POST #28: SNOWED IN: CREATING MY OWN COMPANY

I think I told my readers this before, but my late husband, a Clinical Psychologist, once remarked that the reason I painted people so much was because I was an only child and wanted company. His remark came back to me on a recent snowbound day when I went into my studio and found myself surrounded by a half -dozen colorful characters. Plenty of company, I’m happy to say, all chattering away. Last week I talked about Brueghel’s “Wimmelbilder” paintings, “swarming with people” and couldn’t help but wonder if Brueghel had been an “only child.”

Today is another cold and miserable day and my driveway is covered with ice. My pathetic attempt to put kitty litter on it (no ice-melt to be found anywhere) has resulted in a bigger mess. A slippery, clay-like substance now coats the ice, making matters even worse. I may not get out until April. But that’s ok; I have two rolls of canvas in my studio and plenty of paint. This is as important to me as having milk and bread in the fridge. And as for company, I have all those characters on my studio wall. I put up a large piece of canvas, stain it with umber, take a piece of charcoal, and voila, I’m not alone!.  

Once I can get out, however, I will head straight to Curley’s Diner at Columbus Park for some real-live company. Upon arrival, I will be filled in on all that has happened since my last visit: who is getting divorced, is on drugs, pregnant, in the hospital, arrested. Between the poets who meet on Tuesday nights and the “regulars” who hang out during the day, there is plenty to gossip about. The waitresses alone make for a book; the politicians and lawyers, another. I’ve never been there after midnight, but I understand there’s an entirely different crowd then, even more colorful.

But since this is an artist’s blog, let’s talk about the diner from that point of view. Of course, when I refer to Curley’s, it’s not just that specific place. The world is filled with “Curley’s” and every neighborhood has its own. It is a universal metaphor for a home away from home, and, for an artist or a writer, an endless source of ideas. My theory about famous writers is that one of the reasons they eventually run dry is that they can no longer get material from ordinary hangouts like Curley’s; they become “too special” to take part in real life.

Do I ever sketch when I’m there? (there’s no shortage of material) Or, surreptitiously photograph the interesting crowd? I’ve tried many times, but here’s what happens: No matter how colorful my subjects are in real life, they refuse to be captured; the photos and the sketches turn out flat and boring. I have no idea why. I’ll show you them if you don’t believe me. On the other hand, when I stand in front of a canvas and conjure people up, they come to life. It’s like they need to pass through the filter of my subconscious and the camera and the sketchpad only get in the way.

Of course, if you feel like stopping by, I do enjoy real company. I will be happy to make you a cup of coffee and discuss art and life.  And by the way, many people I know with siblings would prefer to have been an ‘only child.’

POST #27: GEORGE WASHINGTON: Father of His Country?

Early in his career, the famous 16^th century Flemish painter, Pieter Brueghel, (aka Peter the Droll) did a series of paintings known as “Wimmelbilder,” paintings teeming with life (peasant style). One of his most famous was called “Proverbs,” where he took over one hundred common sayings and illustrated them literally, i.e. “He pisses at the moon,” (meaning, attempts to do the impossible). When I taught Art History a decade ago, I would try to make the painting more meaningful by having the class take figures of speech they used all the time and illustrate them literally, the way Brueghel did.  It took a while for the class to catch on to the joke, but they quickly got into it and the results were often hilarious. Unless you stop to think, you don’t realize how often we use theses colorful colloquial expressions today: “armed to the teeth,” “the blind leading the blind,” or “throwing money out the window.”

Anyhow, for today’s subject, George Washington, (after all, his birthday is coming up), I decided to do a Brueghel-ian version of “George Washington, Father of his Country.” What if I took the phrase literally? After all, there were rumors during the Revolution that George, despite his reputation as a faithful spouse, might have cut a romantic swath through the female population of New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Could honest, incorruptible George actually have been a womanizer? What if George Washington, Father of his Country, had some truth to it? Everyplace you go, you see signs that say “George Washington Slept Here,” but nobody says with whom.

