the conundrum of hirsuteness
So, this will probably be the shortest and most random post that I will ever write. But I think it's funny.
When I log on to my blog account, I can review loads of information as regards my blog. And so, I can look into what is called "search engine terms." This feature allows me to see how people are searching on the internet and finding out about my blog. When somebody goes onto Google and types "Courbet's Atelier", or "portrait painter New York", or "Kevin McEvoy artist", or something of the sort, my blog pops up on their screen.
And so, I read in my "search engine terms" that yesterday, somebody typed into their computer "How can I wax my entire body without using any wax?" Then, they were directed to my blog, "Without Wax."
I envision some hairy, weightlifting meathead in Venice Beach, California, who was about to head off to a bodybuilding competition in Las Vegas. In the past, he had all of his hair removed by going down to the local salon, and having a burly Russian woman apply wax and tear the strips of hair off of his body. It hurt so bad that he said to himself "I will never do this again." He sat down to his computer, but instead of finding a way to remove hair from his back, he instead found "Lilies of the Field."
I don't know why, but things like this make me laugh so hard.
the lilies of the field
the wildflower, 4" x 2", pencil on paper
About eight years ago, my father gave me an enormous spackling job, an entire house which I was to spackle from beginning to end. It was a new home, in Lake Ronkonkoma, and he was giving me the job and taking no money for himself. He did this so that I could pay for my university tuition. I was twenty one years old, I had been spackling for five years already, and I knew what this job meant to my dad and me: I was entering the world of adulthood, I had acquired the trade of spackling fully, and I could now pay my way through life. My dad trained me for those five years, all the while telling me "No matter what you do in life, you will at least have spackling to fall back on."
And so, I began the job. I worked long days, sometimes twelve hours long. I skimmed entire walls, I walked on stilts, I hung from scaffolding, I went through bucket after bucket of spackle. I was deeply satisfied with myself, and was proud to be making so much money at such a young age. As the weeks went by, the job approached perfection. My father came in and said "Incredible. It is a perfect job, Kevin." I spent a few more hours on the job, polishing a few last walls, when suddenly I began to feel a pinch in my right hand. I looked down, and everything looked fine. So, I just kept working. I sanded, skimmed, mixed, sanded. The pinch continued, and I just finished the job. I got into my truck, and looked down at my hand. It was a bit swollen. It looked puffy at the base of my thumb. I ignored it, and headed home. The swelling continued, and my hand grew in size until it looked as if a huge egg were stuffed into the heel of my hand. The pain was intense.
I went to a doctor a few days later. I showed him my throbbing hand, and he said "I have no idea what is wrong with your hand. It is a very bizarre type of tear or muscle strain. It will heal, you'll regain use of your hand. But one thing is certain, you can never work in construction again."
At the time, I couldn't understand why this was happening. I couldn't understand why I had invested years of my youth into a trade, only to lose it overnight. "If you have spackling, you always have something to fall back on" was the phrase, but now I didn't have that. Margaret stood beside me as my girlfriend, one day, and said to me "Kevin, I know you are upset by this injury, but put it to the side for a moment. If this never happened, what would you want to do most in life?" She knew the answer. I said "I want to be an artist, a painter." She asked me where I would study. I said "I would study in Florence." Margaret said "I'll help you make this happen. We can do it."
Two years later, after my injury, I found myself standing at the twenty foot tall door of the Charles Cecil Studios in Florence, Italy. I knocked at the door, and as it creaked open, I heard a British accent say "May I help you?" I replied that I wanted to see the head of the school. "Quite right" the accent returned, and he led me up a narrow flight of marble steps. It wrapped around the back of a huge medieval cathedral, over a sanctuary filled with enormous baroque sculptures, and into a back wing of the church. "It's a deconsecrated church, it's been used by artists for two centuries now. Let me go and see if Charles is busy- wait here." He slipped behind a curtain, and I heard some mumbling. A tall man with hair in his eyes and a beat up cuordoroy jacket emerged, palette and brushes in hand. He had the swagger of an American, and he sang out in a booming American voice "HI, CHARLES CECIL. How are you, where are you from?" "New York." "Great to have a yankee in here, I'm getting sick of all these brits. Just kidding. Well anyway, are you interested in learning how to paint?" He motioned me behind the curtain and into his studio. It was a beautiful room, flooded with north light, and the walls were covered with enormous, life sized canvases. It was some of the most beautiful art I had ever seen in my life. "Well, New York, want to show me any work?" "Uh yeah" I gulped. I showed him some drawings. "Nice, they show promise and talent, but they're pretty crude. You have no link, yet, to the tradition of the old masters. You have a lot to both learn and unlearn. You may enroll in the evening classes immediately. Start today."
