1989 Discussion of 'Heart in a Box', a watercolor in the invertebrate series.
Cleo talked about the painting for two hours with very little prompting. She started by exploring the general personality of each character and then became more specific about the character’s meaning as time went on. She considered the anemone and the school of fish the friendliest shapes in the painting. She commented about the softness of the anemone’s many arms and that they reach out in all directions, as if willing to contact and embrace many things it might find in its path. Its friendliness was revealed by the smaller fish’s willingness to swim in and around it. The small fish were free explorers with more mobility than the anemone, and because of their petite size could probe the small nooks and crannies of the other forms—floating between their arms and in and out of their cavities. The small fish were not menacing creatures one would be prompted to eradicate like a tick or a bothersome fly, but were more like affectionate pets, or birds who nest in your garden. Cleo saw these forms as representative of the artist’s experiences and her movement through space and time.
The heart in its box was another matter. Cleo said it had been set aside, or was being isolated and protected in the box. The heart had retained its shape—was still a soft, organic, form—but was in something mechanical and man-made rather then in a body. There was some hope for the future of this heart, contained in an open box. But the ridge of the box and its pre-drilled holes was simply too specific—finding a mate that fit was going to be difficult. It was a heart looking for its other half—the missing half, or a lid. It is a depressing thought to consider that when the two forms are aligned and fitted together, the two hearts might be contained in a solid box deprived of the air to breath. But maybe the heart doesn't want a lid at all and is being contained for safe-keeping, available to be lifted out and put back into an organic container.
Cleo decided that the hydra figure represented an intellect. It was the foremost form in the piece and by far the most intricate and complex. By comparison, the other forms were simple, basic, and rather primary—their features did not evolve in the same way or go through as many transitions; they seemed more specialized. In contrast, the hydra went through eight shape transitions—from the spherical beaded floret on one end to a hat-like shape at the other, with the structure evolving between these two ends, changing its form, its character, and its color.
At first, Cleo thought the whole object represented a mind but as she explored this notion, hearing her own thoughts in the air, she drew a different conclusion. At first, she explored the idea that the top sections represented a mind and the flower end, an eye. She was comfortable with this thought for awhile but for the sake of argument reversed her approach, asking “What if the flower end is a mind observing itself, and maybe it is surprised by what it produces?”
Yes, it is a mind observing its own brain. It was a mind surprised by what its brain produced. It was a mind self-consciously humble, whimpering in the corner, trembling with insecurities, clamoring for anonymity, punching its own soft spots, keeping them continuously bruised, laying obstacles in the path of the rest of its body that the brain’s perseverance and will power had to maneuver around or leap over in addition to those thrown in its path by experience.
But what about the squirming figures in the far background? They represented Evil. But as long as their braided sections were capped off and could not unravel, this evil was contained—contained by distance and an unwillingness to mingle with the other forms. But their presence in the painting confirms their influence and power—however receded, isolated, and shadowy that power might be. They could infiltrate the space occupied by the other figures; the two groups do share the same environment, the same ocean, the same world.
But a worm can resuscitate and revive itself no matter where it is sliced in its midsection—its presence cannot be undone no matter how tightly braided. There is a symbolic shape relationship between the twisted end of the humble mind figure and the presence of a braided Dark Force haunting the recesses of the painting. The harm caused to another, or by another, has a presence that cannot be removed from the mind without a complete exorcising of memory. Selecting and dissecting thoughts to remove cancerous memory may not kill a worm, but performed on a human would certainly take with it access to any insights gained from reflecting on experiences which have been calmed by the healing of time.
A mind surprised by what its brain produces is haunted by a peculiar insecurity, an Achilles heal, a weakness that is a personal form of evil. Not a menacing Evil that inflicts harm on others, but a personal one that manipulates and twists ambitions. Does one live with this affliction, or attempt to ignore its grip? Does one cope with this ailment, befriend it, go on long walks with it, learning compassion toward Self? Or does one need this appendage, now attached to it like an anchor to its ship. Such a mind siphons random bits of matter from the ocean of life, and sucks up everything in its path like a herd of stampeding vacuum cleaners, hoping its brain will be able to make use of every silly tidbit it inhales. Is this brain now the only source of discrimination, the mind too humble to contribute its wares? Maybe the heart knows not to trust this mind’s judgment, and is waiting for the brain to overcome the schism in itself.
