Thoughts on Not Thinking

Thoughts on Not Thinking

Gallery shot from Recent Paintings, January 2013, LGTripp Gallery

Lately I've gotten somewhat skeptical of thinking...at least thinking too much. I finally found some evidence, or root of this in my thoughts about recent art works which in my estimation have been the most successful: I didn't over-think them.(Yes, it's very hard to actually get away from thinking, as the title of this post implies). Another symptom of this fatigue of over-thinking is just that: being tired, mentally and visually tired of all the things to think about, and just trying to avoid being tired out from more. So, really, one impetus towards making a change in the way I approach art making was fatigue. It's a funny thing, that combination of desiring to make things, but not wanting to think about the making too much; wanting to lose oneself in the actual manufacture, without over-thinking the whys, whats, and wherefores.

My tendency is to over-think things; lay things out via thoughts; catalog them; record them; hash over them; redraw them many, many times; re-consider them; and then finally pick through the resulting piles and find which way I'd like to / most need to go. This has consistenly worked for me...but several times throughout my art-making life I've noticed that this becomes over-worked; becomes counter-intuitive. 

One previous time that I noticed that thinking was becoming too prevalent, was around 2004, right before the time when I was included in a group show of young artists at Fleisher-Ollman Gallery, called Meatball (as in, hash it up; roll it up; make something new and delicious). One of the paintings, which subsequently was bought, was a painting on a found piece of wood: a lacquered panel, three sides of which (top and sides) had shallow molding affixed, creating a "broken frame" of sorts. At the time, I was painting versions of cross shapes; on this one, there was (if memory serves me) a white or cream cross at the top. I don't remember much more about the making of this painting, except that I was feeling stuck on it...and very quickly, nearly instinctively, painted a hot pink cross below the cream one, and let it drip down onto the bottom of the lacquered panel. This is a technique which I've since used now and again, but this was the first occurrence of it...before this, it had not entered my mind; I'd become fairly rigid and closed with my edges and lines: hard-edged, some might call it.

It immediately became evident to me that it "worked", as artists will say. And I hadn't really thought that much about it. This is a large example of many lessons along the way, in my fledgling "serious" studio practice, that have stuck with me, about the balance between not-enough-thought, and over-thinking.

The flip side of this is that, once it is seen to "work", it can become a technique which is used over and over, with more thought than before...and it too might need to be brushed aside with a new, fresher, more instantaneous reaction, to break through that wall of thought that has gotten too high to bridge.

Two of the pieces that have worked really well at the studio recently, here nine years later, have both returned to that instantaneous, reactionary technique - not necessarily dripping or drips, although that could return at some point. In these cases, I simply went quickly off an impulse: in one, to join two pieces of found paper together, and make it into a painting surface, on which I painted a shape directly from my sketchbook; the other a quick decision to make a partial circle on a found faux wood panel, based simply on an impulse that that shape would "work" on that particular shaped panel. Now, one of the ways in which I characterize my art work to people when they ask, is that my formal decisions are largely intuitive: I decide one color based upon the last, and then the next shape upon the first, and so on, until that particular conversation is finished. But though this is a pattern, it still is a pattern which cycles in and out.

Another important point to make is that, in these two examples, I was really reacting to the formal reality of the shape I was painting ON, not simply looking for the best shape or color to paint ON it. In other words, I was living up to something I use to explain my work to others; namely, that I react to the preexisting visual matrix, or reality, of the surface...this is especially true of working on found surfaces or objects. It is a manner which fits me well, and perhaps that is as good a lesson as any to take from this.

Another instance, more recently, where I noticed over-thinking, or overt control of painting got the better of me, and thus the works, was on a few of the new paintings for my recent show at LGTripp Gallery, in Old City. Granted, I was under time constraints, and sought (almost unknowingly) to control my production by using taped-off lines; rulers, and straight-edges. Now, again, I've used these tools to good effect in the past, and still use them sparingly, but here there was a bit too much control; the images became a bit too stifled and dictatorial. I still think they are strong pieces, but they are of a different kind of spirit from my more recent work, which feels more natural, effortless almost.

A telling comment from a LGTripp gallery visitor, which I wrote about in a previous post, was also a word to the wise: "why the hell didn't you just PAINT those lines?" As opposed to laying them out with tape, I'm guessing. He thought my taped lines were, in fact, tape; but still: touche, sir. I've tried to become more confident and rely upon my hand skills and quality brushes more since then.

Home Slice, 2013

It's funny how this tendency goes in cycles...and I'm sure it will cycle the other way again. But perhaps as the studio life goes on, and lessons sink in more deeply (I've heard it takes eight times to remember something permanently) those cycles will become larger, and the spin will be less radical; less apogee and perigee, and more consistency. 