Had I never hurt my hand, I would, most likely, never have pursued painting. I don't think I would have ever squeezed it into my busy construction schedule. It's very likely that I would never have moved to Italy. My greatest curse, a terrible injury, turned out to be my greatest blessing.
A week ago, I walked into my studio, located in the church on Main Street in Islip. The room was filled with furniture, covered with tables that completely occupied the floor space. I was notified that I was not to move them, that I was to "work around them." I soon found out that some people are in the process of kicking me out of the studio. And yet, others in the church found out that the tables were put there, and they contacted me and said "Move the tables. You are welcome to work here."
I layed in bed tonight, staring out the window, worrying about the studio. This is where I work, where I paint, how I feed my family. How would I survive without this space? What would I do? Where would I paint portrait commissions? These worries came steadily, descending like a heavy blanket of snow over my thoughts. And then, I suddenly remembered my old hand injury, and how it ushered me into a better situation than I could ever have imagined. And as I type this, I think of how well things are going now, how many portrait commissions have come about, how many classes I've been able to teach, recent sales of paintings, how I am surrounded by the most supportive family, in laws, and friends. I might lose this studio. I might not. But, the studio is not the issue.
"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for wildflowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you." Matthew 6
the inside
"What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, and every day, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, (which are but the mute articulation of his feelings,) not those other things, are his history. His acts and his words are merely the visible thin crust of his world, with its scattered snow summits and its vacant wastes of water- and they are so trifling a part of his bulk! a mere skin enveloping it. The mass of him is hidden- it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil, and never rest, night nor day. These are his life, and they are not written, and cannot be written." - Mark Twain
"Well, I think that one of the best ways that humans have devised to describe what goes on, on the inside, is music." - Yo-Yo Ma
On occasion, somebody will ask me who my favorite artist is. I never hesitate, it's simple. It's Yo-Yo Ma. Typically, people then scold me and say "Not a musician, a painter. Who is your favorite painter? Is it Velazquez, or is it Sorolla, or Sargent, or..." But, to be perfectly honest, I am seldom as moved by these paintings as I am by Yo- Yo Ma's cello. He fascinates me with his empathy, his joy, his balance, his sensitivity to beauty. He is so curious as to what makes a people tick, what they delight in, what pains them, how they express joy. As he jumps from Schumann to Appalachian waltzes to Brazilian tangos, he never has the air of artistic exploitation of a culture- he is genuinely fascinated with people. I believe the thing that sets him apart is not mere technical facility, but something I'm going to call an emotional organ. It's this highly developed emotional organ, in balanced dialogue with the intellect, that enables him to probe the inner depths. And in this exploration, he describes what can't be described.
Painting can describe what goes on inside. But painting is particularly challenging, in that we painters are dealing with a tangible medium, generally speaking. Music is, by nature, abstract. Because of the material aspect of painting, painters often get seduced by the recording of topography, rather than probing into the geology. And so, contrived classical realism and its spurious step-brother, photorealism, barely go beyond the subcutaneous. It is a fine line, indeed, between observing and exploring, between recording and delighting, between seeing and perceiving, between depicting and composing. Would that I could paint like Yo-Yo Ma plays.
Today, I painted for about six hours. My entire days' work consisted of painting the notes on the music sheets on my most recent painting. To the person who first figures out the music I've painted, respond to this blog and I'll mail the conceptual drawing sketches for this painting. Good heavens, what a fun blog!
inspiration
So, I've got some nice news- my painting "The Fiddle and the Violin" won first prize at the Huntington Arts Council Still Life show. Woo- hoo! The reception is Friday the 3rd, 6 to 8 pm, at the Main Street Petite Gallery in Huntington. When I completed this painting eight months ago, I feel like I really stepped into something that is all my own. People have responded so enthusiastically to this work, which has been such a momentum builder for me.
The Fiddle and the Violin, 24" x 30", oil on linen
The reader of this blog will be able to see how this still life painting has brought me into another painting. My wife always grossly exaggerates, and says that my favorite painting is the one which I am working on. That being said, I am so excited about the following painting- it is my favorite piece I've ever worked on. And so it needs to be- an artist has to be the most excited about the current work, but cannot see that work clearly until it has been out of eyesight for a few months.
