What the visitor needs to know:
700:This is my 700 blog post. I started documenting this story in early 2010.
This is the story of a loose canvas 2020 music box project that as it was could not be displayed or played.
Photo 7: The original canvas, painted with no support and covered with music glued to its surface, was vulnerable to movement. Any twisting would meet resistance from the stiffer wooden pieces glued to its surface. The resulting strain would cause the separating of the top layer of paint from the canvas that also held the wooded pieces. This occurred for the top painted layer was applied using my experimental scratch off technique. This technique allows me to scrap off a layer of paint to reveal the base colors underneath. Anything attached to such a layer, which was the wooden music, could also as easily lose its support with even minor twisting. To save and allow this music box to be displayable, I had to come up with a way to support the loose canvas from movement when being handled.
Photo 1: When I was painting in this small temporary studio, I did not have the workshop, nor the space in this small studio to put together the aluminum frames and speaker setups I would need for every project. What I did at the time was to build a couple of slightly different sized and adjustable length aluminum frames with small attached music boxes that match with the width of my raw canvas. My three main canvas from that period are this Bach work, Woodstock, and After the Gold Rush. The image below shows an example of that frame from that time. The artwork is Woodstock.
700: The purpose of this blog, from early 2010 to today, is to document this art journey. It was never attended to accomplish anything more than that. I appreciate those who have signed up to follow. To make it easier for the few of you that actually view this site, because I realize everyone is short of time, I am trying to say in as few words as possible what I am doing. I have then offered a deeper read, but that is for me. I am the one interested in what I was thinking and how I have developed as an artist over the years. With luck, and strength of determination, I will continue on to a new goal, 1000 blog entries, now that I past Vincent Van Gogh’s letter total to Theo. I know, and I mean this: The best is yet to come!
Photo 5: The top of the front of the artwork is secured to the framed canvas with 15 no. 8 screws drill through a metal bar what I found at the local Menards hardware store, which is called a S Cleat Duct Fitting. The S part of the bar allows me to slide the artwork canvas up inside and then secure with the screws. On the sides and the bottom I am using, right now, only 4 fairly powerful magnet combinations that are not too noticeable on the front, but secure the artwork to the supporting framed canvas.
Roger's poem: My younger Brother Roger passed away a year ago this last August. In a tribute to him I wrote a story poem that took months to complete. At his celebration of life, this last June 4th, I read it aloud, with encouragement and support from my family. I believe this poem contains universal relatable moments and meanings about the difficulties of losing someone close to you. It offers an understanding that loss is not about accepting and moving on. Instead, it is a story poem about the choice of moving ahead in Life with them. (This poem is in fifteen parts or sections and with each new blog post there will be added one additional part. I am currently posting sections 1-9) ____________________________________ Roger’s poem The sun in winter is all too short. Who knew as you move through our lives, that yours would follow the winter sun. Winter arrests time for thought and reflection that February afternoon. Dressed for warmth we venture out, Into the soft light, surrounded by stillness, not an oak leaf stirring. The cold of that yesterday is heard in the crackling crunch of fresh fallen snow, as I straddled previous steps along a well-worn path, deep into the woods. Although I think we are alone, Zelda knows better, her actions are telling. Life and the deer are about. Stopping with her tail up, head sharply flipping, to-and-fro sensing something_, curious, I also pause, feeling a stirring in the air. With her nose to the snow, Zelda looks to turn off the known path, to explore another trail, far less traveled. Her interest, I cannot foresee, or know where it leads. Before I can call her back to the safe way forward, Winter freezes my momentum, with a stinging breeze across my cheeks, breaking the silence, awakening concerns. Had I dressed warm enough? I feel and pat my coat, all was there. Then it came to me, that it was not the cold, but the wind, returning to me moments once set quietly away. I wondered why on a cold Winter’s Day on this made-up path, at this crossroad in these common woods, this walk halted, by an unforeseen breeze sending a shiver tumbling inside, then out into the light. Why over all my many memories, did I find this one exposed from beneath Winter’s blanket_, a consciousness, an awareness, that once_, was you? But time was fleeting. I had let pass the diminishing forest light and our late start. Fearing the coming darkness will hide this path, I call Zelda back to the safe way home. For Home is where we want to be. What choice have I, but to be on our way. We had to turn back, for time does not. I could only turn away. Those moments have passed this another Winter’s Day, although the cold is harder to ignore, our routine beckons. Although she cares less, I dressed Zelda in a purple coat and I in my heaviest hooded jacket, thankful that each new walk the sun grows nearer, and longer, and the return less concerning. Along the way Zelda repeats her many stops, on our well-walked path. And for a distance all seems as it should, until the quiet is interrupted by a strong gust pressing against my coat, pausing our step. I feel this air’s warmth, as I look to see Zelda stopped ahead, her ears pushed back by the wind, standing at that barely a crossroad from yesterday. Her brown nose twitching in this comforting air. Although surprised to see her at this divide, I have a smile of déjà vu, brought-to-mind by a long-ago line, from a well-used book of poetry now gathering dust, from the poet Robert Frost__, “Two roads diverged in a wood…” Two roads, diverged, in a wood. However, that is all I recalled. With a sigh and interest I pursue this other trail upwards, to see it following the rush of rolling clouds, knowing soon these winter paths will turn to mud, preventing our return, until the frozen has left. Thus beginning the awakening, ending Winter’s parsing of time, with days merging all too quickly. We will lose ourselves to work to be done, and unforeseen tasks, demands and bills to pay, that surely will come. Though today Winter still decides, in the fast blanketing approach of low clouds bursting with snow and ice pellets, pirouetting down to us, if in an effort to hide our way, on this favored path. sections 1-9 of fifteen.....to be continued. Scott Von Holzen