Takeaways from the Met

There are only three things demanded of a painter: to see things, to feel them and to dope them out for the public. George Bellows, July 1917

These words were my major takeaway from a day spent at the Metropolitan Museum last Friday. They were posted in large type on the wall of one of the galleries housing the amazing exhibition, American Stories: Paintings of Everyday Life 1765-1915. I made a point of remembering Bellows' words because I knew a colleague of mine would have really appreciated them. I could hardly wait to find a way to share them with him--he's been in ill and not recieving visitors. That is not to be though--D. W. Bennett passed away this evening. That has left a hole in my and a lot of other people's souls. Dery was at once larger than life but humble and retiring. I think of him as the father of the environmental movement in New Jersey (and beyond). He was the heart and soul of the American Littoral Society for nearly 50 years. My feet will be leaden as I climb the stairs to the office tomorrow.

That was not the only takeaway that day. My son Tom joined me and we wandered around the galleries, checked out the baroque Christmas tree in the Medieval sculpture hall (where I usually go to draw because when the tree isn't there, neither are the crowds), and had lunch in the cafeteria. We rounded out our time together with a visit to the Vermeers and some painters of the Hudson River School in the Lehman wing.

After Tom left (he lives all the way east on 82nd Street), I spent an hour with amazing paintings of Luo Ping, an eccentric Chinese painter from the 18th century. I was delighted by his work, particularly by the album called Insects, Birds, and Beasts. These simple but elegant depictions of nature's creatures are paired with poetry written by a contemporary of Luo Ping who happened to be a well-known playwright. According to the instructive narrative provided, Luo Ping painted the images first, leaving large amounts of space for his friend to add his poems, which used nature's images to point out human foibles. Despite the space left by his artist friend, "Jiang Shiquan squeezes the inscriptions into tight blocks or improbable corners, or dangles characters like a string, or marches them at an angle like ants. The unusual placement of his inscriptions greatly enhances the album's visual appeal." (Eccentric Visions: The Worlds of Luo Ping (1733–1799)


Then it was back out into the cold--the coldest day so far this season--and back to Red Bank via two subways and the North Jersey Coast Line from Penn Station.

A Red Dot Day

On Sunday, I attended the opening of Greetings from Asbury Park in (where else?)Asbury Park at The Paint Place owned and operated by Jackie Chesley, mosaic artist extraordinaire. As one of ten artists in this small works show, I was lucky enough to meet some new artists and reconnect with some I've known for a long time. Also saw some family that I haven't seen in a while and was really touched that they made the trip on a Sunday afternoon to see the show.

The day also brought what has become a relatively rare occurrence in this most recent phase of my life--I sold a painting! At the end of the show, which is at the end of the year (and at the end of the decade) my small egg tempera still life, Bread Alone, will be going to a really good home. Lou and Steve are kindred art spirits. Best of all, future visitation will be possible.

I ended the day in the very best way--with a nice leisurely dinner with my childhood friend, Janet. So, when the gallery put a red dot on the wall beside my painting, I put a red dot on the day.

Greetings from Asbury Park

I'm included in an exhibition of small works at The Paint Place on Cookman Avenue in Asbury Park. The show is up now but the opening reception is Sunday afternoon from 3 to 6 PM. Stop by. I have 3 small egg tempera on panel pieces in the show.

I'm Back

The past two months have gone by in a flash. One of those months -- from mid-September to mid-October -- didn't include painting. How frustrating. Too many nights working on the job--too many other intrusions and a good sized dose of loss of nerve. What am I thinking starting over in a new medium? My flesh tones look like raw meat--or very bad makeup. Then things seemed to smooth out. Don't think about how long it's taking to produce an 18" X 24" painting. Don't think about the fact that there was a time when I could produce a 48" X 72" piece in the same amount of time. Of course I was painting 3 full days per week. Now I can only work at night and on the weekends. Sometimes I have to do other things--like get a haircut or clean my house.

Progress Thomas is nearly done. In fact, it's complete enough to photograph and risk entering into a juried show at the Monmouth Museum. Still having troubles with parallax--still not used to the digital camera.

Social Work Works Really Works

Today was the opening of Social Work Works: Paintings by Lou Storey at Trinity Cathedral in Trenton. This is another in the ongoing series of ECVA (Episcopal Church & Visual Arts). Let's just say that I help curate these shows and keep the focus of this post on these exuberant works by Lou, an artist and friend I've known since we both transferred into Pratt Institute in 1974.

