the easter bunny and the man in the bath robe
During this Lent season, I would invite my reader to join me in contemplating the deep theological and mythological truths of Easter. I would suggest you now remove yourself to a quiet abode with nothing but your laptop, some Gregorian chant music, and a stick of aromatic incense, and meditate upon a masterpiece that I executed some years ago. Reflect upon the power of this work, upon my gift as an artist, upon the ability that I have to plumb the very depths of human existence. Behold, an exquisite piece, a gem, a masterpiece of my Easter Bunny period.
At the tender age of three and a half, perhaps four, I was struck with an existential crisis, a watershed moment of ontological ramifications, as it were. I was undergoing deep introspection, wracked with religious fervor. I was devouring the various texts of Augustine, Luther, and Erasmus, even delving into obscure Agnostic scrolls, trying to glean, as it were, the crux of the myth of the Easter Bunny. Who was he? Why did he deliver chocolate to my kitchen table, with such abundant, boundless benevolence? Who was I, mere man, to partake of such divine delicacies, of an Easter basket bestowing bountiful blessings?
Actually, all I really remember is not understanding why on earth we had to go church. Before I ran out the door, I grabbed my enormous Easter Bunny out of his box, and bit off his ear, clean to his bunny skull. His loss. But, the hare had the last laugh- he was as hollow as my heart was cold. I cried out in consternation, bit off the rest of his head, and then tried to figure out how I might speedily ingest the rest of his frame. No time, my dad hated being late for church, and he was beeping the horn like a devout madman. I clearly remember licking the entire chocolate bunny from neck to toe, in my zeal. As I got in the car, I can recall telling my siblings that I had licked my entire chocolate bunny so they'd better not touch it.
In church, I was struck by the coincidence of the fact that the Jesus man who was always in a bath robe came out of that circle tomb thing on the very same day that the easter bunny dropped off his culinary delights at my house! Later that week, under the compunction of this powerful religious epiphany, I remember drawing this picture. My cousin Jonathan saved this masterpiece, and twenty seven years later, which is two days ago, he texted me the photo of this drawing. From whence cometh the bunny, to where does he traverse? And why does he have such pain in his eyes? Ah, it is better not to look into the bunny, for as they say, then the bunny looks into you.
The Purveyor of Shady Lenten Wares, marker and crayon on Caldor oaktag, 12" x 24"
available at Sotheby's, bidding begins at 1.7 million
light patterns
Here is the first moments of a painting I began yesterday evening. The painting is only about one and a half hours in. Lately, in figure painting, I've been enjoying the effect of the background being lighter than the foreground. For this painting, several weeks beforehand I tinted the canvas pretty dark. And so, yesterday I only painted with white and yellow ochre. I was concerned with the light pattern, the dark of the canvas functioning as my shadow.
hispanic society of america, a good andean music group, and millet
Today was a wonderful day. I made a trip to the Hispanic Society, to see some of the paintings by Sorolla and Velazquez. This museum is somewhat of a secret, in that it is located in an obscure corner of the city, and makes no effort to be trendy, stylish, or sexy. The building has the feeling of a baroque castle which was picked up from the north of Spain by zeppelins, and dropped randomly in the upper island of Manhattan. There are no apps for your iphone to guide you through the collection, no placards to inform, no projection screens showing documentary films on the life of the artists. Instead, it is simple- unobfuscated architecture, and paintings.
I will be teaching a master copy class (I hate the word "Master", it is too often used), and in this class will be bringing students to the Hispanic Society to copy paintings. Today, I met up with the head of the Education Department at the museum, and strolled about the collection and drew. I found my favorite figure in Sorolla's painting, The Bread Festival, and immersed myself in a sketch.
