cassie
About ten days ago, a friend of Margaret's passed away. Cassie had been suffering from cancer, and had hidden it pretty well from everybody. Her death shocked us.
I haven't written a blog in a while, because I haven't had anything to say. I've been grieving, I suppose, and also unable to clear my head. When somebody that close dies, it leaves you asking the most fundamental questions, with no answers falling from the sky. In this state, I've been maintaining my normal routine- teaching classes, painting with models, hanging out with friends in their backyards, changing diapers.
This morning, Liam and I were walking back from church. I was sad, my thoughts distracted, and Liam was happily babbling and chirping away. Suddenly, we came across a bird on the road, a songbird that had, midflight, somehow fallen out of the sky. It was dead, and I was relatively unmoved, and nudged Liam along to keep moving. And Liam said, "No, no, no, no, the birdy, the birdy." His cries brought my attention to this beautiful bird. How very unearthly this bird suddenly appeared, I suddenly could see it with the awe and wonder of Liam's eyes. It participated in something divine. And then, Liam said "No birdy, no ground. Fly, fly."
I suddenly understood what Liam meant. It was not supposed to be on the ground, something tragic had taken place. It wasn't supposed to die. And Liam was right. This beautiful bird was artwork in the highest form, and was never meant to be destroyed. The artist had created, and something had stepped in and destroyed the work- but the artist never intended that.
And at that moment, I understood that we were never meant to die. Cassie was not supposed to die, she was the work of God's hands. Somebody, something, has tainted this beautiful world. There is no way that such beauty is created, simply to be destroyed. And on the heels of that thought I understood eternity. That the form passes, but the artist has made a plan for the essence to live on.
I grabbed a shovel from my garage, and Liam and I took the bird to our backyard and placed it under the holly tree. And I knew that I had to draw this. I thought of placing the bird on a white cloth, but then I realized that this bird did not die that way. By drawing this bird on the shovel, I was some how imparting a dignity to the obscure things of this world. I spent the next half hour drawing this, as Liam busied himself in the dirt nearby. We buried the bird together.
People say that children don't understand death, but I would maintain that they have a much clearer vision of it than any adult. They understand that this is not how it was supposed to be. Adults grow to accept, but adults never understand. And today, I truly understood that we are eternal, we are immortal works of art. The form wastes away, but the essence will live on, just as the artist intended.
The Bird, pencil on Amatruda paper, 8.5 x 11
Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father... -Jesus, Matthew 10:29
For we are God's masterpiece. -Paul, Ephesian 2:10
And this is what he promised us--even eternal life. - 1 John 2:25
the dialogue
I was pretty stumped today. I had been working on a painting for the past few weeks, and I could not figure out what was wrong with it. When I walked into the studio, first thing in the morning, the painting sat on the easel and mocked me. I stared back at it, trying to pretend like I wasn't afraid of it.
Then, instead of picking up my brushes, I picked up a book of Sargent's drawings. Then I picked up a sketchbook and a few pencils. Then I walked up to the local cafe.
Sitting down with a cup of coffee, I did this sketch over the next hour, copying the original by Sargent. I just wanted to glean something from this drawing, to acquire something from this beautiful sketch, to internalize this drawing, to digest it and to make it my own. In making it my own, I could then take this energy and pour it into my own work.
I returned to my studio, and my painting went wonderfully. I understood things, I saw things, most importantly I felt things.
This is one of the things I love most about painting. I had a question about beauty, and so I went and asked Sargent. Sargent gave me his answer. Sargent had a question about beauty, and he went and asked Velazquez. Velazquez gave him his answer. Velazquez asked Rubens, Rubens asked Titian, Titian asked Michelangelo, Michelangelo asked a Greek sculptor from Rhodes... I had a dialogue, today, with some of the greatest minds in history.
Further along these lines is the notion of immortality through art. I was able to discuss an idea with men that had died millenia before. Dante writes in the Inferno, canto XXIV, that immortality is achieved through literature, in that the dialogue between living and dead continues. Dante goes on to say that if the memory of you lives on in somebody's mind, then that in and of itself is a form of immortality.
