CHICS WITH GUNS- reflection on the self portraits with guns

REFLECTION ON SUBJECT MATTER IN A SERIES  

CHICS WITH GUNS

CHICS WITH GUNS are part of a series of self-portraits I did in the 90’s. They are their own series but were part of an entire semester of self-portrait work. This  artistic expression- not glamorization nor degradation. 

• Neither this series nor any other image nor subject matter of mine- with guns- is condoning violence, hurting oneself nor another being; nor does it have anything to do with any political view on guns. 
• This series was an artistic expression I had in the 90’s as a strong, independent woman and athlete, living in Park City, Utah.  Working, skiing, racing bikes, attending the art department of the U of U in Salt Lake City, and windsurfing in Hood River for months at a time were my aspects feminist self expression-for me-in my generation. Similarly to these other aspects of my life at that time, creating art was (and remains) therapeutic, cathartic, invigorating, very physical. When and artist is given the space and the tools to express, explore and create- without inhibition but with encouragement and guidance of professors-  creativity pours.  Subject matter or meaning evolve or transform. Sometimes the energy of a project takes over, manipulating initial subject matter and expression into something for which the artist didn't intend nor for which she necessarily has an explanation. But Chics With Guns was something in the subconscious, lurking about, waiting to find a way to emerge.
• Again, this series had nothing to do with violence when I painted them. As I have described in the 'About' section of Pink Sail Studio, I grew up in a tomboy childhood. I loved adventure, outdoor activity, healthy competition, independence. I was always attracted to boys, loved their hand- me- down clothing, bikes, skis... and had fun keeping up with them. But I'm a woman, and boys bugged the shit out of me too- at times. There were a handful of great female friends too with whom I enjoyed adventure, outdoors, riding horses, art, competition, time on skis and boards in the water.            Outside of its beauty in nature and wildlife, PINK represented a stigma of weakness or aspects of femininity, which I rebuffed in those years.  In my teens, I tired of both men’s and women’s expectations or judgments, as most teens do.   But through school and living in different states, I also discovered there were more women out there who were fun, creative, ambitious, outspoken, intelligent, strong athletes, who were also all finding their voices outside of the stereotypical girl or feminist issues- with which I struggled- and they were just as fun as the boys I'd always appreciated.  The more I did my own independent thing and at my own pace, following my own dreams and ambitions in the mountains and water, being my authentic self, and the more I accepted the strengths and weaknesses of being a girl, I began to embrace pink and its feminine power and boldness. And NO, this is not a gender issue. I was all girl, simply a tomboy, growing into a woman and figuring out likes and dislikes of feminist issues before me and within my peer group. Artistic expression was another tool in the box for expression, processing life, slowing down and observing, a way to communicate and share with others. Art was another form of education and flexing of the brain, and it also required physical exertion and discipline I needed. 
• I often enjoy silence while creating art. I loved going to punk rock shows mostly alone and always sober. But I've always listened to many types/genres of music. Outside of pixie haircuts, platinum hair, or combat boots at times,  I preferred not standing out, holding the power of underestimation and anonymity- with an exception of art.  We don’t always have to look the part. I preferred understatement as a powerful tool for underestimation. But art exposes oneself to judgement, assumptions, criticism. Art is never complete without the viewer.  Viewers sometimes take themselves way too seriously. So sometimes what's more important to me as an artist than even evoking emotion in a viewer is and simply enjoying the ride of the process of the creation.  
• I enjoyed the process of creating these bold images of myself with aspects about which there is MUCH judgment ('chics', 'guns', 'alcohol', ‘femininity’, ‘beauty’… power, intimidation, victimization, fear, protection.) As to the guns, I found it enigmatic as to how women were portrayed with guns and why.  Feared, loathed, sexy (?) with a gun.  Again. No political stance on guns was influencing these pieces for me at the time they were created,  outside of feminist exploration and its controversy to that subject. This was art school.  And just as the color pink enigmatically had such an effect on me as a woman and what it represented, so did guns. 
  
