H painting

It was over tea at his kitchen table that I heard about the H painting. Adam Griffith recalled the painting talk I gave once at the Carrollton Public Library. Some of the works were based on the One who loved me. He told me about a resurrected Christ surrounded by light.  But he really enjoyed the "H painting."

The letter H had a "hhhhh" sound. As in, hahhhh - lay - loo - yah. It made Griffith think of the wind sound coming out of his mouth. Like the breath of God. How God called things into existence by the sound of His breath, by the sound of His voice. Speaking into being. A state of releasing -- out of which substance and life and worship and praise came to be.

One minute close-up details of H painting. Video 2008.

I am happy to see this work continue to speak to those who view it. One lady after the library talk had told me it was foreign to her, at first. When she heard what lines of thought were part of its process she embraced it. She had an illness that the medical profession had no answers to. http://karl.marxhausen.net/core.l.html  Knowing that Genius wired neuro-science calmed her heart.

It was the particles on a wet sidewalk that set off this imagination. As I walked to work most mornings, I perceived atoms suspended in animation and vast galaxies held together by His intention, His idea, His expression.

While participants at the Art Talk questioned what the particulate material was - be it: fish tank gravel or worm casings or lentils or beans or spackle; I remember leaning over the work, carefully drizzling glue atop the crushed shell ridges and then dripping white house latex paint on the glue. Waiting - then seeing - the formation of incredible rivulet designs. These were my best moments.

Three minute video shot by Joe Tonnar Jr 2008. Participants were asked up to touch and give their best guess to what the materials were.

Adam Griffith and his acquisition.

The H now adorns his wall in De Witt, Missouri.

follow the process

One of the things I loved about ceramics in college was the sensation of muddy slip and texture of grog, clay which has been fired then ground up, sitting in an encrusted bucket of liquid grit, oh yeah!!
 

 (above and below) Here are close-ups of a 1978 "floor piece," from my senior year at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I had my own 10 by 10 foot studio space on the second floor of Richards Hall. The 24 by 36 inch paper was taped to the floor, and I was dropping bits of texture right into the paint. Look closely and you will see sunflower seed shells. A "whole-other-wonderful" strategy was in place to savor and excite.

 
That "strategy" or "process" was about being physically engaged, reaching over, mindful of the taped edges, precarious steps across the image, looking down, hurling liquid color, drinking in silence that surrounds me, the intermittent cooing of birds from the eaves of Richards Hall outside my window, the sharpness of the temperature in the room, the charged excitement I felt within this Nebraska winter, immersed in the piano and vocals of Billy Joel from my Radio Shack cassette player. Independent, wide open and moving about in my studio space.  The swirl of it all, focused, creating, doing, moving, being intentional, occasionally stopping to assess what the image looked like. An entirely different mindset from "landscape painting." Enriched, hands-on, visceral.

       This morning, sponge in hand, my eyes creep over gridded particles, taking in the general appearance, and hand dabbing liquid pigment on raised grit, my eardrums awash with the jazz music of Spyro Gyra (above). That same "process" is taking place here twenty-two years later. A large heavy support is centered on a stool and rotated as I sponge. There is a balancing act, muscles wrestling the support, and an awareness of my studio space. The underlying grid, made earlier in the gel medium, resurfaces. Selective sponging the grit is key. 

   

 

In this video you can see the "intention" for yourself. I am watching as I dab. Surely my father worked in a similiar manner, that is, experimenting with materials, and expecting to be surprised by something new. Working from a calculated hunch. Setting the work aside. Coming back, drinking the image in, being open minded. Assessing "which results" I like, entertaining what to do next, moving forward with the next hunch. 

laying down layers sunday afternoon

click on triangle to view hands-on video (3 minutes)

close up - what would you call this material ??

click on triangle to view screen work (6 minutes)

wet - do not touch

 

click on triangle to view third layer (7 minutes) 

click on triangle to view residual materials (4 minutes)

Rein made art out of rubber tire patches, dryer lint, burnt waxed wood, and discarded woodwind instruments. In all the years I watched him create on his studio deck there were no cameras running to record his creative process. His manner of creating was up for speculation. Today I am out in my backyard applying layers to panels for a 2011 exhibition. My video camera is set up to record some of my manner. Perhaps my father went about materials in a similiar fashion. Trying this and attempting that, playing around with texture and glue, in the sunshine, out in the backyard. My artwork is not that of Rein. but Rein's grownup son does likes to build. What materials do you think I am handling?