It's funny, I never find myself contemplating thoughts of greatness, thoughts of fame. But, I am always hoping that I might be part of the dialogue.
Copy after Sargent, graphite on Amatruda paper, 8 x 11
"When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than our, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, -that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' "
Keats, excerpt from Ode on a Grecian Urn
nine hours
Today in the studio, I had an inspiring model, beautiful sunlight, and an altogether wonderful setup. And after nine hours of painting, seven of which were with the model, I was very tired. For the last hour, I couldn't even see what I was painting anymore. In fact, my eyes were not tired, but the processing chip of the computer in my brain was not functioning anymore. The only thing I can liken it to is the experience I've had of running five miles in a race. On the fifth mile comes the out of body experience, in which my legs are no longer attached, my lungs are not my own... my being is just moving forward listlessly. Perhaps this was the best stretch of painting, in which my conscious mind sort of shut down. Perhaps, though, it is the time in which I undid all the good which I had labored over. And so, I am wondering how the painting will appear to my fresh eyes tomorrow morning. Whatever the case is, it feels good to be back in the studio, working long days again.
home again
So, after two weekends in the city, the Washington Square Outdoor Show has ended. I'm so very tired, I can't describe. The second weekend was unusually slow and hot. However, notwithstanding the heat, I enjoyed the fact that some friends came out to greet me. One of my friends, George Jochnowitz, made his way out to the booth with a special surprise- he wore a handmade shirt that reads "Down with the Communist Party," written in Chinese. The shirt was actually a gift given to him by anti-communist Chinese protesters in China, and he wears it on the anniversary of the Tienanmen Square Massacre. George tells me that some Chinese people in New York read it and respond with an affirming smile, and others shoo him away.
Saturday, I baked in the sun. I could have practically worn a cheesy, eighties headband, in order to keep the sweat out of my eyes. Needless to say, this weather was not conducive for exhibiting artwork. The people were few, and those who did venture out were in a rush to get out of the sun. And then, the weather forecast for Sunday threatened thunderstorms, rain, and powerful wind gusts. Before I set up my tent, I decided to wait and see. Sure enough, the gusts of wind came. And if the rain came, I was faced with the problem of having a truck that lets in lots of rain- potentially soaking my paintings. So, instead of exhibiting, I decided to head back home.
I'm happy with the show overall, as I had a lot of nice conversations, a few excellent sales, and several promising portrait commissions. I've already had some people whom I had met in the city come and visit my studio and look at some additional paintings- that's exciting for me! Although I do wish that second weekend went better, I'm not going to let it bother me, especially as there are so many good things going on right now.
Here's a few drawings I quickly did on Saturday. The fellow next to me was a wood carver, and he bided his time by chiseling away at a small sculpture. After I sketched him a few times, I took the photo with my cell phone- I thought it would be interesting to see the two side by side. I sketched this while I waited for the midday sun to pass...
the photo
So, the Washington Square Art Exhibition, weekend one, has ended. Although the days were hot and muggy and the crowds were spotty, it was very worthwhile. I met some interesting people, and I had a few excellent sales. I'm thrilled! I'm also very tired- I finished closing everything up at 2 a.m. last night.
It is difficult to explain, because although it was enjoyable, it was difficult. Showing your art work on a sidewalk in New York City is somewhat like standing naked on a sidewalk in New York City. People stroll by, and you feel so... self conscious. And there is that pressure of the sale, that if you don't make that one sale, the whole endeavor is not financially worthwhile.
One particular thing about the weekend made everything go very well. One fellow, Fred, whom I had met the year before, and have since become good friends with, invited Margaret and me to stay at the apartment belonging to him and his wife. So, instead of driving sixty miles home every evening, I walked one block over and knocked on his door. I was greeted by a glass of chilled wine, a platter of cheeses, piano playing, and good conversation. I really am so blessed. The mornings were so lazy- we woke late, listened to more piano playing by Fred, and then sipped coffee on a bench near Washington Square.
