BLOG # 3: SIZE IS EVERYTHING!

 

Party - oil on canvas -  45”x60”  

After my three children went off to school, I went back to being an artist. At the time, we had a small house and the only place I could do artwork was the kitchen table. Because of that, my creations rarely exceeded 30x40 inches in size. When we moved into our present home, some 45 years ago, I got my first real studio, an enormous one: 25’x20’, two stories high with a giant north light window. It had been built for a mural painter known for his work at the 1937 World’s Fair. At first, I was overwhelmed by its size; everything I did looked out of scale, much too small for the new space. I retreated back to the kitchen table and my customary 30”x40” format, Soon my work began to grow in size, comfortable in its new, expanded quarters. Just recently, I have begun to crave an industrial loft, (the kind that is now impossible to find in Stamford,) the sort of space used by really “important” artists who do really “important” work.

And here is the crux of my blog: It has been my observation that artists (not all) usually work to the constraints of their studio space. A small space means smaller artwork; a big space, bigger artwork. It doesn’t mean the work is better, it just means it’s bigger and in today’s art world, bigger IS considered better, more “serious.” But, speaking as an art historian, I know that great work comes in all sizes. Vermeer, who worked in his Dutch parlor was no less an artist than Tintoretto or Rubens who had giant studios and turned out monumental works for palaces and public spaces. Bigger is bigger, that’s all.

Most of the artwork produced locally is what I call “decorator art,” designed for suburban houses or apartments. When I inquire of my fellow artists why their work isn’t larger, they invariably reply: “Where would someone put it?”

I had an interesting experience recently with “scale.” I attended a small dinner party in Stamford where one of the guests, a theatrical-looking older man with a mane of white hair (and a much-younger, “trophy” wife) was studiously ignoring the rest of us. Too boring. When the party broke up, he and I found ourselves standing alone near the door and he was forced to talk to me (an elderly, totally uninteresting suburban matron). Someone mentioned to him that I was an artist “too” and he proceeded to sound off about his importance, all the while never looking directly at me (not worth his time). It turned out he had been a famous cameraman in the heyday of Italian cinema and had gone on to a big career as a photographer in New York City in the 1970s.  When he said he had worked for Fellini, I reached into my purse and took out a photo of a painting of mine, a really powerful, debauched nightclub scene, very Fellini-ish. “This is my work.” I said, quietly. He did a perfect double take, the kind you see in the movies, actually seeing me for the first time. ”You did that?” he exclaimed. “It’s incredible! How big is it?” “About 40”x60,” I replied.  “Not big enough! It has to be the size of a wall. Call me when you’re finished and I will come see it.”

He was right of course; at heart I was still a suburban housewife/painter. I lacked the balls to be “ a real artist.”  Recently, however, I bought a giant roll of canvas and am working up the nerve to go really bigger, colossal, Fellini-esque …and I will be sure to ask him to come see it when I am finished.   

BLOG #2 (MY) CREATIVE PROCESS

 

Blue Triptych  5'6" x 11' oil and charcoal on canvas

I love standing in front of a blank, six-foot tall canvas, a stick of hard charcoal in my hand and not an idea in my head. In order for the process to work, I must be alone and the room absolutely quiet, no sounds, not even the radio. My hand begins to move, almost unbidden, like a Ouija Board: a face appears, a body, another body, everything overlaps much in the way of cave paintings. If I don’t like what I have done, too forced, not free enough, I take a rag and wipe the charcoal lines off the canvas and start over.  My surroundings begin to drop away and I find myself in what I call an Alpha state, the way you get when you meditate or are about to fall asleep. The subconscious has taken over and the creative process (at least for me) can now begin.

I take a rest and go back to work. Another figure appears. It looks familiar, but no one in particular. Where am I? In a diner? On the street? Supermarket? Buildings begin to appear on the canvas, other images come out of nowhere, maybe a sign that says EATS on it. I am in a dream state, following instructions from deep inside my visual cortex. I get into a rhythm; my hand moves on its own as if to music in my brain. I erase and redraw over and over again, a palimpsest of people and places, one overlapping the other. I start to dance, elated by what is happening on the canvas. An hour or two later, the canvas is filled with images, lines and shapes. I am too exhausted to continue. I walk out of the studio and take a rest. Later in the day, or maybe the next morning, I look at the work again. This is the critical ‘make or break’ point. If the composition and the drawing are not perfect, there’s no point going any further. I need to  start over, maybe leaving behind an image I can’t bear to erase. All of this is completely intuitive, you understand; there are no rules, no right or wrong. If, later, I still like what I have drawn, I will take a can of spray fixative and spray the entire canvas, up and down, side to side. The charcoal is now fixed in place. To change anything means removing the fixative with lacquer thinner, often damaging the primer of terra verte or umber. I sit and stare at the canvas. What next? It must be perfect at this point; one mistake, one superfluous line and all is lost.