But maybe radical is something that's okay at times? I'll stop thinking about it now.

Read more...

Learning to Un-see

Ellsworth Kelly

 If you’ve spent any amount of time on the internet, especially on the pabulum-pushing, top-ten type sites like Buzzfeed, et al, you’ve likely come across a version of this phrase: “you won’t be able to un-see this!” This usually refers to a visual double entendre, or unfortunately candid celebrity snapshot. This is supposed to be a bad thing – perhaps in the “so good it’s bad” sense – but nevertheless, bad; a thing you’d like kind of like to “un-see” once you’ve seen it.

Several things that I’ve seen recently caused me to wish that I could un-see things – in the sense of retaining a mystery of unknowing; of not recognizing – and subsequently, taking in the formal elements alone, without social, cultural, art historical, religious, or even corporate or institutional reference, or definitiveness. I suppose my question became: can this tendency be undone – can things, definitions – be un-seen? Do I already un-see things without knowing it?

Robert Irwin, Black, 2008.

Two twentieth-century artists quickly came to mind, when I considered this question. One of them was Ellsworth Kelly – mostly because he is never far from my consciousness, being someone I consider an artistic soul mate. And of course, because I believe he is uniquely prescient in being able to “un-see” things, nearly at will – and then being able to see them anew. And that’s when Robert Irwin came to mind. Several years ago, I read the book Seeing is forgetting the name of the thing one sees, and though I remember few specifics from the reading, a few lessons burnt their way into me, one of which was, you need to relearn your seeing, and reeducate your eyes, and thus your brain (or is that vice-versa?). Kelly was an Irwinite seemingly at birth; I’m a disciple; yet I’m positive that all of us need to get better at 1) un-seeing, and 2) re-seeing.

I’ll give you a very specific and recent example of what is meant here. This week, while driving to the studio, I was studying a bumper sticker on the car in front of me. It was a longish, purple blob – landscape-like; horizontal – above which a white, grass-like shape popped up – like a “Kilroy wuz here”, but with only his flattop haircut showing. Puzzling over these shapes, and why they were an appropriate sticker for a car bumper, I noticed the text “Do It Twice Daily!” and still it remained puzzling. Finally, I realized it was a stylized toothbrush: beautiful bubble broken. (It’s likely the text is what pierced the bubble finally; text has a powerful way of doing that). And immediately I wished I could un-see the toothbrush. 

Here’s where the average, normal person would have lost interest – unless he hadn’t yet brushed his teeth that day, or he was a dentist nodding in agreement. But the purple blob and weird white grass shape were intriguing, and I wanted to return to the mystery that had popped and been lost. This is the re-seeing of a seasoned artist interested in formal elements: what artistic plant might this seed develop into? Once these basic materials (line, color, shape, etc.) are taken back to the studio, or sketchbook, and reworked over and over (as long as they seem useful or interesting) then the action starts reversing: returning to another sense of un-seeing; divesting these basic elements of all, or most, or one of the references listed before. This is the re-seeing as un-seeing. And it’s partly out of a desire to return to the pure state before the realization; an almost child-like mystery of a before-unseen thing: the “what is that -” question without the adult judgment of accumulated references, encapsulated in “-supposed to be?” This is also a crucial part of an artistic education which assists all artists, even those interested in “realist” or literal interpretations of the world. Even a portraitist needs to un-see the sitter before she can re-see or reassemble the picture before her; the piece-to-be. Recall those middle-school drawing lessons preaching the logic of breaking the world into cubes, spheres, pyramids, and cylinders. Paradise regained after paradise lost. 

Once this skill is developed, I’m positive one can begin seeing immediately past “toothbrush” and “text” directly to the basic shapes and other formal elements in everything around them – without losing the ability to avoid walking into trees or signposts – and know everything is potential, vigorous seed for inspiration, rumination, and perhaps eventually, finished work. This is related to what I’ve come to value about being an artist: that “polyglot” ability to take absolutely anything, and use it to feed one’s inspiration. The skill of un-seeing is an important component of that ability. And suddenly not only does a toothbrush become a landscape, but a landscape might become a toothbrush. The bubble has been broken, but who wants to stay locked inside the tension of a bubble, no matter how beautiful? Learn to reproduce it; since art is artifice, after all. 

Read more...

Equivalents: Calligraphy

Tag; Sunoco station, Oxford Circle, Philadelphia, February 2013

Manuscript; "This Letter Written by Mi Fei", 13th (?) century China

Read more...

