Dark Marks - A History of Kinetic Energy

There is a stage of drawing development when children are fascinated with creating a mark. This phase usually hits somewhere between 18 months and 4 years of age and stays right up until the time when scribbles transform into symbols, and art becomes language. During this time, children scribble wildly, often with the darkest colors they can get their hands on… reds, dark blues, and a classic favorite—solid black.

This phase is a mother's worst nightmare—nothing is safe. Children color mindlessly, sometimes not even bothering to look at the surface they are coloring, but instead stare off into space—waiting until the end for the dark wild markings to reveal themselves on light-colored surfaces. They step back and feel pride. Well-intentioned parents and hovering moms anxious about psychological development, rush in to take black crayons from the hands of their child and attempt to replace it with less disturbing colors. And the child cries.

Sometimes I think I am stuck in this phase. Any artist knows you are not supposed to paint with black. "It will suck the life right out of your work," a well-respected loved one used to warn me. And if you are a painter, I would have to agree. I've heard some variation of that phrase from every art teacher I have ever had. Still, I could not keep from touching the black pastels or paints, and in the beginning, my work certainly suffered from my lack of restraint.

The truth is I love black. It's not even supposed to be a color, and yet it's all colors combined in one. It's rich and beautiful, deeply saturated. None of them are the same, and that's what makes them incredible to use. I spend hours in my studio, drawing dark scales to understand them. Some of them feel warm, full of life, others cold, and hallow. Some breakdown into the most incredible range of grey neutrals, some throw the light, while others absorb it entirely and leave behind a flawless, buttery, matte finish.

I go into the art stores now, and they think I am crazy, which is sad because the people on the outside think that too. I make a beeline for the section nobody really cares about and head straight for the stock of black in just about every medium. Sometimes the hook or container is empty under the label 'Carbon Black' when all the other colors are stocked—I try to suppress my frustration. I fall in love with a color just about the time the store stops carrying it.

"I can order that for you," they say.

"Yes, please do."

Like so many artists, I struggle with depression, though I am sure I am not supposed to say that out loud. I wear so many hats for so many people that I am not sure who I am anymore. I own the label wife, mother, artist, and runner along with a long list of impressive things I 'used to be.' In this season, I cannot seem to find any traction. It's like running up mud with no tread, the harder I push the more I slip, all the while switching my hats back and forth, faking a smile.

But I am alone in my studio now, so none of that matters. I stare off into space, the music playing in the background, and my hand makes pass after pass over my work. It's a primal feeling; art isn't language in this moment, not yet anyway. I'm smiling, like that little girl who found a black sharpie and snuck away to scribble on the wall. And after hours of this, all that's left of me is a seamless history of kinetic energy—black mark. black mark. black mark.

And for a second, I'll step back and feel a fleeting sense of pride.