Author Archives: timouth

Calling Me

I remember a time when I used to write about art every day. My creative process and philosophy was the thing that kept me grounded, and in touch with my inner self. 

The words just seemed to flow out of me effortlessly. I pictured the colors lined up in my arm, just waiting to trickle through my hand and out my fingertips onto the canvas. 

Within this seemingly endless supply of ideas, I knew that I would have to take time to do other things, too. I had to live things outside of my studio so that I would have something to say. 

It kept me from being concerned about the days or weeks when I was not painting. 

I also believed, and still believe, that I didn’t need to strive or force the inspiration to come. If I just lived my life, and picked up a paintbrush during that living, my next big thing would come. It would show itself to me. This usually happened after the thing had already appeared. I was playing, and enjoying whatever interested me. Not contrived, not based on what I thought anyone else would like. I’d discover a niche that was true to me. 

When I moved to the Iron Range, I tried to think of some local perspective I could present from a newcomer’s viewpoint. 

Chestnut Street appealed to me, and I tried to think of a new angle to paint it from. 

What happened naturally, without ever trying, was midnight walks, photographing an abandoned city in black and white. You see, I had lost my cat. I’d go out late at night calling for her in those early days. She was shy and frightened, and I knew I’d never find her in the daylight. 

The photos seem sad. The urban decay mirrored my feeling of emptiness at losing my love. 

I never found her. 

Waterfront Property

Nine months later, I’m still photographing the city at night, and accepting that she is gone. 

From my new home, I can hear the sound of trains in the distance. Even without my hearing aids, I can hear them through the open window in the summer. 

I asked my art group where they passed, and began photographing them, too. 

Tail End

I used to own a railway caboose, so my interest in trains goes back decades. 

In the town where I used to live, I’d chase down the Hjørdis, a local sailing ship, photographing her as she sailed the Great Lake, and especially when she passed by our lighthouse, going in or out of the harbor. Now I try to catch the trains in a similar way. They are not passenger trains, so there isn’t a set schedule. That hunt only adds to the excitement, and makes each meeting more special. I keep a list of the engine numbers I encounter, and would like to express the trains in paint. 

My ongoing science fiction serial has been my main focus lately, and once again, I had that feeling that the ideas and words were endless. 

My creative interests take turns. 

My lifelong practice of painting will step aside to make way for my determination to create pottery, or to bare my soul through the past fifty years of writing. 

The paints are calling to me now. 

Virginia, MN

My name is Timo, and I am descended from Sámi people in Lappi, Finland. I live in Finntown.

I attended Art School at the College For Creative Studies in Detroit, Michigan.

Erilaisia ​​keltaisia

L acrylic, R tempera
Different Yellows

The walls were adorned with drawings that he could not see on his previous visit. He turned back, and could see everything clearly. The darkness had left, and in the light of the gem, he recognized the drawings as his own. The child inside him interpreted the art his tiny hand had made.  They were beautiful. They were simple, uncomplicated images that just fell, without pretense, onto the rock face. 

A swathe of yellow enveloped one rock face. Looking closer at it, Flash could see the brushstrokes beneath dust and crystals forming on its surface. Next to it was a second rock, also painted yellow. Flash held the crystal lantern up to it, and he heard the child within him giggle. 

“What’s so funny?” He asked aloud. 

The childlike giggle became a full laugh, which echoed through the cave. 

“They are two different yellows!” The innocent voice finally blurted out. 

And Flash remembered.

Here was Flash’s past, inscribed on stone. It was preserved and protected in the shelter of the cave. He thought of his dream, where he saw the hologram still projected from the ruins of the castle. 

The yellow panels shimmered in the light of the glowing jewel. They were two similar yet distinct shades of a happy hue. Something melancholy lurked within the color as Flash recalled that day when he was a little boy. 

“You’re doing it wrong!” a little girl blamed, “You’re supposed to use two different colors!”

“But they are diff…” his voice trailed off, as the girl had run off to tattle. Her accusation confused him. Could she not see the variation?  

Flash smiled, happy that he didn’t need her approval. He was happy that the simplest of paintings could hold so much meaning. He was satisfied that whatever hurt he had felt in Miss Barnes’ kindergarten class only added flavor to his creation.  He was glad that most people would not see, or take time to understand, and that the only validation he needed came from himself.

There were more obvious pictures adorning the cave walls. Hundreds… no, thousands of them, fading into the darkness beyond the reach of the gem’s glow. There were pictures that told you what they were. They spelled it out for you. His mother’s blue skirt, depicted by a crude trapezoid below her white blouse. Her form stretched up the wall, with her face on the ceiling of the tunnel, looking down on him. These were easy.

The yellow fields were pure emotion. Defining them was unnecessary.

They reminded him that he didn’t need anyone else. A day was coming when he would leave everyone behind anyway, so this was good practice. He could love without needing. He could share without draining. He could be. After that, he could transition without fear.

(from flashmeridian.com)

Acrylic
Tempera