George Rhys Artist

Blind Contour and Pentimento

3/18/2019

To make a blind contour drawing the artist picks a spot at random at the edge of the model, and convinces herself that the point of her pencil or pen is touching that spot on the actual person. Then, moving slowly enough to maintain the self-delusion, she works her way carefully around the outer contour of the form of the model, slowly progressing along its outline and not taking her eye from it, even to check on how the drawing is going. When that curve comes to an end, the artist can start at a new point either by looking at the drawing or not. Up to her.*

I turn to blind contour when I want to settle down a bit. I also find this method very helpful in bringing me back to a sensitivity of curve and direction of line.

A contour drawing is never an accurate drawing; in fact it is a horror of distortion. To create a more accurate drawing I pick up a red crayon for a second pass, aligned with the first. I relax the rules a bit and allow myself to look at the paper when I need to establish my location. Then I allow myself to go back a third time, now with a very dark Conte crayon, and this time look at the drawing even more. The drawing becomes more accurate not only because I am looking more, but also because I am learning from each iteration that I went too far this way or that.

Another reason I enjoy this work so much is that it allows me to make and show my corrections without the tedious labor of getting everything right the first time. Long ago I discovered that insisting on getting things right the first time is a miserable way to live.

Clearly not even the third iteration is completely accurate. It would be easy to tighten it up, but that is not my preference.

Because I do not obliterate the earlier passes, I consider these drawings as examples of pentimento, the practice of leaving, albeit regretting, mistakes. Tongue in cheek, I sometimes refer to them as pentimentissimo, meaning the most regrettable.

Occasionally a blind contour drawing has just enough accuracy to be thoroughly humorous, and I leave it be.

*I remind the reader that I am committed to the use of the feminine form of the personal pronoun when referring to a person of undetermined gender, in case you are wondering if I am confused about my own.

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On Competent Paintings

2/4/2019

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A Place for Everything...

There is a plethora, nay a surfeit of competent paintings out there. And even though competent paintings are the most in demand, demand cannot keep up with the supply.

Competent paintings are relatively easy to produce; it just takes instruction and practice. The public frequently prefers barely competent paintings that exhibit strong qualities such as garish colors, extreme values, or maudlin sentiment.

The man on the street can easily identify grossly incompetent paintings, but he can also reject valid exploration and radical originality—until he is reassured of its acceptance by others. He also commonly rejects genius. Genius and competence inhabit independent realms. Incompetence does not necessarily accompany genius, and nor does competence. In our culture it used to be that only fully competent work could qualify as genius. El Greco painted chalky contorted saints alongside worldly personages that were fastidiously represented, but the genius behind those distorted figures was not recognized. Instead he was scorned as a mad painter for more than two hundred years. Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Cezanne were not driven to genius as compensation for incompetency. Competence was not a relevant factor in their mission.

And there’s the word that pummels the inside of my cerebellum when I am in a museum: “mission.” The greats were on a mission, and it shows. The more we learn about art history the more we appreciate each great artist’s overarching objective. Our excitement can be almost painful.

Competent painting can be so boring. We are so respectful of art; we don’t even acknowledge to ourselves that we are bored. Sometimes it’s our fault for not penetrating deep enough to discover an artist’s mission, and sometimes the artist has no mission other than to impress or copy or be pretty.

I am not going to illustrate this article with any painting I deem competent but hollow: not mine, not anybody’s.

The genius of Van Gogh does not reside in perfect execution, but in his mission, part of which was to create on canvas the brilliance of color that he saw in nature. Cezanne, whose drawings of the figure are often clumsy and awkward, was concerned not so much with draftsmanship as with finding a way to represent solid form using receding colors instead of chiaroscuro. Bottles are allowed to be asymmetrical and tabletops do not have to line up behind a still life; careful draftsmanship was not part of his message.

Highly accomplished paintings are seductive in their own way, even to me. There is something impressive and appealing about them, but a painter who aspires to create a photo-realistic painting can do so easily after a modicum of instruction and practice. All too many painters are happy to reside at that level of competence.