Sorolla, Bringing in the Boats
Sorolla, Vision of Spain
Velazquez, portrait of a young girl
Drawing copy, Sorolla's Vision of Spain, Bread Festival
Once I was saturated with the brilliant colors of Sorolla, I took a train downtown. On the subway, I encountered a pretty good group, crooning some folk tunes from, I believe, South America. They were very good, I was so impressed. Arriving at the Salmagundi Club on Fifth Avenue, I entered the club library- a quiet oasis of brown leather, dark wood trim, brass busts, and the wonderful smell of old paper. The Salmagundi library is another well kept secret of Manhattan. It is filled with rare, old books on art, books that are typically cut off from from the eyes of mere mortals. In keeping with the club's universal, democratic vision, the fragile books are available for artists to enjoy. I leafed through one of my favorite books I've ever come across, a limited edition, hand bound collection of the lithographic reproductions of the drawings of Millet. It is printed on imperial Japanese paper, and is number 46 of 300! It's amazing to have access to such a book. This book has had a real influence on me, I'm so moved by the earthy, honest drawings of Millet.
Millet, "I Don't Know how to Translate the Drawing Title, which is in French"
Millet, "I Really Wish I Spoke French"
Millet, "Gee, Maybe I Should Take some French Lessons"
drawing
Last Friday, I returned to the Maximum Security Correctional Facility in Riverhead. I was scheduled to do a portrait demonstration in front of all of the inmates. And so, I brought along an easel, some pencils, and a drawing pad. Before security allowed the easel to enter the facility, many phone calls had to be made. They inspected every inch of the equipment, to be sure that there is nothing that could be used as a weapon, etc.
Upon clearing the security, I was ushered into the main chapel. The room was filled with familiar faces, and some people I did not recognize. As I walked up to the front, many of the guys called out to me "Hey Kevin, we didn't think you were coming back." "What's up man, you abandoning us?" I apologized for the delay in returning, as more than a month had passed, and assured them that a regular date was now locked into the calendar. A lot of the guys responded to that news with a smile.
"I don't know if you guys have heard, but today, I'm gonna do a drawing demonstration, and do a portrait of one of you guys. Now, the purpose of all of this is for you guys to understand where these art classes will be able to take you. You know, there are kids that pay thirty thousand dollars a year to go to art school. There, they learn really lofty, artsy, intellectually brain spun principles of design, form, composition, two dimensional arrangement, minimalistic abstraction, post-Orphism expression, neo-deconstructivism, neo- post- partum- constructivabstractivisticismology. But, they are so busy being sophisticated, they never learn how to draw. You guys can learn to draw, with nothing more than a pencil. What do you guys do all day?"
"We hang out in a long hallway. That's it. We just walk around, all aimless and shit. It's boring as hell."
"Can you set up a place to draw?"
"Shit, I'll draw in my cell. I'll draw all day long, man. Got twenty five years to draw. But better watch out- I'll put you outta business when I get out." Everyone laughed.
I passed out some of my pamphlets, with some printed material. On one of the pamphlets, there is a self portrait that I did when I had just returned back from Florence, the first time. The painting was, umm, uh, influenced by the classical idealism of the Florentine schools of painting, something I've stepped away from in recent years...
"Ahh haaaa, man, look at fuckin fabio, he did a paintin of himself. Ah, shit, aint you pretty Kevin. Actually, no, you wish you were this pretty!!!" Everybody laughed hard at the self (absorbed) portrait, and I laughed too. Then they passed around a postcard that I had printed with the painting of the woman and cello. "DAAAAAAAAMN, that bitch has got some hips on her. Wooooooooo..." "What were you thinking? No woman has hips like that, they are kind of off a bit, they are like, I don't know, they're...." "Why the hell do you have a woman and a cello next to each other?"