And, that is how this piece came into being. I drew George (both on his pedestal and off) holding an American flag (of course) surrounded by a dozen very pregnant women of all sizes, colors shapes and ethnicities. Then I photocopied my drawings, enlarged them, cut them out, glued them onto foam core and created a 20”x30” maquette which I submitted to a show of “Women’s Art” in SOHO. I also blew the drawings up to life size on the architectural copy machine at Kinko’s, but never made them a free –standing installation. So far, they’ve remained rolled up under my worktable for about twenty years and since they are “politically incorrect,” (I’m an “equal opportunity” satirist), they’ll probably remain there until I die and somebody tosses them out.

In the meantime, let’s cut Washington some slack. To the best of our knowledge, all those mix and match babies in America have nothing to do with him,

(But then, one never knows).

  

POST #26: AIN”T LOVE GRAND?

My husband, the psychologist, used to call them “gruesome twosomes,” couples who were so unhappy, you could never understand why they stayed together. And yet, stick together they did – anyone who tried to pry them apart quickly learned that their misery was a form of ‘crazy glue,’ once applied, impossible to remove.

I’ve known lots of “gruesome twosomes” over the years. Their bond survives emotional and physical abuse of the highest order, sometimes subtle, sometimes overt. I’ve known couples who haven’t spoken to one another for decades, or, if they did, it was only to insult or demean the another. I’ve known couples who haven’t touched one another in years (forget actual sex). Amazingly, their bond survives all challenges: infidelity (real and psychological), addiction, indifference and plain old mental cruelty. If one of the pair attempts to change, to make their lives better, the other fights tooth and nail to keep the status quo.

What keeps them together? What makes their relationship work while other, seemingly better relationships fail? And God forbid you suggest they might (after listening to them complain for decades) be happier apart, they will look at you as if you were crazy.  What? Take all the fun out of their lives?

For some strange reason, they make great subject matter for my paintings. George Grosz, my idol, the German Expressionist, drew some of the best ‘gruesome twosomes’ ever.  Although I never deliberately set out to draw them, they keep turning up in my work. Maybe it’s because there are so many of them around.

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY

POST #25: LOOKING FOR MR. RIGHT MATERIAL

I wrote about this subject previously when I discussed my problem finding good brushes. But it applies to everything else an artist uses. In the event you find a material that works for you, buy as much of it as you can afford. Otherwise, when you look for it a couple of months – or years - later, it might not be the same.

Many years ago, I created a series of over-sized linoleum blocks. I figured out a way to carve the linoleum easily (an electric iron on low heat makes it cut like butter.)  I even worked out a way to print the 22”x32” blocks without a press. While the prints were good, the blocks themselves were even better: rich, dark and beautifully textured.  A few months ago, an art dealer I know wanted to purchase the blocks, not the prints; she is looking for a way to cast and reproduce them.

But, back to my problems with linoleum. After about a year of creating some really powerful prints, I discovered I had “lost my touch.” Nothing worked any more. I was frantic. The rhythm, the fluidity of the cuts was gone; the blocks looked forced and brittle. I thought it was my fault. And then I ran into an old friend who taught printmaking at SUNY Purchase.  She explained that the composition of “battleship” linoleum (which was what I had been using) had recently been changed and that other printmakers were running into the same problem. Less linseed oil in the mix, no more Kaori tree gum? Who knew? The material looked the same, but apparently some key ingredient was no longer available or had become too expensive. If I had known this was coming, I would have stowed away a lifetime supply. I never carved another linoleum block again; it would have been a waste of time.

Another material I now have trouble finding is the right charcoal, those special hard sticks I used to use to put my drawings onto canvas. My best paintings begin as charcoal line drawings on a sepia-toned surface. When the drawing is right, I “fix” it and then apply oil glazes. But the drawing has to be perfect or what comes afterward never works. What can you do to spoil charcoal, you ask? Charcoal is charcoal; the cavemen used it. Normally, I work with hard sticks on gesso-covered cotton canvas. The rough texture of the two materials slows my hand down, forces me to compose shapes more carefully, more thoughtfully. Lately, however, I can only find thin sticks of soft charcoal, the kind that slides all over the canvas and the line it produces lacks subtlety. What happened to my hard charcoal? I promise you, if I find some again, I will buy enough to last a lifetime.