I consider the bulk of my work to be exercise, and sometimes when I'm working “for real” but not paying attention a painting appears on my easel that boasts of nothing special, just a “good job.” I am not happy when a painting such as these garners high praise and admiration, because painting in that way is not my ambition, and my viewer misses my message. Empty paintings happen when I'm not being scrupulously authentic, not being courageous, not exerting the required energy. I sometimes worry that all my work falls into this category, and I resolve to be more brave, to ruin more paintings.

So what is it then that makes a painting worthy? It is far easier to make a list of characteristics that show a painting to be less than worthy, to be no more than competent, to be mediocre; but there is no one formula for greatness. Certainly if there were, then greatness wouldn't be so great after all. We could have a lengthy discussion on what makes Picasso great or what makes Michelangelo great or what makes Robert Motherwell great—but no one individual artist’s collection of qualities is held in common by all great painters.

One vital quality is absolute authenticity, where the artist paints only what she creates in the moment. This precludes reliance on merely perpetuating a style, a formula, a theme. A series is one thing, but watching an artist copy herself is a turnoff for me.

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Genre Attractors and Detractors

1/29/2019

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Three Graces, oil, 1967, 38 x 24, The last one I still have. Terrible photo, sorry.

Every genre has its specific attraction for the artist, and certainly for me. Each also has had its detractors.

As a young man I painted many still lifes, frequently on a very dark ground. During those years my approach evolved continuously. Composition and the harmony of muted colors were my primary interest. I endured a good amount of ignorant criticism for my still lifes, but not for the qualities that were important to me. “Why would I buy this?” one wag questioned. “Who’s hungry?” Another friend whom I respected very highly chose to make no comment about one of the still lifes but to laugh derisively--on more than one occasion. He was an accomplished artist and I would have considered any of his suggestions seriously, but I had no way of knowing if he even saw what I had been trying to do.

All but two of those still lifes sold, but there were too few of them, too modestly priced, to significantly augment my income.

Scanned from the only vestige I have left, a dirty slide. Oil. Maybe 1970. Maybe 38 x 24.

Inspired (or scolded!) by the Impressionists I began painting on a conventional white ground, but that was the only technique of theirs I emulated. The muted colors gave way to bright pure hue, though never straight from the tube. My most common subject was the human figure, with and without clothing, rendered in a style which a friend criticized as resembling a coloring book, with flat areas of color outlined by darkened umber. I worked very hard on shape, composition and how to make those big areas of saturated hue work together. I still have a couple of those kicking around the studio.

In 1974 I moved to the middle of nowhere in the high desert of Southern California, surrounded by mountains and huge rock formations. Naturally I focused on landscape, returned to my beloved muted colors, and continued to investigate composition and shape. Now bright colors were in fashion and I was told that my carefully balanced tonal compositions were “not colorful.” Isolated as I was, I sold very few of these; but also refused several offers.

Mile Marker 1812. Oil, 38 x 48 or so, 1977 or so. If I had it to do again I would compose this differently. Oddly, it was very popular.

Then I taught mathematics for twenty-five years.

And now I am in south Texas in my eighth year of retirement.

For years my dream had been to travel around the country and paint landscapes. Toward that end I converted from oil to acrylic so that I would not have to worry about a car-full of wet paintings. The conversion has been a challenge which I have enjoyed. Any dissatisfaction I have experienced with those acrylic paintings has been over bad composition and not anything that would have been ameliorated by a return to oils, so when a friend tells me I would be a better painter if I did go back to oils, I know better. Oils are easier for me, and perhaps there are aspects of my work that would be more attractive to some, but I can do pretty much whatever I want with the acrylics. If those paintings fall short, it is due to my limitations, not the medium.

In the last two years I have been producing reams of drawings and a couple dozen paintings of the nude figure, and posting them on Instagram and Facebook.* A couple of friends have made “humorous” (but not to me) remarks and I notice that I don’t see many nudes on Facebook, at least not on my feed. So no more nudes on my “family” page. And that’s okay.

