vice
Vice, 18 x 20, oil on linen
I think this painting is fun. I've been working on it, on and off, for the past couple of weeks. Friends who stop by my house typically laugh first, then pause, then tilt their heads in a funny way. Not a bad response to a painting.
kev, maybe you should just paint
I was invited to a workshop and lecture by the world famous painter, Odd Nerdrum. I have been following his work for years. He is probably the most famous realist artist that our age has to offer. His exhibits draw tens of thousands of people. His books sit on the shelves of every major bookshop across the world. His facebook page comments elicit hundreds of responses in just hours. His spittle is bottled and sold as magic old master syrum, guaranteed to make your paintings glow like the masters. His nose hair is bound into brushes. His... I guess you get the idea.
With years of expectation built up, it was with a bit of nervous anticipation that I entered the room. As the door creaked open, I saw a figure hunched over on a stool, its face buried beneath a mess of straggly grey hair, body swathed in what appeared to be a linen nightgown. He opened his mouth "And so, we find that Kant was the greatest artist ever, because he was not an artist. He was an artist of artists, who saw what was before what was to be was and is. But, Apelles, most brilliant of all men, was the greatest painter of all men, yet we have no painting by Apelles, but rather the testimony of Apelles' wheel, spinning in motion in the continuum of time, motion in stillness." A mere ten seconds had passed, and I was crestfallen. Here is a great figure of the realist movement, arguably the most famous face of naturalistic and representational painting- and he seems to be performing an act. Maybe I am sensitive to such artifices because I spent a good period of my childhood being dragged off to evangelical tent revivals, where a prophet would mysteriously walk onto the stage, stare at the sky, furrow his brow, and assume the role of conduit between heaven and earth. "I, I am speaking to you of these things, to enlighten you. Philosophy is the element of painting, philosophy is painting, without philosophy, you have no painting. The men who think, the most brilliant men on earth, they are the greatest painters. And the greatest painters are the most brilliant men on earth." A woman in front of me was nervously playing with her iPhone, and when Odd lowered his head for a moment, she raised her iPhone to take a photo- he suddenly lifted his head, stared at the woman, and boomed loudly "NO, NO PHOTO. NO PHOTO!!!! I do not like photos. I do not like photos." Then he fell to quiet mumblings.
When he announced a break, the room fell to nervous chattering. He walked off to the corner of the room, and quietly conversed with a few individuals who had traveled with him from Scandinavia. Eventually, somebody asked him if he was going to paint. He spoke "I paint in mystery. When I was young, I discovered that if you have an element of mystery in your canvas, it keeps people standing in front of it longer. So I paint mysteriously." He walked over to the easel, and began to set up. He did not fuss with palettes or stretcher bars or mediums or anything. He just took some box tape, borrowed a panel from an attending artist, mixed up some basic colors, and began to paint with his fingers. Within seconds, a hauntingly beautiful image began to take shape. It was astonishing. It was beautiful. It was weird, but, it was beautiful. He spent the next couple of hours in silence, periodically broken with engimatic utterances as a response to questions. A timid old woman finally mustered the nerve to ask "Mr. Odd, ummm, what do you look at when you paint?" "Ah, I am looking at Rembrandt, and you are looking at me."
At the end of the class, he gathered everybody around. "I have something to say. Modern art, Andy Warhol: They tried to take away my fantasy. They tried to take away my mythology. They said I could not paint these things. Modern art tried to take my voice away from me. I would not let them. I stayed close to Rembrandt." It was a refreshingly honest word, the first direct thing he had said all day. At the first sign of sincerity, I was touched- we all were. Suddenly, I wondered: maybe it's not all an act. Maybe he is, geniunely, this weird. Maybe he just really likes wearing linen nightgowns, in the middle of Manhattan. It's possible. One thing was certain, he is a talented painter, and I learned from watching him paint.
