baby's coming
If a purpose of this blog is to tell the story of a young artist with a family, then perhaps my bloglessness best illustrates my current state of affairs. I've been running about between studio, working with inmates at the jail, finishing portrait commissions, wrapping up classes at my little school. And now, my family settles into the quiet rhythm of domesticity, awaiting the arrival of our next baby. Margaret is due August first, and life is good. Please pardon the bloglessness, my every spare minute has been devoted to preparing bassinets, fixing rooms, hanging baby mobiles, etc.
There is an arch in my backyard, covered with English Ivy. For a few years now, I've had the hope of placing beneath that arch a bronze sculpture of my wife, holding one of our little children. And then, a short while ago, I was approached by one of my collectors, requesting me to do a bronze sculpture of a woman. They said they were interested in collaborating on the costs of bronze casting.
Though it's a practice of mine to not speak of something until it is a reality, I mention the possibility of this bronze for a simple reason. There is a scene on Lawrence of Arabia, in which a bleak, empty desert horizon slowly produces a hazy mirage. As the minutes go by, the mirage gains form, and gradually turns into a man on a camel, and finally materializes into Lawrence. Dreams are like that. Thank you, reader, for joining me as some hopes naturally fade away, and other dreams slowly materialize into reality.
the space in between
A fellow artist and I went out painting in Montauk. He is a fantastic painter, and is in a prominent gallery. The gallery owner has stipulated that he churn out innumerable sea scenes. Nothing wrong with a seascape, I really enjoy painting them, and thoroughly enjoy looking at them. As we set our easels up, he wryly said "Two parts blue, one part green." Inwardly, we both moaned- the classic two thirds sky, one third land.
Sure, in life we have to do what we have to do. But sometimes, we also have to not do what we have to do. I looked out on the Montauk commercial docks, and saw the hulking fishing boats, snoring and wheezing. I saw the ropes, bleached raw by the sun, covered with green algae down by the water. I saw the pilings. I saw the space in between the boats. I saw the space in between... I saw the biggest sign of protest that I could possibly paint, thrust in the face of those who would tell me what was beautiful, or paintable. Oh yeah, oh yeah- two parts blue, one part green? Here's the supporting background character being the protagonist, with the beginning at the end, and the piano melody being carried by the left hand, and the climax being placed at the bottom, anapest enjambing trochaic, dangling participles at will, the water and my mind intermingle, chronological order succumbing, no time narrative, no meter music, outside of space and time, both now and forever more. Amen.
You know, artists have temper tantrums too.
And the painting sold.
etude d' poulet
So many artists I talk to, especially in urban areas, will incessantly bemoan the fact that nobody takes them seriously. I couldn't concur more. I mean, come on, why doesn't society realize how vital we are, to the very fabric of social identity? Why, if it weren't for our insights, all advancements would just, like, not advance. Take us seriously, or else, ummm, we will strangely have to label our works in French or some other language. If not for us artists, yes sir, it would just be all fun and games- wait, strike that, reverse it. You can't just laugh us off, like we're these loony people that go around, doing, ummm, weird stuff, and uh, having an inability to focus on, uh, the thing that, the thing that we do, as if we never finish a... Geez, note to self: place garbage can beneath the chicken, before beginning drawing.
gallery north demonstrations
So, life is as busy as ever, with the arrival of our new baby just seven weeks away. Margaret and I are in lockdown mode, trying to make our nest as secure and comfortable as possible. Installing new dishwasher, fixing front door, drilling this, sawing that, staining, sealing, varnishing... and with this whirlwind of activity, we thought it was wise to throw yet another event into the mix. Kind of like those jugglers who aren't content with just juggling plates or balls, but they have to throw a few chainsaws into there.
So, this coming Saturday, the 16th, and the following Saturday, the 23rd, I will be doing drawing and painting demonstrations at Gallery North. From 2 til 5 p.m., I will be doing a three hour portrait drawing on the 13th, demonstrating the step by step approach of portrait drawing. It will be relaying the exact technique which I learned from Charles Cecil, during my schooling in Italy. My model is a wonderful portrait sitter, George, an older man with glorious, bulrush eyebrows. He's ever so Civil War. I will be explaining the unfolding of the drawing, step by step.
The following week, I will be doing a painting demonstration of the same portrait sitter, based upon that same drawing. That's the 23rd, from 2 to 5 p.m. I will be covering painting methods, materials, and even that nebulous idea of capturing the "soul" of a sitter. It's a wonderful way to see the step by step unfolding of a portrait painting. It's a wonderful way of coming to understand the materials and paints which I use, colors which are easily purchased from stores as far as Florence, and as close as Brooklyn.
