It is a strange task to produce a work that will endure beyond its maker - enduring physically and in infamy. On some level, this is the absurdity in which a painter engages each time he or she approaches the canvas. One dilemma in the face of this metaphysical crisis is pacing the construction of a painting. Since the lifespan of a painting after completion will inevitably outweigh the time of its creation, how long should one spend getting it ready for a life in the big bad world? As an artist, my paintings are little Pinnochios whom I secretly expect to come alive and pay homage to their creator. In truth the paintings are indifferent to me and I am only a small portion of their inanimate lives.
Painting is slow in nature. Fast painting is only relative. There is a critical delay between a thought or sight and its translation into paint. It is in that delay, while the artist’s intention is channeled through the archaic technology of brush, pigment and oil, that interesting inaccuracies occur. There are the deviations from reality that express a personal subjective view. Then there are the deviations from intention that belong solely to the mysteries of paint, creating an aura of otherworldlyness that is so attractive. It is the inefficiency of painting that makes it special and alluring. The inefficiency of the process is thereby sympathetic to slowness and often rewards it. Yet again, where along the spectrum of inefficiency should a painter exist? How slow is too slow?
This summer I saw a retrospective of an extraordinary realist painter, Antonio Lopez Garcia at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Garcia, still actively painting in his 70’s, is renowned for working on his paintings for many years at a time. One painting, “Lucio’s Balcony” took 28 years to complete and during that time the apartment where the balcony was located changed ownership several times. The duration of a painting may be lengthy but in the moment, Garcia is not slow at all. A documentary film by Victor Erice called “Dream of Light”, shows Garcia working tirelessly and swiftly to capture the appearance of a Quince Tree. Sustaining that heroic pace over long periods is what makes his paintings more a meditation on the appearance of time than anything else.
A friend of mine, Alvaro Altamar has been working on a master copy of a painting in the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts collection since we attended a class there together in 2005. The original painting from which Alvaro is copying is John Vanderlyn’s Ariadne— a mythical nude sprawled out in the woods on a crimson drape. He has studied every aspect of the painting, accounting for Vanderlyn’s palette and working methods, visiting other versions of the painting and meticulously scanning the surface of the paint for its secrets. He has analyzed it like a scientist, making obsessive calculations of the inner geometry and painting studies devoted to particular color dynamics. He knows the Ariadne so well that at times it’s hard to separate the painting from an actual embodiment of the sensual maiden when he refers to it— the painting of the goddess has slowly become her.
I am reminded of Borges the more I think of Alvaro and his Ariadne. Jorge Luis Borges wrote many short stories that teased the idea of the infinite. In one story a group of scholars create an Encyclopedic entry for a fictional state with such precision that the place begins to exist in reality. The reader’s comprehension is pushed to exhaustion in a story where a writer attempts an exact recreation of Don Quixote, not by copying the text but by arriving at the same decisions that Cervantes did. Another story describes a book intended by its author to be infinite by including every possible outcome of a narrative as simultaneous interweaving realities. Borges’ metaphysical experiments underscore the wonder and beauty of mankind’s most futile endeavors. He celebrates inefficiency as a sort of liberation from time.
My opinion of Alvaro’s Ariadne repeatedly sways back and forth. At one end I am in awe of his dedication and continued fascination. At the other end I am impatient with his exercise and urge him to move on to new territory, to move on to original works. Alvaro does make other paintings, but the Ariadne has been a consistent draw on his time and energy. A year ago someone wanted to purchase the painting and Alvaro gave him a timeframe for its completion that continued to elongate until our economic recession intervened and the buyer backed away. Now Alvaro has no incentive to wrap up the Ariadne and can continue unhurried. It is a painting that hasn’t lost its initial purpose to copy a masterwork, but other ambitions have certainly been adopted as the piece becomes something far more than a simple copy. We joke at the sincere question of one the Academy’s museum guards who asked, “are you ever going to be done her?” Alvaro pontificates with a revolutionary zeal that his painting reflects his wish for people to slow down and really look at one thing with full attention.
In time all paintings will decay. They will crack and discolor and further deviate from their original intentions. This is not necessarily a bad thing—in fact, there is some satisfaction in seeing the age of a painting. The enduring slowness is revealed underneath the signs of age. The slowness of painting seems to open up an exception to time while still being tied to it. Paintings reflect the desire for a soul that will endure past our physical bodies. A painter’s separation anxiety is understandable because it is as if the soul departs the body when a painting is finished. I look forward to one day seeing Alvaro’s Ariadne long after the hard work is done—cracked and aged, resembling Vanderlyn’s. But then again, it might never be finished.

