The Quiet History That Makes the Whole

Do you agree that it’s the quiet history that makes the whole?

Recently as I varnished and finished up pieces to put up for the Open Studio and send off to collectors, I’ve been thinking about the ‘marks we carry’……marks not only in my paintings, but in our bodies too.

In my art, I work in layers. A painting could have as many as 20 renditions. I’m interested in creating and revealing a history that creates depth, interest and intrigue- hopefully leaving the viewer curious of what went before.

Inevitably, each layer leaves a remnant - those impulsive gestures, drips, scrapes, puddles of paint, that we can no longer see in color…just in form and dimension.

Even though they are no longer visible in their original form, they are still present. I can now see how the shadow they cast, suggests a story hidden, a decision made, a response formed, a door closed …..all of which eventually informs the final surface image. Just as we are not our past, neither is the art….our history does not define us, but it definitely informs how we got to the here and now!

In the past I have disliked them and tried to get rid of the evidence- through resin or sanding…but I am now beginning to question their value. Through this new ‘lens’ I am choosing, I can now see the authenticity these under marks bring to the piece. Without them, the surface is not representative of the whole truth of the journey taken… and I want truth and authenticity!

Lately, I’ve realized the same is true in life.

Time has been moving quickly, and I’ve somehow found myself at 60 - surprised sometimes by the reflection that looks back at me. The smile lines. The gray roots. The crease that wasn’t there last year but is now fully committed to staying.

My instinct is to reject them. To erase evidence of time.

But I’m working to shift that impulse into something softer.

My mum passed away when I was 15. She was so full of life - radiant even while sick, vibrant even through heartbreak. I ache for her presence every day. I’ve already outlived her by twelve years, and that truth has become its own compass.

These marks - all of them, are proof of time she didn’t get.

Of joy, struggle, growth, survival.

They are my personal archaeology.

So I’m trying to honor them.

To give gratitude for what they represent.

To welcome the history instead of sanding it away.

Just like in painting, the layers beneath matter.

The parts nobody sees shape the whole.

Maybe beauty isn’t the absence of history - but the wholehearted embrace of it.

What part of your history are you learning to love?

I’d love to hear in the comments or replies -

your stories help shape mine, too.