New Year; New Maxims

The impromptu color combinations on my stirring sticks often suggest color combinations that might work in the paintings.

2.11.13

Every year, I try to encapsulate some lessons I feel I'm learning, or need to begin learning, for my artistic practice. This year, they emerged while frenetically preparing the paintings for my latest show, and were fine-tuned while talking with both friends and strangers at the show's opening and First Friday receptions. They are as follows (with some explanation): 

Loosen Up

My tendency is to be very tight with my paint application, relying heavily on taping, masking, stencils, tracing, compassing, and so on. One visitor, a stranger to me, but a fellow painter in his sixties, complimented my work at the exhibit, but then said, "these lines (pointing to a work with harshly taped yellow lines) make me say, why the hell doesn't he just paint it?" And then he laughed and reminded me that he liked my work, and that he felt he had the right to speak with me this way, since he had been painting for fifty years or so. I was fine with this, and thanked him for his candor, and realized he had touched on something that I'd been feeling tapping me on the back, but hadn't taken the time to mentally articulate. Thus, the first maxim: not a hard rule, by any means - I'm not going to give up the tape, the stencils, or the masking, since these are my tools - but I'm also going to keep a reminder near that I should also rely on those other, even simpler tools at my disposal: steady hands; quality brushes that make a good edge - a human edge - all by themselves; and an ease of application which comes from knowing these tools well. 


Mix it Up

This one is loosely based on a maxim from a previous year, where I saw the need to begin adding more diverse paint application styles to my repertoire: not just straight, flat paint, but scumbling; spraying, with spray paint or stiff brush; thin paint layers, and layers bleeding through each other. In other words, allow the paint and other materials to be all that they can be; get them to do as much as is possible. Make the paint itself the most versatile tool it can be. So, in a way, this maxim is a reminder that this needs to continue. I thank the work of Corey Antis, which I sat with for hours at a time while monitoring Tiger Strikes Asteroid, for originally pushing me to this realization.


Keep it Up

Ultimately, the most simple and the most challenging one of the three: consistency. At my new location, I've resolved to eek out as much time from my week as possible, without unduly stealing from other important parts of my life, to spend in the studio. Keep plowing forward, expecting a good crop to result. An old adage, but a good one. This is tempered, of course, by my feeling that I need to squeeze out of every element in a picture the most it can provide. In other words, work with less elements, but make each element work as hard as it possibly can for the overall benefit of the picture. This is not easy, but very satisfying when it is working well.


I plan on making a sign of these to hang in the studio this year. Let's see how they look at the end of the year, what they might lead to pictorially, and which maxims might emerge as I move on.

Read more...

Thoughts: old photographs as memorials

Lately I've been looking at a lot of old photographs (1914 - 1950s) of the neighborhood I now live in, Frankford, or more specifically, Northwood, a very early "suburb". The one above is an example, and appropriately enough, of a neighborhood memorial:

Some rudimentary thoughts on the power of photographs as icons; and how that function as icon differs depending upon your point of reference around that photograph:

For the young (who were not there): the photograph is an icon of largeness; how much they don't know about the scene, the time, the context, can be found in this image; every detail trucking a vast sense of newness; of awe, even (in a weird reverse).

For the old (who were there, or in the represented time): the photograph is an icon of smallness; how small a slice of the richness of living, of actual life in this pictured time, or some parallel place; every detail reminding them of how much has changed; how much has been lost - both actually and in their memory - a truckload of details of oldness lost; of the smallness of their new.

For the photograph (bridging the gaps of time; functioning as the hub around which perceptions spin): it is a complex icon, trucking both old and new; its new possibility is a crossroads at which communication and discovery can still be made; relationships and understanding can be fertilized by it: the old can become a new new; the new can be remade in the light of the old...distinctions can become less important; time even may begin to fade a little.

Read more...

Art at Church: new Second Space show!

 

This Saturday, the 11th of August at 6 PM, come join us at Second Space Arts of OCMC, for the opening reception of Art at Church: an invitational exhibit. Featuring many of the artists of the Olivet Church Studios in the Fairmount neighborhood. The show will run through the beginning of October. 

Read more...

Education and Kelly's Barnes Totem

http://www.philart.net/art.php?id=799

“It is in fact the play of the sun on the building and the sun on the totem, and the interaction of the people at its base that is really magic.”  -Ellsworth Kelly, on Barnes Totem

The symbol of a sphinx and the symbol of a totem have two very different sets of ideas and meanings. And yet we see the two of them interacting in the visual symbolism associated with the Barnes Foundation building on the Parkway. The image of a sphinx (discussed last post), incorporated into the look and mien of the building, emphasizes the Foundation as a keeper of light; knowledge and wisdom – the sentinel if you will, of the temple of culture and education (for what is education but “appropriate culture”?) as constructed by Dr. Barnes, and in this building’s case, a figure leaning into the westerly winds of the future.  However, the sphinx, though here beneficent and worthy, is still nearly always a lone figure – an individual creature.