One guy held the card in his hand, and stood up in front of the rest of the group. "Shut up, dumb ass. You don't know what you're talkin about. It's his artistic license. He's talking about how beauty creates beauty. How the curves of the woman becomes the song of a musician, the side of her hips becomes a poem for the poet. It's his way of reflecting a thing, you know. He's taking poetic license, tryin to open your eyes." I was speechless. He turned around and sat down, and didn't look up at me. I was so impressed, I had to pause. Most people in the art gallery in Setauket, where it hung for a month, failed to see my painting with any of his insight. The same guy spoke up again. "You're taking it back to the basics. Things got too cluttered, too far from the source. Same thing with rap. Everybody's gettin techy, making it all computer generated shit. They're makin rap about rap, instead of rap about life. The best rappers, they're takin it back to the basics, just like you."
"Well, today, I'm going to do this drawing for you, and I need somebody to volunteer." Every last person shot their hand up in the air. The oldest guy in the group raised his hand as well. I called him up to the front, and he shook my hand and said "Hades." As I set up the easel, I told him to sit comfortably in the chair. "Now, drawing is about seeing things simplicity. This whole movement of painting started when people wanted to make order out of chaos. The earth and the universe were strange and bizarre, and people wanted to make sense of it. So, they decided that there must be simplicity at the core of anything that's complicated. And so, Hades' face can be drawn with just five straight lines." I drew five lines- the front of the nose, the front of the forehead, the bottom of the chin, the back of the head, and the front of the mouth. "Shit, Kevin, looks nothing like Hades." Everyone laughed. "Now, I've got a rough outline of his head, so now I'm going to break those five lines up into more lines. And after that, more lines again. Pretty soon, I'll have a likeness to Hades." The room was dead silent. I worked for five minutes, talking all along about what I was doing at the moment. At five minutes, I asked Hades if he needed a break. He didn't respond, he didn't turn his head, he didn't even budge. I suppose that was his way of saying that he didn't need any breaks.
"Now, this is the zygomatic process, also called the cheekbone. See how the light is falling on it? Touch your face, and see how it is like the rim of a cup, surrounding the ball of the eye." The guy closest to me yelled out "I broke some sucka's ziggymatic when I bitch punched him. Put my hand behind his head, cracked him with my fist, and felt it crumble." I turned up my eyebrows, and let out a very intentional and loud nervous laugh, and everyone in the room laughed really heard.
As the minutes went by, the face began to take shape on the canvas. I moved beyond merely recording details, and started to close in on Hade's particular way of hunching his shoulders. I captured Hades' squinting eyes, his locked jaw. As forty five minutes passed, I was amazed to see that he never moved once. Never laughed, never scratched his nose, nothing. Just stone cold, dead still.
As the time passed, everybody got up out of their seats, and came closer to watch. They surrounded the easel, and watched really close. "Looks like Hades. That's awesome." "He captured Hades, he got his anger." "Man, he got Hades' face. His wrinkles in his forehead." "He got Hades' sexy lips. Damn, Hades has got pretty little lips there, like cherries." Hades finally broke his pose, and laughed hard at that joke. At about fifty minutes, a correctional officer announced that the prisoners had to go. Everybody came over and shook my hand. "You gotta come back. Do this man."
As I walked out to the parking lot, Sergeant White walked with me. She was so excited about the demonstration. "You know, you proved a few things to the guys today. You came back. And, you proved that you could draw in front of them. That went over big." As she spoke, I was just so impressed by how much she cared about these guys. I could tell that this was not simply a career for her- she really cares about seeing these guys change. "You know Kevin, it's a vacuum in that jail. If they are idle, they fill that vacuum with violence, and they kill each other- literally. But, if you teach them to do something good..." She was very warm, and I could see that she was excited for the future. Being that the drawing was a likeness, I asked her if it would be okay for me to post the drawing on my website. She described how it was a potentially dangerous thing to publish any images of inmates- witness protection programs, gangs, family members being offended, etc. I told her that it was understandable, that I would not post Hades' drawing.
