What is it called, the membrane that holds an eye within the socket? Is it the sclera, the outermost portion of the eye that contains cartilage? Only the first seagull skull I found when walking on the beach in Provincetown had such a form intact, feeling more as if the dead could see, a form within the form. I carried three small skulls back to Washington D.C. in 1973. That first seagull skull was the beginning of my life as the painter that I am. I placed it on a small, plain wooden crate and began to paint, studying the colours, shapes and forms. My formal studies for my M.F.A. were finished and I needed to teach myself to paint, find my own voice.

For years it was challenging enough just to paint objects in simple spaces. A skull, a rose, a mastodon onion. The paintings started simply, first single skulls, then two. Then more. A skull, a rose, a mastodon onion, a glove. Then mannequins, white headless dolls wrestling, toy trucks. I painted a slowly growing menagerie of objects. Always there were questions gnawing in the back of my mind. More questions than answers. I worked from observation. In time the repertoire of objects grew to include polychrome church mannequins from Italy with wooden bodies, articulated arms, sometimes using mirrors to increase the number of mannequins. Before 1977, I worked from observation alone. Following a trip to Italy in 1977, I began to invent the spaces, the patterns, and eventually allowed myself to invent the physical relationships between the objects, add arms where there were no arms, patterned floors where there were no patterns.

Lani Irwin, Sunday Afternoon, 1978, oil on linen, 41 x 56 inches

Someone writing about my paintings said the mannequins were simulacra for the figure and that I was painting figure by implication. Perhaps true, though I wasn’t conscious of it. I have had a habit of taking a finished painting months or years later and repainting it. Often it starts with wanting to change something small and becomes much more. In 1984 I took the varnish off one of my mannequin paintings to make a few small changes and one of the mannequins grew arms and legs and became a female figure. From that point on, I have been painting a combination of figures and objects, the figures without models, the objects from observation, though no longer set up in a formal still life.

Many times in recent years I have started painting a still-life, enjoying the peaceful aspect of observing and painting what I see, but it has been many years since I have been able to finish a painting without the embodiment of a human presence entering, a figure or at least a face. That is to say that, although any painting implies a human presence in the act of seeing and recording, I seem to need the actual embodiment within the painting itself. So what is the relationship between the objects and the persons depicted? More often than not, they do not seem to be engaging with the objects. And my titles usually relate to the objects. In “Crocodile Circus with Dancing Monkey”, the head is covered by a striped mask, revealing eyes, ears and mouth. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. The hand reaches towards the eye, encouraging sight. She looks out, the two owls look left and right diagonally, the monkey left and the crocodiles up and out. The owls are wise, the crocodiles whimsey. The monkey is playing music. And all are on a chessboard, non traditional in colour, homemade. Made by me. It could be a checkered table cloth but I think a chessboard, the pieces moving randomly, without a battle plan. That is a key element. There is no battle plan. The moves are dictated by intuition but that doesn’t imply there is no intention or meaning, just that I prefer the meaning to reveal itself through the engagement with the objects and their interactions. The owls are mounted on sticks. I know what their purpose is in reality but that purpose is not known by many. So just looking, I see two owls with bright eyes looking out into the world. One has flat wings that spin with white polka dots on black. The other has cloth wings in a position of near flight. The wooden crocodiles are pure fancy in their bright colours and mouths that seem more to be laughing than threatening. Earth, sky and water all on a chessboard. a game once used to work out battle strategies. The rose for fragrance and beauty, the tarot card for the arcane. The pole for the owl and the string come forward of the picture plane, bringing it into our space. The crocodiles also extend beyond the limits of the frame. There was a time that I would not allow that to happen. All figures and objects needed to complete within the outer boundaries. I am breaking my own rules.