A lecture followed, in which a large auditorium was filled with scores of Odd Nerdrum devotees. People had flown from Texas, driven from Maryland, from Canada, all to hear him speak. He assumed the lectern with a solemn, awful silence, like a druid in a forest at midnight. He stood silently, until the room quieted down. He spoke. "Immanuel Kant was the greatest artist, most brilliant man who ever..." and he proceeded along the same route. But this time, his thoughts were coming across more clearly. "Philosophy, philosophy, that is the basis of all painting. Rembrandt, Velazquez, Apelles... these men were philosophers, not painters. They were very smart, you see. And if you read philosophy, you will find that you are suddenly transported to another level. I know a young man, who came to study painting with me. He was not smart. I directed him in the way of books and philosophy, and he became smart over the years. Now he is a very great painter. Because he is smart. If you too study philosophy, you will have a hard time communicating with those in your family- your mother, your grandmother, your aunt... Beauty is only seen in that which has suffered. And so, one must despise the gracious line of a woman's neck, the flower in a field, yes, even the laugh of a child. Is this right? All great art is timeless. It does not refer to any modern accoutrements. Modern society has not produced anything beautiful- its buildings are ugly, its material is without beauty. Men wear jeans, to conform, instead of true clothes. All artists are refugees from society, because the true artist criticizes society, and society cannot call them its own. The prophet, he is the great one, the one who is the refugee, the one to whom all society will turn, when it realizes that his criticisms are true. American art is not great, because it does not suffer. You have a lot of money. It is not money, but philosophy, intellect, and suffering."
Instantly, it all made sense. I remembered a painting by Odd, a self portrait which he entitled "The Saviour of Painting, the Prophet of Painting." That's what this all was. This whole workshop was his press conference in New York City, in which he cements his role as the leader of all painting. What is the deal with all of these megalomaniacs, trying to take over the world? Why do artists have to be so weird?
The Savior of Painting, Odd Nerdrum
I was infuriated. I raised my hand. "Umm, excuse me, Odd, I disagree with you so strongly, I don't know where to begin." Every head in the room turned and looked at me. "Mark Twain said "The gods value morals alone; they have paid no compliments to intellect, nor offered it a single reward. If intellect is welcome anywhere in the world, it is in hell, not in heaven." You know, philosophy is not the source of art. People are. The human spirit is. In fact, a very stupid person, with an inferior intellect, could be the source of the greatest work of art. What's more, philosophy is not found in books. It is everywhere. The taxi driver who drove you here, to this lecture hall- that taxi driver had his own philosophy. A few years ago, I came back from Europe, and couldn't see anything beautiful around me. I was elitest. I hated all of the strip malls around me. And then, I was in a parking lot, sitting in my car, and I saw a woman standing in a bus stop. And, she started crying. Her little daughter held on, and the mother wept and leaned against the pole. That woman had a philosophy, and its up to us artists to discover the world within her. That's what Rembrandt did, tried to capture the beauty of the human spirit- not trying to be the greatest philosopher ever. You know what would be a good painting? That taxi driver from the middle east, sitting in his taxi, with his meter and modern accoutrements beside him, staring out the window."
The room exploded. People started to yell out "Yeah, he's right. You don't need to paint people suspended in space, in togas, in order to have great art." "Yeah, you're right, art can be as simple as life itself." Another person sided with Odd, and disagreed with us. "If time is within the continuum of space and eternity, then the Mona Lisa best portrays that which is eternal and yet anchored in..." and on he babbled. The senior editor of the biggest art magazine in the country was clearly invigorated by this upset, and looked over and said "Anarchy!" As the room continued on in this fashion, I sat quietly. The magazine editor had a nice way about him, and was clearly interested in where the conversation had gone. Then looked at me, and said "Excuse me, excuse me. Young man." The room was silenced. "Young man, let me ask you: What is philosophy?"
I said "The love of wisdom."
He said "No, it isn't. It's a spiritual searching, it's a consuming quest, it's..."
"Philosphy literally comes from the Greek words "Philo" and "Sophia." The love of wisdom. And anybody can have wisdom. Rich or poor, stupid or smart."
The room continued to buzz, and Odd eventually regained control. He finished his lecture, and I nervously made my way out the door.
Later that evening, I attended a demonstration by Nelson Shanks. He is the kind of person that, if you ask him for directions to the restroom, he will somehow manage to fit into his response that they he painted Lady Diana and President Clinton. I had been prepped by a legion of artists beforehand concerning this. And he did not fail to disappoint. In a very fashionable, downtown art club, he stood with one hand on his hip, and twirled the brush above his head, in the air, then attacked the canvas with pinky extended. I tried to get a photograph of this foppery, but his painting hand was always moving in such rapid, delectable dalliances that I could not capture it on film. Nelson draped a prominent social figure in the most horrific, gold, curtain fabric that ever was vomited out of Sodom and Gomorrah. And, in front of a delighted audience of 200 or so, with a Hi-Def camera crew recording every detail, he painted. He spoke of his immensely successful exhibition in Moscow. And as he painted, it was evident to all that Nelson Shanks was, indeed, a very talented realist painter. He captured her likeness in just brushstrokes. I left half way through.
