POST #87: THE AESTHETICS OF ANYWHERE …or how to never be bored

We never sent our children to summer camp. My husband (a child psychologist) felt that they had enough structure in their lives during the year and should have their summers free. Since there were three of them, close in age, and I worked at home, we were able to pull this off. The oldest, a scholar, liked to read so he was content with frequent trips to the library. My youngest had lots of friends and “playdates” and enjoyed going to thrift shops with me. And my middle child, the one who became an “environmental artist,” had a world all his own that kept him occupied. We have a small stone and concrete pond on our property, no more than 6” deep. Every spring, it fills up with rainwater and a lively aquatic life moves in: salamanders, tree frogs, water striders and a large variety of insect life. He would pass his summers happily engrossed in the pond, maybe not what you or I might find fascinating, but perfect for him. He still spends a lot of time looking at clouds and weather and rock formations...and turns them into art. I just got some photos from him from Vancouver Island showing me some intertwined strands of black and white sand he had just discovered.

Small versions of Stonehenge's "menhirs" hold up local mailboxes

I thought about this while walking up Webb’s Hill Road a few days ago with my friend Elena. She’s an artist-architect and a kindred soul. Webb’s Hill is not a hill for conversation. It’s one of the steepest climbs in Stamford and at one time, until Long Ridge Road was constructed in the mid 1800s, was a rural path, the “high road” that connected Stamford to Bedford Village. I feel sorry for the poor beasts of burden that had to carry wagonloads up the incline. It’s great, however, for wordlessly observing nature and Elena and I found lots of “art” to look at, some of it natural, others (inadvertently) man made.

Photo by Elena Kalman

The first thing we noticed were the weird tar lines that went up and down the road in irregular patterns. I thought at first they were drips from machines that repaired potholes, but then, shouldn’t they drip in a straight line? Why do they meander, go back and forth, over and under, creating skeins of black tar in beautiful abstract patterns that look like Chinese or Persian calligraphy? Elena tells me she sees them everywhere and has been photographing them for a while. They bring to mind those gigantic Andean images that can only be seen from the sky.

Along the way we encountered tree fungi that looked like prehistoric mushrooms; we saw huge, convoluted burls guaranteed to make a wood worker’s heart pound in anticipation, plus lots of exquisitely patterned tree trunk barks. We stopped to admire all sorts of rocks, aggregates of quartz, mica and granite, as well as a great variety of plant life, both accidental and deliberate. There’s even a pair of standing stones, gatepost sentinals that look like menhirs, the upright monoliths one would find at Stonehenge

On the way home, I added to my collection of squashed cans. I like them messy,  dirty and decayed. In fact, to make them more interesting, I’ve been known to kick them back into the road to add to their patina. When they’ve reached an appropriate level of grunge, I mount them on black Velcro and place them in small, baroque frames, part of a series I’ve been working on for years called “Found on the Ground.” If you’re looking for beauty, you don’t need to go very far. 

POST #86: SAM KAHN THE ARTIST (1927-2007)

My husband died over seven years at the age of 80. He was a Clinical Child Psychologist by training, an expert in play therapy with children. He was musical, an authority on classical jazz, a phenomenal athlete – any sport – a licensed arborist, a community leader, a world-class husband and father, But he was not an artist – or so we all thought.

When Sam was in his sixties, he was too ill to work full time as a clinician – I think he had kind of had it with pathology anyhow – so he got a Connecticut State Arborists’ license and began to treat trees. Since his climbing days were over, there wasn’t much future there and so he spent his time involved in community activities, managing our garden, listening to music and then –to everyone’s surprise (I should say “amazement”) he became an artist, first carving in wood and then painting on paper. He had never had any art training, in fact, he was noted in our family for his “lack” of art ability. What was going on? Maybe it was the series of small strokes he had suffered?