Lani Irwin, Crocodile Circus with Waltzing Monkey, 2021, oil on panel, 16 ½ x 20 ½ inches

Yes, I did seem to have rules for many years. First, working from still life, I was strict about painting what I saw, paying careful attention to position and spaces between. Gradually I allowed myself to invent the spaces and the relationships, moving objects on the table or suspended, though still observing them wherever they actually were in the studio. And for many years I would not allow objects or figures to go beyond the edges of the canvas. The sizes of the paintings were limited by what I could carry back to the US in tubes on the airplane so for many years my figures were under life size to fit within those measurements. When I began to paint them closer to life size and perhaps even a bit over, the figures could no longer easily be complete within the confines of my canvases. I think that scale change gradually began to alter the space in the paintings and also somehow permitted the objects to extend beyond the boundaries of the canvas. Possibly because of my love of medieval paintings, my compositions also tended to have a kind of symmetry. Now I allow myself to break from symmetry and more central divisions, allowing overlap and moving outside of the edges of the painting. My scale has gradually changed. There was no conscious decision to increase the scale.

Lani Irwin, La Farfalla (or the Counterfeit Chambermaid), 2005, oil on linen, 39 3/7 x31 ½ inches

My studio has a long cabinet with glass fronted shelves and drawers that was once in a pastry shop. When we brought it home, it still had residues of flour and sugar in the drawers. Now it houses years of collected skulls, bones, shells, and many toys. The toys range from old dolls and tin toys, wooden push toys, puppets and balls of all sorts from pool balls to soccer balls. There are old toy horses, marionettes, hula hoops and decoys. The list is rather endless and some of the objects are enigmatic. The polychrome mannequins are joined by dressmaker mannequins and costumes. Of course there are many books. And the drawers have photos of what I refer to as body parts. When I begin a painting, I will often go through the photos of hands or figures looking for gestures that interest me that day. I do not work from a single photograph or a single image but take what I need in order to paint a hand or a head. I often wish my knowledge of anatomy was such that I could paint without needing any references of either paintings, sculptures or photographs. But alas, that is not so. I need references, many references, in order to combine parts to make a figure doing what I want it to do. So I often look at many heads to paint one head, many hands to paint one hand. I still paint the objects from observation of the objects themselves.

I once read “Knowing how to convert unexpected objects into self-expressive props to illustrate the tragicomedy of one's being becomes the new genius of modern subjectivity” in a piece about James Joyce. (“The Momentary as Momentous in Dubliners” by Garry Leonard.) Although I am not certain what Leonard meant, I felt it related to me and the relationship I have with objects. For me they are alive, they contain stories held within over time, even though I may not know or understand the specifics of that story.

A wooden Pinocchio riding an armadillo shell. He has been riding it in one direction or another for many years, sometimes on top of a cabinet, sometimes on a low shelf almost out of sight. I have drawn him in a sketchbook two days in a row. What am I seeing? Pinocchio is primitive, inelegant, crude against the curves of the shell. Strange how the shell without the body has curved upwards, no longer reflecting the protective nature of the shell. Putting Pinocchio inside rather than on top, the shell becomes wings. When I work, I am somewhat cognisant of meanings attached to things. Pinocchio has a story and a myth surrounding that story. A dragon fly is metamorphosis, much like a butterfly. A silk kite is not a dragonfly, though. It is manmade. The owls have multiple interpretations such as wisdom, but also darkness, guides. But these owls are manmade and have an entirely different purpose, that of causing smaller birds to freeze in flight and thus be shot by the hunter possessing this kind of owl. I collected and painted them before I knew how they were used. The fish and the Pinocchio stand as symbols of my sons in addition to everything else they are. The fish I use are actually fishing lures, or so I was told.

Lani Irwin, Triptych, 2018, oil on 3 panels, 15 ¾ x 11 inches each

In paintings of the Resurrection, the subject, Christ rising vertically out of the tomb, is not what draws my attention. I find magic in the jumble of arms and legs, armour and shields, tangled, interlocked, in front of the tomb. A rising from death surrounded by sleeping unconsciousness. A quiet risen Christ contrasted with the chaos of body parts. Phoenix out of the ashes. Many of my paintings have a figure “rising out of” a jumble of objects.