As an artist, Lou has always been totally inner driven. To me, his work always seemed to remain unscathed by outside pressures exerted by the professors, the art magazines, or the art market. He just kept on producing a steady stream of ebullient works that could be whimsical or satirical or both and, no matter what, always filled with an incredible energy. Whether oil paintings of familiar objects from the studio or completely fantastic scenes from inside his head or total absractions--his work is always immediate and alive.

A few years ago, Lou discontinued his business as an award winning exhibition designer to go back to school to get his MSW so he could enter the "helping profession." When I first heard of this plan, I assumed it would curtail his art production--going back to school at our age would be pretty time consuming. But not too time consuming to stop the flow Lou's creativity. These 24 incredible pieces in paint and bas relief created by shapes he hand cast in the studio and affixed to the surface of his canvas are proof enough.

These paintings chronicle his journey into the realm of social work--through school, through his clinical internships, and through his first two positions in the field. They incorporate layers and layers of intricate patterns, symbols, shapes, and textures--both two- and three-dimensional. Applied with almost frenetic energy, the marks cover every available space on the canvas and march beyond the picture plane over the frames and around the sides.

At the opening, Lou's works were equally intriguing to the social workers who attended as to the lay people ingnorant of the concepts these works explored. And for the uninitiated who want to learn more about the words used in the works, the artist provided a number of statments about the concepts he was grappling with in his parallel journey as he created these works.

The show is at Trinity Cathedral, 801 West State Street, Trenton, NJ. It's best to call for hours because the space gets a lot of official use - 609-392-3805.

Kudos to you, Lou.

Family Resemblances

I continue to struggle with Progress Thomas. Contemporary Thomas is filling in nicely. The facial structure and values are becoming solid. The flesh is taking on that egg tempera "glow" that I envy so much.

I fear, however, that young Thomas is taking on the look of a munchkin. The look of childhood that I achieved in the original drawing is slipping away from me. Just one line too many or a shadow ever so slightly too dark or a transition too harsh and the 7-year-old face is transformed into the countenance of a middle-aged manager.

Part of the problem is Thomas' stark resemblance to his father--the shape of his face, eyes, nose, mouth, and even brows are his. How to prevent myself from rendering that other face that I know instead of the one before me?

Over the years I've used many family members as models and have been able to truly grasp the family resemblances. This summer I painted a portrait of my father who had passed only a few weeks before. As I worked, the face of my youngest sister danced before me. In my source photo of my father as a young sailor, the weight of the years were removed, revealing a bone structure nearly identical to my sister's. It was a cathartic exercise.

Many years ago, when working on a posthumous portrait of my grandparents, I just couldn't get the likeness of my grandmother from the rather small snapshot that was my only reference. When it dawned on me that Nana May was Daddy with long hair, my problem was solved.

Or, as in the case of my present work, the resemblance can become a barrier. Thomas' father's image continues to intrude. My mantra must be: paint what you see, not what you know.

My works take months to complete. I draw my subject. Then I draw them again. Then I paint them. It is no wonder that their images are indelibly stamped on my brain. I know them in a new way. I can't seem to express it in words. How fortunate that I don't have to.

Drawing Dancers

Last Wednesday night, a young ballerina in the making graced our model stand. When I arrived just before the appointed 7:30 start time, a number of artists were already set up and ready to go but no model had made the scene yet. This always creates a buzz. Where is the model? Is there one? Did anyone call Joyce? Should one of the artists pose? A phone call to Joyce revealed that there was a miscommunication of our starting time and that tonight a young dancer would be posing for us--in ballet regalia. Into my mind popped visions of Degas' pastels.

When she arrived, accompanied by her mother, we were eager to get to work. Barely 13, this child was all angular limbs with a torso so slim that it could have been a limb, too. I'm sure that when she assumed her role as dancer, the angularity would be transformed into pure grace.

She leaned forward to don her toe shoes and, as she criss-crossed the wide, pink satin ribbons around her ankles, my mind traveled back in time to my anatomy professor at Pratt. In addition to being the liaison between Pratt and Columbia Medical School, where we went to draw from cadavers, this professor had also developed and taught a special course in anatomy for dancers at the Julliard school to educate professional dancers about exactly what they were doing to their bodies, especially their feet and knees. The idea was that this awareness could enable them to take some pre-emptive measures.

By the time those dancers reached that stage of development--put in enough hours and endured discomfort and even pain since a very young age--most of the damage was probably done. And what of the countless others who didn't make it to this point? I'm sure the parents of these budding dancers had not recieved such informative education about the impact of dancing on their developing frames?