For every period of my art “career”— (I should be so lucky as to have had a career) —there have been comments, criticisms, and even kudos that completely fail to address what I am legitimately striving for. That can be painful, irritating, even amusing. But it hasn’t stopped me.

*You can find them on Instagram @georgerhysusa or at the George Rhys Artist page on Facebook. Some day many will even be visible here on this webpage.

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Crickets

1/17/2019

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Have I killed my georgerhysartist Facebook page?

I have let both of my Facebook pages and my blog at www.georgerhysart.com/blog1 lie fallow for far too long, for real but irrelevant reasons.

Now, after several decades of neglect, I have resurrected my dedication to figure work and rediscovered the strength of my artistic motivation. I have also discovered a community of like-minded artists on Instagram. For a while I shared my Instagram posts on Facebook as I had been doing with my landscapes. But this is America, not Europe, and I became aware that my frequent posting of my figure work was out of place on my home page. Okay. So I decided to post it on my georgerhysartist page. Crickets, on a page that had once had a satisfactory following.

I confess that by going dormant it is entirely my own fault, but I am not sure what is not working. Maybe it really is because I am posting nudes, which seem to have their best following in other countries. Maybe it is because everyone has moved on. Maybe it is because my work is just not good enough—whatever that means—or in any event, not attractive to my friends.

I will confess to disappointment, but, more than that, confusion. You see, I find it very difficult to post to Facebook. There are so many things I would rather be doing, like loading the dishwasher or mowing the lawn—let alone making more art—so I don’t get around to posting. For some reason I have the conviction that I should be posting about my art more regularly, and if that is wrong then I will happily release myself from the obligation.

Here is what I propose to do. I will overcome my resistance to posting and keep up the georgerhysartist page regardless of the silent response. For a while.

As for the blog (georgerhysart.com/blog1), I have heard that folks are not getting notifications of new posts. That is because I am not sharing it with my Facebook homepage any more. I will look into sending out email notifications. Meantime you can assist this confused and irresponsible artist/writer by letting me know if you are interested in anything I might put up on Facebook. I will continue with Instagram and my blog: Instagram because I do get responses, and the blog because it is a good way to make myself finish the 50 or so first drafts that I have piled up.

In any event I would love to hear from you one way or another, even if it’s just to say, “Oh hi, George! I thought you were dead!”

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What I Want to do in a Painting

1/12/2019

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Island in the Stream, Acrylic, Private collection

I would rather one person comprehend what I am trying to accomplish in a work of art than to have hundreds swoon over some surface property. Don't get me wrong; if they swoon, I will be happy. I am only saying that I am still happier to find a person who enjoys what I enjoy about my work.

To be honest, my work is not that special—though certainly it is to me. I would like you, dear reader, to understand what it is about my own painting that you might find special.

To begin, here are some things that are not my objectives. I thought to begin that sentence by saying, “Here are things that my paintings are not,” but often a painting will display one of those unintended qualities, probably springing from my unconscious, or barely conscious, in spite of my intentions.

My paintings do not aspire to beauty, or even prettiness. They are not crowd pleasers. They do not mean to say:

Look what I can do!
Here is something pretty I found.
Here is a nice-looking rectangle to look at.
This is what the world is really like.
This is how I am feeling right now.
This is what a dream looks like.
Herein lies a tale

Dry Stream Bed, researched for Maren. Acrylic, 24 x 18

You might well ask, “So, then, just what is the point?” Perhaps for you one or more of those goals is exactly what you look for in a piece of art. Perhaps you will find one or more of those statements to apply to my work; but if you do, I don’t deserve full credit for it.

I want connection. On CBS Sunday Morning Willem Dafoe explained what thrilled him about a Van Gogh painting, in an interview about his role as Vincent in the movie At Eternity’s Gate. He moved his hands to show how he followed the artist’s motions in creating the painting and I was electrified to see someone else express that way of getting into a painting. That is the form of connection for which I strive.

