Post # 190 Ninety-Nine Faces on the Wall

You all remember the old camp bus song, “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall”, well, several months ago, for some totally inexplicable reason, I began to obsessively draw faces. all kinds. old, young, pretty, not-so-pretty, men, women, etc. I think I stopped around the 99^th. Although I always started out with a real person whose photo I cut out of a magazine or newspaper, the finished portrait never had the slightest resemblance to it. It was as if my hand was no longer in charge and the face in front of me had acquired a life of its own. This went on for several weeks at which point I exhausted both myself and my paper supply, ending up in bed with some kind of puzzling flu that required over a week to get over.

The process by which I produced this Rogue’s Gallery of faces was pretty weird in itself. I would cut interesting subjects from the local newspaper, or the New York Times and begin to sketch them on soft newsprint paper with a pencil or piece of charcoal. That was when the magic took place; the image on the paper would take over and I was no longer in control of what I was drawing. The face in front of me bore no resemblance to the photo I was looking at. Someone or something else was now in charge.

Day after day new faces appeared. My studio walls became obsessively covered with them. When I ran out of wall space, I brought down huge sheets of triple ply cardboard from the attic and covered them, front and back with faces. I finally exhausted both my paper supply and my well-being, ending up in bed for over a week with a strange flu. I’m lucky it was only my health and not my sanity.

I wish I could explain what happened, but I can’t. It was as if I had been consumed by pandemic loneliness and a need for “company” and my subconscious mind responded by creating its own crowd.

POST #189: REAL LIFE, NOT ART

 

I’ve never believed in miracles or magic or a God who cares whether I live or die. I wasn’t taught to believe at an early enough age to accept things that don’t make sense. There’s a rational explanation for everything and if I don’t know what it is, it’s only because I haven’t learned it yet. There is no one to answer my prayers, no matter how nicely I ask, and If things go wrong, I have only myself (or society) (or just plain bad luck) to blame. God had nothing to do with it. He/She/It couldn’t care less. I am not even a mote of dust in the eye of an unfathomable universe. The truth is, I matter to myself alone and to an ever-diminishing circle of family and friends. I’ve never depended on luck, played the lottery, bet on horses, or tried to convince myself that a serial philanderer would make a good husband (as one of my friends just recently did). I’ve always been realistic about my chances for success. I may not like “reality”, but unfortunately, it is what it is. I’m rarely disappointed because I was taught at an early age to only expect what was possible.

“There’s no pie in the sky when you die. It’s a lie!!” (Depression era song)

While I’m probably never going to be in a Whitney Biennial (my goal was to be the oldest artist they’ve ever shown), there are some things I might realistically expect: I can hope to keep getting better, producing artwork that doesn’t go straight into the dumpster after I’m gone. I’ve had a long, interesting life, a loving marriage, contributed to my community and raised three outstanding children and six dynamic grandchildren with my first great grandchild coming in a few weeks. I try to get to my studio every day; I’m not always happy with the results, but at least I try to produce something worth keeping after I’m gone - and not just to re-use the canvas.

The last few years of the pandemic have been difficult for everybody. We choke behind masks, avoid our usual haunts. I haven’t been to Curley’s Diner (my favorite hangout) for years! My main form of socializing is an infrequent trip to the city dump (aka the Katrina Mygatt Recycling Center). Don’t laugh! it’s the most interesting place in town!) I come home triumphant, with books to read, old records to listen to, and beautiful dishes to give my granddaughter for her new apartment in Brooklyn.) A free treasure hunt; the best kind.

Speaking of God (see first paragraph), I had an interesting encounter with Him a few nights ago, just as I was about to fall asleep. It turns out that He does look like the image of God in the Sistine Chapel Ceiling (who knew?) with a long white beard.  I was in a good mood; I’d had a very productive day, and despite my lack of any religious beliefs, I found myself saying “Thank you God” while I was falling asleep.  And, much to my surprise, God actually responded from up     above me somewhere - in the deep, sonorous voice one would expect Him to have. “You’re welcome,” he replied politely. Oh my God, God has good manners? I started to laugh, and God, catching on to the absurdity of our interchange, started to laugh along with me, a hearty belly-laugh that spun its way through the Universe.

I fell asleep, happy to know that God (whoever or whatever) and I had a similar sense of humor.

Post #188: Matisse and Me

 

Oil, Charcoal and Collage 60” x38”

I just finished a book by Picasso’s most accomplished and literate mistress, Francoise Gilot. Of course, Picasso sued her after it was finished. She writes, knowingly, about the “friendship” between Picasso and Matisse. I use quotes because both of them were vying for the title of “greatest artist of our time” and truthfully, couldn’t stand one another. I’ve never been much of a fan of Matisse, although this book has persuaded me to upgrade my opinion. Picasso, whether you like his work or not. was undoubtedly the greatest artist of the twentieth century Despite Gilot’s treatment of the two artists as equals, it’s pretty obvious that while Matisse was the graceful matador, Picasso was the thundering bull.

It was interesting to me to note that both men died at 92, the age I am now approaching. They were still producing great work. Matisse and I have grown closer as we age, both having tired of easel painting and looking for more inventive forms, mainly cut-paper figures on a monumental scale. Matisse, bedridden, had a staff of assistants who were able to do the bulk of the physical labor for him. He would take sheets of paper his helpers painted in colors of his choice, using a giant pair of scissors to create cavorting figures, often floating in space, while I, without studio help, have turned to using the overhead project to create monumental forms that I photograph for “posterity.” I add color from my stock of colored cellophane (another story) rescued from the all-purpose dumpster outside my former studio at Yale & Towne. By moving the projector back and forth, my cut-outs – mostly 4”- 6”, create images   as exciting as those by Matisse. (if I have to say so myself.)