As I made my way to the train, my head was spinning. Here they are, international celebrities of the art world... and I have never believed less in painting as an art form. It all seemed like a show. Does art always have to assume such caricature when it assumes the stage?- the mysterious shamanism of Odd Nerdrum, the contrived aristocracy of Nelson Shanks? Disillusioned, I dwelled on these things. Then, I asked myself if I was just jealous. Maybe I was just an obscure little artist, thumbing my nose at anybody who made it big. No, I couldn't say that was the case- I have endless praise for some of the biggest contemporary names, from David Leffel, to Andrew Wyeth. Painters who paint beauty, with sincerity.
I spoke to Margaret, my wife, for a long time about all of these things. After a couple hours of conversation, she just paused and said "Kev, maybe you should just paint."
I went to the Riverhead jail two days ago. I asked the inmates if they would like to be in a painting. I set up my easel. I painted them for three and a half hours, working and talking with them all the while. They skipped their lunch to sit for me. One of these men never knew his father- when he was fifteen, somebody told him that his father had just been found dead, and it made no difference "because your father was a worthless drunk anyway." The convict continued on "And that's when I decided I was going to be just like my dad- do drugs, and drink myself to death." Another prisoner told me about the guilt of his crime, how he was an idiot, was dealing heroine and deserved his sentence. Another man told me how his father left when he was an infant, and how much he had loved his grandmother, and how much she had loved him. He was going to get out of jail soon, and said he was going to live his life for his grandmother, now deceased, the only person who had ever loved him. I finished painting them, and they thanked me so much for coming, asked me to send pictures of the painting to their girlfriends and brothers, asked me to come back soon. "This is the only worthwhile thing that's happened to me, in this jail."
The Prisoners, 4 feet by 4 feet, three hours progress
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"When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
-Walt Whitman
it's peaceful here
The other day, I put my two sons into my pickup truck, and headed out to the east end of Long Island. My first son, Liam, is nearly four, my second son, Evan, is a little older than one. As we passed sod farms and white sand beaches, I listened to Itzhak Perlman playing some short little violin pieces. Liam was looking at his picture book, Evan was happily babbling, and I was content. And in our truck, a beautiful melody began to play. It was one of those moments in which music and life seem to overlap so perfectly that the two are indistinguishable. It was Rachmaninov's "It's Peaceful Here," in the hands of Itzhak Perlman. Stripped of all superlatives, this piece celebrates the quiet everyday. Fittingly, the piece is as brief as the ephemeral moment which it celebrates.
As I set up my paints this afternoon, I held on to that memory with such a joy. I knew I was going to paint a still life today, but didn't know what. I decided to paint the joy of that moment. I placed the violin and table in front of the sun drenched window, and began to paint.
"Happiness makes up for in height what it lacks in length." - Robert Frost
but
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness." - John Keats
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Please click the following to listen to Itzhak Perlman play this tune.
"Summer", three hour progress
torn canvas
I've received a commission to do a portrait of a young man, entering his senior year in high school. However, the father, Jim, has stipulated that he doesn't want a portrait in the traditional sense of the word. He wants something that would stand alone as a work of art, itself, and to speak about who his son is. His son, Brandon, is a voracious reader, and though only seventeen years old, a talented writer who has already won a notable award from a newspaper. He's also into video games, cinema, and comics. Jim said "please don't put him in a cardigan, with a leatherbound book in his hand, and a tennis racket in his other hand. I want a real painting." I can't tell you how exciting it is to work with people that are this original.
Brandon has been alive for half as long as I have, and he's read twice as many books, watched ten times as many movies, and read twenty times as many comic books. He's really a fascinating young person, with a huge brain. He seamlessly melds together classical literature with pop culture, a common thread which I am always looking for. He comfortably jumps in conversation between Crime and Punishment, and the latest Marvel comic downloaded onto his Kindle. He then went on to explain corporate strategy in technology, vertical integration versus horizontal integration, as it pertains to the computer coding of droids versus apple technology. I was impressed, and lost. In speaking of movies, his thoughts range from Casablanca, to the Bike Thief, to the most recent horror flick. His loftiest dream is to be an actor, though he may want to write, perhaps be a journalist.
