Art – by Rhonda Danette Owen

Like writing, making art is something I get to do. It’s not a choice. I need to do it. Not need as a compulsion, but as a practice of feeding my spirit. When I’m creating art, I’m practicing self-compassion. The process of creating art gives me the gift of presence, that oftimes illusive state of being that most people describe as "being in the moment." As I glue paper and ephemera, and add brushstrokes of acrylic color, and scratch, scribble, splatter graphite and ink on wood or paper, my mind empties of the many concerns of the day. I feel lighter, kinder, less demanding.

I'm primarily a collage artist although I dabble in painting with acrylics. The guiding forces of my life have always been curiosity and whimsy. I love to layer with the colors and patterns I see all around me, elements of the mystical and natural worlds. I came to art late in life, but by exploring media, techniques, composition and style, I will continue to find my authentic voice as an artist.

Artworks

Might as well jump, 12x12, paper, acrylic, ink on wood

Let's go fly a kite, 12x12, paper and acrylic on wood

Immigration, 6x9, acrylic on paper

Beach day, 11x24, paper and acrylic on paper

Grace, 12x12, paper and acrylic on paper

Multitasking, 12x12, paper, acrylic, ink, graphite on paper

Type cast, 12x12, paper, acrylic, ink on paper

Veiled, 12x12, paper, acrylic on paper

Vesta, 8x8, paper, acrylic, fabric on wood

Where we live, 12x12, paper, acrylic, graphite on wood
This artpiece was inspired by a poem that was inspired by a recurring dream/nightmare that I have. I wrote the poem, then created the collage. Here’s the poem.

Where we live

Who looks inside dreams takes a chance, dreams
are unreliable things, unsteady ground,
quicksand and quicksilver,
dissolving and reforming

and everything’s open to possibility.
you can fly, but you can’t swim,
you know this as you soar over the ocean;
the knowing turns feet to clay, then

delight to dread. You live in many houses,
or maybe just one with cavernous rooms off the grid,
rooms with long walls, sliding stairs without rails,
great rooms with no furniture, but three fireplaces,

one in the kitchen where claws skitter in crusts
on grimy counters; there’s no place
to put the ice dripping in your hands.
The refrigerator door leads to the basement —

Go down, down, don’t just stand there,
someone whispers in your ear
and you stumble backwards, no, no,
until you’re afraid not to go, you need to see
your dog lives in the basement, the dog
you forgot you had