His work was totally unique, unlike anyone elses’ – childlike in concept and execution, no perspective, anatomy, no realism, only vibrant design and execution. “The World According to Sam Kahn”. Visitors to his “studio,”  (Eve’s former bedroom), were stunned at what they saw: “Sam?” they would ask in amazement as a riot of uninhibited carvings and paintings appeared before them. Sam, taking their accolades as his due, would continue to work. “You did that?” Although I do not consider myself expert in “Outsider Art” (the untrained artist category that best describes his work), I knew I had a genius on my hands…and a very confident one at that.

Sam soon began to exhibit his work publicly. If he were included in a group show, I felt sorry for anybody else whose work was there. As they say, he “blew them out of the water.” One year, Ken Marcione, the art curator at the Stamford Museum and Nature Center invited him to put his work in a small room just outside the main galleries where the winners of the annual state art competition were being shown. At the opening, the rooms with the winning work were devoid of visitors; everyone was crowded into Sam’s small space, looking at art that was new and original, not the “same old-same old.” He was a star, but a cool one, accepting celebrity status as his due.

Sam worked until a few months before his death. I knew he was dying when he could no longer paint; he would sit for hours staring at a blank sheet of paper. That’s what happens to artists when they no longer can create, they die. Anyhow, a couple of years ago, we packed up all his drawings and constructions, his notes, his “press,” put them in huge boxes and shipped them down to the “Self-Taught Art Collection” at the Baron and Ellin Gordon Art Galleries at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia. I hope they appreciate what a great artist he was and give his work the attention it deserves.

P.S. If you click on the images in the body of this blog, you can enlarge them and get a better idea of the work.

POST #85: Teaching Children How to Draw (and why you shouldn’t)

Every once in a while someone asks me to “teach art” to their children. Aside from the fact that my blood runs cold at the very thought of it, I tell them it’s a waste of money; they would be better off going out and buying art supplies. Children are natural artists up until the age of eleven or so when they get self conscious, sorting themselves into artists and non-artists based on their ability to draw in a realistic manner. The “good drawers” are ones who might profit from lessons after they reach puberty, but leave the others alone. You’ll ruin them.

As I may have mentioned a while ago, the first job I had when I got out of college was teaching art to 12-14 year olds in the Junior High Schools of the South Bronx (Purgatory). I had taken several courses in Art Education, very high minded and theoretical and I was up on the latest research in the artistic development of children. My “bible” was a book by a German refugee intellectual, Henry Schaeffer-Zimmern, called “The Unfolding of Creative Artistic Activity.” (I think that was the title; can’t find any reference to it on line) and I always began the semester with one of his favorite projects, something he called “Ducks in the Pond.”  Once  (and if) I quieted the class down, I would say in a hushed voice that I was going to describe a beautiful scene, and they were to listen carefully because they would be asked to draw it. My only requirement was that they work on it for a full twenty minutes (an eternity to a twelve year old), fill the paper and include everything I described. I gave out paper and crayons so they would be ready to start.

Here is how “Ducks in the Pond” goes:

It’s a beautiful sunny day and I am going for a walk in the park. I come across a path I have never seen before, follow it and find myself in front of a round pond. There are ducks swimming in the pond (maybe some fish too) and a fence around the pond to protect them. The pond has trees all around it. Maybe there are other people in the park, maybe benches, plants, maybe not. At the end of twenty minutes, I collect their work and tape everything up on the blackboard according to their different ways of “seeing.” My goal is to show that the visual (camera) way (the children who are generally considered “artists” by their peers) isn’t always the best and that some of the non-visual, design-oriented interpretations are far more successful. Often, the non-photographic interpretations are better at clearly describing the scene than the more visually accurate ones. I tape the class’ work up and it is immediately obvious that there is no “right” interpretation, but many different ones. Beauty (and art ability) comes in many forms. You can almost feel the collective sigh of relief from those who “can’t draw.” This class is going to be fun! Schaeffer-Zimmern illustrated his book with exquisite drawings done by children from various cultures and degrees of intelligence. He also used examples from past cultures that did not employ Western linear perspective. Not every child creates with a camera eye and it is important to value and encourage those who create works of art with their own, inner eye. It wasn’t until the early 20^th century that art critics and historians recognized that not every work of art needed a vanishing point.