Mural design by Renee Kahn 1976
Lower Summer Street, Stamford CT
Photo by J. Edward Greene 1989

Those of you who have known me a long time remember my first foray into public art, a project in 1976 for Stamford’s Bi-Centennial celebration, a giant, two-sided mural on a derelict wall on Lower Summer Street. I put a slide projector on the roof of a car in the parking lot, got scaffolding erected, volunteer painters with cans of brown paint, and projected images of historic Stamford on the wall. It lasted almost twenty years much to everyone’s amazement. And it was certainly more interesting than the multiplex movie house that currently occupies the site.

Post # 187: Creating Company…

My late husband, a Clinical Child Psychologist, rarely “analyzed” my art. He felt it was an unwarranted invasion of my privacy, only occasionally coming into the studio while I was at work. Most of my early work was figurative, as if I were trying to create company for myself. In fact, he would often mumble “Only an only child would do this!” I secretly envied friends who came from large families, had lots of siblings, not realizing that being one of many had its own drawbacks. However, after birthing and raising three lively children, I had enough “company” for a while and was ready to move on, creating art that was mostly a mix of architecture and surrealist dream states.

This past year, probably because of the loneliness caused by the pandemic, I began to create “company” for myself again, a crowd. The walls of my studio are currently filled with faces: young, old, black, white. Beautiful and not so beautiful. You could fill a subway car with my characters. Sometimes they are inspired by a photo in the newspaper; most of the time they come unbidden from the giant file cabinet in my head. Being alone so much of the time has set off my urge to be with people, people to talk to, to hang out with, keep me company. I’ve got a wall full of faces staring at me now, and I know them all.

 

One of the great joys in my life is my “house band,” country music players who rehearse in a rustic (Appalachia style) shed on my property, replete with wood-burning stove. This week, however, they asked if they could use my big painting studio; it has a two-story ceiling and the acoustics are amazing. They said they wanted to record some demo discs and this was the perfect place. It just so happened that I’ve been working on a wall-full of “portraits,” a built-in, imaginary audience that seemed to enjoy every minute of their performance.  I keep adding to the crowd and there seems to be no end in sight. 

In a few months, when - and if - the pandemic subsides – I’m hoping to hold some outdoor events on my property. You’re all invited and I will let you know when, or if, anything happens. Bring a chair, a bottle of “something…” and enjoy coming back to life. The “Webb’s Hill Center for Music & Art”, featuring the “Webb’s Hill Mountain Boys” (or whatever they call themselves) will, hopefully, be open to the public. 

P.S. my new website is www.reneekahn.com

Post #186 Ode to a Paper Plate

 One reason I was such a good art history teacher was that I taught the subject from the viewpoint of a working artist, like myself. I could turn out a credible Renaissance “Madonna” on the blackboard in the blink of an eye.

But here’s the meat of my blog: My favorite period in art history has always been Ancient Greek ceramics, preferably from the 5^th and 6^th century B.C. I connect it to my childhood love of drawing on paper plates. In fact, I got my “start” as an artist in kindergarten by creating a much-admired paper plate. I don’t remember what it looked like; all I remember is that my teacher held it up to visiting parents as an example of the quality art produced in her class. It sealed my fate. My mother was besides herself. And when, as an adult, I made the connection to Ancient Greek pottery, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to create plates all my own. Off I went to the local Party Shoppe at the Mall, bringing home stacks of paper plates, all kinds: shiny black ones, cheap white ones. 100 to a pack. I was in creative pig heaven. During the many years I worked for the City of Stamford as an architectural “consultant,” I survived endless boring meetings by drawing on my lap under the table on the paper plates that were brought in to hold inedible snacks.  My unwitting models, the people who sat at the meetings with me, never knew they had been captured for posterity on a penny’s worth of cardboard.

Over the past dozen or more years, I have carried the Art of the Paper Plate to a higher level, this time Inspired by the ancient Greeks, not boredom. I bought a package of black construction paper and, with a pair of incredible pre-war German scissors I found at a tag sale (they read my mind), I proceeded to create my own Classical art. From my subconscious, no drawing required, the cheapest material imaginable, I began to cut out a cast of characters: silhouette figures based on my love of Greek ceramics. There was never a story, just whatever the scissors came up with. I have stacks of images. I could literally paper entire walls with them (and one day may do just that).

The moral of the story is, you don’t need expensive materials to create a work of art: just your imagination and the willingness to let your subconscious lead the way.  I’m already on to my next step, life size “murals” using the overhead projector. I project my small cutouts to whatever size I want, from inches to feet. These are ‘ephemeral’ but can always be captured with my IPhone or cut out of sheets of brown wrapping paper. I can’t wait to see what happens next. Many years ago, I picked up some colored cellophane from an industrial dumpster and now I can add color to my images. Wait until you see them!

By the way, check out an old blog of mine, Post #  1  called “Arte Povera,” (literally “Poor Art, ”a movement that began in Italy after World War II that emphasized using “humble, non-traditional materials like concrete” (or paper plates).