By most reckonings weeds and animal pests are a nuisance. Modern agriculture’s response generally involves spraying. Despite the polluting and impoverishing effects of agrochemicals on the landscape, their use is hardly like to stop. Besides, liquid combat (or GM crops with the same toxic effects as pesticides) is the only efficient way of removing nature’s unwanted stubble and incomers. At least, that is what we are bamboozled into believing.

Philip Trevelyan, former London film maker - now farmer, musician and entrepreneur is not so convinced. Tired of city life, he opted for life with a slower tempo. In 1997, he set up the Lazy Dog Tool Company, to make hand tools for farmers and growers. What he created, though, turned out to be far more than a slow-tech reaction to weed control through spraying.

In grassland and crop-growing areas, and especially in conservation areas, manual digging and pulling may be a better bet than agro-chemicals; and, at the same time, one that helps retain ecosystem robustness. The problem, though, is that this is not just hard work; it is too costly and inefficient too. Or is it?

Not if you have the right tools, Philip believes. Lazy Dog refers to the first tool produced by his company; a fork for lifting and removing tap-roots such as spear-thistle roots, ragwort and nettles. Unlike most conventional tools, Lazy tools are ergonomically designed. The operator works without needing to bend and can continue for extended periods, with much less physical effort than using conventional hand tools.

So Trevelyan’s slow technology goes beyond re-inventing what old-fashioned tillers of the land already had at hand long ago. It may not be hands-free, but it is an agro-chemical-free method of weed control and eradication.

Far from inefficient, backward technology, lazy tools allow contract
operators, or ‘gangs’, to work for prolonged periods with minimal fatigue, in most weathers. Use of agricultural sprays, in contrast, can only be used in restricted conditions, adding inefficiency to operations - a matter, conveniently brushed aside in most performance evaluations. If it is blowing a gale, for example, neighbours may not appreciate a free dose of herbicide or pesticide falling out on their land, or in their garden.

But what about efficiency of lazy weeding; can this approach really be a viable alternative to advanced farming technologies now so widely available? In a nutshell, it depends how we measure efficiency, but the bottom line is that it can.

Besides, lazy offensives result in the complete removal of a weed, virtually preventing re-growth the following year and further increasing this slow-tech’s efficiency and cost-effectiveness. Spraying with herbicides, in contrast, unless you use something really deadly (and completely unselective), like the innocuous- sounding 2,4-D or 2,4, 5-T, generally needs to be done more frequently; that is something else conveniently overlooked in efficiency assessments for agro-chemicals.

Not only that, UK water companies have to remove pesticides from our drinking water, at a cost of around £120 million year. But the real irony is the fact that water-board tenants in major water catchment areas actually spray docks and thistles routinely.

“Didn’t you get bored?” is the question most people ask when I tell them we spent fifteen days crossing the Pacific Ocean from Hong Kong to Los Angeles. I asked my myself a similar question before we left. Scared about lacking stimulation I took a stack of DVDs, a pile of books, a sketch book, and a selection of travel-sized board games. I didn’t get through the first two items and didn’t even touch the last two. Being at sea with nothing to do is far from boring.

The northerly part of the North Atlantic was a mass of low pressure systems and storms forcing us to sail through the tropics instead. So there was plenty of sunbathing to be done, along with watching clouds, sunsets (the highlight of many days) and stars.