 

wait till it dries

click on triangle to view overview ( 2 minutes)  

click on triangle to view the difficulties with drying too long (3.5 minutes)

 
works in progress for 2011 - warm weather - hands on with Antonio Carlos Jobim, Death Cab For Cutie and Stan Getz saxophone to boot.

Karl Marxhausen - Being Led Elsewhere - Part One (Art Talk series)

On Saturday morning, November 22nd I gave a two part presentation for the Art Talk series. Part 1 was about works that have led my mind elsewhere. Part 2 was about working out the details. Showing a documentary making the 37 foot Carrollton mural, Land Of Opportunity, that I painted in 1997, and the kind of research that went into that endeavor. After the movie, guest artist Daniel Griffith from De Witt shared sculptures he had made ...(see subsequent postings)

It was important for the audience to view the works in silence. I believe the art did speak. After a period of silence for each work -- I shared a few points. While working on landscapes in 2005, I also did a body of work with one thing in common.....

Brother Obermuller 20 x 16 (private collection)

Open 26 x 11.5 on panel

Ask 24 x 24 on panel

Mother And Daughter in Samarkand 20 x 16 on canvas



My Mother 28 x 22 on panel



Mystery 11.25 x 25.5 on frame

Brushstrokes brought me close to sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, some of which, have lost relatives because of their love for him.

The pavement I walked on the way to work reminded me of the particles scientists say our atoms are composed of. On a rainy day the tiny grains reminded me of an IMAX movie going down into infinity. The galactic particulate I saw in the cement sidewalk led me to experiment with sand in 2000. The grit helped create the suspended particles I wanted. In the end I had an intense vortex spinning in space. I thought about the words of one who holds all things in place by the power of his voice. The one who loved me. I named that piece At His Command 44 x 31.5 inches on panel. When I study its textures I am reminded of the one my family across the sea is in love with.

Contemplating the Rhythm and Boundaries That Your Voice Sets For Sub-Atomic Particles While I Stand On The Sidewalk And Look Down At The Asphalt On My Way To School 28 x 46 inches on panel

The "floating ice cube" pattern I began with (below) transformed into a veiled figure in light when it dried. As an author wrote, "you are surrounded by unapproachable light." It was works like these that fell into another category. Not landscape, not figurative, where acrylic paint and texture were joined. Works formed by process with experimentation in mind, and upon completion, became something more, that directed my attention past the materials to him.

The words of physicist Paul Davies reminded me,"Without gravity, not only would there be no galaxies, stars, or planets, but the universe could not have even come into being, for the very notion of the expanding universe, and the big bang as the origin of space time, is rooted in gravity. Without electromagnetism there would be no atoms, no chemistry or biology and no heat or light from the sun. If there were no strong nuclear force then nuclei could not exist, and so again there would be no atoms or molecules, no chemistry or biology, nor would the sun and stars be able to generate heat and light from nuclear energy. Even the weak force plays a crucial role in shaping the universe. If it did not exist, the nuclear reactions in the sun and starts could not proceed, and supernovae would probably not occur, and the vital life-giving heavy elements would therefore be unable to permeate the universe. Life might be impossible. When we remember that these four very different types of force, each one vital for generating the complex structures that make our universe so active and interesting, all derive from a single, simple superforce, the ingenuity of it all literally boggles the mind." (Superforce, 1982)

I invited a young volunteer to come up and investigate the materials I used. The student told the audience it "was made of rock."

In his book Nature's Destiny, 1998 microbiologist Michael Denton said the properties of water on Earth were such that micro organisms and single-celled creatures could move about freely. If the viscosity were even slightly heavier cellular life would not be able to function like it did. It was these constraints, these boundaries, these precise dynamics that fascinated me. Leon A. Housman wrote about these minute creatures in his Essentials of Zoology (1963), "they pursue and capture food or sit still and reach out

to capture it, they ingest it; they digest it; they eliminate liquid wastes from the body; they respire; they produce energy; they grow; they reproduce their kind. They go where they want to go, they retreat from where they don't want to be, or they just stay still. Some scholars say they seem to exercise choice, will, judgment, memory; others that they merely react mechanically to stimuli."