This painting presented itself to me. It's a theme I've actually been thinking about for years now, that of a canvas being torn open, and somebody staring into it. Brandon is the perfect subject for the painting, from his pensive face, to his young age, brimming with optimistic curiosity.
Here the commission is, at three hours progress.
el duende
This entry is a few years coming, and so I've got a long blog for you today. Make a cup of tea, get your reading glasses on, and be prepared for the first inclusion of music on this blog, a new feature that I've added to my wordpress account.
A few years ago, in Madrid, I was wandering the streets at night, looking for a place to eat. As I walked, my head was swimming with all of the paintings that I had seen earlier that day in el Prado- Goya, Velazquez, Zurburan, Ribera. I made my way down grimy alleyways covered in diesel soot. Mothers walked their babies in strollers, teenagers made out on the fountains, men called out to one another, and little boys played soccer in the plazas. I made a few wrong turns, was thoroughly lost, and suddenly happened upon Plaza Santa Ana. There, in front of an enormous, regal building, was a small and humble bronze statue of a man. The man held a small bird in his hands in such a tender way. He seemed to be cherishing its presence, and yet somehow releasing it. It was a truly beautiful sculpture.
Two years before that, a fellow artist in Florence gave me a packet of paper, stapled in the corner. It was an excerpt from a book, though the pages never said who the author was, or what the title of the work was. It simply said "El Duende." I was so moved by the piece, so gripped by its substance, that I kept it with me. I lost contact with the artist, but every so often I would read and reread the text. Then I lost the packet of pages. Margaret and I had moved so many times that I had unfortunately misplaced it, and so all I had with me was the internalized substance of the word, duende. It stayed with me as I painted in Italy, as I sought the ideal marriage of form and light. It stayed with me as I painted in New York, as I painted tired work boots, a fallen bird, and a lonely Vietnam Veteran, Murphy, staring out the window. Over the course of the next few years, I would continue to paint, with this word fluttering in and out of my mind. I held onto duende as if it were a talisman, as I navigated the art world of New York City. The word "duende" would validate many of my feelings on painting, on art; on a world view, on a way of living.
Then, a few weeks ago, in an old sketchbook stored away in a box in my attic, I came across the packet of pages. I read "El Duende" again for the first time in five years. Through a bit of research, I came to find that the man who was the author of this piece, Federico Garcia Lorca, was the subject of that same bronze statue in the plaza in Spain, that of the man holding the bird. It suddenly all made sense to me.
Lorca first recited "Juego y Teoria del Duende" in Buenos Aires in 1933. Here, I am going to include only segments of the text, as it pertains to the influence it has upon me. But at the end of the blog will be a link to the full body of text.
"Play and Theory of the Duende"
Ladies and gentlemen:
From 1918, when I entered the Residencia de Estudiantes de Madrid, until 1928, when I finished my studies in Philosophy and Letters and left, I attended, in that elegant salon where the old Spanish aristocracy did penance for its frivolous seaside vacations in France, around one thousand lectures.
Hungry for air and for sunlight, I used to grow so bored as to feel myself covered by a light film of ash about to turn into sneezing powder.
And that is why I promise never to let the terrible botfly of boredom into this room, stringing your heads together on the fine thread of sleep and putting tiny pins and needles in your eyes.
As simply as possible, in the register of my poetic voice that has neither the glow of woodwinds nor bends of hemlocks, nor sheep who suddenly turn into knives or irony, I shall try to give you a simple lesson in the hidden, aching spirit of Spain.
Whoever finds himself on the bull's hide stretched between the Jucar, Guadalfeo, Sil, and Pisuerga rivers- not to mention the great streams that empty their churning water into the tawny Plata_ often hears people say, "This has much duende." Manuel Torre, great artist of the Andalusian people, once told a singer, "You have a voice, you know the styles, but you will never triumph, because you have no duende."
