Post 31: A Love Affair with Ruins

Photocollage Box  16"x13"x3"

Almost forty years ago, someone brought me to see the abandoned Yale & Towne factory in the South End of Stamford, thirty buildings dating from the 1860s to the 1930s. My first sight of the complex was its east elevation along Pacific Street, a brick wall, sixty feet high, punctured by rows of huge, industrial windows. Another row, not quite as old or as high stood at right angles along Henry Street. It reminded me of the ancient walled cities of Mesopotamia, designed to repel invading hordes. Since uninvited visitors were discouraged, I had to find a way to penetrate the interior courtyards, see what wonders lay inside. I was smitten, irrationally in love. All I could imagine was hundreds of artists’ studios, inexpensive, spacious, full of light, a thriving creative community that would bring a dead part of town back to life.

Photocollage Box  16"x13"x3"

The opportunity to see the interior of the complex presented itself in the form of an invitation from one of my art history students at the University of Connecticut. It turned out that her boyfriend managed a small company that manufactured foam-rubber brassiere pads. I saw table after table of foam bosoms, 32AA to 44DD, heat-formed on presses and then cut into individual breasts. It was an unforgettable sight.

The courtyards, I discovered, was filled with one or two story factory buildings Everywhere you looked, there were remnants of brick walkways, varied rooflines with distinctive skylights, arched brick passageways that led nowhere and a 100’ tall chimney that had lost its top ten feet and now said “ALE” (instead of “YALE”). I had died and gone to ruin-lovers’ heaven!

Within the next few years, my dreams began to come true: a forward-thinking rental agent decided that artists studios would be a good way to fill otherwise un-rentable spaces in the taller buildings along the perimeter. Light manufacturing and assembling could continue in the interior. Jamie Burt, a sculptor, was the first to move in; he was told that he could have a month’s free rent for every new artist tenant he brought in. Within three years, several floors of the buildings along Henry Street filled up with sculptors, painters, dancers, antique restorers; antique centers moved into the manufacturing sheds (like the one that had housed the falsie factory.)

But a thriving, mixed-use art center was not what the owner of the property, a big-time. real-estate mogul named Sam Heyman, had in mind. He made sure to inform everyone that artists were just  “temporary”; he also hired a lawyer to prevent the buildings from being placed on the National Register of Historic Places. Worse yet, he had the older (more interesting) buildings along Pacific Street torn down to lessen the historic significance of the complex.

And so here we are, thirty plus years and several owners later. Only about 10% of the original complex remains, tarted-up almost beyond recognition. Instead of food trucks with ethnic specialties, we have the faux French “Pain Quotidienne” and a Fairway Market. Instead of rough lofts and manufacturing spaces, we have high-rent apartments for Yuppies who work in “financial services.” Instead of grungy hallways and paint-stained floors, dirty windows and a “take your life in your hands” self-service freight elevator, we have sterile passageways and sleek new “lifts”; if you got off on the wrong floor, you would never know the difference.

Photocollage Box  16"x13"x3"

Over the years, I took hundreds of photos of the neglected buildings – the ruins. In a fit of creative exuberance, I bought a hundred or so wooden “shadow” boxes, 16” x 13”x3”, and placed surrealist photo collages of Yale & Towne inside them. Just recently, I started a series of large oil paintings based on the boxes.

Nothing like making art out of ruins!

POST #30: HOW I BECAME AN HEIRESS

The Heiress in front of her Greenwich Chalet

I am probably one of the least likely people you know to become an heiress, but having said that, I need to explain how I came to inherit a portion of the Ruppert Brewery fortune. Before you start envying me, you need to hear the whole story.

Over thirty years ago, I befriended a fellow “preservationist” from Greenwich. He died almost two years ago, in 2012. He was like me, another Don Quixote who wanted to save beautiful old buildings that had outlived their economic usefulness. He and I fought the good fight together. We attended each other’s parties and from time to time went off to the Harvard Club in New York to attend a lecture on architecture. Richard, a dashing bachelor, worked sporadically for the State Department escorting German diplomats around the country; he spoke impeccable “HochDeutsch,” having studied to be a braumeister in Berlin after World War II. His family had owned the Ruppert Brewery in New York City, one of the largest breweries in America and Richard had inherited a sizeable amount of money from the family fortune. At one time – in the heyday of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, the Rupperts owned the New York Yankees, plus a large chunk of Yorkville in the East ‘90s.

