minute “freestyle” exercise. We might, say, employ only the color green, or use an enormous piece of paper, or make the figure look like sand dunes.

    I had no trouble making problems for myself. I started painting, but my piece was terrible from the start. I threw it aside and started again. My second painting was just as bad.

    With three minutes to spare, I decided to cut up my paintings (which weren’t even fully dry) and make a collage. I was on my hands and knees smearing paint all over the floor (and thankful the landlord is an artist). One minute left. I reassembled my pieces on a fresh piece of paper. There was no time to tape them down, but I took a picture. To my surprise, it looked pretty good.

    People were so kind: “I love your composition,” someone said. And then, even though my piece was devoid of red, “Your colors really pop.”

    CABIN FEVER CURE #3

    A New Cook Ventures Beyond the Kitchen Basics

    By

    Over the course of just two hours last Friday night, I used more pots and pans than I knew my kitchen had — more pots and pans than I think I’ve used, collectively, since March.

    I was taking one of Michael Ceraldi’s cooking classes. From 5 to 7 p.m. every Friday since June, Ceraldi has coaxed a screen of Zoomers through making the sort of flavor-packed meal (toned down a little, maybe) you’d expect him to serve you at his Wellfleet restaurant: braised (and locally raised) beef short ribs; stuffed ’shrooms with a side lesson on foraging, and coconut-hazelnut-macaroon-topped sweet potato panna cotta.

    On this particular Friday, we made gnocchi tricolore: potato gnocchi, plus a sauce trio of basil pesto, Parmigiano Reggiano fonduta, and Ceraldi’s classic red.

    In one technique-filled evening, a novice learns the joy of indulging in three sublime sauces. (Photo Josephine de La Bruyère)

    In the last year, I’ve rented my first apartment, and my second, and my third. I’ve worked my first not-summer-or-part-time-or-internship job, filed tax returns, and called two tow trucks. I’ve become skilled at wielding a Dustbuster. Now comes learning to cook.

    I always had a vague notion of what goes on in a kitchen. I grew up piggish — it comes with the territory. But Covid struck while I was still in my dining hall years. Suddenly, I was home, where grab-and-go was not an option, and mashed potatoes did not stir themselves. And then (because I drove my parents crazy) I came here, where I realized I was short on technique.

    I’ve progressed. I’ve made soups and stews of all kinds. I learned last month to roast a chicken and supreme an orange. Last week, I ventured into fish. What I whip up in my kitchen is delicious. It is also — because I’m living alone, and rushing to meet deadline, and, well, I’m 20 — simple.

    Which Ceraldi’s recipes are unequivocally not. Does one really need three separate sauces for a single bowl of gnocchi? Not in the slightest. That’s precisely the fun.

    We opened with the red sauce, which was sweet and rich, simple enough, almost, to convince me that I could ditch store-bought jars for good. The pesto, brightened with lemon and parsley, has made its way into at least one meal of mine every day for the past week. The fonduta was just decadent: a mix of heavy cream and Parmigiano that could not have done my arteries a favor.

    My gnocchi? Ceraldi, in class, called them “happy little pills of joy.” Mine were just pills. The fault was mine, not his (something went awry in my halving formula). They were sad.

    But in the end, I — a hairsplitting perfectionist — didn’t particularly care about Gnocchigate. The joy was in the class, a total treat, in this restaurantless time.

    Ceraldi directs one’s focus just as much on the process of cooking as on the results. I waited for my oil to shimmer in just the perfect way before adding tomatoes to my red sauce. I also learned that my hours of painstaking garlic-peeling have been for naught: all one needs to do for a perfect clove is to apply a bit of pressure, then rub the clove between one’s palms. Who knew? And from a 10-minute chopping lesson, I learned everything about my pre-Ceraldi technique — truly everything, down to the way I was holding the knife — was wrong.

    There’s only so much one can judge via a Zoom screen, but Ceraldi does his best to mimic the real world. Question about your fonduta consistency? Hold it up to the screen, and he’ll offer a diagnosis. And there is another way to approach this experience. You can always tune in, pour yourself a glass of the suggested pairing, and spend the evening in “watch and learn” rather than “cook live” mode.

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