Posts Tagged ‘watercolor’

“Untitled” (watercolor, pen & ink) © Susan Sorrell Hill

You might know, if you’ve followed my work for a while, that before I worked in watercolor, I was an oil painter. A mid-life crisis brought me face to face with the realization that there were things I wanted to do (books) and mediums I wanted to go deeper into (drawing and watercolor) and that there was only so much time left.

I leapt.

But then (and this, I think, is one of the hazards of not working steadily) amongst all of the other chaos happening in my life over the last few years, I found myself back on the fence: watercolor or oils…watercolor or oils? A reasonable person might simply say, “Do both.” or, “It’s a no-brainer…oil is the medium of The Old Masters, and besides, oils sell for far more.” Or, “Choose and get on with it, damnit!”

But the best reasons and arguments haven’t been able to tear me away from my love affair with watercolor and drawing. My own brain and sense of responsibility has been my worst enemy. And a pros and cons list only tells me that the right decision (logically) is the wrong decision for me. Alas.

I’ve wasted a lot of time wrestling with this, and for a person who normally likes to know who I am and where I’m going, it’s been a particular kind of Hell. Truly. The only answer that keeps feeling right is, “Follow your heart. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”

“Untitled” (watercolor, pen & ink) About this painting: it’s a sketch on a scrap of watercolor paper, from a possible imagined story. No, it’s nothing to do with anti-this or pro-that. It’s not political, it’s not taking a stand for anything except the joy of “taking a line for a walk.” Please don’t post political comments. They will be deleted.





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“Drink Me” (watercolor, pen & ink) © Susan Sorrell Hill

❦ I’ve always felt that an Artist was a person willing to be a channel for something much larger and far more mysterious than her or his little self. The modern kind of artists’ statement that includes phrases like “informs my aesthetic” and “my purpose” always seemed to be somehow…arrogant. Sometimes even a little bit aggressive, as if by authoritatively stating what they, the artists, were doing in grand terms, they could somehow push their importance and value onto the rest of us.

Maybe I’m just naive in this modern age, but it seems like being an artist should be — regardless of the tribulations of keeping body and soul together — first and foremost, a Calling. A calling that whispers in the night, when one is making the bed or washing the lettuce, showering, or pruning the hedge. A calling that itches in the fingertips and trembles in the heart. “Something wants to be born,” that whisper says. A calling that may, in fact, drag us through a certain kind of Hell, but it will be far worse for us if we refuse or linger overlong on the fence.

There is no explanation given, no reason given for the urgency, but the Calling is still insistent. “A fool’s leap! “Who would possibly want it and how could it even be marketed?” the Reasonable Mind argues back. “How much can I sell it for?” the Fearful Self joins in. There is a lot of Resistance. There always is. Artists are only human, after all. We get nervous when things are out of our control, when we haven’t a clue where they’re going and how it will all turn out. We fear for the loss of all things dear to mortals: our minds, our comfort, our safety and perhaps we fear for our status too.

A Calling is not, I think, ‘religious‘ in the normal sense of that word, unless your view of religion is devotion to something you can never hope to fully understand…devotion that has nothing to gain, no persona to maintain…a kind of death, really. The Calling I am referring to is much more like that quote, “I traded my life for a wild ride on a dark horse.” I wish I knew who wrote that. Following a Calling is so much like that. Exhilarating…terrifying…eerily calm all at the same time. Maybe life should always be like that, artist or no…?

Oh, and just in case it wasn’t clear, I don’t mean “Calling” in the sense that one is “special.” More a message that “This is yours to do here, if you are willing and brave enough to accept the challenge…” ♡

“Drink Me” (watercolor, pen & ink) © Susan Sorrell Hill ❦ SOLD. Sorry, no prints available of this beauty, as the original got away before I could have it professionally photographed. However!! There are lots of other images available in The Print Collection at www.susansorrellhill.com





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"Encounter with the Wolf" © Susan Sorrell Hill

“Encounter with the Wolf” © Susan Sorrell Hill

In honor of International Day of the Girl, the Artspan blog is featuring a wonderful selection of female images for their most recent collection of Artspan artists’ work here. “Encounter with the Wolf” (watercolor, pen & ink) is included. Thanks, Claire!