Think about it...the universe is a big place...no, that's too big, let's just think about planet Earth...no, let's just think about Carrollton...ok, let's just think about this room, that would be a lot easier...Ok...so things are set in motion, over how many years...forces are in place...things are put just so...and water is made just right...for this season on Earth...to ensure that these fragile creatures have being. Have you looked at cellular biology recently? It's just amazing...I think about ALL THIS and can't help but think about him.



Above, from left to right, are four stages of an amoeba surrounding and digesting its prey. At 37 1/2 by 94 3/4 inches, Care For An Amoeba, needed to be on a lightweight backing. Indoor paneling was my solution in 2002.

After her thorough inspection, this volunteer concluded the piece (below) was made of aggregate, white gravel, and an asphalt-like substance on wood.

During preceding week, visitors to the library cast their own guesses what this 6 x 12 inch panel was covered with.

"Rice Krispies on Gypsum Wall Board"

(Evelyn Robertson)

"Peanuts that have been crushed"

(Sue Lightfoot)

"Gravel + Acrylic Paint"

(D. Belcher)

"House winter shutter with

flooring painted scene on"

(Bettie Sawatzky)

"Aquarium Rocks"

(Viola Fisk)

"Red Cinnamon Valentine's Day Candy"

(Gaylyn)

"Looks like aquarium gravel

and acrylic paint."

(Steph)

"Lava rocks or gravel with red and yellow paint."

(Savanna Lightfoot and Mollie Bingham)

"Crushed teeth."

(Loralu Sherman

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The answer is acrylic paint on

crushed oyster shells

(used by farmers for chicken feed)

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Volunteers took similiar experimental panels around for all to see.

Consciousness is a mystery. Biochemist Stuart Kaufman asked how inorganic molecules could organize themselves into organisms with conscience? Physicist Paul Davies asked how it is that we can process complex information? Analytical physicist John C. Polkinghorne put the phenomena in perspective when he called our race the thinking reed. How was it that that we can built instruments that detect complexity in the natural order? Neuroscientist Patricia Churchland stated that research has failed to explain how the brain does what it does. These findings directed my thoughts elsewhere.

This piece began like any other. I found a neural pattern in a book, and drew it on a panel. I glued crushed oyster shells on that pattern. Thinking back on the process, the most exciting moments came when I poured clear glue over the shells and dribbling paint on top of that. The lighter paint formed intricate rivulets I could not do by hand (see below) The way the paint broke apart, the swirls, the way it dried. That took away my breath.

I called it Wired To Hear Your Voice (40 3/4 x 64 inches).The one who makes it possible for water to be the right viscosity for amoebas, has made it possible for Homo sapiens to interface with himself. My consciousness can know his thoughts and neurologically experience his embrace.To me, it is MORE breaking in.

a viewer in the audience spoke up: prisilla: When I first saw that orange piece, it was the one I was least comfortable with. But as you have talked about the process in conceiving the work, it means a lot more to me now. You see, I have Parkinson's Disease, and have been having my own struggles....

More about this one here.

More about collages here.

When I began working on this idea I thought it was about someone younger than me. Soon after, I became convinced it was my own portrait. I do not have orange hair or nose rings, but this one phrase beat in my heart of hearts. "You love this porcupine, I am yours and you are mine." There have been issues in my life. Attitudes I was not proud of, that pushed others away from me. My own kind of piercings. Looking back, that painting was all about him - the One I gazed upon, the One I surrendered to, the One who called me lovely, the One who brought me into his presence with joy inspite of my issues, my words and actions, and a whole slew of reasons. Thus the title. "You embrace me...how can you?" That was me at my core, whether as an artist or as a human being. Everthing else flowed out from that.

When I finished the Carrollton mural I had that same sense. There was more going on than my eyes could see. That mural was all about outsiders who came here to build and plant. Our future was about outsiders who would continue come here to build and plant. There was a yearning and a hunger for more, and a request for openness to the one who broke in to hearts and minds, and breathed a fresh fragrance of welcome on the deepest parts of our city. The one who loved the porcupine loved the citizens of Carrollton.

The location at Virgina and Washington was significant. It was Washington Street that used to be saloonville in the early years. People have recounted to me how that what not the part of town you would want to walk through on the way home from school. In hindsight, it was interesting to see three new businesses move in, and see the property value go up, after the mural was completed.