  
• A little HISTORY around guns (outside of what one might think of as 'the norm' in our country back in the 90's) is VENEZUELA. I had traveled two times-by myself- for weeks at a time, from Utah to Venezuela,  to start windsurfing again. I'd been mostly racing bikes and skiing for a decade had depleted myself of my water time. During my second stint in Venezuela, I was threatened by a federale and policia- at the same time- with guns slung over their shoulders and locked and loaded pistols in hands. THE INCIDENT: miles away from the nearest village, on a little remote peninsula in Venezuela, I was innocently out for my early walk, before the wind picked up for my next windsurf session. This was my usual morning routine- walking solo for 5-7 miles, rarely encountering only a soul. I had no idea that pounds of cocaine had supposedly been dropped off and buried and just discovered, on the shoreline on which I walked daily. So on this particular day, when I eventually ran into a posse of men on dirt bikes with guns, I asked in Spanish if I could pass and continue my walk for another 5 miles safely. I was given a nod, a solid 'si!', and with that permission, I naively continued to walk. Now, most intelligent people, under the circumstance, would have returned to the village at this point and forfeited the exercise that morning.  At that point, to that group of federales on dirt bikes, my looks must have given it away too that I was somehow clearly not involved in assisting nor organizing the Columbians with massive amounts of cocaine on that remote Venezuelan peninsula. To this posse, I was clearly harmless and innocent, having been given permission to continue to walk the beach. Yet, It had not been communicated from the initial dirt bike posse to the others farther down the beach; because, miles later down the beach, my appearance caused serious alarm.  My deeply tanned, Caucasian skin, the platinum, punk rock, pixie style haircut, and my then lean athletic physique screamed 'suspect'.  To these two, I  looked  very dangerous and suspicious, even in my not very sexy, sun bleached, overly used bikini top and board shorts; even more suspiciously, I carried nothing else- not even a water bottle. I was a woman out by myself walking, swimming randomly in the middle of nowhere with the sharks in murky, wavy water,  And I revealed no emotion with a deadpan expression.  (Yes, adrenaline was ripping through my system, but I sure as hell wasn't letting them know).   When these two men -mr federale and mr policia- found me miles further down the beach,  they approached me quite aggressively, due to all the reasons listed above. They verbally fought with me and then amongst themselves, as to how much of a threat I was in this bust or possibly over who would be the one to take me back to Caracas for whatever reason. Dripping wet and watching them, thoughts crossing my mind were: what happened to the first men in uniform on dirt bikes- the ones who'd already approved of my walking the beach? And why did I persist in forcing myself to walk the beach today, even with all these men with guns looking for someone or something? And just as randomly, I recalled the man on the jumper flight from Aruba, asking me with great concern, as to why I was going to Venezuela, to that particular area and 'solo' for so long. In disbelief to my ambition, he shook his head and handed me his business card 'in case I’d run in to any trouble'. Hmm. Where had I placed his card? ANYWAY. Verbal threats became more physical.  Mr. Policia pushed and poked me and interrogated me in Spanish. Mr. Federale yelled at him and then at me. From what I recall, I was taller than both these men, who were lit with anger. (Granted, I'm only 5' 6". So. Were they really that little? ). I remained calm and did not react, even while being poked in the chest, pushed and aggressively interrogated an inch from my face and practically spat upon. I held eye contact and stood tall and firmly; but my manner only confused and infuriated them. I answered questions assertively and innocently, in half-assed Spanish, while staring back at them with my ice cold, blue eyes. ( I'm a Gen Xer. So I hold eye contact very well). They convinced themselves I was German and not American, despite the fact that I told them I was American and staying in a German hostel.  They forced me to 'empty my board short pockets', convinced I could apparently hide something important in them - cocaine? But to their dismay, only shells I'd collected, fell to the sand.  No cocaine in those board shorts. Long story short: I was was very fit and fast at the time from Nordic skiing in Utah all winter. While they fought with one another over who had greater authority to take me, I sauntered away and then ran as fast as possible.  Skate skiing does wonders for fitness and endurance; I highly recommend it before going to Venezuela alone. The landscape of rolling dunes separated me from the two track road on which they sped after me and the beach on which I ran; they raced behind me in a military federale truck and policia sedan.  Miles ahead, a paddy wagon with more men with machine guns and pistols had been notified and was rolling towards me, awaiting my capture. Miraculously, a HUGE flock of peaceful flamingos, just outside the tranquil village and between that paddy wagon and me, did not like my racing directly toward them.  At once, they all flew together, directly at the paddy wagon.  My race for my freedom interrupted this serene pink mob; the distraught flamingos camouflaged me- a 'god send' that saved me.  I evaded the paddy wagon and ran and hid safely in the village.  It was very surreal, to say the least. I was not wanting to be held innocently hostage in Caracas or disappear suddenly over two South American countries' dispute in a cocaine bust.  Needless to say, I feared and loathed those men, their threats, and guns. They moved on, most likely embarrassed by their mistake, knowing fully well I could report them to someone of higher rank. Later, I heard they'd also taken in and harrassed some innocent Europeans they found traveling the same area, touring the nearby villages on the buses. 
•  I have also been held at gunpoint as a teller in my 40's, during a bank robbery, during which a very strong and mentally unstable man with military training, pointed a loaded revolver in my face. He yelled at me and my 3 coworkers to do as he said or ‘he’d fucking kill us’. Yes, he was yelling he’d 'f’n kill us', if we didn’t do x,y, z, over and over.  I was calm yet assertive, seeing I found his loaded gun, antics, threats, and ignorance quite a violation to all of us. I had initially thought the bank was doing some sort of surprise, robbery training and again felt violated and pissed off enough,  ready to personally take on the bank. But instinct corrected my reaction quite quickly, realizing: Yes, it is a real bank robbery, and a crazy man is holding a gun at your face. The FBI told me my reactions in and out of the vault saved us all. We all reacted well together.  I still loathe the bank for its lack of support in such an experience and hold great disdain for our local court system. Yes, he is free. And Yes. Another angry, unstable man stood with a gun in my face, while I was unarmed and supposed to remain calm, while being threatened. 
• After this robbery experience, I was broken inside and angry. I tried to go shoot at the gun range with my boyfriend and friends, hoping to push through some ptsd and anger.  Importantly, what I have discovered in all of this is: that someone pointing a loaded gun at you or threatening you with one or more on their body is quite a violation and threat and does make you want to point one back in the manner in which I portrayed in CHICS WITH GUNS. 
• Again, none of these experiences above influenced my subject matter in painting this series at the time, seeing they had not yet occurred. But maybe these paintings were foresight as to how I  would feel- under the circumstances, if they occurred. And the above examples are not the only times I've been threatened and pushed around as a woman. But Again. It’s artistic expression here. I tried to add humor to a 'loaded' subject matter about myself when I created these- so not to have such cliche images. But the last one I did -strangely- does hold the feeling I felt when I was being threatened those times above and is NOT cliche to me and my experiences. The artistic process of making them was more cathartic at the time of their creation. And now, as the viewer of my own work, I appreciate even more, the final images and the power behind them. 
• The mind learns how to be calm,  while the body is in threatening scenarios or visa versa. It is this training, through life experiences and activities, that I have been saved in moments of threat and extended times of threat.  