A big piece of my pleasure in perusing art is kinesthetic. Something in me responds to the perceived actions of the artist. This may occur at a different level—not higher necessarily, just different--from that at which many viewers enjoy responding to art. My response is not that profound, nor beyond the reach of any attentive observer.

Kinesthetic response was a big piece of abstract expressionism; in work like mine it comes with an image, and this perceptual tension between identifying an image and recognizing the kinesthetics behind its production excites the brain and makes for an engaging experience.

Blackwater Reflections on the Suwannee, acrylic, 20 x 16

The Twentieth Century saw a great deal of very physical painting of images, but most of what comes to mind is expressionism. I am not an expressionist. If I am exhibiting anything affective, it is the joy of watching my actions produce a set of streaks that my brain can cobble together into a recognizable image. And the connection I seek is through that experience.

Sometimes work like mine is mistakenly identified as impressionism. I say mistakenly because the impressionists created images by matching, daub for daub, the color and location on the canvas with the color and location of a patch of color in the world. They were exploring the world of light and color, and beautifully, but their interest was not to give the brain a modicum of detail and set it to work decoding chicken scratches into meaningful pictures. A minor point, I admit, especially since I might use impressionistic techniques now and again. It is the intention that is different.

I am not the only one painting like this. I cannot say how many of those doing similar work are deliberately teasing the brain for the same reason, but I hope I have done a good enough job of describing what I am doing to allow you to enjoy my work and also to find similar pleasures elsewhere.

Again, I make no claim to specialness. For what it’s worth, the only claim I can make is that no one else can be me and do this work. They have to be who they are.

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In Pursuit of the Sublime

12/24/2018

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Crystal Bridges Museum of Art

At the Crystal Bridges Museum of Art in Bentonville, Arkansas I overheard a professor assign his class to order works of art as picturesque, beautiful, or sublime. That's all I heard, but I think I understand what he meant. It would be interesting to know if he had previously defined those terms for his class or if he was just then assigning his students to define them for themselves.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. I grew up in its halls.

Here are my definitions:

The picturesque is the image that entertains us. It might be a nostalgic village scene, a depiction of family life, or the unusual. If a camera were available, a photograph could convey the same meaning.

The beautiful in art attracts us, and often thrills us. Even the ugly can be the basis of a beautiful painting, because the construction of the work itself inspires the aesthetic response. If it is the subject matter that is beautiful, as in a gorgeous sunset or flower, I would classify the piece as picturesque.

Pablo Picasso, Still Life with Pitcher, Candle and Enamel Pot, 1945

But the sublime—the sublime elevates us, stimulates us to transcend our accustomed perception of the world. In the presence of the sublime we are deeply moved, we are changed for the better, forever. To be sublime a painting doesn't have to depict heaven; the subject can be quite mundane, but we will look at art and life in a new way.

Impressionism was a sublime movement. Those guys woke us up to subtle color everywhere. And consider Cezanne’s delicate parallel strokes, Ellsworth Kelly’s great slabs of pure single colors, Egon Schiele’s ragged figures, Wayne Thiebaud’s desserts: doesn’t each of these lift us out of the mundane?

Shortly after my eavesdropping experience in the Crystal Bridges Museum I found myself classifying art into three new categories, according to our responses.

First is the pretty. Pretty pictures are highly valued thanks to a plethora of bright colors and graceful lines.

The second in this classification is the impressive. The viewer is impressed by detail, by photographic realism, or by an unexpected point of view. It might stimulate the artist to envy but not necessarily to emulate.

Inside the Guggenheim

The third response a work of art might engender is excitement. This level of emotion is more intense than the charm of the pretty, more uplifting than envy. Sometimes the elation is almost too intense to bear, and I find myself not knowing how to contain it. Picasso has done that to me many times, as has Matisse. I almost lost it fifty years ago being introduced to Klimt’s landscapes in the Guggenheim Museum in New York as a kindly lady smiled at the young man near tears.

Does my classification match the professor’s? I don’t think it quite does, though their ranking in terms of quality might.