A totem, referencing mostly the familial sculpture of Northwest Native American peoples, but having precedents in other cultures, always emphasizes community. The very form is familial: a sculpture, both from a tree and tree-like, which in its most common form, shows a cross-section of numerous generations, almost as a “core-sample” of a society’s, village’s, or family’s peoplehood and history. One other important distinction, which appeals to a formalist like myself: the sphinx is normally horizontal, and the totem is always vertical.

When we get to Ellsworth Kelly’s use of the totem in Barnes Totem, this familial sense, colorful in both hue and emotion in the traditional totems, is greatly simplified, stylized, and cooled; but the communal aspect is, if anything, even more important. In a way, the verticality emphasizes community directly. The sculpture is a bead-blasted steel totem, one rectangular element dog-legging from another about halfway up the entire structure’s height. When this sculpture was dedicated this spring, as part of his comments surrounding it, Kelly emphasized the sculpture’s importance as being directly related to its two distinct elements, despite it reading at first glance as one large, fully integrated piece. Not a direct quote, but he said something to the effect of, “one part is lifting the other above itself”.  And in the quote at the beginning of this essay, Kelly emphasizes another aspect which both extends the idea of the Barnes sphinx (gatherer, keeper, and distributor of light) as well as speaks to the core aim of the Foundation: interaction, and therefore the possibility for education. The best of families are always partly about education – the totems were made, after all, for later generations’ memory – and this totem is no different. It is one element lifting another – presumably for a better vantage point; to share knowledge; to teach a lesson; to impart the best of what they are after, what they are looking at; to extend one generation’s limited view further than they themselves could see, through subsequent generations. Isaac Newton said “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” It might even be said that the sphinx is looking after – a caretaker, mostly – and the totem is looking at: together; communally. In this way, the totem further extends the forward-looking lean of the sphinx, and also connects the building, like a key, to the original Barnesian core of education, and indeed the very core of the idea of education itself: continuation, imparting; betterment.

I’ve long believed that the more simplified the form in art, the greater the message that can be imparted – the caveat being that this places the onus on both the artist to be conscientious, as well as on the viewer to be paying attention to their reaction to it, and the context in which the artwork’s intent is found. (Viewing art is a type of education, and all education requires concentration, and time – not to mention enjoyment, which can cause one to forget the former two). A formally simple artwork is capable of carrying the weight of great intent – but craft and concept must meet nearly flawlessly, otherwise there will always be an uncomfortable gap between artist and viewer. The Barnes Totem rides this line tentatively – it is not Kelly’s strongest work, in my current estimation – but the context, if one is paying attention, helps the inquisitive viewer. Knowing about the Barnes’ aims will help one realize the importance of the totem – as well as vice-versa. I can imagine a new visitor being confused about the totem, and after absorbing the spirit of Barnes’ collection, having it finally make sense – “lifting up” and inspiring their understanding and absorption about what Dr. Barnes was trying to accomplish, and what the collection – and now the building – attempts to carry on. 

Part of the original role for totems was that they would disintegrate over time, uninterrupted, and in that perhaps, is the final lesson that not all is worth remembering…in a Zen way, to educate, many things must be forgotten. One thing implicit in the Newton quote “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants” is that Newton himself became a “giant”, and that giants, even sculptures of them, die, or at least decline: are we as a generation becoming giants for the next to stand upon, to see past us? Both the Barnes and the Totem built for it, ask this question; and offer opportunity.

Read more...

The Sphinx of the Parkway

The Sphinx of the Parkway

Much has already been written about the new Barnes Foundation building on the Parkway: about its brilliance, or short-sightedness; its accessibility or inaccessibility; its attention to craft, or not. Little however, has been mentioned of its symbolism, as such. Of course all buildings carry something of the symbolic in them: they are, after all, at their best an extension; an extrapolation of both the human body and of nature and landscape: a good (read: successful) building, in other words, is a tranquil compromise. This in itself is greatly symbolic. But that’s writ generally; what about the Barnes Parkway building specifically? Buildings have a way, through their form, of being labeled with all sorts of colorful street monikers: the “Gherkin” skyscraper in London is a good example of this. Of the Merion Barnes building, by Paul Cret, one could say it’s, depending on your viewpoint, a coffin; mausoleum; shoe box; hoagie, and so on. I’ve heard it called a “jewel box”.