CHICS WITH GUNS

OILS ON PAPER and mixed media (each image is approx. 36"x 48"or 30" x 44"). I tried to work with a number of different expressive styles. This is their evolution and transformation done from looking into a mirror and back to the canvas.  I  made up the images of the guns and wine glasses; they were not real props. 

I STARTED WITH THIS SELF PORTRAIT IN OILS: 

And then there were these large self portraits, occurring within the same timeframe with Chics with Guns. They are non gessoed, raw canvas with no stretcher bars, ranging from 2.5' x 4.5' and larger. They are Oils on canvas with some mixed media. Again, I was looking back and forth into a mirror and back onto a canvas, painting expressions and shapes with large strokes, having nothing to do with any realistic representation of my Caucasian, female self; But mood, emotion made their way out through the brush. I played with distortion, perspective, size, process.  The humor, distortion, scale, masculinity, tribal, and indigenous influence all emerged all on their own. They really were not that 'deep' nor full of meaning. I was able to fully enjoy the process of creating and defy anything traditionally correct in application of medium and classical, refined painting, as well as process and perspective. This series, like Chics with Guns, was very physical in its creation and very defiant in traditional or classical conformities of  perspective, realism and concepts concerning female strength power, beauty, attitude. 

POST ELECTION '24. 

I have utilized one of my pieces to express my feelings about the election.  I loathe this man and all he represents.  This is artwork which is not about violence towards anyone, seeing this is not who I am nor does it accomplish anything.  Nor is this a stance on guns. This is about the feminine spirit.   He cannot threaten but not defeat and our (women's) biggest power. I'm sorry for anyone who sees this as 'violent'. The point (pun intended) is that the gun pointing at you is not the real weapon. It's pointing different power at you- that is not coming from the gun. The real 'loaded gun' is the unfettered feminine spirit, which will never be defeated by this orange man nor his posse.  This is artistic expression.  I am promoting the strength and power within the woman.