Leslie, I’ve been exhibiting for years, and I have the same experience. The work looks totally different when it’s exhibited. It can finally be seen well-lit and without the distractions of studio clutter. The pieces, which may have been created over the course of several years, talk to each other, and it’s possible to see the connections between them. And also, having other people looking at the work changes the context. Even without their reactions and feedback, which of course have their own impact, just knowing that the work is being seen together in public somehow changes it.

I have another chance to gain an overview of the work when I photograph it and look at the slides or digital images of a body of work together. And yet again, with a longer term perspective, when putting together and giving slide talks that cover the evolution of the work over many years. It’s like zooming out and looking at your life from far enough away to see a larger view.

Tons of surprises and re-considerations, especially when it all comes together in a show. The whole joy of having an exhibit for me is the surprising reactions, both from viewers and myself.

I have this problem when looking at my work in an exhibit, it’s like I can’t even see it for a long time. I have to go back and back and back and look repeatedly until it sinks in. Partly because I am new enough to exhibiting the initial “shock” still gets me. Amazing what looking at your work outside the studio does to how you see it.

I also do not pretend to have much control over the painting process - it is still mysterious, magical and really unexpected things happen. Anyone who has ever painted a self portrait and is shocked by what they see knows what I mean. Parts of yourself that you thought were out of sight, pop forward without your permission!

You asked: I’m also wondering how often it happens to painters or other artists that one is surprised, looking back on a work, to discover something quite unintended. As a painting or quilt or whatever takes more time in the making than a typical photograph, and may entail more active decisions regarding content, is the chance of later surprise any less?

I work very intuitively. I generally don’t have a plan or sketch and I try not to bring any preconceived notions into my studio as to what my art should or could or might be or not be. I don’t plan the "content" ahead of time.

I just work.

It is only later - sometimes years later - that I come to an understanding about the work. Some work never reveals much to me, some I can pin to exact events or feelings or experiences. Most is somewhere in between.

It’s interesting to hear what others see in my work as I usually learn something about myself in those discussions.

So am I surprised? Sometimes. But sometimes not. But it is always an act of discovery.

The quilt I showed in this post - I just made it - I had no thoughts about what it was to be. But several years later it became very clear to me that the piece was clearly my divorce quilt.

I designed it just a month after my ex moved out of the house but it took me almost 2 years to actually finish - working on it from time to time. Never really thinking about what it meant just glad that I was working. I didn’t do much artwork through those years as it was often a struggle to get to my studio - I had just gone back to work fulltime after 10 years of denying I knew anything about computers, the single mom routine, it was all new and pretty draining.

But when I stepped back and thought about it that quilt captured my feelings about marriage and relationships. And that is why it’s not really for sale. It is too important to me personally.

Okay that kind sort of went on and on and I just came upstairs to get my camera. Computers are evil.

I already saw Deidre’s work earlier, following the link from your blog, and I think it is gorgeous. Quite humbling, really. Thanks for adding the link here.

I looked at these last night and I saw darkness, violence, loneliness.

Now that I have time to comment I go back and look at them and see light and possibilities.

I am drawn to the last image of the doorways leading to a partially open door. The mystery of what might be behind there is fascinating. And the photo itself is gorgeous - great lines and proportions.

The other day on my blog I posted about a friend of mine, Deidre Adams. She loves to go into abandoned spaces to photograph them as inspiration for her artwork (this could have gone in the other post also).

This is a quote from her website:

Our western states are rich with the remnants of long-gone inhabitants who left their homes and belongings behind. Making a life in a remote area of an unforgiving landscape with sandy soil and very little water was a daunting proposition, and the vacant homesteads still standing are a reminder of a way of living that holds an appeal for only a dwindling few. Abandoned structures sit eloquently silent, giving no answer to the questions, “Who lived here? What made them leave?” These ruins are compelling subjects for the camera.

Her photos are here (hover on the thumbnails): http://deidreadams.com/inspirations.html

And see her completed works here:
http://deidreadams.com/gallery.html

But I think the choice of photographs (for me, anyway) comes from some place deep inside—and I think the angle you choose, the image you choose–are all appealing to you because of a similar place inside.

Several years ago, I did a portrait of my father from an old black and white Brownie camera shot. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was saying good-by to the dad I knew as a healthy vibrant man—I was checking him into a nursing home at the time. Other people see it and see sadness in that work–it crept in and I didn’t see it until much later.

Sorry, I can’t post a photo of the image–I’m still working on my website.

Zen thinking indeed appeals to me, but it’s not what I think of as a simple representation of my passage, to use your nice phrase. It is inevitably that also, but it’s not just representative moments, but rather special ones I try to capture. Like a Japanese Zen garden that you just glimpse going up a staircase and then it’s past. Like the designer of such a garden, I do care about formal aspects such as composition — though you could say a goal is to make them so good they are unnoticed.

I have always been a bit obtuse. Can’t help it.

I remember as a kid on family vacations in Maine rushing through dinner to hop in the car and join the Many on the trek up Cadillac Mountain to witness (and photograph) the sunset. It was always tense. Cars driving too slowly. The kids being too loud or in the way. And meanwhile the moment was approaching: the Sun was about to disappear. The storm of human activity would settle. And then, the moment. Everything would be right. Click. One time, while persuing my own adolescent interests of rock climbing a photographer went ballistic at me for wandering into his Frame.

When I learned of Ireland’s work, back in the 90s, I deeply appreciated his romantic everyday approach to his subject(s) (did you find and his work with his House?) In particular I liked his thinking about how he lived in his home and how his actions, his movements were artful (like you, Steve, he has an interest in Zen thinking). His work always reflects those movements (of body and mind).

The tricky part for me, looking at your work, is my desire to not appreciate them for their formal qualities, but as representations of your/our passage. Underlying is my temptation to be closer. Maybe even close enough to touch: the chair, the wallpaper, etc.

The possiblities seem endless.

Here is another link to an artist that works beyond his intent and with a terrific sense of humor.

http://www.leewalton.com/

D.

One of the best feeling about being an artist is to be surprised when looking at earlier work! Sometimes I am so immersed in preparing for a show that I actually don’t specifically recall painting some of the images. It is always interesting to look at the work later and see what I did and what worked. Um, and what didn’t:-)

If anything would be ominous, it could be the dark bannister. But then, the dark bannister leads the mama bear to the light.

Between you and Chantal, you’ve stimulated me to think and articulate in a new way the importance of place to my photography. Thank you!

Colin,
You’re right, I have only a small format camera (Canon 20D). I’ve always thought I would love having a big ground glass, but I don’t think I could give up the lower cost and workflow advantages of an all-digital approach. But I do almost always use a tripod and try to think carefully about composition and what I’m including in the picture. Not that most compositions are successful… Here my surprise was not because I hadn’t noticed what was in the picture, it was because my perception of it emotionally was totally different. That definitely depends on later processing as well, but with this one I can’t seem to make the “rampant chaos” go away with what I would consider reasonable processing.