The Museum of Modern Art in New York. This photo brings back the feelings of excitement I once enjoyed there, though hordes of tourists with phone cameras have ruined it.

A picturesque or a pretty painting will turn my head, but it doesn’t feed me, if that makes sense. As for beautiful and impressive creations, both are moving, though not in the same way. But sublime works, exciting works—as I mean exciting—cause the Earth to move, and maybe for the same reasons.

I believe that a work of art can embody all of these qualities, and I am not ashamed of my pretty or my picturesque pieces. I am pleased when a painting turns out to be beautiful. I don’t know if my creations are ever impressive, but that is not for me to judge. I do strive to produce exciting and sublime works of art. I may not have succeeded in this aim, but I'm working on it. If my work fails to be pretty or impressive it is because I have my sights set on the uplifting.

It’s hard to imagine how one could find one’s own work sublime, and when I am excited by my own work it is usually because of an unexpected success.

The best we may expect of ourselves is to be as authentic and vulnerable as we can manage and leave the evaluation to others whose opinion we respect.

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Sandcastling

12/22/2018

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Last Day on the Suwannee, one of the first secret paintings

Roberta Murray asked the question, “What would I paint if I knew nobody was going to see it?” I thought this was an excellent question because it suggested an approach to the question “Who am I? What am I trying to do? Why am I painting?”

I was stimulated to enact that very circumstance. I kept all my paintings secret for quite a while, and avoided critiques and comments. I did see my work going in a particular direction, and eventually had the focus to let my productions go public again.

But we always evolve. We peel another skin off the onion and discover that our concerns are still more basic, still more central.

I find no convincing reason for why we paint. There are causes, but not reasons.

Human beings are driven to control their environment. There is no explanation for this; it's just the way humans are put together. Visual artists seek to provide stuff to look at, even if only for themselves. Freud was wrong when he said that artists are primarily seeking fame and sexual conquests. It is true that we wish for that and it may be a factor in any field of endeavor, but art is motivated by the drive to make art.

Ed's Driveway, painted a couple of years ago but only very recently displayed

However, it is difficult, if not impossible, for an adult to undertake the making of art and ignore considerations of acceptance. We crave the praise of others, especially if it is necessary for us to sell our works to make a living. That’s a primal urge as well, but making art for money or applause corrupts and distorts that underlying drive to "make marks."

There is a type of human being that is able to make art free of the craving for riches and fame. An innocent child young enough to have never been burdened with concerns for worldly success will exhibit instinctive action in its purest form. Picture a toddler playing with blocks. Before the pursuit of praise distorts her* motivations, she happily puts blocks together with no concern but her own actions and her enjoyment of them.

Children at the beach make sandcastles with no expectation of praise, sex, or money.

An artist who puts on the mantle of the young child and imagines herself “building sandcastles” as she paints relinquishes the side benefits of her actions. She taps the well of pure creativity.

It is in this frame of mind that I create the works in the Sandcastle Series. I make no claim for their excellence or even competence. Those considerations are irrelevant. I am doing nothing more sophisticated than following my primitive artistic impulses.

Drawing Materials on a Chair, recently created, recently shared online

I do not consider this practice to represent fully evolved art-making. Experience, virtuosity and knowledge must play a part in a completed work of art, but I have come to believe that frequent experiences and insights provided by “sandcastling” are an essential part of an artistic career.

I am publishing the Sandcastle works not because they are delightful, but as a consequence of my commitment to them. It is not necessary for anyone to like them to satisfy me. Just as a child will build a sandcastle on the beach oblivious to adults and other children walking by, I am in a state of disengagement with the public world of art as I create these works and allow others to see them. If they are beautiful or charming, I am happy for it but that is not my intent.

If you as viewer enjoy seeing another person working and having a good time, that's all that I can reasonably expect.