One thing in particular stood out in the entire show- as I took down my tent on Sunday evening, I saw in my peripheral vision a woman lingering nearby. She had taken a photo before Margaret and I even noticed she was there. I don't want to come across as melodramatic in recounting these things, but the emotions that passed over her face were so strong. Then I realized what had moved her. As I had taken the paintings down and leaned them up against a building wall, Margaret sat and rested, holding Evan. It was not at all staged.
She smiled, shook our hands warmly, and left. And today, she sent me this image and a nice email. Her name is Jayne Freeman, and she runs a public access program on parenting and pregnancy. As an artist, you grow accustomed to always being the composer, and then somebody comes and sees the very thing you've composed in a different light. Here is her photo.
For more info on Jayne Freeman's television program, visit her site at www.mamarama.tv, and her blog at jcindy.com/author/jfreeman
hogan's goat
I walked into the bar, and instantly knew that I had dressed wrong. To wrongly gauge the proper dress attire for a drinking establishment is ensuring a swift social death, before you've really even started drinking. You can sit at the bar for hours, and nobody will even say hello. As I grabbed a seat as a bar, I could feel the scowling condescension of the other individuals. I braced myself, I reassured myself that all was well because I was here to meet Murphy. You see, I'd worn a sharp, button down shirt with a semi-trendy pair of jeans, and a clean pair of boots. Problem was, I was at Hogan's Goat in Bayshore.
I found Murphy, greeted him, and grabbed a seat at the bar. The bar was a rough plank of wood, with some polyurethane slobbed on it. The floor was peeling linoleum. The stools felt like they had three and a half legs. The pint glasses looked a bit cloudy and greasy. The clothes were soiled. The chins were unshaved. The guy who sat next to me at the bar hunkered over his drink, his shoulders bunched up like a vulture, his neck droopy, his eyes disappeared into dark sockets. I caught him looking over in my direction with disdain when I asked the bartender what beers they had on tap. "The beers they right in fronta ya, whaddya think, I gottanotha tap in the back?" the bartender kindly chirped. People looked over with scorn. I saw that they were all drinking Bud Light, they were all tired from a long day of work, and they were all unhappy to see what they perceived to be a yuppie walk into their watering hole. "I'll have a Magic Hat" I stammered.
What the people in the bar couldn't figure out was how I knew Murphy. Murphy is to the south shore as the Fiddler on the Roof is to the Jews of Russia. Murphy holds much more power than any elected political figure, Murphy has more influence than any pastor, than any local mafia kingpin. Okay, I may have exaggerated some of the details there, but people in this bar really love Murphy- he's always there, drinking a light beer slowly. How was I able to sit next to Murphy, and call him my friend?
A guy strummed away at an electric guitar in the background, crooning Jimmy Buffet tunes as the crowd got increasingly drunker. But I never listen to Buffet, so I couldn't chime in, which made me feel more out of place. That I didn't sing along was added cause for their suspicion. When one of the songs ended, Murphy banged his glass and got everybody's attention. In a raspy voice he called out "Everybody, this is Kevin McEvoy." The room was silent. Someone from the side of the bar says "Who gives a rat's ass?" Murphy says "The Artist."
The room went silent, then everybodys eyes opened wide, and in one, unanimous shout they cried "NO FUGGIN WAY!!!! NO FUGGIN WAY!!! I DON'T BELIEVE IT'S THE ARTIST KID!!!! You're the guy that painted Murphy?" And the musician put down his guitar and said "I gotta print of ol' Murph in my living room," and the bartender said "He's hangin in my pop's restaurant down the road, I seen him de other day, Murphy up on the wall framed, lookin down at ya while yer eatin ya burger." "Murphy's in our bathroom, man, right above the sink there. Hell man, I don't believe that you're the guy." People just kept coming over. "HI, I'm Peggy, yaw paintin of Murph is so sexy, shit man, I can't believe it's you who done it. You got a smoke?" "Man, Murphy's like my best friend, man, thanks for doin that paintin. Damn kid, that thing is great." Forgive my too accurate depiction of the account, but the expletives are as colorful as the people, I could no more leave them out than refuse to paint wrinkles around old, expressive eyes. Apparently, everybody had gone onto my website, downloaded the painting of Murphy, and printed him on their computers. He's literally hanging all over the place- in a well known restaurant, in homes.