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Post #84: Pricing the Priceless

oil on canvas 25"x34 2/3"

I’m one of the least competent people I know about the’ business’ of art.  I tend to think of art as a “calling,” a vow of poverty one takes when joining a religious order. I think that any artist who works with sales in mind is corrupted whether they realize it or not. Of course there are plenty of artists whose work has lots of sales appeal without even trying. They’re lucky; they don’t need to compromise. Unfortunately, I’m not one of them.

The hardest part for me is that when I do find a buyer and they ask me how much I want for my work, I begin to stammer, don’t have a clue. Uh! What do you want to give me? That, cleverly, takes the onus of a business transaction off me. Most of the time, my prospective purchaser doesn’t fall for the ploy; he or she hands the ball right back to me. I need to give them a number.

oil on canvas 26"x35 1/2"

Several years ago, a friend came to my studio, pointed to a pair of large paintings (a diptych) I had just completed and announced: “I want to buy them.” I panicked. a) I didn’t know if I wanted to sell them (too new) and b) as usual, I had no idea what to charge. And so I vacillated; hoping she would  change her mind. First, I wanted to see how they looked in her New York apartment. I offered to roll the canvases up and ship them to her so she could pin them on the wall and decide whether she really wanted them or not. I figured they would never go with the more traditional (scenes of Venice and the Seine) paintings she owned and she would send them back, saving me the problem of having to come up with a price. When they arrived at her apartment, I came into the City and we tried the work out in various rooms. Surprisingly, they looked great; even managed to look comfortable with her other paintings. Then came the dreaded moment; what did I want for them? I had just completed the pair and had not had time to decide if I really like them, so the asking price in my head was fairly low. (I never price paintings based on what I think the buyer can pay.)  I struck a deal: I would write down what I wanted on a piece of paper and she would put down what she wanted to pay. We would split the difference. As I anticipated, she got a “bargain” and I got more than I expected. It was a win for both of us. The work (expensively framed) looks great in her living room.

Another way I get around having to price paintings is to give them to my friends on “Long-term Loan,” Better over someone’s fireplace than in my attic, I always figure. So far, I haven’t done too well with that ploy; in fact, possession being 9/10s of the law, I rarely get the painting back. The borrowers move away (far away) or die (the heirs don’t know me from a hole in the wall.) One of my favorite paintings got taken out of an apartment when the property was repossessed for non-payment of rent. The “friend” who did this to me is perplexed as to why I am upset when he’s perfectly willing to borrow something else to replace it. No thanks

oil on canvas 26"x36"

I decided to ask my artist friends how they priced their work and their replies varied. Some based the number on the amount of work and time they had put into the piece. Others, on what they thought someone would pay. A few said that people (mostly rich ignoramuses) thought that the more they paid, the better the work. Other factors enter in. If the art is sold through a gallery, that triples the price but not what the artist gets.  Some buyers like to “bargain,” so with them you have to start higher so they can think they got a deal. It’s like haggling at a bazaar.

And then there are people like me who don’t like to sell their work. It’s not that we can’t use the money (I certainly could).

My reasoning goes as follows:

As an unknown female (Strike 1) of advanced years (Strike 2), living in the suburbs (Strike 3), my work has very little value in the art market. In order for it to be worth anything, I need a “reputation” and I’m never going to get one if my best work is gone – sold or strayed. And don’t say I can always borrow it back for a show. Practically every time work leaves my house, it disappears for good. My artist son tells me Noguchi, the sculptor, used to hide anything he really liked and create a copy to sell. The buyer, never having seen the original, was happy with what he got. He told me this story during a discussion about my recent, more “saleable” work, poetic scenes from my daughter’s New York City windows. No raunchy women with their butts exposed, only rooftop water towers painted in lovely, muted colors against a cloud-filled sky. So far, everyone who has seen them wants to buy one. Maybe I should make prints on canvas. Everyone tells me giclee prints on canvas are now almost indistinguishable from the original.

oil on canvas 25 1/2"x35 1/2"

I envy artists who can treat their work as a standard business transaction (x number of hours labor, cost of materials etc and then factor in % profit.)  The problem is, it doesn’t work for most artists. The price of a work of art has too many variables and that’s why we go to art dealers who know the market and  how the game is played. There’s a saying in the art world that two people are needed to make a work of art: the person who creates it and the person who takes it away from him.