*A repost of a footnote in June 2016
My solution to the indeterminate gender pronoun controversy is to default to the feminine. This is to signify that I have always viewed the use of “he” as implying nothing about gender politics, and choose now to view “she” in the same way. Since it does matter to some people, the truly even-minded writer should have no problem accommodating them. Those who cannot let go of the masculine bias really have no justification for it.
I find that the sprinkling of both gendered pronouns, supposedly equally throughout, shouts endorsement of gender politics—and what good does that do? In the same vein, I deplore the use of x, as in xe for s/he or any other solution that does not just graciously acknowledge that 2500 years of male dominance of pronouns is enough, and if we really believe it didn’t matter, it still shouldn’t.
You know what would be a truly lovely, loving solution? What if male writers used “she” exclusively and female writers used “he”?

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A Brief and Embarrassing Autobiography, Or, Don’t Denigrate Art School

12/13/2018

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A surprising number of art school graduates I speak to say that art school was a waste of time, that art schools concentrate on self-expression and do not teach technique. Then I make my point, then they think about it, then they agree with me. Before I state that point, let me tell you a little about my own biography vis a vis art school.

We (my sister and I) called our mother’s father “Granddaddy” because he was so kind and dear. We called our father’s father “Grandfather” because he was formal and distant. From my early age Granddaddy enjoyed my artistic efforts, and often bought my drawings for a quarter. Grandfather fancied himself something of an artist. Many of his, and hence my, ancestors were professional artists, and though today I see his efforts as quite amateurish, his drawings then were nothing short of miraculous. He drew often, for the sheer pleasure of it. I loved to ask him to draw a ship or a horse, and he obliged. It was at those moments that I felt close to him. I still have a painting he made of a train emerging from a tunnel that he gave me for my fourth birthday. When I was nine Grandfather gave me my first set of pastels.

Art has been a prevalent interest of both sides of my family. It is no wonder, then, that by the age of five I knew I wanted to be an artist.

When I was seven my widowed father remarried. My stepmother was the niece of a prominent illustrator and fine artist, Frank E. Schoonover who, as a young man at the opening of the twentieth century, had traveled this country painting Indians and plein air landscapes.

I was eleven when Phoebe introduced me to oil painting. She was not a painter, but she knew about palette knives and linseed oil and how you needed a big tube of white. Within a year I was ready to go further and asked for lessons.

“You need to develop a style before you get lessons,” she told me, and my family dynamic being what it was I did not know or think to ask again. I never met my step-uncle or had a conversation with anyone who knew about art.

I limped along through the school years. My “talent” was recognized by peers and teachers but never really encouraged until the kind mother of a classmate saw my work and said, “You missed your calling!” Halfway through college my calling suddenly yanked me into a state of great anxiety and out of Princeton, where there was no studio art program beyond a couple of pass-fail electives. I went home and painted and painted and asked to transfer to art school.

“You will go back to Princeton or I will find another young man and send him instead.” Times being what they were, my choice was between Vietnam or Princeton and I chose Princeton.

The rest of my story is a tedious string of attempts to support myself and a family through artistic pursuits while sinking deeper and deeper into a quicksand of menial jobs that, while I attempted to save out time to paint, sapped my energy and spirit, until finally, after twenty years, I accepted that I could not ever hope to produce art for a living without a lot of help, and took on a profession that demanded every bit of everything I had—except art—and I made the most of it. I don't regret my teaching career. In fact I am very grateful for it. But it was not art.

So here is the point I tell art school graduates who complain that they did not learn technique. When you go to art school you spend four years in a milieu which validates the preeminent importance of art in your life. You must not underestimate the value of that steady confirmation of your aspiration. Most all art school alumni concede this issue.

(By the way, a recent study, which I regretfully cannot find to cite, found that the majority of art school grads are happy and successful, in stark repudiation of the commonly accepted nonsense that art school is a dead end.)

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Art is Magic

12/9/2018

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Many of the earliest surviving paintings of animals are pockmarked, theoretically by spears. Anthropologists suggest that the spear throwers’ intent was target practice. I do not believe it. A stump or a mark of any kind on a wall would suffice as a target. I believe that the spear throwers were participating in the magic of perception. For evidence I offer the outline of a hand that often appears by a depiction of animals, I remind you of the fear primitive people have that cameras will entrap their souls, and I point to your experience and my experience.