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c. Susan Sorrell Hill

c. Susan Sorrell Hill

The Illustration Friday word of the week is creature.

Long before my adult self knew about Carl Jung, archetypes and personas, my child self knew about the simple thrill of costumes, face paint and masks. That child self knew about the magic of make-believe, of being someone or something else , just for a day. It really didn’t matter if that new identity was more beautiful, more nasty, more scary or more silly. It was just fun to try on another’s life, complete with their clothes, their walk and their talk. I reveled in that as a kid, maybe because my own childhood felt so stifling, but I suspect all children are fascinated by the possibilities of Halloween.

My first Halloween costume was a store-bought package, complete with a glitter-encrusted gown, silvery crown, and a full-face Cinderella mask. I could barely see out of that formed-plastic mask (and I bet there are statistics somewhere of all the accidents caused by kid’s masks that reduce their field of vision to two feet directly in front), but I can still remember parading with the other tiny kids through the classrooms of the older school grades. And of course the candy. My brother was the king of Trick or Treat, often coming back to exchange his totally-full grocery bag for a second bag to fully plunder our tract housing neighborhoods. When the collecting was over, my siblings and I haggled and bartered our hoards and treasures, and we were high and wild on sugar for months after. Our mothers and teachers must have loved that.

Although Cinderella was my first alter ego, my costume choices have tended more towards the dark side. I’ve been witches (both white and black), pirates, old ladies, and quite a few more vampires than I am comfortable admitting. Clearly there’s been a shadow side to me that has not been getting well-exercised in everyday life. Perhaps that is why one of my favorite things to draw is monsters?

As an adult, I notice that this fascination with becoming something or someone else is still very much alive in our culture, even when it’s not Halloween. Putting on that alter ego, “re-inventing oneself,” can be a lark. Ah, but the frequent downside! Like the year I was a wild party vampire and drank way more wine (blood-red, of course) than I was accustomed to before or since, resulting in hours of the spinning room phenomena, frequent-flyer trips to the bathroom, and a Morning After that I still cannot recall without wincing. Or the year I dyed my hair reddish and it came out orange. Or the expensive, sexy dress that I couldn’t sit down in, or the heels I couldn’t actually walk in. I could go on…

I haven’t costumed-up in years, nor spent good money on silly make-overs that change nothing, really. And fortunately I’ve kicked the candy habit. But when the oak trees start turning, acorns start pinging off the driveway, and pumpkins begin appearing on porches, I smile to myself and dream, “Who or what would I be this year, if I could be anyone for a day?”

Happy Halloween!


“Untitled”  (character sketches from my unpublished picture book, The Teapot’s Tale       (watercolor, pen & ink)

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The Illustration Friday word of the week is water.

A shiny black enamel box of flat, dry paint and a cheap brush was my first introduction to watercolors. With an old jelly jar full of water and some equally cheap paper, I was probably painting horses. Wasn’t every young girl? My sister, the only one I had at that point (much later, another one came along) was in bed with chicken pox, or maybe tonsilitis. I looked at my very purple rinse water in that jelly jar and thought, just for a joke, I’d give it to her and tell her it was Welch’s grape juice. To my horror, I discovered later that she’d drunk the whole thing. I didn’t tell her until years later. I know so much more about Health & Safety relative to Art Materials now, and I do hope that there is forgiveness for that crime wherever artists go when they die…

Time lessens guilt and self-recrimination, and so I renewed my relationship with watercolors in high school. My twelfth grade art teacher was a short, energetic, balding man with a bushy mustache. Mr. Crocker put us through lots of interesting and creative mind-expanding exercises. We transferred magazine photographs with lighter fluid (probably illegal now) and turned them into collages, we drew portraits on paper and crumpled them up with staining inks to look vintage, we drew each other without once looking at the paper…and we painted trees outside on the quad with tiny watercolor palettes and cups of water. Watercolor and I didn’t hit it off. I was so bad, and my friend Kirk was so  good, just naturally. I just couldn’t get the concept of “put the paint down and leave it alone.” I fussed and scrubbed, trying to make it look good, and it always dried looking like mud. Alas. Fortunately for my artistic self-esteem, most of my classmates also sucked at watercolor. And I was much better, I told myself, at other mediums.