Most artists I know don’t need to sell their work to survive, though they are too serious and too competent to be considered hobbyists. They would like to make at least enough money to cover their expenses but you won’t find them homeless if they don’t. In a way, they are fortunate; they have the latitude to do what they want without worrying about buyers. On the other hand, I know artists (the proverbial garret dwellers) who survive below the poverty level. The problem is that even a garret nowadays costs a small fortune and it gets harder and harder to suffer for one’s art.

POST #83: PRINCIPLES OF DESIGN (and Life)

In Post #82, I asked my readers to let me know what topics were of interest to them. Most responded that I should keep doing what I was doing; they just seemed to enjoy my jaundiced view of The Artist’s Life in Fairfield County.

But my sculptor son, Ned, had a specific request. He wanted me to elaborate on something I had taught him when he was still in high school. He remembered my saying that a work of art should flow, move the eye around the canvas. The artist needed to create a visual path for the viewer, whether through line, shape or color. He said this was a valuable piece of information I had given him that he had never heard from any of his other teachers. He was thinking about it a lot lately, relating it to the way the body functioned. A living entity needs to “flow,” just like a successful painting. You could call it “chi,” “meridians” “circulation” or “chakras”; the Principles of Design I taught him all those years ago were, as Ned observed, intimately connected to his life.

I don’t know if they still teach these concepts in art school, but they were right up there with drawing, painting and art history when I studied art. I remember spending countless days moving pieces of colored paper around a page, trying to illustrate principles such Balance, Center of Interest, Rhythm, Unity and of course, Eye Movement, There were no “right answers,” no “correct” arrangements, just an intuitive sense that the universe was in order and everything was placed exactly where it belonged. The course I took: Introduction to Two Dimensional Design, probably came from the ideas of the early 20^th century Russian Constructivists, Kasimir Malevich and El Lissitsky 

But back to Ned’s observation that the Principles of Design manifest themselves in the way our body functions. For example, the need for a “Center of Interest,” a starting point that dominates everything might represent the heart. “Balance” is not just a physical phenomenon that keeps us upright, but is important in our emotional life as well. “Flow” or “Movement.” “Repetition”, “Variety”, “Unity” are human truisms that exist both in life and art.

In order to demonstrate to my classes how the Principles of Design worked, I would project a slide onto the blackboard, usually an accepted masterpiece like the Mona Lisa or Brueghel’s “Wedding Dance”. Then, with chalk, I would outline the shapes, show how they interact and also how the smallest change was all it took to spoil the perfection of the art. I would often use the analogy of a seesaw and the delicate balance that enables it to function – and how easy it is to lose this balance . 

Meanwhile, all you artists, follow the Principles of Design! If you’re interested, there’s lots of literature on the subject. The Principles apply to everything that ails you: your body, your life and your art!

P.S. The images in this post were all created by the overhead projector.

Post #82: Picking up Dropped Threads

Rooftop Scene
Oil on Canvas, 2015,  23 1/2" by 34 1/2" (unstretched)

Eons ago, in Post #19, I wrote about the six weeks I spent in my daughter’s spare bedroom recovering from a broken ankle. With nothing to distract me, I made “lemonade” out of the down time by drawing the view from her large window on the 11^th floor overlooking West End Avenue. For the first time in my life, I was able to fully concentrate, go “into the zone” (Post #71: Flow and More Flow). I spent at least six hours a day drawing and redrawing the same buildings, getting “better” all the time. I felt like Monet or the Italian artist, Giorgio Morandi, who did endless, exquisite images of rows of bottles. 

Rooftop Scene
Charcoal on Toned Canvas, 2015   24"x36"

But then I recovered, came home and went back to my usual large, satirical paintings, “Weimar in Stamford.” The West End Avenue rooftop drawings lay untouched in a portfolio for several years. A couple of months ago, however, after completing a series of eight canvases (6’x4’) that cover the walls of an entire room, I found myself depleted. Since I needed some downtime, I decided to go back to a ‘dropped thread,’ the scenes from my daughter’s window, to turn the sketches into actual paintings.