The symbol I’d like to suggest for the new Barnes Parkway building is the sphinx – and specifically, the more beneficent, enigmatic Egyptian sphinx. I mean this both formally, and symbolically: that is, the form influences the symbolic nature of what a “sphinx” entails, both historically (as much as can be known) and in the more generic parlance and understanding. The basic form of the Parkway building is of three parts, all long and rectangular: one side (right, or south if facing the west) being the close interpretation of the Merion galleries (or “Merion bar” as it was called early on).The second side is the left, or north side, deviating slightly from the pure rectangle, by wrapping around the back, or east end, but not touching: this is the institutional support section: conservation; offices; restaurant; exhibition gallery; lobby; etc. And thirdly, at nearly the same dimensions, is the light-box, suspended over a covered courtyard between the first two sections; made of white steel and frosted glass throughout. The light box is pushed westward, approximately thirty feet out over its two limestone-cladded “posts”; a light-bearing “lintel”, creating an exterior patio beneath.

So then, when observing one day from the west side while sitting in the adjacent Rodin Museum gardens, I realized the building has a form surprisingly reminiscent, though simplified, of an Egyptian (couchant) sphinx. The light-box head, erect but on a reclining body – here projecting rather than the normal receding – from the two strong front legs: a revived myth straining forward on its haunches. But not just a myth: it’s remarkably like the most famous sphinx, the Great Sphinx, extant and enigmatic among the pyramids of Giza. And the Barnes building cooperates in this mythos. The sphinx has always been an enigma: in some stories giving riddles to inquirers; speech which required discernment; cunning; interpretation: experience, in the term of John Dewey and Dr. Barnes.

And so with the Barnes building: the left leg symbolizes the past of the collection galleries; a legacy with which all participants and viewers deal with through interpretation and engagement, but also linked to a particular time and person through its present, preserved form. The right leg, the support building, symbolizes several layers of progress – treatment; research; development; new amenities; support in the broadest psychological, institutional and physical sense – but always and in every way connected to the left leg (the gallery). And what connects them? The sphinx’s head, or the light-box: always looking west, towards a gathered and joint future: past and present gazing ahead to what’s next. Light is imparted to both sides by this gatherer and distributor of energy and inspiration in the form of physical and spiritual light (and isn’t light always a combination of the two?). The center is the light, and light is always now: the present. In this way, the head, or light-box, of this modern sphinx, is an eternal torch, by day and by night, for concentrated perpetuity. There always has been and always will be riddles endemic to the Barnes collection and foundation – but riddles may be solved. And the hope is that, like the curious androgyny, this sphinx also has ambidextrousness: neither past nor future pulling ahead, but always remaining balanced in this symbolic, future-gazing sphinx of the Parkway.

(Next post: investigating how Ellsworth Kelly's Barnes Totem extends this symbol of the new building, and the human experience therein.)

Read more...

CO Flag: now in Indiana

CO Flag, enamel on found door panel, 2004. Collection of Mennonite Church USA.

 Hi friends. An older painting of mine has been accepted into the (brand new) collection of artwork in the (also brand new) building of the Mennonite Church USA headquarters in Elkhart, IN. Below is the short blurb to help viewers engage with the (admittedly) minimal image. I'd be interested in your feedback, as well.


Several years ago, I was working my way through a book by Perry Bush, entitled Two Kingdoms, Two Loyalties: Mennonite Pacifism in Modern America, a study of the gradual transition of Mennonites from quietism to active pacifism, and happened upon a passage which piqued my interest on the psychological impact of color. During World War II, when there was a heightened animosity against conscientious objectors, an Ohio Mennonite place of business had, overnight, been splashed with a can of yellow paint. Yellow has long been associated with cowardice, and this is likely what the perpetrator was intending to convey. Being from the (at least outwardly) more politically-tolerant east coast, I was unfamiliar with this discriminatory practice, and it struck me as an opportunity for artistic experimentation.

My artistic approach has become fairly minimal, that is using a minimum of materials and components to convey a maximum of expression, so that connections often need to be sussed out by the viewer. This piece, CO Flag, was made easier by the fact that a friend of mine, knowing that I enjoyed painting on and engaging with found objects in my work, had given me an aluminum screen door panel, stamped with an iconic "barn-door" pattern. I decided to use it to experiment with the possibilities of yellow. The thought process was something like this: if one assumes that the perpetrator of the yellow-paint vandalism was doing that action because of perceived patriotism, and if one also assumes that the Mennonite victim of this crime also was, in their own way, trying to be a good citizen, what might be an expressive icon or symbol of that unusual common ground? In other words, what kind of flag (a calling-card of patriotism) would a conscientious objector (CO) have, or choose to have? And of course a little artistic tongue-in-cheek approach doesn't hurt.