The mind-brain figure can evolve in one of three ways. The twisted tentacle of the brain can twist up tighter making the siphoning tunnel smaller, or it can untwist altogether, becoming several loose arms dangling from the brain’s primary torso. Or, the whole organism can change shape, pulling the tentacle back into the main form, growing a new perception.
Cleo talked about the painting for two hours with very little prompting. She started by exploring the general personality of each character and then became more specific about the character’s meaning as time went on. She considered the anemone and the school of fish the friendliest shapes in the painting. She commented about the softness of the anemone’s many arms and that they reach out in all directions, as if willing to contact and embrace many things it might find in its path. Its friendliness was revealed by the smaller fish’s willingness to swim in and around it. The small fish were free explorers with more mobility than the anemone, and because of their petite size could probe the small nooks and crannies of the other forms—floating between their arms and in and out of their cavities. The small fish were not menacing creatures one would be prompted to eradicate like a tick or a bothersome fly, but were more like affectionate pets, or birds who nest in your garden. Cleo saw these forms as representative of the artist’s experiences and her movement through space and time.
The heart in its box was another matter. Cleo said it had been set aside, or was being isolated and protected in the box. The heart had retained its shape—was still a soft, organic, form—but was in something mechanical and man-made rather then in a body. There was some hope for the future of this heart, contained in an open box. But the ridge of the box and its pre-drilled holes was simply too specific—finding a mate that fit was going to be difficult. It was a heart looking for its other half—the missing half, or a lid. It is a depressing thought to consider that when the two forms are aligned and fitted together, the two hearts might be contained in a solid box deprived of the air to breath. But maybe the heart doesn't want a lid at all and is being contained for safe-keeping, available to be lifted out and put back into an organic container.
Cleo decided that the hydra figure represented an intellect. It was the foremost form in the piece and by far the most intricate and complex. By comparison, the other forms were simple, basic, and rather primary—their features did not evolve in the same way or go through as many transitions; they seemed more specialized. In contrast, the hydra went through eight shape transitions—from the spherical beaded floret on one end to a hat-like shape at the other, with the structure evolving between these two ends, changing its form, its character, and its color.
At first, Cleo thought the whole object represented a mind but as she explored this notion, hearing her own thoughts in the air, she drew a different conclusion. At first, she explored the idea that the top sections represented a mind and the flower end, an eye. She was comfortable with this thought for awhile but for the sake of argument reversed her approach, asking “What if the flower end is a mind observing itself, and maybe it is surprised by what it produces?”
Yes, it is a mind observing its own brain. It was a mind surprised by what its brain produced. It was a mind self-consciously humble, whimpering in the corner, trembling with insecurities, clamoring for anonymity, punching its own soft spots, keeping them continuously bruised, laying obstacles in the path of the rest of its body that the brain’s perseverance and will power had to maneuver around or leap over in addition to those thrown in its path by experience.
But what about the squirming figures in the far background? They represented Evil. But as long as their braided sections were capped off and could not unravel, this evil was contained—contained by distance and an unwillingness to mingle with the other forms. But their presence in the painting confirms their influence and power—however receded, isolated, and shadowy that power might be. They could infiltrate the space occupied by the other figures; the two groups do share the same environment, the same ocean, the same world.
But a worm can resuscitate and revive itself no matter where it is sliced in its midsection—its presence cannot be undone no matter how tightly braided. There is a symbolic shape relationship between the twisted end of the humble mind figure and the presence of a braided Dark Force haunting the recesses of the painting. The harm caused to another, or by another, has a presence that cannot be removed from the mind without a complete exorcising of memory. Selecting and dissecting thoughts to remove cancerous memory may not kill a worm, but performed on a human would certainly take with it access to any insights gained from reflecting on experiences which have been calmed by the healing of time.