All over Andalusia, from the rock of Jaen to the whorled shell of Cadiz, the people speak constantly of the "duende," and identify it accurately and instinctively whenever it appears. The marvelous singer El Lebrijano, creator of the debla, used to say, "On days when I sing with duende, no one can touch me." The old Gypsy dancer La Malena once heard Brailowsky play a fragment of Bach and exclaimed "Ole! That has duende!" but was bored by Gluck, Brahms, and Darius Milhaud. Manuel Torre, who had more culture in the blood than any man I ever met, pronounced this splendid sentence on hearing Falla play his own Ncturno del generalife- "All that has black sounds has duende." And there is no greater truth.
These "black sounds" are the mystery, the roots fastened in the mire that we all know and all ignore, the fertile silt that gives us the very substance of art. "Black sounds," said that man of the Spanish peopple, concurring with Goethe, who defined the duende while speaking of Paganini: "A mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains."
The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, "The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet." Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation... Every man and every artist, whether he is Nietzche or Cezanne, climbs each step in the tower of his perfection by fighting his duende, not his angel, as has been said, nor his muse. This distinction is fundamental, at the very root of the work... the muse and angel come from outside us: the angel gives lights, and the muse gives forms... but one must awaken the duende in the remotest mansions of the blood. The true fight is with the duende.
We know the roads where we can search for God, from the barbarous way of the hermit to the subtle one of the mystic. With a tower like Saint Teresa or with the three ways of Saint John of the Cross. And though we may have to cry out in the voice of Isaiah, "Truly thou art a hidden God," in the end God sends each seeker his first fiery thorns.
But there are neither maps nor exercises to help us find the duende. We only know that he burns the blood like a poultice of broken glass, that he exhausts, that he rejects all the sweet geometry we have learned, that he smashes styles, that he leans on human pain with no consolation and makes Goya (master of the grays, silvers, and pinks of the best English painting) work with his fists and knees in horrible bitumens.
The great artists of the south of Spain, whether Gypsy or flamenco, whether they sing, dance, or play, know that no emotion is possible unless the duende comes. They may be able to fool people into thinking they have duende- authors and painters and literary fashionmongers do so every day- but we have only to pay a little attention and not surrender to indifference in order to discover the fraud and chase away their clumsy artifice.
The Andalusian singer Pastora Pavon, La Nina de los Peines, dark Hispanic genius whose powers of fantasy are equal to those of Goya or Rafael el Gallo, was once singing in a little tavern in Cadiz. For a while she played with her voice of shadow, of beaten tin, her moss-covered voice, braiding it into her hair or soaking it in wine or letting it wander away to the farthest, darkest bramble patches. No use. Nothing. The audience remained silent... When Pastora Pavon finished singing there was total silence, until a tiny man, one of those dancing manikins that rise suddenly out of brandy bottles, sarcastically murmured "Long live Paris!" As if to say: "Here we care nothing about ability, technique, skill. Here we are after something else."
As though crazy, torn like a medieval mourner, La Nina de los Peines [Pastora Pavon] leaped to her feet, tossed off a big glass of burning liquor, and began to sing with a scorched throat: without voice, without breath or color, but with duende. She was able to kill all the scaffolding of the song and leave way for a furious, enslaving duende, friend of sand winds, who made the listeners rip their clothes with the same rhythm as do the blacks of the Antilles when, in the "lucumi" rite, they huddle in heaps before the statue of Santa Barbara.
La Nina de los Peines [Pavon] had to tear her voice because she knew she had an exquisite audience, one which demanded not forms but the marrow of forms, pure music, with a body lean enough to stay in the air. She had to rob herself of skill and security, send away her muse and beome helpless, that her duende might come and deign to fight her hand-to-hand. And how she sang! Her voice was no longer playing. It was a jet of blood worthy of her pain and sincerity, and it opened like a ten-fingered hand around the nailed but stormy feet of a Christ by Juan de Juni.
The duende's arrival always means a radical change in forms. It brings to old planes unknown feelings of freshness, with the quality of something newly created, like a miracle, and it produces an almost religious enthusiasm... In all Arabic music, whether dance, song, or elegy, the duende's arrival is greeted with energetic cries of Allah! Allah!, which is so close to the Ole! of the bullfight that who knows it it is not the same thing! And in all the songs of the south of Spain the duende is greeted with sincere cries of !Viva Dios!-- deep and tender human cry of communication with God by means of the five sense, thank to the duende, who shakes the body and voice of the dancer.