Re-appropriating the cowardly color yellow, I made it the primary color of this flag, and squeezed it into a very basic representation of the American flag, and painted it on a door panel: another re-appropriation. One piece of advice to discriminated people is to take back something that was taken away, and make it new. This is also a part of the Gospel: old things have passed away; the new is here! My hope is that some of these connections were successful in this painting, and that it goes on as an encouragement to creative discussion -- and creation.

March 31, 2012.

Read more...

Essay: Karla Siegel Paintings at Artspace Liberti

 

Untitled, 2011, Karla Siegel

Below is an essay I was commissioned to write for friend and fellow studio mate, Karla Siegel. The show just opened up this past Friday; please go see it and support not only her work but Artspace Liberti in Fishtown. I think this is some of the best stuff I've written recently...




It's a matter of belief then. Do you believe that what this picture is showing you is true; that it truly exists or once existed? Do you believe that the artist is being sincere in their motive, approach, and depiction? When light, which is a major problem (in the sense of an experiment or challenge) in Karla Siegel's work is invited, even encouraged, to have its way, the question must be asked: what do you believe? It's probably too philosophical a beginning for most of us, but nevertheless underlying all vision lies the question of belief. And when an artist such as Siegel, doubly a painter, invites light into the mix as powerfully as she has, the questions crop up.
    Light makes painting not only beautiful, but also confusing; it imparts order as well as chaos. Take an example from art history; say, Impressionism. This movement was brief as far as movements go, but at its heart it was interested in the same thing painting has been interested in all along: the capturing of an essence. Impressionist painters went about it by, as some critics spit at the time, "flinging” their paint-pots at canvas. Despite the ironclad acceptance now of Impressionism, these critics were not far from the truth. These painters – Monet, Pissarro, et al – were often working so ardently to capture and encapsulate the play of light creating and destroying form, they nearly were flinging paint in their zeal to stop light and time in their tracks. (Of course flinging with intent, and without, makes all the difference here). Monet, for example, was so doggedly after the enigma of light, that he did several scenes – one of the most haunting and well-known being the haystacks – over and over, in this light and that, one day after the other. Siegel's painting is rooted directly in the traditions of painting: she says as much herself. Portraiture and still-life are the two expressions of painting that are most obvious here. But, as mentioned before, she is most deeply rooted in the more primal – more human, you might even say – painterly instinct, that of pursuing and subduing the essential element of light. But how exactly – and how does Siegel call us to belief through her paint?
    One method is layering. Time and light have been companions throughout the history of art – one example has been mentioned already. In some cases, the artist attempts to stop time, or at least express the effect of a set time period of light upon paint. In other cases, time is less linear and more layered, something like the difference between a cupcake and a layer cake. The former is heat, time and materials all running parallel in one take; the latter is again the product of heat, time and materials running the same way, but then separated and stacked to create an entirely different result – and reaction. Siegel's portraits are the layer cake: we see different time + light creations piled or layered upon each other. And the technique and perspective reiterate this: in several paintings the face comes up close, very close to the painting surface, becoming muddled and thick in its execution; in others the outlines of shoulder, neck, and head are recognizable, but they are cut from the up-close detail of another face, like a small profile snipped out of a larger image from a magazine. Another of the portraits has a pulled effect, not unlike taffy, that moves the figure up into the blocks of light suggesting a large studio window. The figure, though owing a bit to Bacon, is more calm than his tortured, drawn figures. Even here though, one intuitively picks up on the layers of reaction to light that Siegel has percieved, and subsequently sandwiched into the picture.    
    A second tactic of Siegel's to subduing the enigma of light can be seen in her still-life-inspired abstracts, which suggest not only fountains, bouquets and blooms; but also driveway fireworks and bright, smoky explosions. Earlier mention was made of the action of light through paint at times creating confusion or chaos. In the still-lifes, Siegel is not actually trying to confuse or unsettle the viewer; rather she, like any good artist or scientist, is attempting to solve a problem – and here one problem is fresh depiction. And the approach chosen is to de-clarify; to make indistinct; to obfuscate. But why? One cannot really know; often even the artist can't articulate their own reasoning. Here's a shot, however: consider the full-on, noonday sun. It is blazing; crippling; impossible to look upon fully without pain and damage. If one made an attempt to do so, it would literally blind you – just as omniscience would implode our understanding. In other words, humans are incapable of the full absorption of light's power; of full absorption of worldly knowledge – we are too corporeal. But...what of those hazy and foggy days when the sun is obscured; covered by a scrim of moisture, smoke or steam? Now, the sun – the full sun – can be gazed upon with no damage! Its spherical contour can be made out through the haze – one element of the sun's existence does not escape us. In the case of Siegel's still-lifes, the full knowledge of the scene or source would not actually be physically injurious to us – from human to human, pure knowledge and vision do not function that way. However, without Siegel's haze of paint; scrim of manipulation; we would be stymied by too much – too much information; too much direct representation – we'd not be asked to do any work. As with the full-on sun, we'd be blinded by our own visual callousness. But through obfuscation and haziness, Siegel tells us less, and the painting teaches us more. And as with the hazy sun, one element at least does not escape us. This is the part of the basic paradox of art that Siegel so adeptly and consistently dips into.
    Finally, Siegel captures light by doing exactly that: collecting it, largely in the impasto of her portraits, but also more subtly in the delicate washes and glazes in the still-life abstracts. This occurrence came while looking at them closely: the impasto, lain horizontally, vertically, diagonally this way and that, captures, gathers, and intensifies the cast light from sources both natural and artificial, much like a screen or colander captures grit or grains on its grid, creating independent patterns and intensifying the light's power in particular areas, as well as modulating the surrounding and underlying colors. This uncovers an approach to the original question of belief: this collecting and emitting of light –as nearly physical as is possible without a filament or diode – underlines emphatically the base materiality of the work. Thus an utterly material attribute of the painting – the impasto paint with its furrows, hills and dales – is capturing and enlarging the effect of a highly immaterial entity: light. Here is where the enigmas might clash. But because of this sudden kiss of the material and immaterial, we find ourselves able to answer to a point, perhaps timorously, perhaps boldly: "I believe – but help me with my unbelief!"