The bartender tapped the counter and said "I'm Matt, nice tameecha, next one's on me buddy."
I can't tell you how nice this was, as I head off to the Washington Square Show tomorrow morning. I'm so eager to take a canvas back to that bar, and paint those people laughing, brooding, lost, pensive, singing. I have to figure out a way to paint them.
I'm famous at Hogan's Goat in Bayshore- what could be cooler?
Murphy, oil on linen, 45" x 45"
the painting peddler
"Beeaa heaaa, beeaaa heaaa" cry the beer vendors at Yankee Stadium. And as they peddle their inebriating wares, so in my parallel world I set up a sidewalk booth on the other side of New York City and cry "Paintins here, paintins here, buy one for da price o' two and get da second one free."
I've been painting, staring at paintings, scrubbing paintings, happily contemplating paintings, cursing paintings. In all, I am very pleased with the body of work that I'll be showing the next upcoming weekends at the Washington Square Outdoor Art Event. It'll be this coming three day weekend, and the following weekend. The 29th, 30th, 31st, and the 5th and 6th.
The only problem I can foresee is that I have been doing a lot of gardening lately, and so currently have half of my truck bed filled with mulch. As you know, decaying organic matter does not exactly smell pleasant. So, I've got to go scrub the truck bed with bleach.
It's a funny thought that the paintings that hang at the most important museums in the world are oftentimes termed as "priceless", but before their illustrious lives on the walls of a hallowed hall, they had other lives altogether. They leaned against kitchen tables, they were rolled up in closets, they were stuffed into backpacks in the Alps, they were in the hulls of fishing boats off of Maine. One of the most important Da Vinci paintings has a particularly interesting history. A man browsing a flea market happened upon a kitchen cabinet that had a beautiful old master painting mounted onto it. He purchased the piece, and later found that it was the face of St. Jerome, which is now a centerpiece of the Vatican collections in Rome. Last spring, when I stood in front of the painting and copied it, I could see that the wooden panel had, indeed, been cut. Forgive me for following up a Da Vinci anecdote with my own unworthy story, but it is funny to think that my paintings will be spending a few days in the same pickup truck bed that was filled with mulch the day before.
St. Jerome, Da Vinci, oil on linen,
the interruption
I had been in the studio for seven hours the other day, painting a self portrait. I had taken a couple coffee breaks, but other than that, I had just been painting. I was determined to get this portrait locked in, so I just grit my teeth and kept working. And then there was a knock at the door- who was interrupting my work? It was my good friend Dave, and he had his guitar case in hand. I was so glad he randomly stopped by, I needed a break but hadn't allowed myself to have one. Then, another knock at the door. It was another two friends with guitars, Dave Moore and Ronny, randomly stopping by to play music with me. I pulled out my fiddle- or is it my violin?- and we began to play. Two minutes later, Margaret showed up with Liam and Evan. As we all played music, I saw my next painting.
A Time to Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
Robert Frost
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The Fiddle and the Violin
The Violin and the Fiddle, 18" x 24", oil on linen
At the age of fifteen years old, my father brought home a violin from a spackle job. Somebody had given it to him, and in turn he gave it to me and my brothers. I promptly picked it up, and drew out of its wooden frame the most glorious, divine strains of mellifluous melody known to mortal man, the things of which angels whisper to eachother with joyous rapture and effulgent gaiety. Not really. It actually sounded like somebody put a cat in a blender. But I loved it, I absolutely loved it.
One year later, I was taking classical violin lessons, and practicing several hours a day, much to the chagrin of my family. I played that same, stupid tune "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" so many times that I nearly lapse into seizures whenever I hear it now. But I was elated to have callouses at the tips of my fingers. I had a very accomplished classical teacher, who had played for a prominent philharmonic orchestra. My teacher was pleased with how quickly I absorbed new material in these lessons. My progress was owing to the fact that I practiced several hours a day, and was determined to catch up to the other students that had been forced, by their parents, to take violin lessons since they were in the womb. Classical music came naturally to me, I was fascinated with the sequential structure of learning that could produce such crisp, clean sound. I wholly submitted to the rigors of classical training, from the arpeggios that climbed the fingerboard, to listening to Itzhak Perlman on my discman as I went on the bus to school.
