delighting, and originality
Upstate New York, in a little state school, a wiry math professor looked over his desk. His desk was covered with books, his walls were covered with papers, pinned by little thumb tacks. "Well, thanks for the office hours, Mr. Ross. Hope you have a nice weekend. Anything fun planned?" He brushed his too long hair to the side, and from the corner of his mouth, he murmured "I'm doing what I'm always trying to do. I'm going to try and have an original thought in math."
Walking out of his office, I reflected on those heavy words. "I'm going to try and have an original thought." From the lips of this man, those words were so weighty, so burdensome, so awful. "...An original thought," as if life had nothing else to offer. As if Einstein actually sat around and tried to think of an original thought. As if Pythagorus was just trying to be original. His words sparked a sense of academic indignation in me, though I couldn't quite articulate my irritation.
A decade later, I was selected by an arts council to be a judge for a body of works by high school artists from across Suffolk County. The first, second, and third prizes awarded would be sent to the Capitol Building in Washington D.C. To my eyes, much of the work was contrived and calculated, and clearly was the result of a cooperation between a savvy art teacher, and a willing student. And yet, some of the work I found to be engaging, and could see that the emotion was actually felt by the artist. Having made my selection, a congressman stood in front of the group and announced the recipients. He spoke in a rehearsed, dry manner, and made some plug for office. He turned to me and said "And here is the judge, Kevin McEvoy. Is there anything you would like to add?"
I was on the spot. I had no speech prepared, no witticism in my holster. Stripped of all preparations, I began. "I just wanted to speak to all of you today about delighting. Do you know what it is to delight in something?" The room was quiet. It was hard for the audience to make the shift from the left brain congressman, to the right brained artist. "Delighting is something which can never be given to you, something which can ever taken away from you. A child delights in a slug's slimy trail. A prisoner delights in a bird on the wall of his cell window. A man delights in the curve of the underside of a woman's jaw. That is the whole of art. If I can offer direction, today, it's that all of humanity has the capacity to delight. But in modern times, art has become about conquering, specifically in the intellectual sense of originality. The "Original Thought," is an awful detour that we've all been taken on. True art has always been about delighting, even if delighting was somehow, paradoxically, dealing with pain. But now, art is brainspun, and aspires towards the original statement. But this is a fad, by an overly intellectualized society. The brain is an organ, so is the heart- but the greatest art is a synthesis of the whole man. Awards can go out to this and that, as no judge is unbiased, nor am I. But, nobody can ever take away delighting from you. It's impossible. Continue to delight, whether you are a poor unknown, or a famous somebody. Delight, and true art will come."
The speech somehow brought out of me the answer to that math professor's despairing statement. He never would come up with an original thought, in math, if he wasn't in awe of the universe. Isaac Newton wasn't trying to be new, he was delighting in the synthesis of disparate notions. Luther wasn't trying to be original, he was inspired by the uncompromising application of scripture. Robert Frost wasn't trying to be the first, he was wringing the rag of creation, for every metaphorical application to human existence. Tolstoy wasn't preoccupied with an unprecedented statement, but with the conflict and resolution of worlds residing within humanity's nature. Cecilia Beaux wasn't trying to be the first, she was simply saw beauty in the mundane. The irony is that, by delighting, all of these individuals were original.
"The way a crow
shook down on me,
The dust of snow
from a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
change in mood,
And saved some part
of a day I had rued."
-Robert Frost
easels
It was seven in the morning, and watching my breath turn to fog, I was reminded how cold it was. My spackling tools needed cleaning. I went to reach into a bucket of water, but instead found a block of ice. I took out my hammer, and began whacking the ice, in an effort to break through to the liquid beneath. Somewhere in Montauk, in the middle of winter, in an enormous unheated mansion, I put down my spackle tools and sat on the steps.
I could hear my dad and brother working away, on the other side of the house. The sun had just risen, and they already had put a coat of spackle on the nails. And then I heard my father's steps approaching.