I'm hoping to have a good number of people there, so that I can do demonstrations like this more often in the future. So come ye all, bring yer loved ones. It's 25 dollars per person, most of the proceeds go to the not-for-profit gallery, and some of it goes to my ever expanding litter of Irish children, running barefoot in the yard amongst the chickens. Bring your sketchpad, to make notes. If you're interested in attending, please RSVP to Gallery North. You can do so by visiting www.gallerynorth.org. You may also do so by emailing Liz at Elizabeth Turer at liz.turer@gallerynorth.org. You can also contact the gallery at 631 -751- 2676.
Hope to see you there!
moved hands
So, I moved Alan's left hand (that is, the hand to our right.) If you look at Alan's portrait, a few blogs ago, you'll see that the hand was draped over the racket, like an overcooked string of spaghetti. The hand was really taking away from the face. So this morning, with a little steel wool and turpentine, I scrubbed the old hand away. I had Alan reposition his hand in a way that was more natural to him, and more dynamic in the composition. An hour or so later, the new hand was painted in roughly. A couple hours after that, and I'd changed the color of the pants, heightened some elements of the back ground, and worked on the jacket. Alan and his wife, Mary, were so pleased with the changes. So am I.
rebirth
My wife Margaret is now in her seventh month of pregnancy. Her face has a warm flush to it, she walks a little slower, she carries herself differently. Her graceful manner seems to say that she is now two. Sometimes, in pregnancy, a woman can suddenly develop a beauty which is altogether singular, where her line becomes calligraphy, and her flesh has a different glow. Margaret is in that moment, now.
This painting began more than a year ago, I believe. Today, another artist and I hired the same model, and began to work. As I worked on my painting, I really thought of how incredible life is. I was just amazed by the idea of "woman." Ideas such as that of a female fetus, at five months development in the womb, already having the eggs for the next generation. And so, you who are reading this were once within your grandmother's womb. Within each woman resides worlds, separate beings, generations, life reborn, a variant upon the theme of mother. How amazing. This painting is a poem to this idea of conception, continuation, of birth as a sort of distant cousin to immortality.
"Thy life's a miracle. Speak yet again." Shakespeare, King Lear
second place
Wooo hooo! My painting of the blue chair and the violin won second place! Here's Team McEvoy, back at the base, beside my booth.
Afterwards, the annual Veagan Parade took place on our street, University Place. Elated, I ran into my truck, to pull out my chicken drumstick lunch and eat it on the hood of my truck as the parade passed. Sadly, I realized that I had brought that lunch yesterday, not today. Disappointing- a hard way to learn a lesson in being prepared. Always have a bloody, carnivorous repast with you, when the Veagans come marching.
p.s. In all fairness, if the meateater parade came by, I'd be looking for a salad bowl
washington square show
So, here we go again! This weekend, and the weekend following, I'll be exhibiting my paintings at the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibition. I'll be there from twelve til six. I'm above Washington Square, on University Place, at the intersection of 10th street. I've paced myself well, for this show. For the first time, I finished paintings a couple weeks in advance. And so, a couple nights before the show, I'm in my garage, framing some of my paintings.
ivan
As the doors closed behind me in the Riverhead Maximum Security Jail, it was with no small amount of trepidation that I sat down at the table. The correction officer said "Kevin, are you ready to see Ivan?" I nodded silently. The heavy door in front of me buzzed, and the figure slowly emerged. He was hunched over, and was wearing handcuffs on his arms, and some restraining device on his feet. He sat at the table. He was dead quiet. "Ivan, I'm here to paint your portrait. Are you okay with that?" I stammered. He was silent. "Ivan, I know that you were the head of the Russian mafia, for the entire New York City area. I know what you've done. Are you willing to sit for a portrait?" He nodded yes. He never spoke. I took out my brushes and began to paint. And so, three hours passed in absolute silence. Ivan "the Terrible", a household name for those familiar with the highest levels of Russian corruption, sat in dead silence. I watched his face emerge on my canvas, and shuddered to think of all that had transpired in this man's life.
To look into those eyes...
Gotcha, I'm just kidding. His name is actually Andre, and he's the nicest guy in the world, and I painted him at my studio. In fact, I decided to throw a curveball on Monday, and I canceled the portrait class that I usually teach. Instead of having my students paint, I had my students sit in a semicircle, and I invited Andre to come and sit. I then did a three hour painting demonstration. It was fun.
Andre works in the other part of the warehouse, where I paint. He sews linen, he irons, he cleans, he makes jokes. To be perfectly honest, his jokes are hard to understand, because he has an incredibly thick, Bulgarian accent. But, they are jokes nonetheless, and I enjoy them. We have chickens at the warehouse- don't ask. They are the newest tenants. They will be laying eggs pretty soon. As I paint, throughout the day, I occasionally peek my head out the window. And, now and again, I see Andre happily waltzing around the chicken coop, throwing seed hither and thither, yonder he ponders, prancing and dancing, whistling and... I can't think of anything that rhymes. But you get my point. He really loves those chickens.
But, lark of mercy, doesn't he look like a Russian mobster?
Dear me, what if he is....
