Post #199: As long as I can create, I can survive

The air is pure and clear; the sky a cloudless powder blue. It reminds me of the sequence in Walt Disney's "Fantasia" set to Beethoven's "Pastoral Symphony". It's truly paradisiacal (if that's actually a term). My son's bookcase is filled with books on art and architecture plus an entire shelf of writings by Italo Calvino, our favorite author. What more could I want? Well, I do miss my East Coast friends and occasional bad weather. There's a limit to how much perfection one can take.

My grandson and my daughter-in-law came back from their long stay in Patagonia. My daughter-in-law is a clay artist. She will make plates and I will etch drawings onto them. We will take them to market and see what happens. I'll be 94 in a few months and need a last act.. a finale for a long and interesting life.

As long as I can create, I can survive.

Post # 198: Face Time

 

"Looking out to the Sea" - Composition Renee & Ned Kahn

I’ve relocated to my son Ned’s hilltop house in Sebastopol, California. Ironically, my mother came from Sebastopol in Czarist Russia, an idyllic seaside resort on the Black Sea. She remembered it as a Garden of Eden where you could reach out of your bedroom window and pull in a handful of grapes for breakfast. Until the pogroms came - and it turned into a circle of hell. Nothing lasts forever and I‘ve  learned to keep my psychological bags packed, just in case.

The idea of leaving my home of sixty years was almost inconceivable. I had a beautiful studio overlooking woods, with civilization (Dunkin’ Donuts and a liquor store) within walking distance. I’ve always had an open door policy and friends  were welcome to turn up whenever they liked. My late husband (a clinical psychologist) used to call it my “only child syndrome”.  But, here I am in Sebastopol, California, another Garden of Eden like my mother’s home town. Maybe that’s how it got its name; no one knows. Meanwhile, I’ve been kicked out of one Paradise and we’ll see how well this next one goes. Visitors welcome. It’s my last move and I just got a new library card.

> Post #197: Living in Paradise

I am writing this blog from my son’s house in Sebastopol, California, the contemporary equivalent of the Garden of Eden. If it had been left to me, I would still be living on Webb’s Hill Road in Connecticut, my home for over sixty years. But fate and a booming real estate market have determined otherwise. Fortunately, my sons live in the Bay Area and have offered to take me in. They both live in what can only be described as preambles to Paradise.

Beautiful clouds are rolling towards me from the Pacific ocean. I'm currently working on metal collages made up from scraps found on the ground from my son's workshop. If you put a pinback on them, they can be worn as jewelry. Plus I am back to my old paper plates series, multi layered and more interesting than ever.

I miss you all, and my studio in Stamford, however, life is an adventure and let's see where it takes me!

Post #196: Conjuring Up Meyer Lansky

Most of my readers have never heard of him. You need to have grown up in NYC during the 20s and 30s to know the name. He was the Money Man for the mob, on a par with Lucky Luciano. He made them all rich and respectable. My cousin Rose was married to one of his cronies, Willie L., who went from being a bootlegger to a respectable multi millionaire liquor wholesaler with a penthouse overlooking Central Park.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Anyhow, as many of you know, I work from my sub-conscious, rarely pre-planning work. A few weeks ago, I started a new panel, about 30”x 54” and who should show up but Meyer Lansky, banker for the mob. The one who made them all wealthy. How do I know it’s Lansky? I “googled” him. What else?  Frankly, he’s a monster, a golem, and I don’t want him around. A friend offered to take him home with her with the caveat that she can put the canvas in the dumpster if he causes trouble.

By the way, I looked Lansky up on line and saw that an ex girlfriend wrote a book about her long love affair with him, claiming he was sweet and kind (and very, very rich.) and he looks just like the guy in my painting!

Post #195: A Watched Pot Never Boils

Many years ago, I rented space at the former Yale & Towne Lock Factory for the Historic Neighborhood Preservation Program, Inc., a nonprofit I ran for almost forty years. Since I was actually an artist in real life, I soon made friends with the dozens of painters, sculptors, dancers and photographers who rented the generous, high-ceilinged lofts, often (illegally) making them their home. One such friend (still is) was a photographer, Bob Baldridge who rented prime space overlooking Long Island Sound. He fitted up a bathroom and a tiny kitchen that served his needs. Along the way, he even acquired a girlfriend, the wealthy but insecure granddaughter of a famous artist. She had tried out several careers and was at that time exploring whether she wanted to be a celebrity chef. She convinced Bob to allow her to use his space for a dinner party that would allow her to try out her new career. Bob borrowed chairs and tables and a giant cook pot. I agreed to co-sponsor. A date was set. Invitations went out. Money for cheap wine was obtained and a supply of paper cups and plates. What could go wrong? Who couldn’t boil spaghetti and heat up sauce?