"Kevin, what are you doing, sitting on the steps? Did you get hurt?" "No dad, I just... I just... I don't feel like working. It's cold." My father paused, his massive frame looming over my gangly teenage limbs. I knew I was asking for trouble. But then his face softened, and in a very tender voice he said "Ooooooooooh Kevin, my little baby, you don't want to work? Goodness, I wish you told me before we left this morning. Why, I would have let you sleep in. And I would have payed you double." I smelled sarcasm. "Kevin, you just stay right there, I'll just spackle the rest of the house with your brother Sean, and I'll pay for your college too. So sorry to disturb you. And, I'll pay you triple time for today." I squirmed in embarrassment, his saccharine arrows having hit their marks well. My dad softly patted my head. Ses he walked off, he sang out " That poor little baby, imagine, having to work at just seventeen years of age. My my my."
I was mortified. I picked up my tools, and began to work. And I continued to work for the next few years. I didn't like spackling, but I did it because I had to work at something, through college.
It's funny, the most valuable tool ever given to me came from spackling. I learned how to work, whether I liked it or not. And it's amazing how much grunt work there is when you're an artist. I have spent the past couple of days shuttling back and forth between home and Home Depot, carting wood, cutting, sawing, drilling, routing, sanding, gluing, screaming, leveling, chiseling, screwing, nailing... And now I have eight beautiful, handmade easels for my new studio. It would have cost me about $2,000 dollars if I bought them. But I was able to make them for about $350 dollars. And honestly, I didn't enjoy a moment of the work. It just made me all the more eager to be painting again.
scaffolding and drawing
On Saturday, I spent the day hanging off of scaffolding, swinging hammers and crowbars, doing demolition work in my new studio. The enormous skylight, located in my studio, was covered up by the previous owners of the building. The work, now, is to uncover the skylight, and rebuild it for my painterly purposes- with north light from above.
And on Monday, I did this drawing of the model in my figure class, at the studio out on the east end.
dever, and my new studio
This Sunday morning, I watched my father in law dip a wool skin into a tray of paint varnish, and then carry it dripping across the floor. As the light streamed through the windows, the wooden floors transformed from a dull, matte finish, into a shimmering gloss. Watching him work, I thought of how beautiful a painting this would be, and how it reminded me of a favorite painting of mine, by the artist Gustave Caillebotte. He worked away, quietly, and I stood on a ladder and spackled a nearby ceiling. My father in law, Dever, imports beautiful, high end linens from Europe, and houses them in this warehouse, which he himself restored ten years ago. And now, he is rearranging his entire warehouse, and letting me rent the choice front room for a painting studio.
The Scrapers, by Caillebotte
If no man is an island, then I'm Kansas. I'm surrounded on every side by people who support, who encourage, who enable me. After a couple of months of searching, driving around Long Island and looking at warehouses, historic homes, state parks, dilapidated old buildings... I'm excited to announce that I now have a beautiful studio, in Islip, a bike ride away from my home. In this warehouse space, there are beautiful, tall windows. But even better, there is an enormous, twelve foot by fifteen foot skylight. The skylight is currently covered up, but we are soon beginning a carpentry project that will open the skylight up, giving me a beautiful cascade of light from above. I can't tell you how ideal this is- it's the perfect studio.
I've been so eager to begin a new series of paintings. I can't quite describe these canvases in words, but I can say that I was never able to begin these works before, because the facilities and setup of my former studios prevented me from doing so. Now I can begin them.
And my teaching plans are exciting too. I will no longer be teaching on the east end of Long Island, but now will be teaching in Islip, one and a half days per week- though I'm offering classes of a different format. They will be in the tradition of the old world atelier- atelier meaning that the head artist paints alongside his students. And so, I will be teaching small classes, while drawing and painting alongside my students. With this studio, I'm able to teach, just as I myself learned at the Charles Cecil Studios in Florence.
Step by step, I plan to incorporate more events into the studio. Once a month, I plan to give lectures to the general public, on art history. And eventually, I hope to eventually incorporate music into this evening. I'm just so grateful to Dever for renting this studio to me, enabling me to take this next step.