Faye's World, detail. Acrylic on canvas

Imagine the effect on the first connoisseurs of the painted representation. In a way a picture was unlike anything they had ever seen before, yet in a way it was not. Seeing a person create an image on a cave wall was unprecedented, and must have amazed the more contemplative members of the clan.

Very likely the artist also was amazed that such an accomplishment was possible, knowing that what had been no more than juices and bodily fluids now appeared as an antelope, and so promptly celebrated the transubstantiation with an imprint of his agent, the hand. (Many artists even today marvel that their own efforts take on a life of their own. I know I do.)

Drawing of a Nude, detail

And yet this was not an entirely unfamiliar experience. Just as do you and I, early man surely recognized faces and animals in clouds and tree trunks and distant rock formations. Human history is rife with such representations, where a person might say, knowing she is looking at a cloud, that a formation in the sky looks like a dragon or a cow. And there are numerous cases of deliberate and total identification of object and image: Voodoo dolls, icons, idols, and constellations are treated as actual persons. The Muslim rejection of all imagery stems from the refusal to allow such creation, leaving that work to Allah alone.

It is pleasurable to gaze upon a distant view or an attractive person; but the pleasure of viewing a painting of a view or a person is different and, for some of us, actually more powerful. It is pleasurable to us to knowingly perceive paint and object at the same time. Watch a spectator approach a very realistic painting, closer and closer, squinting now. Is it a painting, or is it a photograph? Ah, now, when she detects the hand of the artist betrayed by the slightest wavering, it’s a painting! And she is pleased, more than she would be pleased by a photo.

Any magician will tell you, the magic is in your head. The magician suggests the illusion, but the magic is inside you.

A century and a half ago photography robbed painting of its position. The only flat representations had been paintings. Except for the occasional misapprehension of an image as the real thing, paintings were always identifiable as paintings, the more realistic the better. The photograph was too perfect, too easy, too immediate for painting to compete and it went through a crisis. Much of its role—and its business—was taken over by photography. Every major art movement of the late nineteenth and the entire twentieth century can be interpreted as a reaction against photography. Painters were seeking to create something that a camera could not, and abandoning tasks that the camera could perform. Many even disavowed painting’s original mandate: to create identifiable images.

An artist friend recently claimed that we do magic when we render a three dimensional scene into two dimensions. I disagree. The eye itself mindlessly performs this task by projecting an image from the light received through the lens onto the retina, a surface which mathematicians call S2, meaning the surface of a sphere that behaves like two dimensions when you work with just a small portion of it. In the case of rendering three dimensions, there is magic; but this magic occurs in the visual cortex, where two slightly different images are integrated into the very convincing perception of depth.

Drawing of a Nude; graphite, lumber crayon, conte crayon on paper, 18 x 24

But the magic of which I speak occurs when the merest squiggle on a paper is perceived simultaneously as a squiggle and as a face, looking in a specific direction with a specific expression. It is not magic if the image on the paper is indistinguishable from an image on the retina, as in photography and photo-realism. It is not magic if the squiggle appears only as a squiggle, as in non-representational art and most doodles.

Representational art lives in the perceptual space between daubs of color and recognizable image. The width of that space varies—it is wide for Picasso and narrow for Wyeth—but just the same art loses its magic outside that no-man’s land.

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How is an Artist like a Cobbler?

12/6/2018

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Nora Jones tells of a chain of events that led to the great success of her first album—success that was neither sought nor expected. Concerned for Nora’s safety, her mother gave her a large Cadillac, which enabled her to chauffer a group of musicians, the association with whom led to a series of connections and experiences resulting in that big first album. This does not denigrate the achievement of Nora Jones in any way, but think about the hundreds of beautiful young musicians who yearn only to perform in a modest venue who will never rise to or continue at that level, for the lack of kismet.

