wavelengths
The sounds of the canal are as enjoyable as the sights. The continual clang of the lines against sailboat masts, the water lapping against the boat, Canadian Geese honking overhead, the diesel engine gurgling down the canal. Plein air painting is as much about sounds, as sights. It is all wavelengths. When you look at John Singer Sargent's paint sketches from Venice, you come to understand why it's so important to live in what you paint, or as Frank McCourt said, "Write what you know."
whitecap
I've been to the tip of the world, and hiked through Patagonia. I've slept beneath a tree in the Boboli Gardens of Florence. I've thrown rocks at sheep as they fed in the rolling hills of Wicklow, Ireland. I've snowboarded into a tree in the middle of the Rockies. I've stolen a rock from the floor of the apostle Paul's prison cell, somewhere around Thessaloniki, Greece. I've bought communist era coins from a street peddler in Talinn, Estonia. I've muttered inutterable curses at the pigeon that pooped on my head, outside of the Vatican. I've jumped off a thirty foot waterfall in the heart of Maine. I've washed my hair alongside homeless rastafarians, in a waterfall in rural Jamaica.
But nothing is as beautiful, or as paintable, as the commercial fishing docks of Islip.
creepy
While teaching portrait painting at my studio, I looked over at my student working away with the model. She had pinned up a backdrop to the wall, which partially covered the painting behind. The result was so funny, I couldn't stop laughing. How creepy.
quoi de neuf?
Two years ago, at the Washington Square Show, I had a conversation with a passerby. He stopped to view the paintings, and we spoke for a long time. Our dialog went along, ranging from the art market, to the resurgence of the baroque in representational painting. Two years later, Claude emailed me. In addition to having authored several books, he now teaches screenplay writing at NYU. He wrote to say that he'd like to feature me in his blog. Take a look at some of the books he has authored, as well, if you get the chance. Click the following link to hop over to his blog. Incidentally, I think it's funny that I float in the world of fine art, and don't even know how to translate or pronounce some of the languages common to the art world. God bless Google Translate.
Claude Brickell's blog, Quoi de Neuf?
day three, phrenology
I've always loved profiles. I've been playing around with profiles a bit, lately. I'm fascinated by the Victorian tradition of profile silhouettes, or the Renaissance portrait. I'm fascinated by the size of people's skulls, the ropy muscles that connect to their necks. If I lived at the end of the nineteenth century, I'm fairly certain that I would have had an office off of Trafalgar Square, making a living in London as a professional phrenologist.
In Florence, a few years ago, a friend of mine said that he hated profiles, they are so contrived. Okay, okay, I see his point- we don't often strike silhouettes in the three dimensional world. But in two dimensions, I just love how the human face can be reduced to one calligraphic line, and the slightest micrometer of variation changes the personality altogether. It creates a sort of wistfulness that reassures me as a painter; it reassures me that line can say what words never could.
connect the dots
I do a project here, a project there. I send an email to this person, and to that person. I dig, I plow, I plant, I hope. A few years can go by in this manner. And some days, you pause and contemplate the broad arc, and wonder.
And then, I watch some of the dots connect. My brother in law, Joe Larmor, together with my father in law, Dever Larmor, designed and built the most amazing painting studio. Hard work, spread out over months and months, and the final result is stunning. They recently built these beautiful, translucent walls around my studio. The walls slide in a channel, to allow for me to expand my studio space when I put on lectures and musical concerts. Classes are filled, models are booked, dozens of blank, linen canvases are awaiting my brushes.
A week ago, I went into a high fallutin' gallery opening in NYC, to see if I might meet Michael Findlay. (He's the art world guru/author that spoke on the NPR program, a few blogs back.) Michael Findlay directs one of the most prestigious galleries in the world, he's sold paintings for eyebrow raising prices, enough to repeatedly gain the attention of New York Times. But, best of all, I've read that he's nice. Michael doesn't at all exhibit or collect paintings that are in my genre, and so I wasn't going so much to seek his representation. But, I simply wanted to meet him personally. In the middle of this show with multimillion dollar paintings all about, I wormed my way between incredibly intimidating glitterati, and sheepishly said "Hey Michael, you may not remember me, but I'm the fellow who shows paintings on the street, in Washington Square, and you spoke about..." and Michael cut me off with a wide smile. "Kevin McEvoy! Of course, you must meet the others in the room. Everyone, this is a very talented young man, Kevin McEvoy, and he did this one painting of inmates in a jail, a very compelling piece. He's a very interesting young man. Kevin, how may I help you?" "Umm, Michael, I have my painting hanging up at a gallery above Columbus Circle, on Central Park West, this coming November. Do you think you might come to see it, in person?" "Kevin, here is my card. Send me the info. I would really like to come. Please email me the info."
I emailed him. He wrote back. It looks like he's coming.
And people are steadily commissioning work. And somebody calls from Missouri, to commission a work, and somebody calls from Los Altos, California, and sends a check for a still life commission.
And though there are dry spells, and though big commissions will at times fall through, and though I sometimes scratch my head and wonder... it's a joy to wake up this morning, and to walk in my studio, and to see the dots connect.
figure drawing class
My figure drawing class, which I teach every monday afternoon, is going very well. The light in my studio is very unique, diffused, descending from the twelve by eighteen foot skylight above. The light falls softly, with gentle transitions from light to shadow on the figure.
While teaching my students, I usually do a small sketch on the side, in my spare moments. I like these sketches, as they have such immediacy, and are not over thought. They are just simple observations of a beautiful moment.
swing and a miss
My beautiful little boy, Quinn, was laying on my lap. He is so alert now, he is constantly moving and absorbing everything. I pulled out my little pocket sketch book, and began to draw.
His quizzical eyes, his rapidly moving head, his mess of blonde hair. That particular turn of his nose. My pencil moved rapidly. Three minutes in, I looked down at my drawing, and was astonished by what I beheld. The worst, most horrific, terrible, inaccurate, awful sketch I'd ever seen. I mean, come on, let's be honest, this drawing looks like Napoleon suffering from dementia.
Do you honestly need another reason to read this blog? I mean, other artists would have you believe that they speak seventeen languages, and that every time they get up to bat, they hit a home run. Not only did I not hit a homer, I didn't hit the ball. But to my credit, I always swing really, really hard.