And now that I have my own studio, I can enforce my own rules- anybody wearing a French beret will be defenestrated. Nothing against the French, it's just that I can't stand it when artists wear berets. Ah, the joys of owning my own studio.
two faces, super palette, and my studio
I woke up, jumped into my truck, and headed out from my house. A minute down the road, I decided to stop by the town docks and look out at the water for a few minutes. I had a bit to think about, before my day started.
In the past few weeks, there's been quite a bit of change in my painting situation. My studio in Islip has been essentially closed up. The Islip Presbyterian church has been tremendously generous to me, in allowing me the use of their chapel for two years. I've painted many of my best works there, thanks to their kindness. But now, large tables have been moved into that space, making work impossible.
I lifted up a prayer to God, as I overlooked the water. I told him how badly I needed a studio, but the options just seemed so unaffordable. And yet, my career has never been more exciting, with new opportunities arising everywhere. Somehow, performance has outstripped facilities, and I've been troubled by this disconnect. I recited the verse, "Commit your way unto the Lord, and he will do this: He will cause all of your plans to succeed." You know, there are some days when a slight sigh in the direction of the sky occasions a glorious parting of the celestial spheres, and from on high a voice thunders affirmation. This was not one of those days. I hopped in my truck, turned the ignition on, and began my day.
My first stop was in Northport Harbor. A smiling woman greeted me at the door, and I spent the next hour discussing her ideas on a portrait of her children. As she spoke, the children's laughter filled the house. I left the house with a good feeling, looking forward to working for her.
But, as I returned to my truck, a quiet returned, and I just dwelt on my studio situation.
My next stop was home. I was greeted at the door by my own laughing children, and my composed wife. She had just finished filling out a lengthy, complex application for an artist grant. She ran to the post office to mail it, the culmination of several days work. And as I watched her juggle the kids while keeping the paperwork clean, I admired her deeply.
Back in the truck, I continued on to the Riverhead Maximum Security Correctional Facility. As I rolled down the highway, I began to chew the cud again, and was troubled as I thought about how I was without a studio.
After passing through various checkpoints, security gates, and metal detectors, I was back in jail once more. But today was different. Sargent Fisher had called me the week before, to specifically inquire as to whether I might be officially hired by the jail, to be involved in a new, experimental program. She asked me to teach classical painting to the new bracket of inmates, the "Minor Inmates." In short, the jail was taking a proactive effort to keep 16 to 18 year olds from committing serious crimes. When these boys were arrested for criminal charges related to gang violence, they were not turned back onto the streets, only to commit worse crimes- now, they were admitted as inmates. This is a really compassionate vision, on behalf of the jail- to help these young men to redirect their lives, towards good.
I stood in front of the group of nine, and was struck by how boyish their looks were. They were already involved in gangs, and they were just children.
My hands easily found the brushes, mixed the paints, prepared the canvas, and all the while we spoke. I asked them where they were from, whether they liked painting or not, and whether they liked the Caravaggio book I brought. They exploded in praise when I brought out the other painting of the older inmates. They were visibly troubled by the element of despair depicted by one of the inmates in the painting. They shared their backgrounds, their hopes, their anger. I selected one young man from the group, grabbed a new, blank canvas, and the nine gathered around me as I began to paint his face. "Looks nothing like him" laughed one boy. "Man, that's tight, that's good" said another. I instructed them on painting technique, on light, on form. Minutes in, they were silent. And as they watched, they asked me where I grew up, how I came to be a painter, and if I were married or not. They wanted to know how old I was when I got married, whether I was still married, if I had kids. They wanted to know how I came to study in Italy, when I was from a corny town like Islandia. They were just boys, some of whom were looking for direction.
An hour and a half passed like this, and as the correction officer ordered them to exit the room, each young man came up and shook my hand.
Next, the older inmates came in. I picked up the canvas I'd been working on for a few months, and resumed working on Speedy's portrait. Speedy was happy to see me, and we spoke for several hours as he posed. I brought out the details in his face, from his wrinkled forehead to the grey hairs in his beard. Speedy was excited, because instead of being transferred to a remote upstate jail, he had been allowed to stay on and serve his sentence at the Riverhead jail, provided he continued to be such a positive influence to other inmates. All the sheriffs seem to agree that Speedy was showing signs of being weary of jail life, weary of a life of needless strife, and that he wanted to simply undo some of the harm he'd done in this life. We had a long conversation about reform, about jail, about life. A sheriff called out to me that it was eight p.m., and that Speedy had to return to his cell.
