The Work Has Left the Studio

For months, Gabe and I have been working side by side at Pier 11 Studio getting ready for our solo shows. Two artists adjacent, making completely different work in the same room over the Columbia River, in what we call The Confluence at Wagnandez Studios.The studio has been FULL.

Paintings, panels, works in progress everywhere. Deadlines. Photo shoots. And then there’s the public side of our studios at Pier 11. We’ve overhauled the website, rebranded, and continued to live our slogan, “because art keeps going,” by hosting Open Studios, ArtWalks, pop-ups, movie nights and whatever else we seem to dream up.

There have been many long days. And through all of it, the two of us are constantly checking in with each other—looking at something across the room and asking, What do you think? Or sometimes simply saying, Keep going.

Gabe and I learned a lot about each other these past few months. Not just about how we make our work, but about how we arrive at it, finish it and, maybe more importantly, how we let it go.

We both have rituals around that.

After living with a painting for so long, there is this moment when you know you’re done. Or you hope you’re done—or even that you do indeed know! And before the work leaves, there is a kind of quiet that happens. A meditation. A blessing. A bidding farewell.

Then somebody comes and takes it away. And there you are with an empty studio.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about those slogan words of our Pier 11 Studio differently.

Because art keeps going.

It’s easy to say when you’re talking about a busy studio, another exhibition, another event. But what does it mean when the world around us can feel so unbearable?

We are living in a world where we can scroll through our phones in real time and see someone smiling on the trip of a lifetime, knowing that moments later that they and the building they are standing in front of will be gone. There is something deeply unsettling about being this close to other people’s suffering. It can make it hard to know what to do with our own joy.

And there is so much joy in my life right now. Sometimes that makes me feel a little guilty. Maybe that sounds strange, but I often think about this.

We took a selfie when we were finally done and the relief on our faces is pretty telling. We were exhausted. But looking around at that empty room afterward, I felt that old familiar feeling of completion before the excitement of its unveiling.

Here I am writing a blog about my paintings, our shows, and being in love while people are losing their homes, their families and, their lives. We have a complete megalomaniac dictator as a president and AI is changing things at a speed I don’t think any of us completely understand yet, including what it means to be a person who makes things.

But maybe this is part of what our slogan “because art keeps going” has come to mean to me and define in my life.

Art has kept going alongside grief. Alongside uncertainty and loss. Alongside falling in love, through broken hearts and friendships, learning to live without a father, a mother and a sister, reaching new chapters in life, growing older, finishing a body of work, and standing in an empty studio after you’ve finally released the work and let it go.

I have come to learn that joy and grief don’t politely take turns in this life. They live alongside each other.

And maybe making art is one of the ways I’ve learned to live there too, in fact, I know that it is.

Which brings me back to that buoy outside my studio window.

That buoy has been out there through all of it. Beautiful days, horrible weather, huge ships going by, tides coming in and going out. Sometimes it looks almost still and sometimes it is getting knocked all over the place.

It doesn’t stay afloat because nothing is happening around it.

That, I think, is the whole point.

I didn’t really know what Finding Buoyancy meant when I started making this work. I thought I did. But now, standing in this empty studio, I think I understand it differently.

Life doesn’t settle down or arrive at a point so that we can finally start living it.

There is always something. Sometimes something terrible. Sometimes something wonderful. And very often, somehow, both at once. I’ve come to call this “full velocity living”, the key to it is remaining open and living with and on purpose.

So I’m letting myself be happy about this. All of it.

More than happy. Grateful.

Grateful for this crazy studio over the river. Grateful that I get to make work here. Grateful for all of you beautiful people who have graced me with your good spirits and energy and helped me keep doing it, to keep making and carry on. Grateful for Gabe and for the completely unexpected life we have now found together. And really grateful that after everything, I still want to know what happens next. So the work is done. Gabe’s paintings are at Russo Lee Gallery in Portland. Mine are going to Imogen Gallery here in Astoria.

Our Farewell Video

Here is a video of our work up and gone from our @wagnandez Instagram.

We blessed them. We said goodbye.

And now the studio is empty.

At least for a minute.

We will take a break and return to the studio once more.

Thank you for reading my blog and following my not so neat and tidy story of what it truly is to be an artist in this world. I appreciate you all so very much, my hope is for our art to bring you a moments of peace and inspiration.

I hope you will please join us at one or both of our upcoming shows.

XO,

Elise