Lani Irwin, Polka Dot Wings & Whispers, 2016-2021, oil on linen, 39 x 28 inches

The first time I stood in front of the jumble of horses and men painted by Paolo Uccello in the Uffizi, I was mesmerised without any concern for unanswered questions. How can words speak the hush of wonder. Pink, blue, white, round rumps and legs, armour, spears, crossbows all locked together. Compressed space. There is such spirit trapped within the shapes and forms of such a brutal scene. I have been told no one died in the battle. How can that be? But the painting does not seem to be about battle or death, even though there are bodies on the ground and weapons brandished. So what did I see? Horses more like hobby horses in a child’s room, coloured bridles snaking in and out. The spears more like pick up sticks on the floor than spears broken in battle. The patterns of the landscape threading its way into the battle, bringing the two worlds together. Is that what it is about? Unification? It is so quiet in the way it is painted. No agitation of surface, breaking up of form. I stood so long in front of the painting that first time and every time afterwards, hoping to devour every shape, colour, object until it could be a part of me. I love certain paintings with my whole being. There is such desire, a longing, a prayer singing deep within my body.

I envy painters who are so certain and clear about their work, who understand their own stories and visions, who have unhindered access to the emotions that flow under their skin, the self. I am in a state of wordlessness, unable to find a thread into the story. I think, wonder, worry about the myriad of possibilities in front of me and weigh each one, hoping to find what will carry me in the needed direction. I know there is no right or wrong but I want to delve beneath the surface and allow something surprising, moving, meaningful to come out. I know that how a painting is made is not what gives it the magic. It is something more akin to soul, spirit. And that is also true of poetry. However in both cases, description can be the carrier of that soul. How the words evoke the visual or the paint describes the object does carry the magic. It turns something inside that causes a breathless wonder, an added heart beat, a moment of being other.

When I start a painting, there is no set method. Rarely do I make preliminary drawings, nor do I plan out a painting in any formal way. I spend a lot of time staring at the blank canvas. In the end I must just start with something and believe that the next something will reveal itself in the painting of that first something. This requires a kind of faith that the painting itself will take over. Sometimes I will spend time looking at old sketches, notations or ideas from the past. Then I will start by placing objects and figures in relationship to one another to create a tension that interests me. The selection of the particular objects or the gesture and position of the figures creates a dialogue. Objects speak to me and to one another. Sometimes I will just draw objects that are around me to see where it might go. Or look at pictures in books or in my drawers for something that I like. Once the painting is started, it then goes through its own metamorphosis as it grows and parts react to other parts. Since I am not telling a story, there are no requirements and the process is guided by intuition. Figures move, objects go in and out and change position. Always I am looking for some unpredictable synthesis, a harmony and a tension between the elements. I ask the painter within me to consider the options for the painting, give some answer about what to do next. Sometimes I leave the studio after only thinking, looking, considering. Move hands yet again? Put flower in hand? Ribbon from one hand to another? Tiger puppet? Horse puppet? Can I leave it more simple? But what do the women wear? Who are they? Everything about a figure says something about the person, especially in a painting.

Lani Irwin, Secrets Among Siblings, 2012-13, oil on linen, 48 x 38 inches

The search for the colour is simultaneous with the search for the form. I believe colour is very personal, something inherent and is guided by instinct and intuition. However, because I paint the objects from observation, to some extent, colour is dictated by the objects themselves. When I am working, often a space between two shapes cries for more than just a colour so I look for stripes or patterns. However, I think it is more than just a compositional necessity. Perhaps there is a symbolic aspect to checkerboards and stripes, something that is a part of a universal language, that I relate to without a conscious knowing. I love nature, the black and white of the feathers of a hoopoe, the polka dots of a guinea fowl, the surprising patterns of moths and beetles. For decades I have collected and used patterns from the walls and floors of churches. I have a book of antique hand painted game boards that I have used as a source. Carnival targets, antique shooting gallery targets and ordinary paper targets, are among my lexicon. There is a kind of playful nature in these patterns juxtaposed against one another for no apparent reason other than my own whim. I like visual complexity, multiple layers conjoined.

