By Elizabeth Ricketson:
A dusting of snow had fallen overnight and refreshed the local landscape. Driving down my remote road early yesterday morning, my focus had shifted from a stress-filled narrative to the natural beauty that surrounded me. Trees glistened white. The brooks exhibited a fundamental principal in painting; the compositional start of any painting often includes identifying and blocking in the darkest darks and the lightest lights. . . .
E Street Radio played Springsteen’s “She’s the One.” Smiling, I reflected on the personal fact that it is simply never too early in the day to listen to Bruce. “Jungleland” played next, and I feel reassured by the possibilities of the day.
Already 3 months since I had hung my solo exhibit at a hospital in Vermont’s twin state, New Hampshire. It had run its course, and I was feeling bittersweet about dismantling my show. There is always so much planning and preparation that goes into what I do. Creating pieces to round out my vision for an exhibit. What I want to say. What I want to explore. What I hope to share. But that wasn’t it. This exhibit meant something different. Something more.
How my work will be received is always of concern. I tell a story with paint. A contemporary voice. My work is not easily pigeonholed. A blessing and a curse. Leaning toward impressionistic but not. Representational but definitely not. I use shapes more abstractly to create an organic image. My work appeals to some and obviously not to all, but I hope to reach all those interested in coming on a journey with me.
Upon arrival, I parked outside the main entrance to the hospital. I walked up the cement walk, observing the business of a busy medical center. People walking with the determination of a tight schedule while others struggled to move. Cars in queue waiting for assistance. Appointments to be met. The security staff greeting all with a kind “Good morning.”
Through the entrance I walked with a different determination. My task was the exception to the experience of those around me. A large metal cart with rotating and swiveling wheels rested by the bank of elevators in the lobby, assisting me with the ease of transport. Lugging large-scale work is hard, and I was grateful for the assistance. I pushed the button to head up to the 5th floor rotunda while I thought about the passage of time and the work ahead. . . .
The 5th floor rotunda, where the light seems to stream in even on a cold, gray New England day in December. When designing the exhibit, I had spent a lot of time walking back and forth to analyze the view of the rotunda from the vantage point of the opening elevator doors. It was important to me to have the experience begin immediately.
The view as visitors, doctors, and employees stepped out of the elevators was paramount. I wanted the story to unfold. I wanted people to enter my world of color before they took another step. To be drawn in by the warmth and energy of each composition. Each wall across the rotunda had direct views and indirect moments that I wanted to optimize. I knew what my painting focal points would be, and I would build the show around them.
The walls' mustardy ochre was a bit concerning, as I was unsure how my work would display with this backdrop, but to my surprise and delight it worked well. The art pushed the wall color back while this unlikely color emphasized my color choices in a bold, exciting way.
Voyeuristically, I would visit my exhibit often over the three months. Straighten a painting, drop off more business cards, pleased to see that the supply of my contact information was always in need of replenishing. I would sit at a nearby bench for a few minutes to watch people observe my work. The gamut of visitors often took notice, and some would take their time.
Yet the day had come as it always does, and I would begin to lift my paintings off the wall and place them on the carpeted floor in preparation for stacking them on the cart. Three trips should do it. Mental special math was in play. In my reluctance, I busied myself with taking my bio down first. Then I fished out the reaming business cards from the display bin. Slowly, the process began, but I decided to remove the paintings in shifts and not just strip the walls of my work.
While I was loading the cart with the first batch, I noticed a couple at the far end of my exhibit where the paintings were still on display: a man and a woman. Their bodies moved in accordance with the weight of illness. She with a grayish pallor, wearing a head scarf often associated with cancer treatment while her frail left hand guided an IV pole. The gentleman accompanying her on their rotunda stroll seemed aged with worry. She spotted the bright colors on the wall. Pausing in front of the first painting, she studied the image before her and then on to the next and the next after that while taking time to engage with every image.
A temporary reprieve. A second here and there just might be the difference she needed to escape beyond her industrial home. The rotunda was quiet. No beeping monitors. No medical personal rushing here and there. A different need was being met. My art had a function. It played a role while offering a momentary respite.
“Beautiful work,” she said to me with a weakened voice. The purpose of this exhibit was clear to me. Every minute of worry, concern, and self-doubt washed away as I watched her take in each remaining composition.
The walls soon after returned to a mustard yellow and appeared even more dingy, which they were truly not, but the cold, sterile environment had returned. I took comfort in knowing that another artist would soon be hanging their work, telling their story, and promoting yet another vision for this space, engaging the next patient that finds themselves on a rotunda stroll.
“I dream my painting, and then I paint my dream.”
― Vincent Willem van Gogh
A graduate of Providence College with a BA in English, Elizabeth Ricketson has always had a love of literature and the fine arts. In the 1990s, she studied figure drawing at the Rhode Island School of Design, spending years dedicated to understanding human form, movement, and anatomy. Elizabeth’s essays focus on life experiences and life in Vermont. Essays available for consideration.
Website: elizabethricketson.net
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