A mind surprised by what its brain produces is haunted by a peculiar insecurity, an Achilles heal, a weakness that is a personal form of evil. Not a menacing Evil that inflicts harm on others, but a personal one that manipulates and twists ambitions. Does one live with this affliction, or attempt to ignore its grip? Does one cope with this ailment, befriend it, go on long walks with it, learning compassion toward Self? Or does one need this appendage, now attached to it like an anchor to its ship. Such a mind siphons random bits of matter from the ocean of life, and sucks up everything in its path like a herd of stampeding vacuum cleaners, hoping its brain will be able to make use of every silly tidbit it inhales. Is this brain now the only source of discrimination, the mind too humble to contribute its wares? Maybe the heart knows not to trust this mind’s judgment, and is waiting for the brain to overcome the schism in itself.
The mind-brain figure can evolve in one of three ways. The twisted tentacle of the brain can twist up tighter making the siphoning tunnel smaller, or it can untwist altogether, becoming several loose arms dangling from the brain’s primary torso. Or, the whole organism can change shape, pulling the tentacle back into the main form, growing a new perception.
2007
“Susan, it seems, despite the difficulty of the road, is genetically programmed to follow her best instincts, which so many of us wake to kill each morning. Her art is labor intensive and the craft is demanding, and in the event, for the viewer, challenging. I would call her a visual poet. Like Samuel Menashe, who won the nation’s first most unsung poet award for his chiseled gems, Susan’s dark entropic objects about change and decay, and her life-affirming images of nature magnified, betray an exacting imaginative mind. This is rare and to be encouraged.”
Kenneth B. Miller, Chair Emeritus, Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum & The Smithsonian, NY, NY
“Susan, it seems, despite the difficulty of the road, is genetically programmed to follow her best instincts, which so many of us wake to kill each morning. Her art is labor intensive and the craft is demanding, and in the event, for the viewer, challenging. I would call her a visual poet. Like Samuel Menashe, who won the nation’s first most unsung poet award for his chiseled gems, Susan’s dark entropic objects about change and decay, and her life-affirming images of nature magnified, betray an exacting imaginative mind. This is rare and to be encouraged.”
Kenneth B. Miller, Chair Emeritus, Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum & The Smithsonian, NY, NY
2008
I have known Susan for over 20 years. I met her when she was in the midst of creating her incredibly clever and vivid watercolor works, using the strongest of pigments, of tiny creatures inspired by photographs she had taken of Pacific Ocean tidal pools. She went on to use creatures only seen on the strongest of microscopes. Susan illuminated the structure, the interplay, and, yes, even the humor of these creatures in incredible detail and captivating beauty. These works are inspirational, and invite the viewer to immerse oneself in supposition, introspection and fantasy. (See the synopsis of Cleo’s 1989 two hour discussion regarding Susan’s “Heart in the Box”.) The intensity, originality, detail, and creativity involved in these watercolors are trademarks of all of Susan’s remarkable works of art
Susan developed her clay series of portraits while fighting many lions deep inside of her. Her emotions, her pain, and her search for release can be seen in these early works which have a unique beauty. Her dedication to precise and exacting detail (an eye vein here, a hair there) in all of her works multiplied in these portraits, as did the complexity of her methodology using over a dozen layers of paint in each work. Susan also began to experiment with expanding the size of her works during this period. All these creative characteristics were a harbinger of the incredible effort she would put into her later series of extraordinary abstract works.
Regarding 'Fred': This clay face portrait was a commission. Fred was grateful it survived Hurricane Wilma. He offers these comments:
“The intent was to have Susan reveal my inner self in the final portrait as a ‘Road Warrior,’ a pool player, who treasured his many pool trophies and victories far more than his myriad accomplishments, and all the legal tender gathered, during his career as a successful business executive. The eyes show the stoic intensity, danger, and weariness, of such a pursuit, while the mouth is an abyss to an inner hell into which all the air breathed by the chosen victim is inhaled. The result was, and remains, astounding: an over 14-layer oil masterpiece, with incredible detail down to the level of eye veins. I have heard of only one other artist, a European, who does such detailed paintings—likely because such work takes an enormous amount of time as well as true talent. The complexity of this portrait and its enduring freshness continue to bring me great pleasure, and I am always especially pleased at the way visitors and new friends are enthralled by this wonderful work of art by Ms. Dunlap.”