About two years into my classical training in the violin, my grandmother came over the house. As I played "La Cinquantaine", she approached me with a polite smile. It sounded beautiful, but I could see she had a criticism. She said "It's time you learned how to play the fiddle. Be ready tomorrow at two, I'll pick you up."
Nanny (as my grandmother is called) picked me up at two sharp, and dropped me off at the home of a well known Irish fiddler, Pete Kelly. I came armed with Bach, Dvorak, Mozart, Kreutzer, and a heaping dose of cockiness that came from earning an advanced chair in a local orchestra. Pete smiled at the door and said "Helloooo, hellooooo, beautiful day, isn't it?" I instantly liked him, he had such a soft and gentle manner. We sat down in a quaint little room, and he said "Well, play something for me." Huh? Play what? I'd been practicing a Dvorak piece for several months now, I could knock his socks off with that. Here goes.
I finished the piece with a brilliant double stop, and left the body of the violin separated from my body so as to allow the wooden frame to resonate. He stared at me without smiling. His eyelids were heavy with an underwhelming, nauseous disdain. "Now, do you have any tunes that you like?" The air was still. His dog came up and layed down at my feet. Pete Kelly opened up his violin case, applied some rosin to his bow, and plucked his strings to see if they were in tune. And then, the hair of the bow drew breathily across the D string, and a deep, brooding, sonorous Irish air filled the room, a slow dirge like tune that sounded like it had emanated from the lips of thousands of men and woman over thousands of years. I felt like curling up into fetal position on the floor, as I realized what a sniveling student I had been. I was humiliated.
He placed some Irish music in front of me, and said "play that." I asked him "How?" Problem was, there were only notes on the page, no bowing. How would I know when to use an up bow, when to use the down bow? When did I combine notes into one bow? Where was the forte, where was the pianissimo? He just smiled. I played it. To describe how I played the tune, I can only give the visual metaphor of a German rocket scientist performing a Brazilian tango. He winced. Then Pete picked up his fiddle and said "Like this. It's felt." As he played the tune, his eyebrows raised and furrowed, his shoulder leaned in, now out. He moved forward in his seat in the high point of the tune, he subsided when the resolution came. "Kevin, you're lucky to have had good classical training. Now you can learn to play this music with great clarity. That's a real advantage in Irish music, many Irish musicians are sloppy. Bach will help you. But you have to..." and he shook his head slowly, his eyes closed with a slight bit of despair. Words failed him, and I understood.
"It's felt." For me, Pete's words became the most important words in my art career. Having begun to play so late in my teens, I very soon realized that I was not exactly Carnegie Hall material, nor would I ever be. But the freedom I soon discovered was in coming to love the violin, rather than conquer the violin. Pete Kelly taught me how to love music by feeling music. I would never go back to detached, dry technique again.
Years later, in a deconsecrated medieval cathedral in Florence, I again underwent intense classical training at the Charles Cecil Studios, only this time it was in classical painting. But I was prepared- I had learned my lesson from Pete, and I knew that I should never shut my soul off as I poured myself into hundreds of hours of acquiring technique in acquiring drawing and painting skills. "Brainspun" is the adjective Leo Tolstoy created to describe many classical works of art. While guarded against this brainspun element, I also acknowledged that I had so much to learn from the classical world of painting. Every day as I walked to class across the city of Florence, I reminded myself that I was to delight in what I was painting, not conquer it.
This painting is practically my self portrait. On the right is "Thais" by Massanet, a beautiful piece, especially in the hands of Itzhak Perlman. The piece on the left is "An Spailpin Fanach", which translates from Gaelic to "The Wandering Laborer." The piece on the left is actually a sheet of music that Pete Kelly penned by hand for me during one of our lessons. I love each of these pieces equally. These are the two sides of my existence, I suppose. The construction worker and the artist, the Fiddler and the Violinist, the Fiddle and the Violin.
david leffel
I am up late tonight, tired, but I couldn't go to sleep without writing down my thoughts.