Composition, colour, pattern and subject matter are so thoroughly entwined and interdependent that they are inextricable. I can’t avoid questioning what I am doing with all of this unrelated stuff. The paintings of the early Renaissance that I love have stories and symbols that carry a specific meaning within the complex visual language. Mine do not have a specific story or framework to hold it together, to give it meaning. I would love it if they did. I am not an intellectual painter who thinks in abstractions or concepts. I am much more rooted in emotion and intuition. The subjects I am drawn to, the relationships within the paintings that I tend towards creating, seem to have an element of disquiet that can at times be unsettling to viewers. I paint objects and figures, shapes and patterns that don’t quite reveal themselves, regardless of how I paint them, and certainly don’t explain why they are there together on the same stage, not even to me. A theatre of the absurd.

Lani Irwin, Epona, 2013, oil on linen, 47 ¼ x 39 ⅜ inches

My studio is where I am most at home. Even though my house is an extension of my studio and is full of objects, many that move back and forth from one to the other, the studio is a place of my own where I can close my doors and just be with my own thoughts, as much as that is possible. I am surrounded by objects I have chosen to have there with me, paintings in progress, books. The odd thing is that often I resist going out to the studio, frittering away hours with what might be considered unimportant things. I often think about solutions for problems in a painting while I am washing the dishes or cooking a meal. The connection is never really broken. But what is it that keeps me from the comfort of entering the studio? Perhaps a kind of fear. When I was younger, I was more disciplined and went out to the studio immediately after breakfast. During those years I worked only by natural light so how many hours I could work was determined by the season. After many years, I allowed myself to extend my day by using artificial lights. That also allowed more flexibility. And somehow now, I find I can only paint a few hours a day, not the sometimes 8 to 10 hours I once painted. Certainly I don’t find painting easier, I cannot find the shape of a hand or the colour of flesh more easily than in the past. Sometimes I feel baffled by the fact that I cannot find the colour of the hand I am trying to paint after more than 50 years of painting hands. It still takes painting and repainting, redrawing and repainting many times before I feel convinced. And I paint with a somewhat different rhythm than I did. I am who I am and it is unlikely that I will change in ability or vision more than my slow evolution will allow. I continue to hope and to dream of some lightening bolt of revelation and continue to feel the quiet satisfaction, even joy, of creating forms out of nothing but pigment.

A friend brought daffodils to lunch. What is it that draws me to the spent daffodils. Once the yellow trumpet shapes were declaring spring but now they have gradually succumbed to time. As I look at these in my kitchen, I like them more than the day they arrived. In ageing, they are smaller. The trumpets are no longer round and symmetrical. Some pinch or twist, some smile. And the outer petals twist and turn toward or away from the centre. They wrinkle and because of those wrinkles, the petals are broken up by many small fragmented shadows within the more transparent yellow, giving them a cooler aspect. On some, a petal might stand up behind the trumpet like an Elizabethan collar. Some petals have sharpened to points, others curled inward to create bowls. The uniformity that was so apparent when fresh is no longer there. Each flower has its individual personality showing a life lived. It is almost like the knowing that comes from living. Wrinkles and shape shifting, resembling pinwheels. I do not bring cut flowers into the house to put in vases. I don’t know why. I have said I don’t like watching them fall apart. Obviously that is not true. These flowers declare their beauty even in decline. They sing their songs of life.

Lani Irwin was born in 1947 in Annapolis, Maryland, grew up in many parts of the USA and abroad, and has lived in Italy since 1987 with her husband Alan Feltus, also a painter. They have two sons, Tobias and Joseph Feltus.You can see more about Lani at www.laniirwin.com.

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