We had a luxurious journey, in comparison to many of those experienced in South East Asia, especially as we were given the Owner’s Cabin, the best on the ship. After the craziness of the past few months and the pace at which we had travelled through Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam is was wonderful just to stop. To have drawers, cupboards and a washing machine so we could wash and unpack the stinking contents of our backpacks. Time to catch our breath, reflect on the continent we were leaving (Asia) and the very different continent we were travelling towards (North America).

To be given two weeks with no itinery, no phone calls and no emails is a rare treat, and an even rarer treat to be given a whole extra day. As we crossed the International Date Line Wednesday 3rd December 2008 literally happened twice.

The first third of December started like most others on this ship - the alarm went off at 07:45, with breakfast at 08:00. We had recently discovered porridge on the menu, which made a refreshing change from the fried meat of the last week. It was a warm, sunny day with a large roll factor. The rolliest we had experienced so far which made doing everything either an uphill or downhill struggle. The swell was in fact so strong that the front of the ship was damaged, but she just ploughed on.

I went through the usual routine of writing in the morning, eating at midday, reading and snoozing in the sun after lunch followed by yoga and the exercise bike before dinner at 17:45. The evening DVD screening was Son of Rambow (excellent) and Bobby (average).

At 22:30 we crossed the International Date Line, 180° latitude, and the day started again. So when we woke the next morning we opened the second third of December window on our special, homemade World in Slow Motion advent calendar.

The second third of December began much like the first. Alarm at 07:45, porridge at 08:00. It was cloudier and windier than the first third of December but the nauseating rocking had subsided. Everything carried on pretty much like it had the first time round except that the reading and snoozing took place indoors as there was no sun. After the gym the day took an unexpected turn. A note on a chair inviting me to take a stroll to the bow was followed by games in Morse code and flags. Then I was led to the prow of boat where, surrounded by nothing but Pacific Ocean on three sides, Tom got down on one knee and popped the question.

That evening we celebrated with the Philipino crew who gave us Spanish brandy, a guitar serenade of George Michael and sang love songs to us on the karaoke machine. The German Captain shared his private stash of Nutella with us. You can’t beat that for history repeating itself.

[Lara and Tom are travelling around the world without flying. For up-to-date information on their adventures visit www.worldinslowmotion.com]

There’s certainly a knack to learning how to slow down successfully, without compromising on other areas of life.

One of the motivations for slowing down is often an improved work/life balance. But the elusive balance is something that’s much easier to chase than it is to achieve.

As my job search continues, there have been increasing moments of wondering whether it is possible to achieve the career I once had, working in a way that I enjoy, easily paying the bills, yet maintaining a slower approach to things. There is also an impatience to get back to work that is beginning to tempt me to compromise on these principles more than one should.

As most successful people would agree, patience doesn’t come easily. So despite the econonomic downturn and everybody telling me that there just aren’t many jobs out there, I’ve been determined to find one quickly and prove everybody wrong. There’s no great urgency on my part, my redundancy money isn’t dwindling too fast, but the workaholic tendencies are pushing me to hurry up and get employed.

Despite rarely getting responses to earlier applications, suddenly some roles were available, and companies were wanting to meet with me quickly. In one case, the role sounded like it was far too big a job for me - even if I was happy to go back to a big workload and the related pressure, it seemed like a very stressful environment, with lots of responsibility and lots of staff to manage and oversee. A lot of responsibility, but for a great salary. And a prestigious role to have on my CV. Hmmmm… tempting.

I hadn’t even wanted to apply initially, due to the office location outside of London. A one hour commute each way might not seem too bad, but the work/life balance suddenly shifts towards the work side, with no time for hobbies or after work catchups with friends. I envisaged long days, commuting under dreary grey skies, to a woeful anonymous business park, working long hours to make a good impression and ending up working/sleeping/eating and little else on a weekly basis. Yet I went ahead and applied for the job.