Once the sheet music and the cloth went in... the painting took on a whole different dimension. I finally achieved something of the mystery and the metaphor, the poetry. I was able to say things about art, about life, about beauty, about passion, desire, expression, inspiration, nature, the beauty of form... things which I can't describe in words. Isn't that why we paint, and play music?
Well, the rabbi who praises himself has an audience of one- so I'll stop being so loquacious, and let you look at the work in progress.
Untitled, 84" x 40", oil on linen
time with my sons
Liam, pencil on Amatruda paper, 8.5" x 11"
A while ago, I read Teddy Roosevelt's biography. I remember a short story, paraphrased here, in which he was having a meeting in the Oval Office with the Ambassador or Emporer or something or other of Russia. At one point in the meeting, he stood up and said "I'm sorry, your Excellency, but I have a very important meeting to attend. You may join me if you wish." He went outside, where his children were waiting on the lawn of the White House, and proceeded to run and jump and play tag and hide and seek.
Somewhat serendipitously, my entire little family got sick this past week. Runny noses, coughs, sneezing, headaches, etc. I have to admit, I also took this as an opportunity to disappear. I spent the past four days with my two sons and wife, playing puzzles, building block castles, running trains through castles, raking leaves, getting coffee on Main Street. I haven't left their side for four days now. As I write this, Evan is asleep on my chest, snoring a congested snore. Other than one drawing an hour ago, I haven't painted, drawn, written emails, or even thought about art.
I went to an event a week ago, at the Salmagundi Club in Manhattan. Richard Schmidt was giving a painting demonstration. As he is currently one of the biggest names in the representational art world, the crowd was enthusiastic. I was lucky enough to be given a choice seat in the front, for which I was greatful. In front of me was a seat marked "Reserved." And, in front of that was Richard, painting away. He laughed and joked and rambled, all the while delighting the audience with his grace and candor. Suddenly, a woman rushed past me and sat in the reserved seat. Thing is, I knew the seat was not reserved for her- she was stealing the spot. I couldn't care less, I was somewhat amused by her audacity. The woman proceeded to pull out a notebook and loudly scratch away at the pad, taking copious notes. Her pen was flying, there was practically smoke rising off of the page. She leaned this way, now that way, now this way, half stood up, neck craning all the while. She took out her camera, and proceeded to shoot hundreds and hundreds of photos- her digital camera producing a digital click with every photo. Everybody within a twenty foot circle began to get very annoyed. People were giving her scolding looks, as if to say "Calm down, you're obsessed." She returned their gazes with her own unspoken language "And what are you going to do about it?" Alas, the woman was suffering from artistic rabies, and continued to stalk Richard for the next half hour.
Now, I would just like to pause to say that I am not given to laughing when something bad happens. If I see somebody stand up and smash their head on a counter top, it doesn't really cross my mind to laugh. It's not that I'm nice, I'm just not wired to laugh in such a setting.
Well, the woman decided she need to snap a photo from around the side of Richard's shoulder. So she leaned out. And leaned a little further. A bit further, and she was just about able to get that photo she wanted and... over she went. Chairs went flying, drinks were knocked over, pens and pencils and pads and cameras and a stenographer's typewriter and everything went up in the air and came down with a terrific crash. I was elated. Richard turned around and saw the woman wiggling on the floor like a beetle on its back. I couldn't stop laughing. Everybody was glad that she had been placed in check. I lifted her up, overturned chairs, picked up papers. She looked at me with an empty, proud stare, eyebrows uplifted, as if to say "And what are you looking at?" Once settled, she stopped taking notes, and just watched quietly.
Liam was sitting beside me on the couch today, happily watching Toy Story. It was wonderful to see him so absorbed. I pulled out my sketchbook, and set to work. My sketch, done on the couch beside him, is better than anything I would have produced in my painting studio these past four days. His wild delight, his open mouth, his chubby hands, his rainboots, his innocence, captured forever on this paper. A moment in my son's life, frozen, to be enjoyed by future generations.
And yet, Russian emperors, Richard Schmidt's demonstration, painting and drawing- they're not worth leaning so far over in your chair for.
my hero, batman
This is the story of the boldest man, the greatest hero that I have ever known. To fully understand the heroism and the originality of this man of valour, one must understand the oppressive circumstances from which he emerged. It all takes place at the Selden Campus of Suffolk Community College.