As I cleaned up, I stared at the two canvases I painted that day. A young, naive face, a face with so much to learn. And an old, tired face, but a face that had experienced so much- and possibly, a face that had learned. I realized that somehow a very familiar image, buried in my subconscious, had emerged- but altered. I copied this drawing by Da Vinci many times, as a child.
Leonardo da Vinci, il vecchio e il giovane
A few months ago, in the back of my garage, I made a super palette. Yes, a super palette. I mounted a three foot wide board on top of a bench, and it rolls on wheels, it has pvc pipes attached to it to store brushes and preserve my paints, it has telescopic legs, it also has a turbocharged roll bar with nitrogen boosters... or umm... well it's my super palette. I would call it a super duper palette, but that's a bit excessive, seeing as I haven't gotten the built in espresso machine to work yet. I built it to hold absolutely all of my painting materials, so that I could set up shop and be painting in just seconds, no matter where I am. When I paint, I want my setup to be like a piano- every time I strike a key, it is in the same spot. And so, every time I reach for a specific brush- thanks to super palette- it is in the same spot. This has helped me paint.
I cleaned up my paints and brushes and stored them away in super palette. I rolled super palette through the jail, and as I did so, a bunch of the correction officers yelled "good night Kevin" to me. They smiled at super palette. They opened doors for me. They helped me maneuver through the buzzing gates. Everyone commented on the paintings.
As I rolled super palette to my truck, I realized something. This is my studio.
the golden age
As I was standing outside of my booth today, talking to some people who were interested in my paintings, I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my knee. I turned around quickly, and looked down- my son Liam was laughing really hard, giggling and cackling with delight. He had come with my parents, to visit my at my exhibition at the Gallery North Outdoor Art Show, and he snuck up behind me and pinched me. And I picked Liam up in my arms, and walked about my tent, and I spoke with dozens of different people. Those listening were enthusiastic, and I answered questions about the making of different paintings, and where I studied, and what things were like in the prison where I taught.
Like any other artist, I dream of a day in which I can put on a large, cohesive, indoor show- a show that would be impervious to rain. I dream of hefty sales that are big enough to cover my property taxes, a year ahead of schedule. Today, though, people drove from sixty miles away to say hello, and see my paintings. Some people, new to me, stayed in my booth and spoke for half an hour. The booth was filled with life. I had some great sales, a few great portrait commissions, and...
Benjamin Franklin said "The golden age was never the present age." Let the economy rise and fall, let the tide come in and out, as I held my son in my arms, and looked around at all these people, I just felt so content, so grateful, and corny as it may sound, I knew I was in a golden age.
the fall shows
I brought this painting of Brandon to his parents, who had commissioned it, and they were thrilled. I still have a bit of work to do on it, but I'm glad with the progress, and pleased that the parents liked the work.
It has been said that every portrait, painted by the artist, is in fact a self portrait. Perhaps moreso this painting, even though it is a portrait commission of another. It's as if the tear, the peering into the unknown, the look on the face... is somehow the statement of all the wonder within me. I'm created, I create, I ponder creation. To be alive, life, what a fascinating circle.
During the making of this painting, I felt like I was in dialogue with Rachmaninov, that he was saying everything I was trying to say. Please click on the following, to hear his Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor, op. 18, adagio sostenuto. Though I wouldn't want to bastardize the visual piece by saying the painting needs the music, I do enjoy them together.
Rachmaninov, Piano Concerto No.2 in C Minor, performed by Lang Lang
Please come and see my new works at the upcoming Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibition. It is this Labor Day weekend, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, from twelve to six, at the corner of 10th and University Ave. For details-www.wsoae.org
The following weekend, I'll be exhibiting my new works at the Gallery North Outdoor Art Show. It is Saturday and Sunday, the 10th, and 11th, from ten til six. For details- www.gallerynorth.org