Naturally, when this evasion succeeds, everyone feels its effects, both the initiate, who sees that style has conquered a poor material, and the unenlightened, who feel some sort of authentic emotion. Years ago, an eighty-year-old woman won first prize at a dance contest in Jerez de la Frontera. She was competing against beautiful women and young girls with waists supple as water, but all she did was raise her arms, throw back her head, and stamp her foot on the floor. In that gathering of muses and angels-- beautiful forms and beautiful smiles-- who could have won but her moribund duende, sweeping the ground with its wings of rusty knives.
All arts are capable of duende, but where it finds greatest range, naturally, is in music, dance, and spoken poetry, for these arts require a living body to interpret them, being forms, that are born, die, and open their contours against an exact present.
Often the duende of the composer passes into the duende of the interpreter, and at other times, when a composer or poet is no such thing, the interpreter's duende- this is interesting- creates a new marvel that looks like, but is not, the primitive form. This was ... the case of Paganini, as explained by Goethe, who made one hear deep melodies in vulgar trifles, and the case of a delightful little girl I saw in Puerto de Santa Maria singing and dancing that horrible, corny Italian song "Oh Mari!" with such rhythms, silences, and intention, that she turned the Neapolitan gewgaw into something new and totally unprecedented that could give lifeblood and art to bodies devoid of expressiveness.
Each art has a duende different in form and style, but their roots meet in the place where the black sounds of Manual Torre come from- the essential, uncontrollable, quivering, common base of wood, sound, canvas, and word.
Ladies and gentlemen: I have raised three arches, and with clumsy hand have placed in them the angel, the muse, and the duende. The muse stays still. She can have a minutely folded tunic or cow eyes like the ones that stare at us in Pompeii, or the huge, four-faceted nose given to her by her great friend Picasso. The angel can ruffle the hair of Antonello de Messina, the tunic of Lippi, and the violin of Masolino or Rousseau.
The duende... Where is the duende? Through the empty arch comes a wind, a mental wind blowing relentlessly over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents; a wind that smells of baby's spittle, crushed grass, and jellyfish veil, announcing the constant baptism of newly created things.
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Two years ago, my wife and I were expecting our second child. In the morning we had a routine doctor's appointment, and in the afternoon we had scheduled for her to pose for a painting. In the doctor's office, the sonogram showed that there were some problems in the brain development. In the image, you could see my unborn child's brain, with numerous, gaping holes in it. These were cysts, and they were abnormal, though not altogether uncommon. It could mean two things: the baby could die in the womb, or the baby could be perfectly normal. The statistics were given to us. It was one of the most painful times of my entire life. As I sat and listened to the medical specialist describe this terrible disease, I found myself spinning, my head getting light. I looked over at Margaret, and everything seemed to go quiet. She was radiant, her head was held strongly, she was suffering, yet her eyes were determined. She was a mother, and something was going on inside of her that was eternal, transcendent, and outside of me. I was so impressed by her strength, her resolve. She never looked more beautiful to me.
When we got out to the parking lot, I was speechless. I asked Margaret what she wanted to do. She said "I want to go to your studio, and pose for the painting." We went to the studio, and she put on a simple white dress, and stood beside the window. Before her strength, I was speechless. In her face, I saw pain and hope, coexistent. Fear, and resolve. She was radiant to me. I admired her so deeply. With tears in my eyes, I painted. I finished the painting several weeks later. A couple months after that, Margaret gave birth to our perfectly healthy boy, Evan, a beautiful boy with not a single health issue.
In my application of this untranslatable word duende, I don't at all espouse an art form that is preoccupied with death. That's not what duende is. Duende acknowledges the interwoven, full spectrum of living, ranging from joy to sorrow, and how these circles overlap. It is opening one's eyes to how wonderful life is. Nick Cave writes "The writer who refuses to explore the darker regions of the heart will never be able to write convincingly about the wonder, the magic and the joy of love. For just as goodness cannot be trusted unless it has breathed the same air as evil - the enduring metaphor of Christ crucified between two criminals comes to mind here - so within the fabric of the love song, within its melody, its lyric, one must sense an acknowledgment of its capacity for suffering."
Here is a beautiful song that expresses all of the duende that I've been speaking about. It was written by a gifted musician, Helene Samzun, from Brittany, the northwest coast of France. Click the following link.
second weekend
So, it's the first morning of second weekend of the outdoor show at Washington Square. Two days- today, and Sunday. I'm excited. Here goes.