By 6 pm Bob’s girlfriend had put up gallons of water and a pot of store bought sauce on his makeshift stove. A small crowd had begun to gather in the long hallway outside his door. Bob decided not to let anyone in until the food was ready, but he was happy to pour endless paper cups o wine to keep the party happy. Unfortunately, we had never inquired as to how many people were coming. The word of the event had apparently spread far and wide and before long, a line extended for a hundred or more feet down the hall. Bob kept handing out endless paper cups of wine while the chef struggled to get the spaghetti water to boil.

It took almost five hours for dinner to be served. The line outside Bob’s door had by now reached into the adjacent building. Raucous, drunken laughter echoed through the old factory walls. Bob opened bottle after bottle of wine while his chef struggled with her makeshift stove.

You’ve all heard the adage “A watched pot never boils”?  Well it’s true. At least not til after midnight when everyone’s too drunk to care.

Post #194: The Artist’s Wife

Growing up at the edges of the New York art world in the 1940s, the one thing I swore I’d never become was an “Artist’s Wife.” Fortunately, it’s a position that while commonplace when I first came of marriageable age, now rarely exists. No self-respecting woman artist today would accept the role, but when I came into the scene, almost every male artist I knew had one. He couldn’t function without her. And the better the Artist’s Wife, the greater the chances for the husband’s success. Just read the biographies of deKooning or Jackson Pollack!

Many years ago, one of my closest friends, a beautiful Viennese refugee, became a highly desirable “artist’s wife”. She proudly accepted the role, even reveled in it. Her days were filled with service to the Great One, an arrogant but talented SOB. She ran his errands, dealt with his gallery and entertained wealthy and important clients. He repayed her by seducing, or attempting to seduce all her friends, as well as every other woman who crossed his path. Needless to say, it did not end well, and his
career tanked along with his marriage.

I ran into him many years later after he had remarried a sexy but incompetent blonde thirty years his junior. She couldn’t tie her shoelaces without his help and needless to say, his once booming New York career as a “great artist” was over.
PS. This is a Sad but True Story!

Post #193: Little Ralphie

Despite having lived for over 90 years in (or near) what is (or was) the greatest city in the world, I confess to never having met a real celebrity. I did pass Andy Warhol one day on Madison Avenue wearing his signature white wig and I shared an elevator ride with Peter Ustinov at Saks Fifth Avenue. He even flirted with me. But other than those encounters, I’ve never met anyone whose name you’d recognize. The only exception was someone I knew as “Little Ralphie,” He was my friend Thelma’s baby brother. She was frequently required to baby (stroller) sit him and considered him a royal pain in the you know where. Who knew that in 25 years or so he would become one of the most famous men in the world? Certainly not Thelma (or me). Had we known, we would have been nicer to him.

Little Ralphie (and Thelma’s) father was a down and out, Depression poor house painter. Like everyone else I knew, he was struggling to keep the family afloat. In later years, when interviewed, Little Ralphie, now the world-renown Ralph Lauren, would refer to him as an artist, and, since he spent his days painting apartments, that description could be considered at least partially true. One afternoon, my mother and I encountered him outside a hardware store on Jerome Avenue in the Bronx. We were in search of something to polish our new (second hand) baby grand piano. Of course, Mr. L. was the perfect person to ask. “Quid Oil” was his response and so we went off in search of Quid Oil. “Quid Oil? Never heard of it.” No one knew what we were talking about. After a few unsuccessful attempts, it finally dawned on us that what he was suggesting (in his heavy Yiddish accent) was Crude Oil. Kvid Oil was what we heard. Many years later, I heard the rich and famous Ralph Lauren interviewed about his background and he referred to his father as an “artist,” a “painter,” which I guess was true (as far as it went.)

I don’t remember if we ever found Quid (Kvid) Oil, or just; ended up using Johnson’s Wax.