How many parents have heard and/or heeded recent warnings of the impact of excessive training and competition on young gymnasts, soccer players, and skaters on their children--most of whom, like the aspiring dancers, are not sufficiently gifted to go on to sustainable careers in their passion?

Parents of we visual artists are, for the most part, exempt from the need to decide if their 5-year-old budding artist is gifted enough to warrant risking normal physical development and future health for the sake of art. Painting and drawing ability appears to bloom later than athletic or dancing ability. The damage that we painters inflict on our bodies comes through exposure to toxic substances--solvents for oil paint, chemicals in the printmaking shop or (until the 21st century) in the darkroom, or heavy metals in paints. By the time we are sophisticated enough to access these or even to decide to use them, we are in late adolesence or young adulthood. And we have plenty of warnings on labels and in books about the practice of art. We do it to ourselves. I know plenty of artists who by middle age have developed severe allergies to paint thinners and solvents and even to paints.

How did I get here? I'm blathering. Back to our young ballerina. The rather harsh lighting in the studio soon dispelled notions of approximating Degas' smoky atmosphere; however, once we talked this young lady--an experienced dancer but novice model--into a pose, we were treated to an exceptional exercise in fluid line. And yes, her neck was really that long.

Homecoming

On this warm and rainy Saturday morning, I took down an exhibition of my large work, A Meditation on the Stations of the Cross. Somehow, there is something just as satisfying about bringing work home as there is about putting a show up. I find it more peaceful. After 30 years of installing and uninstalling shows, I have a routine for wrapping and unwrapping, taping, and packing into my car.

Installation is always cluttered with anxiety and other feelings about how the work will be received, will there be any last-minute disasters, and will the work actually fit in the car. Will the hosting organization welcome my input about how the work should be hung--or not? Will the press actually cover the show?

Taking a show down is like bringing your children home from college. You know they'll be going off again eventually but it's nice to have them back in the house even for a little while. My son, Tom, just moved all of his boxes out of the front hall into his apartment in New York City where he'll start graduate school in a few weeks. My art,swathed in bubble wrap and plastic, has taken their place.

Now it's time to separate an egg and get painting.

The Linguini Supper

Last summer, when Joyce first asked me if I would like to come to the annual linguini supper for the members of the Wednesday night drawing group, I accepted. Another artist in the group explained that it would be a thoroughly enjoyable occasion--we'd start out at 3 PM drawing or painting from the model who (weather permitting) would pose in Joyce's garden for a few hours. Then Joyce would serve the linguini supper al fresco. It sounded like a great idea--anything involving drawing and pasta had to be a good time.

I took the afternoon off from work and made my way to Joyce's farm. I decided to work on a smaller scale and brought my traveling watercolor set. The garden was a lovely spot and the model was excellent. Soon, I was lost in the concentration needed to work in an unfamliar medium. By the time the model was ready to quit, I had finished a nice little watercolor.

I wasn't really prepared for what awaited us at the foot of the hill by the house--you can see from the photo that Joyce set an elegant table. By the time we had sipped away a glass of wine or two, consumed a variety of cheeses and homemade capponata and rounds of crusty Italian bread, the sun had gone down, the candles were lit and the scene became pure magic. More artists arrived who hadn't been able to make the drawing session--I knew most of them or knew of them. Many I hadn't seen in many years. We all had one thing in common--at one time or another we had been part of the Wednesday night group.

Soon, Joyce and other artists who had helped her in the kitchen brought out large, steaming bowls of linguini and incredible seafood including shrimp, lobster, littlenecks and other fruits of the sea. Calling this the linguini supper was an understatement. Topped off with salad and cooked greens fresh from the garden and a generous helping of conversation about art--theory, criticism, news and plain old gossip--I thought I'd died and went to heaven.

That was last year. It was a magical night. This year's supper was two nights ago and was equally enjoyable. I saw some old friends and made some new ones. And I had some better water color brushes on hand now that I'm working in egg tempera.

The linguini supper comes very close to the visions that I had before I went to art school of what life as an artist would be like. Visions straight out of Hollywood laced with the angst of Anthony Quinn or Kirk Douglas--visions of a lifestyle that was never realized because they weren't based on reality.

If I can have one or two nights like the linguini supper in a year, I can sustain the solitary hours in the studio needed to produce meaningful work. I raise my glass and my brush to Joyce--an artist in all she does--for providing this night.

