Dear Mr. Johns,

I'm writing to thank you. You may never see this letter, and you may never even read it. Either is fine with me, as it is for me a joy to simply write it, and see it off with the postmaster.

My reason for thanking you is because of your profile (written well by Mr. Tomkins) in the December 11, 2006 issue of The New Yorker. In it, I saw a man who, while so acclaimed by his work and influence in the art world, remained personable--"witty, well-read, curious, and interested in what others think, although he doesn't hesitate to argue with it."

Many times as an art student I despaired when reading about artists whose work I admired greatly but whose lives were tragic or torpid. I began to wonder that I could ever produce any remotely passable work without having to create for myself a deadly secret, disgusting habit, or affected disinterest.

But your words and the spirit of Mr. Tomkins' writing refreshed and invigorated me with new possibility.

So, thank you, Mr. Johns, for being one of the (seemingly few) artists whose quality of work mirrors the great quality of their person. Enjoy the comforts of your home, your solitude, and your friendships. I hope this letter has been something of a blessing to you.

Sincerely yours,
Jocelyn

mailed to "Jasper Johns / Sharon, Connecticut 060609" on 12/12/06

Something old: I'm painting again, for the first time in about four years.

It's a weird feeling, manipulating the oil paints with my familiar old brushes, and dealing with the grittiness of cleanup. I can feel the memories of painting class and all the other locations I've painted in flowing back to me with each stroke, almost as though I'm in many places at once. It's evidence of the power and importance of memory--each new painting or artistic endeavor could not exist without those past ones.

At the same time I can feel how the past few years of Photoshop and shuffling electronic files around have changed the way I think about composing on a flat surface. I can sense a hint impatience with letting the paint dry, and my rusty color-mixing skills (it works quite differently in the digital realm). But my digital experience has helped me be more attuned to texture (surprisingly), and creatively layer my colors. I'm relieved at how working with oils makes me slow down and think more carefully, to have more patience with myself and the medium.

These paintings are reincarnations of my childhood drawings series. After looking at my series (done in oil pastel) and comparing them to a few painted versions (in oil paints) I had done, I realized that the painting medium seemed to do more for them than oil pastel. And, inspired by a recent visit where a few friends inquired about what I was working on, I ran out to replenish my turpentine and medium supplies to get these things moving.

I'm still not sure where my drive to paint these things comes from. Why the hell do I bother to crop portions of drawings that I (as a kid) or other kids have done, and then paint them? It could be as straightforward and silly-stupid as, "Children have beauty and wisdom," or something like that. However, there seems to be something else there (currently unidentifiable) that keeps me from being bored with them, or the idea in general. Any ideas, anyone?

Something new: I'm cutting linoleum blocks now, too. It's a new medium for me, but a return to printmaking in general after years of swearing it off.

I made block prints with my mother long long ago when she used to let me play with her art supplies--one of the few non-toxic things in her studio. I remember having a lot of fun, but I was a kid (maybe 8 or 9 years old) and didn't know what I was doing. But screen printing (one of my first art classes) in college killed me--the class was intense, and it was just too much for me to think in layers at that time, for some reason.

But now here I am, cutting linoleum (and occasionally myself), having a blast, wondering where the hell this will take me, why the hell I'm doing it, and whether or not I'll ever make it as an artist, ever.

The prints you see here are based off of an abstracted Theotokos and Christ child icon that I find particularily compelling, even outside of its religious significance. Of course you can barely tell which "one" it's meant to be, but that doesn't matter. What matters to me is that they are meaningful without being kitsch, and artful without losing the sense of meaning, either.

It's hard to walk that line.

I made a test-run of a new linoleum block print design I'm working on.

The registration is off, and I didn't wait very long between layering the colors, so they're pretty wonky. However, I now know what I'm going to get, and can make some edits to my cuttings. I'm also getting more ideas for prints along the same theme:

I'm on a roll. The only problem is I've run out of linoleum. Drat.

Or maybe not. Luckily, my birthday's coming up, and I've made a wishlist over at Utrecht (under hellojostudio [at] gmail [dot] com). I'm crossing my fingers and hoping that The Husband will wander over there and read my mind, so to speak.

Either way, working like this excites me. I'm spending more time out of the computer, and I can feel it stretching me and feeding me in good places. Good, delicious things.