Suffolk Community College is located in central Long Island, New York, between the Long Island Expressway and Sheol. It is a plot of land on which, I am sure, some contract with Beelzebub had taken place several millenia before. There is no way in which that plot of land could have become so successfully cursed in such a short amount of time- it takes more than seventy five years of botched federal spending to create something that monstrous. But I digress- let us start at the beginning.
When you arrive on Suffolk Community College's campus, the first thing you will notice is that the sky turns grey above your head, and the bright colorful clothes you are wearing turn a rancid hue of their former pigmentation. As you cross over the campus line, the music in your car automatically turns into clubbing dance music, and your car automatically turns into a souped up Honda Civic or a Ford Mustang. If you are a woman, your makeup becomes overly saturated in color, and if you are a man, your hair will suddenly turn into spikes gushing with gooey gel.
The trees on the campus are in a perpetual state of late November. I've witnessed the same patch of trees hold onto the same grey leaves through an entire spring. The concrete on the campus walkways is cleverly poured in such a way as to permit all various types of floribunda to sprout through the cracks. And so, withered dandelions and brown grass are to be seen underfoot every few steps. The buildings were contracted to the same fellow who designed Alcatraz, mind you he was given a bit more creative license. Instead of having only concrete and brick as a building materials, he was allowed to incorporate rusted metal. Windows were discouraged. I relayed some of my architectural observations to one of my art history professors. She retorted "The buildings are after the paintings of Mondrian. They are pared down, pure shapes. Essences. The campus is minimalist." I replied "Minimalism is convenient for a federal budget that wants cheap buildings built quick." My professor said I was ignorant. I dropped her class. It's not that the building were so ugly- no, that adjective implies some aesthetic violation of sorts. No, it's that the buildings were nothing- just unnoticeable squares, devoid of human spirit. What's worse, these horrid, monolithic structures were thoughtlessly littered across the campus, as if some angry, giant child had kicked his blocks here and there and never cleaned up after himself.
I just went to class, did as I was told, and told myself that I would be out of there soon.
I was fighting across a windtorn parking lot, the sky was cloudy and the land was grey, when suddenly I saw a flash of yellow run across the sidewalk. It went up the side of a tree. I thought I was seeing things. The yellow blur in the distance hung from a tree, then a loud noise came bleating across the parking lot, followed by the sound of laughter. I quickened my steps, but it was too late. When I approached the scene, all that remained was a starstruck young woman. "Oh my God, it was batman. He was like, a chubby dude in a batman costume, he had a yellow beach towel around his neck like a cape, and he like ran up to the tree, totally climbed up it, and then started to sing the superman theme song on a bull horn. And then, like, he fell off the tree, and ran off. I think he got a little hurt, he was limping and shit. That was, like, fucking awesome."
I was dazed, I was stunned, I was perplexed, I was filled with hope. Did somebody dare do this? Who would dream of doing that? Who could conceive, who on earth would put on a batman costume and...
I got to class, and two other kids had seen him. Somebody else said that they saw him, two days ago, dressed in a batman costume, sprinting across the central square at top speed, singing the superman theme song. "Oh my gawd, then he layed down in the middle of the square, and put a sign out that said "Do not disturb." And then, like, he put this little tape player out, and played some kind of rainforest, psychic music shit, and pretended to go to sleep. I was fuckin dyin. The security guards came up to him, but he picked up his tape player and skipped around them in circles, singin the superman theme song. Then he ran into the cafeteria, ran across the table tops, and out the door into the trees. It was fuckin amazin."
And so, the sightings continued for the next few weeks. And the next months. And the next year. Everyone had seen him everywhere, but never with any pattern. One day, he hid in the back seats of Professor Boyd's music composition class, and he stood up and ran to the front of the room. He handed out flowers to the girls in the front row, at which point the professor tried to grab him. He squirted him with a water pistol and ran. The next time he was spotted, he ran across the field during a woman's soccer match, and disappeared into the trees near the baseball bleachers. Next time, he ran up to some meathead guido in the middle of the square, and tickled the guy for a minute straight. And the next time, he ran across an honor society ceremony, grabbed somebody's cap, and ran behind the curtains of the auditorium and disappeared backstage.
Oh, if I could only relay the joy, the sheer joy, the heavenly elation that this brought me. Here, in this godforsaken wilderness of cement and scrub oak, one man took a stand for all that is right and true and beautiful and absurd and funny and stupid. My next year at the college was changed. Everywhere, everyone was heard talking about Batman. People could be seen laughing. Publicly. Twenty thousand college students talked about him over coffee, in labs, in gymnasiums. His yellow cape had introduced color into this grey world. I later found out that, upon the day of graduation, Batman spoke to the college paper. He said that he kept his costume in the trunk of his Honda Civic. He donned his cape and mask because he just wanted to make people laugh. He graduated with straight A's and went on to NYU film academy. I've never heard about him since.