Coming into Focus

Since my last post I've put in about 20 more hours on Progress Thomas. To be perfectly honest, until today I wasn't really sure that I'd be able to pull this off--neither head seemed to be taking shape. This is my first attempt at an egg tempera portrait on human scale and it felt like the layers and layers of paint weren't going anywhere. Today, I saw the first glimmer of what Ihope this might become and breathed a sigh of relief. There's still along way to go but now I actually believe I might actually end up somewhere at the end. If you click on the closeup above, you can see the linear painting technique.

Wednesday Night Drawing

I first moved into the circle of the Wednesday Night Drawing Group in 1978 about one year after I graduated from Pratt. The group had already been meeting on Wednesday nights to share a model and camaraderie for a number of years at that point. It's still going. Some people have retired from the group while others have passed on. I have moved in and out of its sphere depending on available time and geography. This time I've been back for nearly 2 years.

A binding happens when people make art together over a long period of time. Many in the group are long-time friends outside of the group. I am not one of them. But even if we don't know a lot about a member in that personal way, you can tell a lot about someone by the work they do. I call it the Wednesday Night Drawing Group but the Wednesday Night Group is a more accurate description because at least half of the people paint. As members of the Monmouth County Art Alliance, we are permitted to rent the large studio behind our storefront gallery for the same 2 hours each week for six-month blocks. We hire a model who takes a pose for the entire 2 hours--with appropriate breaks of course.

My first encounter with this group was as a model. At the time I was not a figurative artist--I was creating large, 3 dimensional wall pieces of balsa wood, handmade Japanese paper and water color--very delicate and very large. I was, however, fascinated by this group that drew from a single pose for the entire session. The longest pose any model had struck at Pratt was 20 minutes.

A few years later, when my foray into abstraction was extinguished by my insatiable need to convey narrative through drawing, I sought out this group and found the ability to bring a drawing to resolution a welcome exercise.

Even though I have never developed paintings from any of the drawings created in the Wednesday night group, the work of drawing--of sharpening my hand-eye coordination, of handling various materials and developing a fineness of my favorite element--line--informed all of the other work I did.

Despite all my years of experience, I am amazed that I still have difficulty with proportions -- I can render a beautiful mixture of line and tone that is either delicate or strong, depending on my mood that at first glance has the look of an "old master" work in red conte. It's the second look that makes it clear that the head is totally too big for the body--or the hands are far too small. I won't notice this, of course, until I'm done. It is humbling. I learn.

Making Progress on Progress Thomas

Things are moving along. I've completed some modeling of the larger portrait and the garments on both figures. As I've worked on this painting, I've realized that I was too cavalier with the early layers of sponged on paint--I'm having to do extra work to mask the rough edges and textures between the colors. I'm hoping it won't matter once I've applied enough layers cross hatching. Time will tell. The first image is of the entire piece. The lower left image is a detail of the right figure. The small image on the lower right shows the tracing I keep handy to reestablish the drawing when it gets lost in the layers of paint. I'm getting an early start tonight--should be working by 7:30 PM.

A Solitary Pursuit

Painting is a solitary pursuit. We can talk about art together, draw together, and even do some painting together but, when it comes right down to it, most art gets made in the solitude of the studio. If, like me, you're an artist who also works another job to earn a living, that doesn't leave a lot of time for friends, family, or even the humdrum of daily life.

The only time our work brings us together with others is when we have an exhibition--and that is usually only at the opening reception.

In some ways the internet has changed this dynamic in that it has become easier to share images of works in progress or recently finished works with other artists and friends. I remember back in the 80s and 90s sharing snapshots of new works with distant friends in the mail--yes actual photographs sent in envelopes with stamps. We also had very big phone bills--the only way to keep in touch with artists in distant cities. Color photocopies from slides were also a big thing.

For years I listened to talk radio (NPR) while I worked--something about keeping the left side of my brain occupied, leaving the right side free to do its own thing on the canvas. Lately I'm finding the talk somewhat distracting -- perhaps because the news is just too depressing. Music has become a more constant companion.

Working in egg tempera is such a zen experience--just keep painting and the painting keeps on becoming. The progress of individual paintings is still uncharted territory for me. Unlike oil painting, I have no idea how long a painting will take. Each new work is s first--a first small still life, a first small portrait and now a first double portrait with nearly life-size heads. It's both exciting and stressful. I will press on.