While the first interview went well, I was surprised to hear that they wanted to see me back again - as I had rightly assessed, this role was much bigger than anything I’d ever done before. Then I learnt it was down to just me and one other applicant. I disregarded all of my rightful doubts about it, and resisted the urge to withdraw from the race. Practical me over-ruled my emotions and stuck with it.

Even the trip to the second interview proved stressful. Running and rushing to connect with infrequent trains, arguing with ticket machines, leaping through closing train doors - my blood pressure rising throughout.

While I questioned what I was doing, going through all of this for a job that I didn’t think I’d get and indeed, didn’t even want, there were still positives. The fact that I could even feel myself getting so stressed reminded me that I wasn’t that stressed out workaholic anymore, and that awareness is something it’s important to retain. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have even noticed because I was almost constantly in a stressed out state, running from meeting to meeting, juggling demands, without any time to process the fact that this might not be healthy or sustainable.

It came as little surprise when late last week, I learnt that I didn’t get the job. And I wasn’t disappointed, not even slightly. I was, and remain, relieved. Because the choice didn’t rest with me anymore. I didn’t have to confront the notion that I might have had to turn it down if it had been offered to me. It seems irresponsible in these economic times to even entertain the thought of choosing lifestyle over a job. To contemplate waiting until something that suits me, and the balance I’m trying to achieve, comes along. Because despite all of my best intentions, I don’t think that I could look the gift horse in the mouth and say ‘no thanks’

Perhaps it helped that the moment the interview was over, everyone frantically checked their Blackberries. Or that I learnt in the course of the interview that there weren’t 20+ staff to oversee, but 70+. Or that the train ride there and back was long and arduous. All I know is that someone else will start in that job, probably today. And I wish him luck, genuinely.

I just wish that I was brave enough to have made the choice, rather than needing to have it made for me. Maybe next time.

Note to self: only apply for jobs that you actually want, care about getting and that will allow for a life outside of work.

The rain here in Austin, TX started up early this morning as just a drizzle. It was one of those mornings that never quite got light but all the green that was bursting with springtime took on a kind of phosphorescent glow lighting up the sky in a sort of mystical way. All day long, in intermittent bursts, the skies would go from drizzle to full on downpour, and then back to drizzle again. It was fairly warm too, long sleeve shirt weather, so it wasn’t the kind of day that made one shiver from it all. Rather it just made me want to watch it all unfold from the comforts of my own home. And that was what I got to do.

As a mother of four I don’t often get to be home alone but today, in all this rain and in all this glorious greenness of spring and darkness of a rainy day and purple of a stormy sky, I got to be home, all day, working. All alone. Slow doesn’t even begin to explain how I felt on this amazing day of color and rain working from my own kitchen table in the quietness of just one body at home. All alone.

And on Friday afternoon when everyone returned home from their various points - school and work and an urban farm and a friend’s house, the gift of hard rain presented itself yet again. Our plans of an evening gather in the park with friends were canceled and instead we made dough for pizza and spent the afternoon just hanging out in the kitchen. Intermittently reading, listening to music, playing, um, even having a few little arguments in there too from the decompression of it all. But we were all home our family of six in the noise of 6 bodies all at home. Just us.

We had an unusually busy weekend planned this weekend with soccer games and a birthday party and an anniversary celebration too. But they were all planned for outdoors. And the deluge that came today with more promised tonight and still more expected all day tomorrow, meant that every. single. plan. was. canceled. And so we will be home alone again. With the unexpected gift of a day without any plans.

When we plan such spacious weekends, they’re for sure fun. Time for a little settling and a bit of familial incubation. When they are presented like this however, as a sort of gift, they are positively magical. And we all settle into the homeness, knowing that it’s all us and only us. All Weekend. All alone.

Hurray! We say as we hunker down in the kitchen or on the screened in porch with a book or blocks or a baby doll to play with. Hurray for the gift of rain!