Post #192: Magic Scissors

 

Many years ago, at a local tag sale, I picked up a pair of pre-World War II German scissors. Now I really didn’t need any more scissors, but these were German scissors! The best of the best! No way I could pass them up. They have magical powers, know exactly what you want them to do without you having to consciously tell them. I think I paid around $2, a substantial sum at the time. It turned out that what I didn’t need were all the other scissors in the drawer. These were magical scissors; they read your mind! You never needed to tell them what to do; your unconscious led the way.

My first project with the magic scissors was a lampshade decorated with six inch high cut outs dancing, strolling, wrestling. Alone, in pairs, or in a crowd. When you turned on the light the lampshade came alive with a dozen or so nymphs, wrestlers and dancing Maenads, the drunken followers of Bacchus, the Greek god of wine. A party in my bedroom every night! And if I rotated the silk shade that held them even a few degrees, a new, backlit cast of characters appeared, held in place by an easily removable dab of rubber cement.

My next scissor success was an illustrated window, come alive with more nymphs and drunken maenads. Somewhat larger this time, around 18’ high, I cut them out of a roll of heavy duty wrapping paper. Again, my magic scissors did the trick, giving silent instructions that told them what to do. I have to confess I take no personal credit for them. It was the scissors, Tiny, half inch hands with expressive fingers appeared. Now, like many artist, i normally have trouble drawing hands. How come I could cut out these exquisite shapes with no underlying sketch? It’s my magic scissors. I give them all the credit.

Well, maybe my subconscious (and fifteen years of drawing classes) helped.

Post #191: The Art of Cutting Cardboard

There’s something very rewarding about working with an inexpensive, disposable material like cardboard. I’ve been a fan (short for “fanatic”) of this cheap, endlessly versatile material for decades now  

First of all, it encourages experimentation; you won’t hesitate to toss failures into the recycling bin. It’s not $5 Arches watercolor paper you’re wasting; it’s just refuse you were going to dispose of anyway. Cardboard is easy to cut and, while hard to repair, cheap enough to throw out and start over. I buy it in  4’x8’ triple ply sheets from a warehouse in Norwalk. They take 2’ off the top so the boards fit into the back of a standard pickup truck. You can cut it with a single-edge razor blade or an x-acto knife and if I’m strong enough to cut through, so are you.

The use of “humble” material like cement,  cardboard or scrap wood and metal was encouraged by an avant-garde art movement known as  “Arte Povera” that  arose in Turin in Italy in the 1960s after World War II. It extolled cast-off, “found” materials in lieu in of expensive, often unavailable traditional art supplies. It’s a great way to encourage taking risks.

I’ve done several interesting projects with sheets of cheap cardboard as well as with discarded cardboard boxes. They’re unlike anything you’ve seen before. My first magnum opus was at an exhibit at the Westport Art Center of a group that called themselves “The Boxists.” Traditionally slick, mostly former well-known illustrators, they got stuck with me against their better judgment. However, my higgledy piggledy 8’ pyramid of discarded Supermarket boxes stole the show. I lit them from within and filled them with ‘real life’ figures.

My next experiment with cast off cardboard was a dozen, larger than life cut-outs based on the gangster- developers who were making fortunes trashing my beloved city. I included their equally disreputable  accomplices and their friends and family.

They were my artists’ way of getting even.

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).

POST #185: CITY OF MY DREAMS

New York was an artists’ paradise. Despite the poverty of the Great Depression, the city was alive and in the middle of a cultural Golden Age. Like most Golden Ages in history, it didn’t last very long, a decade or two at most, but during that time the arts flourished: painters and sculptors were subsidized by federal programs and art was found everywhere. I consider myself hugely fortunate to have grown up in a world that now exists only in the memory of the few who survive. I lived in the outer reaches of the city, adjacent to Woodlawn Cemetery, one of the great park cemeteries popularized during the mid 1800s. At night, I would sit at my fire escape window and look out at the lights of the city, the skyline and the necklace of bridges that surrounded it.  Each weekday morning, I walked the ten blocks or so that took me to the last stop of my subway line, the D Train that led to Manhattan and the riches it contained. I was fortunate to have been accepted to attend the High School of Music & Art, an institution for the “gifted” created by New York’s quirky mayor, Fiorello LaGuardia.

