Phyllis Helland

The Freedom of Limitations

The Paintings

For months into the pandemic I could not paint. I had nothing to bring to it. No juice, bone dry.

Then, in October 2020, I received a call from a musician friend who had started a podcast as a venue for orchestral musicians who were locked down. He asked me to participate in the first episode—to listen to a piece of music that was particularly meaningful to the performer at that time, and then to talk about what I (a non-musician) heard in it. The music was unfamiliar to me, an adagio for solo violin by Bach. It was recorded by Lisa McWhorter, herself housebound by the pandemic. It unlocked something in me. In her playing I heard everything I was feeling. 

I wanted to paint those feelings. Over many months of 2020, 2021, into 2022, I listened and listened again to Lisa’s recording. Bach limited his composition to a single instrument; I limited my palette to a few subtle colors. I painted, layer upon layer, responding to the plaintive violin; responding to the layers of loneliness and sadness and striving expressed by the solitary violinist recording in her living room one quiet night during Covid.

The resulting series of paintings is my response to the music, and to the time. 

(Podcast: “…and the band played ON,” Episode 1, 10/15/20)

The Drawings

In the fall and winter of  2022–23 I was helping care for a friend in the last months of her life. The work was all-consuming, body and soul. Grief interlaced even the joys of being with Margit. I had no time for making art. I wanted to explore using charcoal to draw landscapes, but when? And my previous attempts had produced drawings that were overworked and dull. What could I possibly bring forth under the circumstances?

However, I did make time for a daily walk through our wooded pastures. One morning, in a flash of insight, I realized that I might bring a sketchbook with me and try drawing for a limited time—say, five minutes.

When I decided to limit my drawing time to five minutes—set timer: DRAW, timer goes off: STOP—I found myself drawing with a much livelier line than when I was working more carefully. I made 100 of these drawings during that time of grief and joy. It felt like the land was drawing with me; it feels like the land is looking right through me to you.

Artist’s Bio

Phyllis Helland was born in Iowa, one of the sixth generation of her family’s farm. Her first sketch book was a pocket notebook from a feed company. 

At Iowa State University she majored in what was then called Applied Art. (And indeed, shouldn’t art be applied liberally in all aspects of life?) From there she went on to a career in graphic design and illustration, including at the design headquarters of Sony Corporation in New York. 

The winding ways of life brought Phyllis to the Willamette Valley, where she and her Oregonian husband have raised cattle, sheep, and two sons. She carries a sketchbook with her at all times. 

https://phyllishelland.com