Timothy Gierschick
January, 2012

Read more...

Artists' little helpers: thoughts on apprenticeship

 Matisse, La Danse mural

Donald Judd, Untitled (for Susan Buckwalter), galvanized and aluminum.

(I'd be very interested in any comments on these thoughts...)

It has been a tradition of artists for centuries now, particularly Western artists, to have numerous assistants (in earlier parlance, apprentices). In exchange for experience, remuneration and perhaps some cachet, they work for these well-established artists, doing menial and preparatory tasks: canvas preparation, paint mixing, layout drawing or painting, fabrication, and so on. In the modern era (1890s until about 1990s), this relationship morphed more into the assistant category than apprentice: though many of the assistants undoubtedly went on (and still do) to further their own careers through connections they made, or references found through their “masters”, it wasn’t necessarily as much a given as it would have been under the earlier definition of “apprentice”. There the younger artists were part of a more rigid and established pattern of master and trainee, not unlike the trade guilds of medieval Europe, and likely were more subject to the system’s parameters, not to their own desires or whims as to when hanging out their own shingle was finally possible: following the system was mandatory to be accepted as a serious artist in the market (then largely ecclesiastical).

Here are two interesting aberrations of the general modernist model, which might be worth investigating in light of the older model of apprentice: Henri Matisse and Donald Judd.

Matisse, in La Danse, his canvas-cum-mural commissioned in the early 1920s by Dr. Barnes of Pennsylvania, was already laying the groundwork for his famous, late-career cut-paper works. The nearly forty-foot long mural incorporates large areas of color, depicting frolicking grey female figures against a backdrop of pink, blue and black. Spending time with the mural it becomes obvious that, along each edge of the positive shapes, there seems to be a painted, undulating band or border, in a slightly different value and sheen than that of the larger field of color, that visually readjusts, balances and cleans up the edges of those shapes. There are also similar bands along the inside of the negative shapes. This toys with one’s perception of the negatives and positives: they seemingly float upon each other, like paper on a puddle, soaking in water at intervals, creating a set of complex, nuanced and mutable planes. Beyond simple description, however, this quality points to one of the many interesting anecdotes about this work: that Matisse hired a house-painter, presumably in Nice, where the studio for painting La Danse was situated, to paint in the very large areas of solid color. Matisse afterwards then likely applied those aforementioned “bands” which tidy-up – and edit compositional balance, as can be seen by the many line and edge adjustments – the areas the house painter covered. Was this done by Matisse as a time-saver; was he perhaps running past schedule? Or did he simply not feel the need to individually and directly apply every drop of paint onto a mural which would carry his name? This is not a very Modernist concept; modern expression at its height was so much about the individual’s expression, created by that very same individual; it wasn’t until more postmodern times when the direct creation of work and manipulation of material as an unbroken line from the individual’s idea was questioned, and became somewhat unnecessary, immaterial or even pejorative (such as in Donald Judd, who we’ll discuss next). Could this gesture of using a workman’s hand in a fine art application be of the same seminal token as much of Matisse’s artistic decisions? Or was it simply out of necessity…or both? And more importantly, could that humble (station; we don’t know his personality) house painter be considered the missing link between the ancient idea of “apprentice”, and the postmodern idea of the “hired tradesperson”, such as Judd and others used?