On weekends, I explored the city, walking for hours, sometimes stopping to sketch or take black and white photos on my $2 Brownie Point & Shoot camera, (the one that required no skill to operate.) I still have an envelope full of snaps and negatives of the Lower East Side (in its heyday) that continue to inspire me. Unlike today, where culture is costly, museums were free and all within walking distance of a bus or subway. I was often joined by my best friend, Joan, who got on the train to meet me. My stop was 205^th Street, hers was 168^th; 75 years later, I still remember. Together we roamed the city, wisely limiting ourselves to one neighborhood at a time. One Saturday afternoon, we would explore Broadway and Hell’s Kitchen, the next week was the Lower East Side, Little Italy and the Bowery. Chinatown required an afternoon of its own as did Greenwich Village with its side trips to the artisan jewelry makers on 4^th Street. Heading downtown eventually got us to Canal Street, a mile-long playpen of industrial detritus. Getting there, however, required scooting through SOHO, a trek that involved evading the catcalls of the factory workers who hounded us along the way. My companion possessed an ample bosom that always evoked admiring comments.

We rarely ventured beyond Manhattan, a decision I now regret. There seemed to be enough to keep us occupied without crossing any bridges. Sometimes we rode the few remaining elevated subway lines allowing us to stare into tenement windows along the way. Other times, we just walked without a destination. We also had the option of climbing on one of the double-decker busses that crisscrossed the city. Public transportation cost little, although ‘on foot’ remained our preferred way to go. It allowed for occasional shopping “sprees” or lunches in Chinatown or the Lower East Side, neighborhoods that provided delights unequalled by any museum. The signage alone was enough to make a young art student’s head spin.

I don’t want to overwhelm you, just give you an idea of the riches we encountered. There was Harlem, but you had to stay on 125^th Street, then Spanish Harlem with its “under the el” shopping stalls, Yorktown with its great German food and “Jews not welcome” vibe. Heading downtown we encountered the great (and free) museums: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of the City of New York, the New York Historical Society, the Museum of Natural History. I could go on for another page. We stared at glorious architecture everywhere we went, not the boring glass boxes one sees today. There were Gothic Revival churches, Renaissance palazzos, neoclassical townhouses, all free of charge. I shiver just remembering it.

And then there was the endless shopping: window and otherwise. Everything from the luxury of Fifth Avenue with its designer clothing and sophisticated window displays to the exciting streets of the Lower East Side with its bins of “schmattas,” cloth remnants gleaned from the dress industry that dominated the city at the time. Or Chinatown with its windows full of cheaply-made imported trinkets and toys. Canal Street with its industrial detritus; the second-hand bookstores that lined 4^th Avenue below 14^th Street, the bargain clothing stores that overlooked Union Square. The Bowery with its lines of blank-faced men. I get out of breath just thinking about it. You could walk for days without seeing the same place twice.

 

Post #184: How to Hold Your Audience

I taught art history for 22 years at the University of Connecticut’s Stamford Campus (the “Branch,” as it was dismissively known.) Despite my lack of a PhD and formal book learning, I was rated one of the best teachers and my classes were always full. I was a “performer,” thanks to my just-out-of-college teaching stint in the South Bronx (see above). Since most of my readers (so they tell me) dread public speaking, I thought I’d give you some tips. It’s a question of practice and the confidence you get from experience. I do, however, have some pointers you might find useful.

1)     Do not read your lecture. The minute I see someone take out a written lecture, I tune out. Unless it’s a technical subject with numbers and formulae, like quantum physics, wing it. If you don’t know your material well enough to just go with some notes, you shouldn’t be up there. Avoid writing on the blackboard while you are lecturing. The class can’t listen and copy at the same time. Just put your main points on a card and TALK! Look the class in the eye to see if they get you, and if they look dazed, start over. 

2)      Maintain eye contact and PERFORM. Put the technical stuff in a handout to be taken home and reviewed. Give out a vocabulary list of unfamiliar terms. Don’t expect the class to know your jargon. That’s what you’re there to teach.

3)     Draw on the blackboard. It’s very entertaining. If you can’t draw, use a slide or an overhead projector to project the image, trace it and get the students to copy it.

4)     Don’t be afraid to be a little bawdy or risqué. Not vulgar, just amusing. Tell a saucy anecdote. It will keep the class awake. They won’t forget it.

5)     Do not permit any side conversations. Stop the class and stare down the guilty parties. You owe it to your students to avoid distractions. You might even want to permanently separate repeat offenders. 

6)     Love your subject and let it show. If you don’t, get another job.