Remnants of the hardware collection

For most of the time I knew him, Richard was immersed in the restoration of a turn-of-the century Swiss Chalet on Milbank Avenue in Greenwich. Since money trickled in in dribs and drabs from his trust fund, the work on his house proceeded in a similar sporadic fashion. While the peak ornaments and the porch railing were glorious, the rest of the exterior remained a “work in progress.” The interior, although structurally sound, was a total disaster. Rooms were filled with boxes of God knows what, everything from valuable papers to Playboy subscription forms. There were cartons of unworn clothes and shoes to say nothing of empty beer bottles (after all, he was a former beer baron.) In addition, in a rash moment, he had bought the contents of an upstate hardware store that was going out of business and boxes of hinges, knobs and what-not littered an entire floor of his house. (They are now stored in my garage, a donation from his family.)

After his death, his carpenter, now in charge of fixing up the house for sale, called to tell me that he had found Richard’s will and I was listed as a beneficiary; he had left me 1% of his estate. I was stunned. It was the last thing in the world I had expected. And what was 1%? Knowing Richard and his inability to manage money, it could be anything from tens of thousands of dollars, or, more likely, a few hundred. And now, almost two years later, I still have no idea. I occasionally communicate with his executor, a cousin in the Midwest, who assures me, any month now, the estate will be settled. “Tax issues” he claims are holding things up. Richard apparently forgot to pay capital gains, and so on and so forth. “Not a good money manager” his executor tells me. (I could have told him that before he began)

But in the meantime, it makes a great “dining out” story, how I, a girl of humble origins and limited means, came to inherit a portion of the Ruppert Brewery fortune (not a very big portion, however).  I was thinking of collecting old photos of the “family business,” the block-square castle on Second Avenue that once housed the brewery. I recently received a list of Richard’s heirs from Greenwich Probate Court and I’m in pretty heavy company: Count von Huynegen-Heune and Baron von Huynegen-Heune are among my fellow beneficiaries.

 I’m glad my parents aren’t around. They never approved of unearned wealth and I may end up giving it all to charity. 

POST #29: THE TRICKS OF THE TRADE

"City Life" diptych, 68"x 88", oil on canvas

I was an exceedingly well-trained artist: four years at the High School of Music and Art plus five years as an art major in college and graduate school. Yet, I have to confess, I didn’t know what I was doing until well into my thirties when I lucked into a “critique” class given at the Greenwich Art Society by an elderly Hungarian expat named Victor Kandell. Kandell, whom I had never heard of as an artist, had been recommended by a friend who claimed he had “changed her life.” Well, if not her life, he had certainly improved her art. She had been what I call a “suburban lady painter” (pretty pictures with nice color.) Now her work had punch and imagination and she was worthy of being considered an artist. How had he performed this miracle?

The class was given every two weeks. Attendees were supposed to bring their current work to Mr. Kandell to “critique.” Kandell, a white-haired gnome with a sense of humor had an enormous knowledge of “art,” all kinds. The class, however, was another matter: mostly well-to-do suburban housewives struggling to give “meaning” to their lives by claiming they were artists. Kandell was not only able to help them with their work, he had an instinctive understanding of them as people. The woman sitting next to me muttered, “He’s better than my analyst.” I’m sure he was -and a lot cheaper.

I never forgot one of the sessions. One of the women, conventionally dressed in a pleated wool skirt and a blouse with a Peter Pan collar, had brought in a stiffly-painted, amateurish still life for Victor to “critique.” She wanted to “loosen up,” do something more exciting. Instead, he looked at her: “Look at you! The way you’re dressed, your hair (stiff) .You want your art to be something you’re not.” He pointed out (in a kindly manner) something she needed to hear:  that if she wanted her art to be more exciting, she would have to change her life.

I was the most “advanced” painter in the class, but I was also struggling. I was in the middle of a series of satirical paintings based on photos from the local newspaper’s “Society Page.” I was having a great time depicting local clubwomen and social events. As a newcomer to the suburbs, I had an “outsiders” ability to see the pretense and the absurdity of the cultural mores of my new home. But I was stuck; without the photo in front of me, I couldn’t work. Victor pried me loose, pushed me over the hump, off the cliff, allowed me to use my imagination and “fly.” It was like a child learning to walk or to read; there’s a maturation factor. Until, the child is “ready,” nothing will happen. Before Victor, I was a clever photocopiest, mired in pictorial reality, (but eager to move on.)

So what did I learn (that I can pass along)? For example:

1) The hand I was struggling to get “right” was not bones and flesh but a shape and it was shape that mattered in the painting. It wasn’t an issue of anatomy but of abstract design.

2) Sizes can be varied, not tied to reality or perspective, but to the design needs of the painting. Let your imagination determine how big or small something should be.

3)    Shapes can be transparent, overlap one another, create new shapes.

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4)    Color can be “subjective” not “objective”, what you feel, rather than what the eye sees. Why shouldn’t the figure in your painting be blue? Look at Chagall!

Good luck. Remember Malcolm Gladwell’s observation that greatness takes 10,000 hours of hard work.

Renee Kahn

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.