Took Off my Hiking Shoes for a Rest, acrylic on masonite, 18 x 49"

Mark Twain wrote of General Ulysses S. Grant’s arrival in Heaven, where he saw a shoe cobbler from New Hampshire celebrated as the best general ever. “But wait,” objected Grant, “He is only a cobbler!”

“True,” came the reply. “Because he never had the opportunity to lead an army.”

And what assurance have we that Grant was even the second best general?

Jones and Grant are only two of many stars who owe some of their good fortune to circumstances unrelated to their artistic efforts.

Vincent Van Gogh, without the support of his brother Theo, could never have continued painting and developing beyond his own crude beginnings; and without the good business connections of Theo’s widow’s art dealership he would never have become worshipped worldwide after his death. I wonder how many thousands of struggling 19th century European artists had the drive and ability of young Vincent, but never made it out of invisible mediocrity.

As for me, I was able to work at my art determinedly but intermittently, while making increasing concessions to financial reality. Circumstance and lack of support kept me out of serious painting for fifty years. Retirement has broken that impasse, but I am no longer at the cobbler stage at which a lucky break would do me any good. I know there are tens of thousands like me.

Sun Shines Through the Window into my Bathtub, oil on masonite, 32 x 48"

I have two strong feelings that arise out of these circumstances.

First, when I see a brand new novice painter expecting immediate income, I feel sad. Her painting needs a decade or more of work, and without support and mentorship her chances are even skimpier.

Second, I am annoyed when a rich guy says that a poor guy is having money trouble because he made bad choices and didn’t work hard enough. There are millions of people working very hard but who have no pathway to affluence, and it is an outrageous insult to them to suggest that they are to blame for their own insufficiency. Many a successful actor, writer or painter—or business executive—takes all the credit for his position and cannot acknowledge any of the contributions that helped put him there. Yes it takes hard work and persistence, but that is still no guarantee of turning a profit—or breaking even.

There are always exceptions. There have been artists who struck pay dirt immediately, without the requisite years of sticking to it and working hard. Their experience is rare. To lead brand new painters to believe that they can have the same success if they just follow the same formula is heartless.

Judging from the magazines addressed to striving artists, from the chains of art supply retailers, and the plethora of workshops offered, there are thousands upon thousands of American artists who take their artwork seriously, have reached a level of respectable competence, and hope that with just a little bit more work or knowledge or recognition they will achieve solvency. But the association of art and income is not promised. (The marketing of art supplies and income is a much better bet.)

This was a pleasant day, A Lakeside Grove, acrylic on canvas panel, 12 x 16

To those artists I want to say it is time to paint, just paint. I love spending time with you, painting next to you, discussing art and appreciating each other’s work. Let’s be brave and not worry about sales or prizes because those have nothing to do with what is on our easels. Our expectations are modest and our prices are modest. What I hope for is just enough validation to feel visible, and to distribute enough of my paintings to the world so that I can make my way through my studio.

To those non-artists whom I hope might read this blog I want to suggest hanging the work of a competent artist on a wall or two. Consider replacing prints of century old, tired art with vibrant, live art. Avoid the banal or simply decorative and go for something that excites and challenges you a bit. Read art history now and then to develop your understanding and appreciation. You will enjoy the enrichment live art will provide you, as you visit it now and again with your gaze. It is better than flipping through a book or walking through a museum.

Eventually your knowledge and taste will evolve and you may find that your painting no longer satisfies you. Not a problem. Replace it with a more advanced (by your standards) work and give the old one to a friend. (You give plenty of other old things away, don't you?) Explain to the friend what you liked about that painting and point out your favorite passages.

We all need the population of aesthetic connoisseurs to increase!

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Blind Contour and Pentimento

On Competent Paintings

Genre Attractors and Detractors

Crickets

What I Want to do in a Painting

In Pursuit of the Sublime

Sandcastling

A Brief and Embarrassing Autobiography, Or, Don’t Denigrate Art School

Art is Magic

How is an Artist like a Cobbler?

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