POST #24: EXCITEMENT IN SUBURBIA: The Journal of American Suburban Art

One of the (many) problems facing artists who live in Suburbia is that we are grossly discriminated against. Never mind color, gender or religion, you can’t be successful in the art world as long as you come from the suburbs. Artists I know often give borrowed New York City addresses, knowing that a home in the suburbs is the kiss of death in the art world. My work was once recommended to Ivan Karp, the legendary gallery owner, and he seemed interested until he asked me where my studio was located. When I told him Stamford, he closed my portfolio and grandly announced that he “had a twenty minute radius” for artists. My daughter used to tease me that to be successful I needed to hire a beautiful twenty-five-year old “doppleganger” from a trendy neighborhood to pretend to be me.

A number of years ago, a group of local “artistes” (note the “e”,) Carolee Ross the writer/poet, Steven Auslender, a sculptor from Wilton and Carolyn Ginsburg and I, both artists and teachers at the University of Connecticut decided to give living in the suburbs some cachet. We (anonymously) put together a spoof of all those totally unintelligible manifestos that accompanied the avant-garde art movements of the 1920s and ‘30s. The Futurists, Dadaists, Suprematists, Surrealists, Vorticists, Rayonists etc. all had manifestos; you couldn’t have a movement without one. The last one of any note probably belonged to Fluxus in the 1960s. The four of us intended to produce

an “uber” manifesto” for Lower Fairfield County and call it The Journal of American Suburban Art, a title we deemed sufficiently pretentious. Carolee contributed her epic poem, “Suburbiad,” (several people recognized themselves in it and never spoke to her again), Carolyn did a riff on an Archie comic, replete with backyard swimming pool, I did an acerbic guide to how to become successful in the art world and Steve created a sealed packet of “French” postcards which we never dared show anyone. We mailed about fifty manifestos (in plain wrappers) to people we knew and offered subscriptions for a dollar. The responses poured in and we soon had at least fifteen subscribers, including one who paid in pennies. I don’t remember if we ever got to mailing out the second issue, but we do have enough material for several more. We even have a bunch of submissions to a Merritt Parkway Surrealist Bridge design competition that are pretty interesting .

Last month, I donated a dozen copies of “JASA, Vol.I, Issue 1” to a fundraiser for the Franklin Street Works gallery at 41 Franklin Street in downtown Stamford. If you think the latest art in Brooklyn is far out, FSW is every bit as challenging. We’ll make you a copy of the Manifesto (very limited edition) but you need to pay for it with a tax deductible contribution (any amount) to FSW. We’ll show those pseudo intellectual poseurs from Brooklyn we’re not all boobs out here!

And if you encourage us, we might even put out a second issue.

Chorus from the Suburbiad by Hieronymous the Anonymous  (to be sung like a rap tune)

          Oh it’s not very Good, but it’s not very bad

          And lately they tell me that I should now add

          That it’s now being called by folk Far and folk Near,

The Suburbiad, an Epithet, they’ve now come to Fear.

POST #23: More on Satire: A Love/Hate Relationship?

Before I wrote my post on satire a few weeks ago, I went back to my art history texts to see if I could find its roots in the past. First of all, satire is a largely modern construct; it requires that an individual be important enough to be made fun of, an idea that didn’t exist until Greco-Roman times and then disappeared for the next thousand years

 Satirist seem to fall into two categories: the ones who are fond of their subjects – they’re more in the “Genre” tradition - and those who hate their fellow beings. The “people lovers:” Daumier, maybe some of the American “Ashcan School” artists” (like Sloan and Marsh,) are few and far between. Most satirists are venomous critics of society – usually with good reason.  Grosz had no milk of human kindness in him, neither did Goya or Bosch (you can tell they wanted their subjects to burn in hell!) But then, the times they lived in were pretty grim and a satirist is able to tell the truth in the guise of laughter, The greatest satirists of all times, Pieter Brueghel, had a love-hate relationship with his subjects. Paintings like the “Wedding Dance” and “Hunters in the Snow” are expressions of his feelings for humankind and nature - while others, his “Blind Leading the Blind,” for example, are hidden critiques of his times.