Several years later watercolor made another appearance. I was on my honeymoon, complete with newly acquired, long-haired husband and vintage VW bus, cruising the first leg of our weeks-long trip up the coast of California to Canada. We had stopped at a garage for river-rafting inner tubes, and a hitchhiking hippie wanted to know if we’d take him along to Canada. My new husband immediately said yes. I should have immediately put my thumb out for the opposite direction on that freeway, but it took me seven long years and much more of the same difference of opinion about privacy to disengage. But I did buy my very first set of professional watercolors in an art supply store on that ‘honeymoon.’ A big splurge. I don’t actually remember using them, but I must have because a tiny tube of Ivory Black is the only one left, pinned to my studio wall, reminding me of that honeymoon and that Monterey, California art supply store.

Fast forward many, many more years to a two-year Energy Healing class. (Yes, still California.) We’re sitting in meditation, asking for a word or a symbol for what our True Work is to be. I am a fully fledged artist by now, with years of fine art and commercial art experience (and sales) under my belt. Though I’m not aware of it, a Mid-Life Crisis is about to descend upon me, and my parents are about to descend into their twilight years. I will spend most of the next two years wrestling with old and infirm parents, state medical forms, doctor’s visits, hospitals and airplane flights. And spending much of the rest of the time in a tiny room, late at night, with a new watercolor palette and a stack of Arizona library books about watercolor. But in that meditating moment in California, I seem to be a relatively secure oil painter, following my artistic nose to success. I don’t see any of that other stuff coming at all.

The mediation turns out to be a wake-up call, though it will take me years to respond fully to the message. The answer to the query, “What is my True Work?” is the no-nonsense reply, “Your success will not come from oil paints,” accompanied by a clear symbol that could only be interpreted to mean watercolor. Mind you, I had periodically dabbled in watercolor over the years, as a break from low-level dissatisfactions with oil paint’s ‘muscular’ feel and snail-slow drying time, and my very favorite artistic heroine was a watercolorist…but I had never seriously considered watercolor as my main medium. It was a shocking, unexpected message. In retrospect, perhaps some part of me was looking for a change: I took that message quite seriously.

When all the dust had settled with my parents, I realized that a watercolor palette (and a library) had been my lifeline to sanity. To be honest, I have looked back quite a few times since then and oil paint still sends out its siren call when the watercolors are being particularly obstinate, or I am reminded that oil painters get much more respect than watercolorists. But in my artistic maturity, I realize that I am, first and foremost, a Colorist…color is my joy, my main focus, my barometer of success or failure. And for a Colorist, there is no better medium than watercolor for clarity, immediacy and the intricate relationships of one pigment mix to another. There is no better medium for depicting light and atmosphere either.

Which brings me back to that friend who had a natural talent for watercolor in my high school art class. I received the sad news that Kirk had died recently. A few emails over the past two years had renewed our friendship, and I knew that he had parlayed his natural talents into a successful graphic design career in the new digital world. He was a proud father, a homeowner and husband, had many friends and an active lifestyle. But Life was beating him up (as it will), and a more creative life was calling him. I reminded him of his natural talent, and my admiration for his innate skill with watercolor. He blessed me with his opinion that I “had far surpassed him now.” It was one of the last things he wrote to me. I wish I could have communicated to him the simple joy, the immediacy, of color and water on paper…despite whatever else is going on in one’s life. Perhaps if he had known, it would have been enough.

On the subject of water, and all things related, I close with this powerful quote by the ancient Chinese philosopher, Lao Tsu,

Man, born tender and yielding,
Stiffens and hardens in death.
All living growth is pliant
Until death makes it rigid.
So those people who have hardened are kin of death.
The people who stay gentle are kin of life. . .
How can a person’s life keep its course
If you will not let it flow?
Those who flow as life flows know
They need no other force:
They feel no wear, they feel no tear,
They need no mending, no repair.


“Running on Water”   (watercolor, pen & ink, colored pencil)

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