I spend too much money on roses for my front garden. I never clip a morning glory vine, no matter where it chooses to climb. Onto my palette, I squeeze out ribbons of vermillion paint, costliest of colors, as if there is no tomorrow. I paint on canvases that are too big to sell. At night, I play my violin to an open street window, and cause a woman walking her dog to pause on the sidewalk. I hang my paintings in the local coffee shop. I built my front door with my own two hands, and on it I placed a gnarled lion's head door knocker. I freeze people in time, capturing their faces on canvas like children capture fireflies in jars. I am forever living in the wake of Batman. Everybody should.
"I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free."
-Steven King, Shawshank Redemption
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_lp4_Jfz7U
a five second motion sketch of a
violinist on a Florentine street, pencil on paper, 3" x 9"
cellulitis
Most people don't know this, but I have a serious disease which comes and goes in bouts of illness. I'm fine for a while, but if I don't watch my habits, I soon am sickened with debilitating cerebral pain, curmudgeonly cramps, an inability to focus, and general irritability. Worse symptoms soon come about, but I won't burden the reader with tales of the woe and pain that I suffer.
You see, I have cellulitis.
In the past week, I've made three trips into Manhattan, two trips to the east end of Long Island, several trips to the north shore. I have a slough of business emails to answer, I need to tabulate my business expenses, I need to order canvases for portrait commissions, I need to drop off canvases at upcoming gallery shows, I need to drop off more business cards at the four locations in which my paintings are currently hanging, I need to fill out a scholarship form for which I have been invited to apply, I need to finish a portrait commission by December 25th, I need to drop off another already finished portrait commission that has been revised, I need to attend Artist Advisory Board Meetings at a nearby not for profit organization, I need to attend meetings in the city to jury membership applications for an art club.
My phone says that I either sent or received 92 calls. My inbox was so filled with text messages that I had to erase it- after only one week of texts.
Nine years ago, I was in a similar situation. I was a full time student at Stony Brook University, I was spackling full time, I was saving money in order to marry my girlfriend Margaret. As I stood on line at a Starbucks in Stony Brook, my phone kept ringing with so many calls that I opened it up and shut it off.
I sat down with my coffee, pulled a sketchpad out of my bag, and did this drawing. Forty five minutes after I began, I had a small crowd gathered around my table. There was a group of nurses, doctors, administrative types, office workers- all from the nearby Stony Brook University. They were all on their coffee break, all wearing their cellphone in that little cell phone holder thing on their waist, and they were all holding their coffees and laughing.
"Cellulitis" Collection of Ralph Vicinanza.
Shortly after doing this drawing, I took it to the Kinkos in Hauppauge to have it scanned onto a disk. The girl behind the counter was laughing so hard and was so taken by the drawing, that she asked me if she could have a copy. She printed it out, still laughing, and then said "Would you ever mind it if I got a tattoo of this drawing?" I told her that it would be flattering. She said "I am going to go to the tattoo parlour as soon as I get off of work!"
You know, I just received a rejection slip from Eleanor Ettinger gallery in Manhattan today. I might be paraphrasing, but they said something to the effect of "No, you are a good kisser, it's not that, it's me. It's just that I'm not looking for a relationship right now." Fair enough. But, I am consoled by the fact that, somewhere in Hauppauge, a woman has a tattoo of my artwork on her.
the table and the chair next to the window
A postcard of Jane Austen's Chair in Chawton Cottage
While in Florence three years ago, a fellow artist, Jenny Pitt, invited Margaret and I up to her home in England. Jenny took us all over the countryside, from Salisbury to Stonehenge to a massive natural park with wild horses rambling around. One of our stops was at Jane Austen's home, Chawton Cottage, in Hampshire. The grounds were pretty, the bricks were pleasantly aged, the roses clambered over doors. We rambled through her house, which looked much like any other old house- pretty porcelain, a bucket, that's where Jane Austen brushed her teeth, here is where Jane Austen used to put her clothes, here is where Jane Austen played with dolls as a child. I actually started to dislike the tour of the house, it began to give me that uncomfortable feeling I used to get as a child on field trips: welcome to Historic Old Bethpage Village, team up with one friend, go see the blacksmith at the forge, be back on the bus by two.