My favorite “mean” satirist is George Grosz. He manages to take on all of Weimar Germany: the bourgeoisie, the aristocracy, the military, the priesthood; whores and housewives; they all fall under his brilliant brush. The irony is that when he came to the United States in the 1930s to escape the Nazi’s, he lost his capacity for satire. America was too comfortable; he was a celebrity – everyone loved him; he loved them. In the end he went back to Germany, probably to recover his “edge,” but it was too late.

I’m in the “humanist” satirical tradition. I like my people: the denizens of Curley’s Diner, the women checking their rumps in a department store mirror, oversized mamas in bikinis at the beach. I may poke fun at them, but it’s fond, not vicious fun. I like to sketch when I’m in public, especially if no one notices me with my pad.

About twenty years ago, I started to draw dancing couples at “gala” events like weddings. My subjects were real in the sense that they were not the glamorous Ken and Barbie dolls you see at ballroom competitions on TV; they were mostly incongruously matched, inappropriately dressed klutzes, but still, having the time of their lives. I even liked the way they counted to the music (must have taken lessons.) I turned my sketches into a performance piece for the overhead projector, replete with tasteless music. If you like, someday, I’ll perform it for you.

POST #22: LOST/FOUND/LOST/COPIED

"Shore Leave" -  Version I

About thirty years ago, I did a series of paintings that were some of the best I have ever done. It was like the sun the moon and the stars were all in alignment and each piece was better than the last. For once, I had lots of uninterrupted time (more important than you realize), rolls of good, rough-textured canvas (no longer available) and a supply of thick sticks of hard charcoal (also not around any more). I had learned how to fall into a semi-conscious “alpha” state where ideas just poured out of me. Soft brown washes, a sensitive charcoal line accented by darker browns, grays and whites; nothing was preplanned. I tried not to sell any of them, knowing that here was work that would ultimately make my reputation as an artist.

"Shore Leave" -  Version II

I did part with two pieces. One I sold willingly to a close friend. The other, I gave away on a long-term loan. I’ve never seen either painting again and no longer even know where they are. The one I got real money for was purchased by a friend who lived in Westchester County; she promised me “perpetual visiting rights.” Unfortunately, she and her husband moved to upstate New York and then to Canada and when I offered to buy the piece back, she said no, it was her favorite and under no circumstances was she giving it up. I never received a forwarding address from her. The good news was that I had a decent photograph of it.

"Shore Leave" -  Version III

The other painting was borrowed by a man I knew who was moving from Norwalk to New York City to become one of TV’s earliest “celebrity chefs”; he could be seen on CBS every Sunday morning. He wanted it to decorate his new Riverside Drive apartment, convincing me that he would entertain the rich and famous and they would all rush to Stamford to buy my work. Years went by and I lost touch with him as well. My daughter discovered that he had moved to London and had opened a highly successful Southern barbecue restaurant in Notting Hill. I contacted him about my painting and was told that he had left it in storage when he moved to London and it had been inadvertently sold at auction, seller and buyer unknown. He had a lawsuit going against the storage company but had no idea when the case would be settled. I had a not-very-clear snapshot of it, but good enough to prove that it was mine.

"Street Scene" - Version I

About two years ago, I received a call from a friend who was familiar with my work. She said, “I think there’s a painting of yours at one of the antique centers in the South End” and she sent me a photo from her I-phone. It was the painting that had disappeared from storage. I rushed down to claim it but unfortunately, by the time I got there, it had been sold. The dealer, sensing trouble (stolen goods), developed a severe case of amnesia; he had no idea who bought it, “a picker from the Midwest; never saw him before in my life; paid cash.” I filed a report with the police and went on with my life.

"Street Scene" - Version II

About a year ago, I decided to see if I could recreate the lost pieces; after all, I had photos to work from. But even with images to copy, I couldn’t do it. My first attempts were a disaster but I kept trying and each time got a little bit better. The most recent versions, even though they don’t look like the originals, are good in their own way. I felt a little less guilty about recreating past work when I recently learned that Chagall spent the last few years of his life trying to borrow back some of his great early paintings in order to copy them Their present owners, as you can imagine, were not happy to see their originals duplicated.

Here are some early paintings along with more recent versions.