Burden Woods in April

Deep in the Burden Woods. (How can one not be captivated by the pure, abstract form here, the insistent fractals, the sweetness of the gently shifting colors….

Two things that have me captivated lately… the subtly sublime colors and bare detail of the New York woods coming out of winter, and encaustic paint… these things are coming together in this new collection, Burden Woods in April. I’ve been wandering up the Wyantskill, hiking through the woods around Burden Pond, almost every day, because I cannot get enough of them. I have been soaking in the colors and spindly shapes, taking photographs and gathering little bits of it all, meditating on the history and significance of this place. Then I go home to translate the feelings and colors and light into impressions on wood and wax. I am addicted to the feel of these colors, melting across my consciousness and into wax. So, as I feed this new addiction, here are the first few pieces. Burden Woods in April. (Click on images to see gallery.)

 

 

Mad love to Daniel, for being my hiking buddy yesterday, even though he wanted to sleep in. You’re some mighty fine company, Mon frere. Grin… Here is a portrait of the artist at work… and there is no better way to “work” than this.

Wandering along the Wyantskill on a Sunday morning just after the thaw. That guy in the background… I’m pretty sweet on him. Just sayin.

 

 

Advertisements

Unable to Deliver as Addressed

“Unable to Deliver as Addressed.”
8 x 8″.
Encaustic and whatnot on wood.

So… Sid’s mom died this spring. She lived a long life, and made her way along, and maybe he was waiting at the gates when she got there. But she was tough as nails and sweet as pie, and she was there for everyone who ever needed her. She was always there for me, even when almost no one else was but my dogs.

I’ll never forget her. We stayed in touch after Sid left the world, and this was the very last letter I wrote to her. She was gone by the time it got there…I always do put things off just a little too long. It came back to me…”unable to Deliver as Addressed.” And I’ve been wondering for awhile now… at least since 2012, when my lover left this world… how does one properly address a letter to the dead? Can a keening voice get through?

I don’t know. But the letter came back, so I made it into art. What else would an artist do.

Walking the High Line

Walking the High Line.
18 x 24″.
Oil on canvas.
By Cat Jones

 

One summer day, I was walking the High Line in New York City, with my dog Romeo. It was hot, and Romeo has arthritis, so we sat down a moment on a little bench, where the water flows in a thin film across the concrete. Romeo was fascinated by the water. We both splashed our feet in it as I sat there.

Suddenly, this whole crowd of tourists from Japan surrounded us and started taking pictures. Evidently, they found us picturesque, or thought we were famous. Continue reading

Autobiograph

Autobiograph.
18×24″.
Oil on canvas.
By Cat Jones.

 

I live in a 150 year old stone church on the Hudson river, with 7 other artists. Stained glass windows, hauntings, and a Hogwarts door. Sometimes I wonder what people think, when they go past… looking up at this magnificent old cathedral, with all these haunted- looking drunks prowling the darkened perimeter.

… usually , it’s PBR. But this was a Hamm’s night.

War Babies no. 3 Small Ripples

War Babies no. 3 Small Ripples
Oil on canvas
By Cat Jones

Sometimes, one has to process the world through art. This is for an exhibition on “collateral damage,” exploring ways in which conflicts over power and resources generally externalize all their terrible costs onto the powerless and the innocent – those with nothing to gain from the conflict itself, and no voice to stop it. The War Babies paintings are all based on real children… this one, inspired by the iconic photograph shot by Nilufer Demir, which she described as the only thing she could do… to use her art to express “the scream of his silent body.”  This little boy was alive once. His name was Aylan Kurdi. He was from Syria, and his family loved him. Continue reading