A Perfect Day

Today was a perfect day--brought my car into the shop in town early and then walked back home over the two bridges to get my exercise in before the heat of the day. I saw a great blue heron and an egret. When I got home, I got down to painting. Set up my new palette made of a sheet of clear glass which I spray-painted white on one side and then taped it to a thick piece of foam core--much easier to make pigment pastes and then temper the paints. Also easier to keep them from drying out.

The faces in Progress Thomas are beginning to take shape. I managed to start modeling some of the garments, too. How much easier it is to work when you have the right setup--and how much less paint is wasted.

Finished up at 5 PM with another walk into town to pick up my car.

Painter's Cramp

Tonight I was able to put in 3 hours of work on my double portrait, Progress Thomas, despite the brutal heat. After making thousands of hatch marks in a muted violet gray mixed from ultramarine blue, burnt sienna, and titanium white, I have the painter's equivalent of writer's cramp--but the background is already beginning to have that quietly energized egg tempera aura. I'll need to remember to stop occasionally to give my hand and eyes a break--but when you're in the zone, its so easy to overdo.

I'm still thinking about the Graham Nickson show I saw at the Monmouth Museum (on the campus of Brookdale Community College in Lincroft, NJ) a few weeks ago. Jewel-like water colors of "the edge of the day" in vibrant colors painted in a manly way. Brilliant colors laid down with the authority of the oil painter he is--a show worth seeing. I encountered Mr. Nickson nearly ten years ago when I attended the Drawing Marathon at the New York Studio School. He is the dean of the school and the originator of the Drawing Marathon--an amazing artistic experience. Every artist should do it at least once in his or her life.

Time to turn in.

Painting in My Head

Today was spent in my other life--at the work I do to earn my living. I used to have a more flexible schedule as a consultant. My life situation changed quite dramatically 5 years ago. Now I'm free to paint only on weekends and holidays. I usually spend my vacation time painting, too. On days like today, when I don't get home until late and my eyes are too far gone to start working on a drawing or painting, I paint in my head. Whatever piece I'm working on, I visualize mixing the colors, laying in layers of paint. Like on a graphics program, when you paint in your head, there is a very effective "undo" button. Maybe that's why when I actually get down to work, I rarely hesitate over what to do.

That was the biggest challenge in making such a drastic medium change as I am making from oil to egg tempera. After working in oil for so many years, I had an order of tasks that I always followed. I always had a plan of attack--which part of the painting to work on first, how to blend the colors, when to start glazing--when to stop. When I made the change to a totally new medium, I found I no longer had that sense of authority that enabled me to move forward from the initial drawings all the way through to the last color glaze.

I came away from Koo Schadler's workshop with a roadmap. I knew what to do first and which bits of knowledge and experience were portable from oil painting to egg tempera (and which were not). Now I can paint in my head again because I can imagine what needs to be done.

That is not to say that there won't be surprises--that still happened in oil paint even after more than 30 years. If there were no surprises at all, what would have been the point in continuing?

The First Time

Putting these first words in a brand new blog is like putting the first marks on a brand new canvas—except here I have no preparatory studies to guide my progress. Today I worked for 8 hours on a new egg tempera painting—the second start for this one. The first painting was done prior to attending a workshop with egg tempera artist, Koo Schadler. It was done on a panel from RealGesso, which was not coated on the back and had already started to warp. After the workshop, I learned that TrueGesso, makers of panels on untempered hardboard and gessoed on both sides to prevent warping, was back in business. This also gave me an opportunity to correct some issues with the drawing from which I was working.

I never expected to be working so freely in a medium so known for its linear qualities. I never worked so freely in oil. In fact, I had gotten into a rut and didn’t know how to get out. Here, I used sponging techniques learned in the workshop to speed up the process of laying in the first layers of paint—egg tempera is executed by applying many layers of paint—sometimes hundreds of layers depending on the artist’s sensibility. This building up of thin layers of opaque and transparent colors is the secret to the luminous quality for which this medium is prized. At this stage, my painting looks semi abstract. In the next session, which will probably be next weekend, I’ll begin rendering the form in the traditional “hatch” marks. Can’t wait—I’m obsessed with cross hatching!

How crazy that I waited more than 20 years to give this medium a try. Will I ever go back to oil painting? I don’t know.

This layering technique is strongly linked to work I did as a young artist back in the late 70s and early 80s—watercolor on handmade wood cut paper stretched over 3 dimensional grids made of balsawood. I built up color by laying in transparent water color with large hake brushes, alternating complements to form subtle grays that resonated on the paper. I find myself using those same color combinations now and achieving the same glow.

I seem to have overcome the fear of having nothing to say in my blog.