I walked to my truck, and put my easel in the back. I drove five minutes away, to Main Street in Riverhead, to the Hampton Studio of Fine Art. Normally, I teach students here, but this day I was scheduled to work alongside another artist, with a model. The model came in, and I asked him to look out the window, to change the angle of his head, to raise his right arm... I pulled out a few sheets of my treasured paper, my Amatruda paper, handmade from a mill in northern Italy. I tacked up the sheets of paper to a board of scrap plywood that I found leaning against a wall. In a beautiful, sun drenched studio, in a run down building on a busy main street, I drew.
caught in between
Juan, 24" x 40", oil on linen
As I finished the painting of Juan, I realized that I have not come to understand the problem of illegal immigration.
A few years ago, I visited a friend of mine at Columbia hospital in Harlem, New York City. He had a severe blockage in his intestines, and he was rushed to the emergency room. But my friend wasn't treated for a long time, because there were scores and scores of illegal immigrants flooding the emergency unit, pouring out the doors and onto the street. Many of them had simple needs, but had no health plan- and so they went into the emergency unit, so as to not be denied coverage. And yet, they do eventually receive care in the E.R., though they aren't paying any taxes.
Another friend of mine is a surgeon in Queens. Whenever we talk, the conversation inevitably turns towards her frustration with the way things are structured. She routinely performs intensive surgeries on illegal immigrants, for problems that may have been easily solved, had they been diagnosed and treated months earlier. She herself is from central America, and finds it so frustrating to watch the United States ignore the issue of illegal immigration. She is livid that tax payers are covering the costs for these illegal residents- and yet she faults the taxpayers for the problem. She says that the U.S. has brought this problem on itself, and that it has adopted the "head in the sand" approach. This surgeon strongly advocates a temporary identification card, so that the workers might be fairly incorporated into society, for the duration of their stay. In that time, they would pay taxes, receive driver's licenses, and receive routine medical checkups.
As part of her Bachelor degree in Spanish and Education, my wife Margaret was required to teach English as a second language to a group of native Spanish speakers. She found a center in Farmingville that provided classes of various sorts for illegal immigrants. The class was at seven thirty at night, and ran until nine thirty. Margaret taught the fundamentals of English to men from Ecuador, Guatemala, Peru, Mexico, El Salvador. Many of them had been in the U.S. for a decade or so, and had little or no ability to speak English. When Margaret asked them why they felt it was so difficult for them to acquire English, many of them said that nobody would bother to speak to them. And yet, they were so eager to learn- they came to Margaret's class after working twelve hour days. She said they were very diligent, and worked very hard to acquire what they could of the English language.
I don't know what to think, and that is what my painting is about. Some of these men are treated wonderfully by their American bosses, while some of their work situations are terrible. Some of these men huddle on the sidewalks in 12 degree weather, some have found wonderful jobs and lives here.
Juan told me that he has saved up enough money, and his financial affairs at home have been taken care of. He will now spend the next six months working and saving, in order to pay the enormous fee for the underground transport back to Nicaragua. His trip here took sixty days, and he estimates it will take the same amount of time to get back. He said that it is a very dangerous trip, and that is all he would say.
With this painting, I'm not proposing the solution to all the problems. I'm not promoting a certain political party which might solve these issues. I'm just trying to show the humanity of one individual, caught in between a global clash of cultures, labor, money, and politics.
rembrandt, a nerd from islandia, and the gangs of new york
"Okay, Kevin, just remember. These guys are rough. They're all gang members, they've committed the worst crimes. Homicide, rape, you name it. They are not respectful, they will interrupt you, make fun of you, whatever, but just don't take it personally." The corrections officer walked off, and gave me a warm pat on the shoulder. I had come through multiple security checkpoints, barbed wire walls, buzzing jail gates, metal detectors, more buzzing jail gates, and now stood in the back of a small auditorium. In the front of the auditorium were twelve inmates, talking quietly. A guard stood waiting at the back, his hands clasped in front, his eyes riveted on the prisoners.