Untitled
Oil on Canvas, 2015 - 40"x36" (unstretched)

Architectural renderings are not my thing - I barely passed Drafting in college. I needed to concentrate on the expressive quality of the views, rather than how they actually looked. I found some pieces of canvas in the closet, much smaller than what I usually use, toned them with a sepia wash and proceeded to place charcoal versions of my drawings on them. The first few were pretty realistic, like the originals, but then, the paintings began to take on a life of their own. Size relationships no longer mattered; perspective came out of my head, not a formula. Color? Not much. By the time I got to the fifth and sixth paintings, the work became even more surreal; in fact, when I started them, I had no idea what I was going to do. These were dream states, not photographs.

Rooftop Scene, Oil on Canvas 2015

Anyhow, I think I’m finished with rooftops; at least for a while. I’m not even sure I like what I have done. Some of the paintings are more nightmares than dreams. Is that man planning to jump off the roof, or is he just looking down? Time to go back to over endowed ladies and lecherous men.

POST #81: I CONSUME; THEREFORE I EXIST

I had a friend (long deceased) who used to go to Lord & Taylor every day (and I literally mean “every day.”) It’s not that she needed anything; her house and her closets were full but she found that shopping provided a “fix,” a way of getting away from everything that was going wrong in her life: her marriage, her crazy children, erratic lovers and so forth. It lowered her anxiety level, calmed her down.

About a year ago,  I wrote a blog entitled “Thrift Shop Therapy,” citing psychologist Erich Fromm’s theory that shopping (consumption) reduced anxiety and averted a societal nervous breakdown. I wonder what he would think about current forms of on-line shopping, even more pervasive and insidious ways to consume. “Instant Gratification”: Amazon can now deliver to your door within 24 hours. We used to call it “recreational shopping,” although “therapeutic shopping” was probably closer to the truth. We consume therefore we exist; if we stop consuming, we die. The package on the doorstep is life-affirming. Fortunately, when I tried to sign up for an Amazon account a couple of years ago, I was told that my credit card was “not valid.” Trust me, my credit card was valid…too valid. I took it as a sign from on high not to become an on-line shopper.

I have a friend who is addicted to on-line shopping, buying “bargains” whether she needs them or not. She recently informed me (gleefully) that she found her favorite sneakers “on line” for “half price” and ordered three pairs (she already has several.) It took a lot of restraint for me not to point out that she was never going to live long enough to wear out the sneakers she already owns.

In Post #33, I wrote about my love of thrift shops and tag sales, which I believe comes from a totally different place than recreational or therapeutic shopping. It appears to be a common condition among artists; I’m always running into one I know. We seem to need more visual stimulation than the average human being and, living in the suburbs, comfortable as it is, provides very little. It’s not like a city, with its ever-changing kaleidoscope of shapes, faces, signs and colors. The suburbs are visually boring: pleasant enough, peaceful, but boring. I love tag sales and thrift shops, not because I need anything – my closets, like everyone else I know – are packed with clothes and my house is filled to the brim with “objects d’art.” But I go out looking, at least once a week because I need the visual and social stimulation. It’s a chance to meet friends, old and new and, when the tag sale season rolls in, find myself in places I would ordinarily never visit.

Department stores and malls don’t satisfy the need for visual stimulation. They are too predictable, too formulaic. As soon as you walk in, you know exactly where everything is, what it’s going to look like and how much it will cost. On the other hand, thrift shops and tag sales are always filled with surprises. There’s a surge of adrenaline, a frisson of excitement when you walk through the door. There’s also an element of intellectual challenge. What is this vase you are holding? Is it a Tang dynasty treasure worth thousands or a $2 tourist souvenir? My favorite thrift shop (only open on Thursdays) is in the basement of the local Congregational Church. It’s a feast for the eyes – and for the pocketbook. $10 will get you a shopping bag full of treasures – whether you need them or not.