Once I am satisfied with the composition and the drawing, I need to decide what to do next: do I stay with monochromatic stains of umber, gray and white, or go for full color – much riskier? Once a decision is made, it’s hard to turn back.  That’s the advantage of sealing of the charcoal drawing with fixative; at least you can wipe the later paint down to that layer. It’s a challenging period, not much room for error, but when it comes together, I am filled with joy. 

I was just thumbing through a book about Chagall who also used “dream” states in his work. “I am an unconscious-conscious painter,” he said. I guess I am too. It’s not easy for an artist to shut down the visual-rational world and allow the subconscious to take over. But when it happens, it’s magic.

BLOG #1: ARTE POVERA

Unless you were plugged into the art scene forty years ago (or were even alive at that time), you probably never heard the term “Arte Povera.” It referred to a movement that began in Italy in the late 1960s. Defined as the “Art of Impoverished Materials,” it is artwork made out of found objects, detritus and cast-off, unconventional, often impermanent materials. Arte Povera was a radical movement, both artistically and politically, attacking the corporate mentality of the art world both through materials and style.
Since I lived in an artistic backwater, Stamford, Connecticut, with very little opportunity to get into New York City (long story – another time), Arte Povera was in and out of fashion without my even being aware it existed. For some reason, however, I always had a liking for funky, impermanent materials: box cardboard, brown wrapping paper, junkyard scrap metal. I figured that since my work was never going to make it to Madison Avenue or be bought by a major museum, I didn’t have to worry about whether or not it was “archivally stable” and would last forever. Besides, it appealed to the anarchist (small “a”) in me to believe that my work was not a commodity and I was not creating merchandise. Take that you for-profit-art world! I’m never going to be bought and sold like the rest of you whores.

My first foray into Art Povera (although I didn’t know that’s what I was doing) was when I created a hundred or so urban dioramas out of discarded cardboard boxes. These miniature worlds were peopled by a huge cast of hand-drawn characters right out of the streets of downtown Stamford before the city was “redeveloped” in the 1960s. I once exhibited stacks of boxes in the windows of a SOHO gallery where they were at home with the grungy (at the time) art scene. The closest my boxes ever came to art world acceptance was when a scion of the Goldman Sachs family installed a dozen of them in the waiting room of the local health center. My patron was convinced that patients waiting for their ct-scans and x-rays would be both distracted and entertained by what was going on.

After the boxes, I set about creating giant puppets made of eight-foot sheets of cardboard purchased for a couple of dollars at the local packaging store This time, my theme was corruption and power: twenty savage figures masquerading as respectable businessmen along with their equally dissolute wives and associates. The crowd is still hanging around my studio, waiting for me to come up with the Brechtian "Power Play"  I promised to write for them. I’ll tell you more about it later when I get further along with the script.

I’ve always been fond of “detritus,” a fancy term for cast-off junk, especially the kind that turns up as scrap metal. I usually buy it by the pound at a place in Stamford called “Vulcan Surplus,” a favorite haunt of sculptors and tinkerers. I forage for scraps on the ground and use them in miniature, Schwitters-like collages with mud still clinging to them.

My most recent foray into Arte Povera is what I refer to grimly as "road kill,"  beer cans squashed by passing cars into convoluted abstract shapes. If I find a good can, but one that lacks “character,” I kick it back into the road and pick it up the next day. When I am satisfied with the patina, I mount the can on black velour and set it in a faux baroque frame. The nice part is, I know I can get at least a nickel deposit back for the piece.

Photo #1: A nest of cardboard boxes currently cheers visitors to the Tully Health Center in Stamford.

Photo #2: Sheets of box cardboard are used to create giant satirical puppets.

DEAR FRIEND, COLLEAGUE, ACQUAINTANCE 

"EATS" right side triptych 72"x46"

For reasons that make very little sense, I have decided to write an art blog. You can read my first few efforts now and make up your mind if you want to continue with me. God only knows, the world does not need another egocentric screed about "Me the Great Artist," but hopefully, mine will be fun to read and more informative than most. I hope to give you some insight into the mind of the 'working' artist and will cover new topics once a week.

I promise to keep my comments short and sweet, insightful without being pseudo intellectual...no academic jargon or one-up-man-ship. If you enjoy what I have to say, please pass the site along to your friends and colleagues. My goal is to get my work and ideas out into the wider world before it's too late.

Thank you,
Renee Kahn