This book developed out of a combination of several years of work making monotypes and my notebooks (see My Notebooks on my Home Page). There are several editions of this book. The original consists of ten boxed sets, approximately 20 X 16", plus one bound book. Each set contains a unique group of nine monotypes plus text; the text is identical in each set. All the monotypes were created and printed by the artist. The text was computer set by Ray Nichols and screenprinted by Randy Bolton. Text and images are on BFK Rives paper. Two of the limited edition sets were exhibited at the Delaware Art Museum. Several of the original sets are available for viewing or purchase.
In conjunction with the Museum exhibit, a short (11 minutes) video was produced on the entire project: 99 Monotypes. I hope to make this available on my Home Page. Also, a small offset edition of one of the sets was published; approximately five hundred copies. It is this edition that is presented here in electronic form. In addition I made a limited edition (fifteen copies) of the offset edition. This has a slightly different treatment of the cover and includes an original black and white monotype as a frontispiece. The edition is signed and numbered. For more information contact the artist at e-mail address.
There is ample space in the workshop, in fact, perhaps too much. The walls, if one can call them that, are changeable. One day they appear fixed. I measure them carefully with my yardstick and pencil. They are 10'3" in one direction by 11'2" in the other. I note these measurements and include a description of the window locations and doors. It all seems concrete and clear, yet on another day the shape and size are no longer the same. Some days the color of the room is changed, the ceiling is different as are other elements. Because of my uncertainty I re-measure the room and carefully note its features again.
At other times, I cannot see the walls of the studio. Their boundaries seem limitless and I have great difficulty measuring them. It is the same with the furniture and materials. Today, there are only materials for watercolors, tomorrow there may be film-making equipment.
In my attempt to discover what I am to do, I use various materials, testing, as it were, the rightness of the action. At times, one feels better than another and I carefully note my reactions.
I send out letters with photographs for guidance and receive replies. Much information is collected in this way which I carefully file in the hope that the direction of my work will become clear.
There are many sources of ideas and feelings as well as sensations that enter this workshop and I sample them all, trying to find what is appropriate for me.
No one is telling me what to do, yet I am left with the unmistakable understanding that there is a riddle that I alone can resolve, that I must resolve as an obligation to I know not whom.
Some materials, feeling, shapes and colors seem to beckon me more than others. I keep coming back to them but I am baffled. It is as though the materials would direct me but cannot, or I don't understand their language.
I experience a feeling of being trapped. I am hard pressed to come up with a satisfactory solution and much of my time and energy appears wasted. The things around me are dormant - passive - waiting. I sense their potential energy but don't have the key to unlock them.
I seek guidance beyond the workshop although in reality there is no "beyond" because this workshop appears to be infinite in time and space. As much or as little time as I need is available to me.
Many temptations are offered as the years pass. Some appear to enter from outside, others originate within the "confines" of the studio space, such as sound and shapes. Over the years I notice the recurrence of certain patterns - the return of recognized elements and I note these as I have others.
After many years of exploring every crevice and section of my environment and the various materials, ideas, feeling and sensations I've experienced, I stop, and am very still for an instant. It is the most quiet I've ever been - there is absolute stillness. My hand moves, holding an instrument that I am not aware of and makes a mark that I cannot see because I am in total lightness/darkness.
I know I have made a right mark, even though I cannot see it. Then I make another, and another, all the time feeling as though my hand moves, but I am not moving it. As the space gradually becomes clear, I gain courage to continue.
As time passes, I fall back to exploring other avenues, ideas and materials, largely because I can make no sense of the mark I made on that sightless night. I try every form of reason, seek explanation, test hypotheses, but cannot find a satisfactory rationale.
Over the years, I still feel discomfort from time to time because the work I do is awkward and I often feel lost.
Then it happens again - a moment of intense stillness and my hand, no, my whole body, is moved - and I make the mark. The movement and a sound fill the workshop but cannot be seen or heard.
And so I slowly learn what I am to do, although I persist in hesitation, doubt and seeking reasons. My "guide" is infinitely patient and I learn to develop a similar attitude. I continue to practise my movements a bit more carefully and regularly even though I don't "understand" because I have a sense of their rightness.
The work becomes more difficult because I am allowed fewer detours or distractions, but when I resist less, I experience - no word can describe it - being whole or complete? The entire workshop responds and seems to be transformed so that I feel part of the workshop and it is me.
Slowly, over the years, as I learn my art, it becomes more difficult for me to distinguish between myself as I once knew myself and the movements/marks that I make. One day I expect I will lose all consciousness of any difference.
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