 

At the end of every semester, the students were asked to grade their teachers. I always came out quite well even though I was usually only a chapter ahead of the class in the text. The fact that I was a “working artist” gave me an edge over the academics who usually taught art history. I understood how an artist thought and functioned. What I lacked in book learning (I still can’t do footnotes properly) I made up for with hands-on experience in the art world. I managed to convey love of my subject in what otherwise could have been an awfully deadly hour and a half.

Renee Kahn,
Artist first,
Art Historian second,
Writer third

  

POST #183: Back to the Drawing Board

 

I was recently ruminating, (having nothing better to do waiting for the plague to end) on why artists stay with one style (or why they change their style.) And the more I thought about it, the more answers came to me. I’ll run some by you, but I’m sure you have explanations of your own.  

The main reason an artist is famous for work in one single style is usually the obvious one:  he or she died before they got around to exploring new ideas: Seurat, Modigliani, Kline, Basquiat, Haring, just to name a few who never lived long enough to move on (assuming they even would have wanted to.)

“Imaginary View From a New York City Window”
Oil on canvas 68”x46”

Then there are artists who stay with a style because it is their nature, their rigid personalities discourage experimentation. Mondrian, for example, once he achieved his signature rectangular grid, often worked on the same paintings for years, making minute changes, rarely achieving the perfection he sought. But he was rigid in all aspects of his life; contemporary photos show him working in a spare, immaculate studio, in suit and tie, moving pieces of colored tape millimeters to the left or the right.  Some artists find a formula early on and stay with it. They’re probably the same way about everything they do: what they eat, what they wear, how they make love.  They draw comfort in achieving “perfection” in a narrow band, not in experimenting with something new.

….and then there are artists like Chagall, a genius who was capable of invention but found a formula early on that his buyers wanted: floating lovers, rabbis, scenes of Vitebsk and farm animals (don’t forget the cows.) You knew a Chagall the minute you saw one and his admirers gobbled them up. He never changed because he was successful, financially and otherwise.

On a more mundane level: a highly successful painter I know from my Music & Art High School days (he exhibits in major Madison Avenue galleries and invests in New York real estate) has been painting the same semi-abstract Vermont landscapes for over forty years.  They’re not exactly the same: sometimes the view is from the North, sometimes South, East or West. But he has a wonderful color sense and his “faux Cezanne” daubs do look like they belong in a museum.  There’s enough variety to keep his clientele buying what they think is new work. The so-called “gurus of the art world” either ignore him (or hate him) but, as he once told me: “I cry all the way to the bank.” He’s especially popular with Texas zillionaires who love to decorate their homes with art work that looks sophisticated, but is “easy on the eyes.” They grab up everything he does. He’s a businessman first, he admits, and a businessman stays with a product that sells.

City Scene
18”x12”. Oil on Panel

But why are Monet or Cezanne, who remained with the same subject matter for decades considered great artists and my Vermont scene painter always a hack? My theory is that it has to do with intent. A true artist, like Monet, who painted the same subject over and over, sought some intrinsic truth that only repetition could bring. It’s like a meditation mantra. To get to the essence of an object or a place one had to do what psychologists call “break set,” break down a formulaic way of seeing something by staring at it intently for a long period of time. The goal was to see better not sell better. Cezanne’s multiple views of Mont Sainte-Victoire were a perfect example of an artist using repetition as a way of penetrating deeper into a subject’s essential identity, its solidity, its changes with weather, time of day. He didn’t do it because he thought there was a market for mountain scenes.

During my decades as a working artist, I’ve learned how hard it is to generalize about art and artists. There are geniuses like Mark Rothko (an all-time favorite) who committed suicide - possibly because he found himself “stuck in a style.”  Like Jackson Pollock, success didn’t allow him to move on. The public wanted to buy paintings by Rothko and Pollock that looked like they were done by Rothko and Pollock. They were among the many artists who got rich and famous only to discover their creativity hemmed in by dealers, debts, houses in the Hamptons, ex- wives and wayward children. Forced to keep producing the signature work associated with their names, they killed themselves.

And on the other hand, another of my gods, Philip Guston, walked away from the fashionable art world, locked himself up in a farmhouse in Woodstock, New York and created powerful, disturbing and original work that was only appreciated decades after his death. Like Alice Neel who is only now getting her due, his time has come and his greatness recognized.

 

Lovingly submitted

Renee Kahn