At the end of this blog is the url for my snippet on Japanese television. I'm a little disappointed to be thrust into international celebrity status so soon. For some time now, I had wanted to visit Japan, but may no longer do so. The teeming hordes, the swarming sea of humanity, the stampeding throngs of screaming fans- by God, they would swallow me up alive, the moment I set foot on Japanese soil. I'll ask Brad Pitt how he deals with it. Ah, the burden of fame.
http://www.fujisankei.com/video_library/local-news/wsqart.html
the flat tire, japanese television,and the show
So, the weekend of the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibition is here, and things have been pretty busy.
As always, I waited until last minute to pack the dozen paintings, tent, and easel into my truck. Sounds easy enough, but it's actually quite complicated, especially when you throw seven feet wide painting into the mix. And to add to that, I was always bad at all things Tetris. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever worked on a table puzzle, without smashing my fist against two pieces that probably weren't meant to be. So, finishing that bit of packing at one in the morning, I awoke at six to head to the city.
As my faithful truck rounded the corner at Fifth Avenue and 9th, I heard a faint hissing, like the sound of locust wings descending upon Egypt in God's wrath. I looked out my window, down at my wheel, and saw that a nail had snugly nestled itself between the treads of my tire.
Now, changing a tire is never an enjoyable activity, but it is somewhat less so when NYC taxis zoom by and homeless people stop to watch. And, changing a tire is even less enjoyable when your jack breaks apart, right in front of your eyes. As the sun beat down, as the horns wailed, as the other exhibitors finished setting up their tents, I searched for another truck owner who was kind enough to lend me a jack. Eventually I found one. As I changed the tire, I reflected on how small things like this can just epitomize, or symbolize, hardship. Late winter to spring is a trying time for all artists- between Christmas and June, the simple problem is that there aren't many options for exhibiting. But, I remembered Twain's quote in his autobiography, "The events of life are mainly small, but we are so close to them, that we perceive them as being bigger than they actually are." And I thought of things that were on my mind from the past few weeks, and put them all into this context.
I hastily assembled my tent, hung my artwork, and pulled other odds and ends together. Two minutes later I had an excellent sale, and then an excellent portrait commission. A steady stream of people filled my booth.
Then, two beautiful Japanese women came to my tent with an elaborate video camera. "Kevin McEvoy? The head of the Washington Square Show directed us to you. We are one of the major news stations in Japan, and we would like to use your work for our program, and interview you." Initially, I was nervous, but soon became comfortable and spoke with them for fifteen minutes or so.
And then, a while later, a wonderful couple came in, and bought the painting of the violin with the broken strings and the wine glass.
And then, another big portrait commission.
And, another work sold.
I submitted my painting "Alembic" into the judging of the show, which is carried out by the Salmagundi Club. Remember this painting, the one of the woman and the cello? It didn't win any award. But, this painting has had the greatest success that I've ever had at any of these shows. I've never had more interest from the public- everybody stops and says something. No other painting, done by me, has ever received half this much attention.
I hope all this doesn't come across as gloating. I'm writing this to say that I'm so grateful.
20 minutes
45 minutes
two hours
three hoursto pee, or not to pee
A few weeks ago, Margaret and I attended the preview of an auction at Sotheby's. As we entered the lobby of the building, I was struck by how very attractive the employees were. Each and every employee wore sharp black rimmed glasses, a smart French cut suit, a sharp nose, and an angular jaw. As the doors of the elevator swung open, we were greeted by conversations in both Russian and England English. The Russian dialogue went something like "Nustrovyitch stztrempztrovyitch Andy Warholyovitch. The England English dialogue went something like "Quite right, rather languid, and, rather pinkish. But, indeed, the Ondy Warhol, carry on, do, please, quite right." I was struck by the abundance of commas in the England English vernacular, the poor little comma must be the most worn down key on their keyboard. There were other New Yorkers, chatting about this and that. It was actually a nice atmosphere, as each individual seemed excited about what was to come.
As the doors opened, I was greeted by an enormous, strategically placed painting by Andy Warhol. You couldn't miss it. If you did, somebody would have grabbed you, scolded you for not paying homage, and forced you to genuflect in front of your canvas, on your knees. There were guards on either side. The guards were rather effeminate, and in the event of an armed heist would probably be as effective as an angry Cockapoo. However, the mere presence of a guard served to remind you that you were in the presence of forty five million dollars. I wasn't bothered by Andy's painting, but I was really disturbed by the price tag. It seemed like such a horrific cultural contrivance to deem any painting as being worth that much.