The opening act in the creation of one of Susan’s brilliant abstracts begins with a several week process of clearing her agenda and her mind. The second act is an explosion of creative energy which fills just one very long day in which she conceives and maps out her new work on canvas. The third act is an almost excruciating year-long effort of intensity and exactness as she applies layer upon layer of paint with precise detail across a huge canvas to arrive at her final imagined destination. The pictorial presence of these abstract works is hard to grasp from a mere photograph. The interpretation, of course, is in the eye of the beholder.
I can see much humor in many of these works: in “Innerform”—the bull and the duck on the truck story being read to children in bed; in “Confetti”—the two ghosts in the center talking about those dancing around them; in “Cleoism”—the fox entering the den of the enormous bear with glistening eyes and a wet nose; and in “Bento”—pizza being delivered during a ticker tape parade. Of course, there are myriad more thoughtful interpretations. But, that is the beauty of abstract art, and, especially, Susan Dunlap’s riveting work.
Fred McEnany, patron
I have known Susan for over 20 years. I met her when she was in the midst of creating her incredibly clever and vivid watercolor works, using the strongest of pigments, of tiny creatures inspired by photographs she had taken of Pacific Ocean tidal pools. She went on to use creatures only seen on the strongest of microscopes. Susan illuminated the structure, the interplay, and, yes, even the humor of these creatures in incredible detail and captivating beauty. These works are inspirational, and invite the viewer to immerse oneself in supposition, introspection and fantasy. (See the synopsis of Cleo’s 1989 two hour discussion regarding Susan’s “Heart in the Box”.) The intensity, originality, detail, and creativity involved in these watercolors are trademarks of all of Susan’s remarkable works of art
Susan developed her clay series of portraits while fighting many lions deep inside of her. Her emotions, her pain, and her search for release can be seen in these early works which have a unique beauty. Her dedication to precise and exacting detail (an eye vein here, a hair there) in all of her works multiplied in these portraits, as did the complexity of her methodology using over a dozen layers of paint in each work. Susan also began to experiment with expanding the size of her works during this period. All these creative characteristics were a harbinger of the incredible effort she would put into her later series of extraordinary abstract works.
Regarding 'Fred': This clay face portrait was a commission. Fred was grateful it survived Hurricane Wilma. He offers these comments:
“The intent was to have Susan reveal my inner self in the final portrait as a ‘Road Warrior,’ a pool player, who treasured his many pool trophies and victories far more than his myriad accomplishments, and all the legal tender gathered, during his career as a successful business executive. The eyes show the stoic intensity, danger, and weariness, of such a pursuit, while the mouth is an abyss to an inner hell into which all the air breathed by the chosen victim is inhaled. The result was, and remains, astounding: an over 14-layer oil masterpiece, with incredible detail down to the level of eye veins. I have heard of only one other artist, a European, who does such detailed paintings—likely because such work takes an enormous amount of time as well as true talent. The complexity of this portrait and its enduring freshness continue to bring me great pleasure, and I am always especially pleased at the way visitors and new friends are enthralled by this wonderful work of art by Ms. Dunlap.”
The opening act in the creation of one of Susan’s brilliant abstracts begins with a several week process of clearing her agenda and her mind. The second act is an explosion of creative energy which fills just one very long day in which she conceives and maps out her new work on canvas. The third act is an almost excruciating year-long effort of intensity and exactness as she applies layer upon layer of paint with precise detail across a huge canvas to arrive at her final imagined destination. The pictorial presence of these abstract works is hard to grasp from a mere photograph. The interpretation, of course, is in the eye of the beholder.
I can see much humor in many of these works: in “Innerform”—the bull and the duck on the truck story being read to children in bed; in “Confetti”—the two ghosts in the center talking about those dancing around them; in “Cleoism”—the fox entering the den of the enormous bear with glistening eyes and a wet nose; and in “Bento”—pizza being delivered during a ticker tape parade. Of course, there are myriad more thoughtful interpretations. But, that is the beauty of abstract art, and, especially, Susan Dunlap’s riveting work.
Fred McEnany, patron