Donald Judd was a postmodernist artist of what is sometimes called the Minimalist school, and that title has much to do with our questions of “individuality” and “authorship” of an artwork. Minimalists became known for actively and deliberately divorcing the material creation of their work from the concept or idea. This would often take the form of farming out the fabrication of their sculpture and materials to workmen and craftspeople of the common variety: for Judd, this sometimes meant HVAC contractors, metalworkers and carpenters, who would fabricate his work for him according to his specifications and drawings. Artists have been doing this, of a sort, for generations, in the form of having other more specifically-trained artisans, such as bronze casters or lithographers, carry part of a project to completion that the author/artist was not well-versed in (or not interested in). That is not exactly what we speak of here: this is different in that it is (a) using skilled workers, but from outside the art “world”, and (b) using labor which is not personally invested in finding their own way, and making a name in the same milieu as the hiring or “master” artist. This is the major reason why Matisse’s use of a house painter to apply the actual paint surface of a painting is so interesting; a completely ancient and a completely postmodern gesture, all at once.

A good example of a Judd work that was fabricated by skilled tradesmen is one of his wall pieces of galvanized steel: not surprisingly, the same material used to make HVAC ductwork (the one I know personally is in a private collection in Philadelphia). The piece is expertly made – more expertly than perhaps Judd himself could have accomplished – but has its aberrations as any handmade object does. Was Judd revolutionizing the idea of an “assistant” for the postmodern era (that of an aesthetically disinterested tradesperson), or was he simply riffing off an idea begun quietly by Matisse?

Read more...

"Nevertheless, the thing is there.": an introduction

What is art? What an enormous question: yet, philosophically, I believe finding a portion of an answer is a fairly straightforward exercise. Art is artificial, or it is nothing. It is artifice; created; made; constructed; conceived; solidified; materialized; realized: foolery. Art may try to convince you it is the real thing, but it is not: it is impossible for it to be; it is fake. Not a pejorative fakeness, but the fakeness of models; living symbols; simulacrums. This foolery is what gives art its power; its autonomy. It provides suspension of belief as well as unbelief. The man who cried impulsively, "Lord, I believe; help me with my unbelief!" could have been uttering the cry of a working artist. The label of "art" bestows foolery on even those things that belonged to the world of actuality even moments before: once some thing enters into the realm of being perceived as art, it has, whether truly "art" or not upon inspection, dissection and reflection, become a shadow of its self. It is artificial, even if it's not autonomous. When a thing is both artificial and autonomous - then it is truly art.

Try to point to any one single work of art and explain how it is not artificial in some way, or autonomous in some way - it's not possible. An old quasi-synonym is abstraction. It is an outdated, insufficient term, which should be supplanted with artificial autonomy. And by autonomous is meant the artwork possesses a power which goes beyond its original "artificer", and even its material, and moves into and within a larger, communal reality . It continues to exert power over people, things, actions, emotions and reactions far beyond, in time and space, the original understanding and even intent. It has entered into a high-functioning pantheon. But this is not a rarefied pantheon, but rather one which, like the Greek gods and goddesses, lived among the people, slept with them and had progeny by them. Like the Nephilim, true art produces a race of giants among humans. If any artwork is thought to be non-autonomous, then it is no longer an artwork - it is merely an image, or a hollow, excoriated symbol. Art must have its power, or it is nothing.

(to be continued)

Read more...

Schooled: Curator's Statement

(Title wall of Schooled: photo thanks to Vicki Liantonio, as well as Ben Weaver and Second Space Arts at OCMC)

 
This is my curator's statement for the latest exhibit at Second Space Arts at OCMC, Schooled, featuring the works on paper (and three wonderful wooden bas-relief sculptures) by Steve Evans, Ben Weaver and Douglas Witmer. (Pardon the weird layout; I wrote the document in Apple Pages, which I can only import as an image).

And for those who are interested (and still reading) the artists' reception for this exhibit is June 10th, from 6-9 PM. Come meet the artists and see their fine work, as well as celebrate Second Space's 1st anniversary! Check out our Facebook page for directions, etc.

Read more...