I walked to the front of the room, and all of their heads turned. Most everyone in the room was in their twenties, though one fellow was in his sixties. They continued to talk, but were watching my every move. Against the wall, I set up my painting of Dan Acosta, a Greek portrait bust in plaster, and a few drawings.
"So, I can see that you've been given a bit of information on the art program, a painting course. It's actually painting in the Renaissance tradition, where you begin by copying Greek statues, and end by painting the portrait. But, before I go on, let me introduce myself. My name is Kevin McEvoy. And, you may think me to be some artsy type of guy who you've heard spent a few years studying painting in Italy, but I just gotta tell you, there's more to me than that. I'm actually pretty hardcore. I grew up in one of the roughest ghettos on Long Island..." and I paused. I let their quizzical gazes study me for a moment. "I grew up in Islandia, the roughest part of Central Islip." The room exploded in laughter, they screamed out. They all got my sarcasm, and knew that I was making fun of myself. They knew that I knew that Islandia was a scrawny little town that pretended to be tough, pretended to be a part of the rough gang scene in Central Islip. In fact, Islandia is a pleasant, rolling little strip of suburbia, dotted with horsefarms. They screamed out "Man, you grew up in Islandia? You wuss, hah, oh that's great. You one of them cheesy little nerds from Islandia?" I responded with a "Yup, I'm a nerd, and I am here today to teach you how to paint in the classical tradition, but how to paint your world." The room was silent. Nobody moved. "'If you learn how to paint, then you can paint your world."
I explained how the Greek tradition of sculpture is the basis for all painting. If you can understand some of the basic principles of turning the three dimensions of sculpture into the two dimensions of drawing, then you can draw. If you can draw, then you can paint. If you understand these basic ideas of order, symmetry, asymmetry, value, gradients, light, shadow, pattern, texture, focus, mystery, clarity, color harmonies... then you can depict the world we live in. Which brought me to ask the inmates what kind of world they lived in. They exploded in conversation, each one having something to say about their lives. "Look up the paper. I was in the front a month ago" said a young guy who didn't look more than nineteen. Another guy talked about his grandmother, and how she always gave him coloring books, and how she always praised his coloring. Then he talked about how she gave him pencils, and praised his drawings. "Drawing's easy. But painting, shit man, that's hard shit. Everything just gets all messed up, the second you start messing round with that smeary shit." I loved that description, I was laughing so hard, because it's so true. The act of putting paint down on the canvas is, in and of itself, a frustration- you have to learn how paint moves. I reassured him, and told him that painting would be a ways off, that we would begin with drawing, and that he could progress onto painting after learning how to draw well. He smiled "You're gonna be around for a while, then?" "Yeah. As long as you guys are interested." The room exploded, again, in a chorus of "Man, you gotta come back right away."
One guy called out from the other side of the room "Kevin, I'm in for thirty five years to life. And, I got nothin to do for all those years. Teach me how to paint, man. I like that Greek sculpture, but it's kinda gay lookin. Is that a guy or a girl, that sculpture? Anyway, I like your painting better- the fat bitch, with the guitar. Man, that's awesome. That's sick. You're a soul capturer, right? That's what you do, you paint eyes, and you capture the soul." I paused in amazement, to hear this gang member describe portrait painting. He continued on "You see people. You see their pain, mixed with other stuff. It's their eyes. Can you paint me? If you're so good at painting eyes, what do you think of the pain that you see in my eyes? I killed somebody, now I'm in jail for the rest of my life." His friend joined the conversation "Man, you can't do a painting of him, he's as ugly as shit. Look at his face, even his mother doesn't love him. Now me, I'm hot shit man, look at these guns." As he spoke, everyone in the room laughed really hard. It was pretty funny.