We rounded the corner, and came into a small room with a window that looked out over the street. At the base of the window was a simple table, and a chair. On that table was an inkwell, a pen, and a piece of paper.
A small plaque read "This is where Jane Austen penned many of her major works. She would look out this window overlooking the crossroads of the small town, and write her novels. She did not reveal to all of her family members that she was an author. To hide this fact, she mandated that the servants not oil the door leading to the room, so that the door would let out a loud squeak. This would give her enough time to close up her papers and hide them."
I stood transfixed for a few minutes. That was it. A chair. A round table measuring about two feet across. A pen. A piece of paper. This is where she created worlds. I was stunned. It was that simple. No laptops, no fax machines, no daylight lamps to make her feel happy during the dark winter months, no rollout desk with swivel chair, no engraved pen from her Alma Mater, no iPod to listen to her favorite author's podcasts, no destresser ball to knead her hands with, no calendar with tour dates marked in red. Just a chair and a table. I stood and stared for the longest time.
You see, I was actually on my way back to America. Margaret stood beside me, five months pregnant. We had left Italy early, due to her pregnancy, and were leaving from England. I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was so terribly overwhelmed by my soon-to-be child, my mortgage awaiting me back home, my truck, my gutters filled with leaves, my... art career that I had to begin. I would stay up at night, wondering where I would paint, how I could afford the $3,200 Santa Fe easel (every serious artist has one), the paints, the palettes, the brush holders, the pencil holders, the holder for the brush and pencil holders, the draughtsman table, that cool little magnifying glass swivel thing that every serious artist has attached to his draughtsman table, the brush cleaning machine, the slop sink with the heavy-metals filter for the brushes, the tube of vermillion paint that has real mercury in it (every serious artist paints with dangerous paints), some canada balsam so that I can "paint like the old masters", the special malette stick with the leather thing on the end, a portable malette stick that you can fold up like an antennae, a field easel for painting outdoors, a solar reflective umbrella to shield the direct light as you paint outdoors, the drapery for the background of my models, the wooden bases for the models, a high powered Mac computer for super graphics, some cool web program so that I can make a super-sexy-flashy website, a "Webdesign for Dummies" book so that I can do some cool graphic thingy with my signature that comes across the screen when you go on my website, some cool edgy music that starts playing when my signature flashes across the screen, a super digital camera so that I can capture the weave of my canvas from 45 feet away and have enough resolution to print the painting as big as a the side of a building, a super printer to print the super high resolution, some super inkjet color thingy pods for the super printer, some super gloss paper for the super inkjet color stuff, a file cabinet to put all this super cool printed media, the subscriptions to all of the top artist magazines in the country, the press list so that I can contact all the major art papers and newspapers, the... the.... the...
...table, and the chair, next to the window. There is nothing else that is needed.
how the owlet sings
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things;
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
- William Wordsworth
painting walls and canvases
Here are a few shots of a painting begun several days ago. The painting is only about forty five minutes in. I'm not entirely certain I am going to leave the painting composition as is, or if I am going to change it. I may turn both the woman and cello inward. I'm hesitant to say much about the painting, in that my ideas are still in a relatively early stage.
My Islip studio is not altogether private, and so I am unable to paint figurative works there. This has been a frustration for me, especially after the success of the painting Anna, which I did in Florence. But, I'm glad to say that I've been able to find a studio in which I can work on figurative pieces. The studio in which I am painting is actually a part of the Hampton Studio of Fine Art, where I teach classes. I haven't painted the human figure since I came back from Florence a year and a half ago. I've drawn the figure often, I've painted a quick sketch here and there, but I haven't had any opportunity to paint a serious figurative piece. So, I'm very excited to be working on the painting of the cello and the woman.
Anna, 36" x 60", oil on linenYesterday, I spent the entire day painting. Not painting canvases, but walls. The church has been so generous in allowing me to use their chapel as a studio, and so I am painting the walls as a token of gratitude.
Fortunately, today I painted canvases. In fact, I worked on portrait commissions. In between portrait commissions, I spent some time on "The Spackler," as the painting has come to be called.
detail of "The Spackler", 30" x 46", oil on linen
That's all that I can show of this painting. My wife enjoys reminding me of the fact that all my paintings go through an awful stage of adolescence, much like I did. Proportions are strange, skin tone is bizarre, but the eyes are often pretty good. So, here is the eye of the spackling painting. More to come soon...