Margaret and I, along with our friend Fred, went into the Master's Show at the Salmagundi Club in New York City. Masters Show is an exhibition by a hand selected group of artists from all over the country, many of whom are the top in their area of painting. There are some really nice paintings in this show.
I'm amazed, every day, at the fact that I get to paint for a living. And yet, there is that struggle that comes with being young, and making your way in the world. By using the word "struggle" I don't mean "hard times" necessarily, and I'm not alluding to finances or politics. I'm talking about the uncertainty, the way in which life sometimes requires moving forward, even when there doesn't really seem to be a path. Standing in booths on sidewalks in the rain, brushing rainwater off of canvases that have been labored over for weeks. Commissions that fall through. Paintings that I store behind the couch, perchance they might sell one day. I don't allow myself to dwell too long on these things, I just have to dwell on the many good things that are occurring- the commissions that have happened, the paintings that have sold. I think about the man who came out to my tent in the middle of a rainstorm, and purchased a painting with a smile and a warm conversation. But as I wandered the Salmagundi Master's Show, I was self conscious of the fact that my dress shirt was also my painting shirt, and that I had yellow ochre oil paint running the length of the bottom of my shirt. This stained shirt somehow was a symbol to me of the struggle, and it made me feel like an outsider at this event. I felt a bit like the mutt that wandered into the Westminster Kennel Club.
A good friend of mine, Fred, joined me as we walked around the room and looked at the paintings. And then, a small painting grabbed me from the other side of the room- a beautiful, modest painting of a pink azalea in a blue chinaware vase. It was so beautiful because it was so unpretentious. It was vibrant, but quiet. And it's size was captivating- just the size of a postcard. The background was a deep, vibrant brownish black, with a brilliant light emanating from the petals. But, it was not sappy- it was understated and calm. Just beautiful. Eventually, my eyes wandered over to the name tag as I wondered who had painted it- it was David Leffel. For those who don't know his work, he is one of the big names in the art world. For years, I've had the deepest admiration for his work. I turned around to see that my friend Fred was speaking to David, and I was called over to say hello.
David was kindspoken, warm, and interested in what I had to say. Margaret joined us, with Evan, and we all talked for a long time. He described his years in New York City, his current life in New Mexico, his paintings. But he never bragged. He was even self deprecating. He asked me where I exhibited my work- wryly, I replied "The prestigious venue of a tent on a sidewalk in the middle of this city." He smiled and said "Me too. For two and a half years. Same show, in a booth. It was fun, it was hard, but I got my name out. You have to keep going, that's the thing." He went on to say that he had gotten his beginnings slowly, agonizingly slowly. He smiled warmly, and encouraged me to continue. "It's what I had to do. It's what we all have to do." He signed a copy of his book with a thoughtful encouragement to me. I was so greatful for his transparency, he could have acted proud and detached, but instead he was sincere and honest about his life. That's probably why I've enjoyed his paintings so much.
Afterwards, I read the first couple pages of David's book. His story begins with such a struggle- the struggle of trying to figure out what to do in life, the struggle to learn to paint. He tells stories of innumerable rejections from galleries, grants, fellowships, etc. He tells stories of traveling to Montreal, Canada for a hoped-for interview for a fellowship, being stuck in the streets, paintings in hand- all in subzero weather. Every studio he had, in those days, was broken into and robbed, once while he was in the studio. And he writes "Through these early years of learning, questioning, and paying attention to everything, I discovered that this is the essence of life. External circumstances one makes of them what one will, but learning and paying attention, beauty is what living is."
Returning to my friend Fred's home around the corner, he played a Chopin Mazurka for us. It was hauntingly beautiful, Chopin seemed to be contemplating the same thoughts that I contemplated tonight. Watching Fred identify with this music, and pull the tune out of his Steinway, I suddenly understood, almost in an epiphany, the common human struggle. Who was I to think that, tonight, I was the only one struggling in that room of people? Each of us are unsure, each of us are so limited, and we plod along and pull pieces together slowly, steadily. But in time we gain clarity, we gain understanding, and as we pull all of this together, out of this searching we find the art in living, a beauty in struggling.
David Leffel, Self Portrait