The conversation went on like this for a half hour or so. A door opened up, and a sheriff entered. "Time for the next group, please vacate the chapel." The guys all jumped out of their chairs, and ran over to me. "Please do this man. I love to draw. You don't know how much this means to me." "Come back soon, thanks so much." "You gotta come back." "I love painting so much, I always have. Please come back." They each shook my hand. They told me their names, one by one. The last guy to come up to me was an older fellow, about sixty or so. "Kevin, I love Rembrandt. Thanks for bringing that book in on him. He's always been my favorite painter. I don't like any of that gay European fluffy drapery curtain shit. I like Rembrandt. Kevin, I'm gonna be gettin out of here in a few months, and I just gotta ask you- could you ever do a portrait of me when I'm free? I've got a beautiful motorcycle waiting for me, it's black and silver. I'd love to have my portrait done on that bike." I told him that I would definitely do that portrait. He smiled, and walked off.
As I left the auditorium, I found my thoughts swimming around in my head. Exiting back through the security checkpoints, I retrieved my wallet, belt, and keys from a locker. Sergeant White, the sergeant in charge of inmate rehabilitation, walked me out of the door. She smoked a cigarette as we stood beneath an immense wall of barbed wire. As we talked, I was so impressed by her hopes for these men. For her, this was more than a job, it was about changing a mindset. She said that gang members were a different breed of criminal. Most of these men grew up in the worst poverty imaginable, their mothers were crack addicts, their fathers were in prison. They joined gangs to find some sort of family structure. They had never known any form of encouragement, any form of work ethic, anything. She quietly conveyed her hopes for a painting program that could teach the men how to work hard, how to learn, how to acquire a something. She never spoke it in such lofty wording, but if I can infer it, she hoped that painting would teach the men how to understand beauty.
day two on beer and fiddle
So, a simple post today. Here is day two of my little painting of the beer and the fiddle.
In other news, tomorrow is my first day of classes at the Riverhead Maximum Security Correctional Facility. I'm very excited, and I'll admit, a bit nervous. I'm not worried about any physical injury or anything. I am moreso anticipating the difficulty of seeing these lives, these people that are locked away from the rest of the world. I hope that I'll be able to bring something good into their lives.
You know, I really love doing still life paintings, and I've come realize that I paint them for a reason. When something is on my mind, I find solace in playing the violin, painting the violin, and enjoying the light coming through the glass, refracting things behind it. A simple and healthy refuge for my mind.
day three
Today was day three of working on the painting of Juan. I really layered on thick paint, in order to try and get the strong light on Juan's face. I've adjusted my usual approach in painting, in that I am doing anything it takes to capture the light. I really like the aesthetic that results- thick ribbons of paint, next to nebulous washes. I'm playing around with textures, dragging the palette knife flat across the canvas, to create the look of an old plaster wall.
illegal
Juan Carlos, 18" x 40", oil on linen
I don't know how to talk about this painting without involving myself as artist in the discussion- I will just speak frankly. I can't recall ever seeing a painting with such conflict- heartache and hope, confidence and despair, dignity and shame. This painting, somehow, went beyond me. I don't know where this painting will eventually go. I just see a man, exhausted, a thousand thousand miles away from his wife and children, lonely, displaced. It's just not right, what is happening to these illegal immigrant workers. I know that they are financially benefiting from their work here in the States... but somehow, it's just not right, to see how they suffer. Scores of them, standing against the walls in Riverhead, idle, waiting for the winter to pass. They float outside of the system, they are vital to the system... they balance being visible enough to be hired for work, and invisible enough to be forgotten by everyone who looks at them.
a sketch
I set up my materials for painting today, felt excited to paint, and yet felt tired. Maybe it was the painting of Juan Carlos that sapped me of all of my energy, maybe it is the busy week I've had, I don't know. I thought of painting something ambitious, something new. Then, I felt like painting something simple, yet quirky. The thing I enjoy about this painting is so basic- I love the way the beer bends the neck of the violin. I can't wait to put the strings in. I spent two and a half hours on this sketch. I plan to work on it for a few more days.