I proceeded on to the other rooms, and was thrilled by what I saw. Two beautiful sculptures by Rodin, amazing landscapes by no name artists, a whimsical Picasso, a beautiful still life by LaTour. It was so wonderful, I couldn't believe what I was seeing: innumerable works of art that are normally inaccessible for the general public, here in front of my eyes. Were the Metropolitan Museum of Art to acquire some of these pieces, they would stand out in their collection.
Margaret and I walked and walked, spending as much time as we wished, gladly gazing at all the works. In one of the final rooms, there was a beautiful pencil drawing that grabbed me from thirty feet away. It was a soft, kind portrait of an old man. The eyes of the portrait glowed with a quiet contentment. I got closer, and read that the drawing was of Monet, done by his friend Renoir. To be honest, I usually dislike Renoir's work, but this drawing was wonderful.
As we came to the final room, I realized that the foot traffic had been strategically directed in one huge loop, which brought you around again to... no other than... his holiness... drum roll please... Dandy Norwal. I mean Handy Wormhal. Agh, I drank too much caffeine... ahem... Andy Warhol. And there he was, and there were the crowds around him. Forty five million dollars. I reflected on the fact that the other pieces were just pennies in comparison. The Rodin bronze was going for $400,000, the Renoir drawing for $30,000. But, 45 million dollars for the Warhol. And then, the thought struck me... what would happen if I walked up to the canvas, and... peed on it. Yup. You read it. What if I just stood there, and peed on it. What would the guards do? Mind you, the whole deed would be quite difficult to pull off, but with determination and a bit of courage, it could be done. What would happen if you peed on a forty five million dollar painting? Would it be worth forty four million dollars then? Or, would it be worth 200 million then? Come on, while we are at it, perhaps it could be the first painting worth a billion dollars. In all honesty, this thought truly ran through my head. If you are offended by my writing these things, well then, maybe you should be offended that Jesus overturned the money changer's tables in the temple. There, in the middle of Manhattan, in the most elite auction house in the world, I would strike one blow for all of the sane world. "Man Pees on 45 Million Dollar Painting" would be written on the cover of the New York Times. "Urine Trouble" would be the always witty New York Post, with a picture of me, in handcuffs, being escorted to the police car. Hong Kong would be chattering away, Moscow would be furious, Paris would be indignant, Valparaiso would be laughing really hard. I would probably be deemed insane, by some judge, and be escorted off to some distant penitentiary far away.
And as quickly as the thought came, it left. The thought only lasted about nine seconds, but oh, what a rush while it lasted.
Since that auction, I had such a steady stream of irritated thoughts. I've been bothered by just how contrived the art world is, by how political it is, by how money driven it is. Everything I came across seemed to reinforce my disappointment with the elaborate machine of the mainstream art market.
Kurt Vonnegut, in the final scene of his book Bluebeard, taught me a very important lesson in my art career. He wrestles with the theme of value, and art, and in the final scene of the book, the main character... you have to read it to find out.
I took care of my son Evan today, while Liam went to nursery school, and my wife Margaret took care of some administrative work for my art business. As I went walking on the quiet little Main Street in my town, holding my little boy Evan in my arms, the grey sky suddenly gushed with rain. I ducked under the awning of a small shop, and the owner came out and lent me his umbrella. "Return it whenever it's convenient, don't worry." I raced home in the pouring rain, my son laughing and playing with the underside of the umbrella. By the time we reached the door, he had fallen asleep in my arms. I lay him down in the bed, beneath the window. I grabbed my sketchbook of Amatruda paper, and began to sharpen my pencils. Evan was so warm and content that he didn't even stir in his sleep. As his head tilted, gravity pulled his mouth to the side, and his lips parted in such a funny way. The rain lashed the windows, and I drew.
Painting is about delighting, life is about delighting. Art delights in the full spectrum of living, of dead branches silhouetted against a bleak sky, of slugs leaving their trails across leaves, of a perfectly engineered spitball sticking to the neck of the kid across the room, of a well said insult, of a beautiful woman's neck, in the back, just above the shoulders. I want to spend my life delighting in these things, not embittered by the dizzying labyrinth of human institutions. Though I have to say, it would have been funny if I had peed on that painting.
