artsy fartsy
So, the Washington Square Show has come and gone again. One of the most enjoyable aspects of my career is speaking with hundreds of different people, hearing their thoughts in regards to my paintings, and their lives. Young and old, short and tall, crazy and composed... and my artwork passing through the filter of all of them. I really enjoy it. The painting of the inmates really resonated with many people. I was able to speak with two really nice people, both of whom were very interested in the story behind the painting. They came back later in the day, continued the conversation, and shot a photo. They promised to send the shot to me- and they did. Many thanks to Rich Croland, of rcadvertisingdesign.com, for the photo.
A good thing about my art career- no, certainly the best thing about my art career- is that twice a year, I am privileged to sit beside my booth on a New York City street and listen to young New York University girls walk up and down the sidewalk, scream into their iPhones, and break up with their boyfriends. All this delectable, steamy drama, sprinkled with "YA", the "a" in ya sounding somewhat like a short o, as it were. Indeed, it seems a rite of passage for this legion of fair maidens, to purge themselves publicly of amorous ills, whilst blessing all of University Avenue with the spectacle. As the Romans must have delighted in the blood of the Coliseum, so I, too, delight in these damsels in distress. Or, perhaps they are damsels causing distress- I'm no one to judge.
Though I clearly enjoyed the show, sales were slim this year. However, I landed the best portrait commission of my career, so that's exciting. And, I got a nice, hefty parking ticket. I considered picking the pocket of a policeman, to pay the fee, but I concluded that, although just, it may have been a bit rash.
As the show drew to a close, I was approached by a woman, Barika Edwards, who runs a radio program in the city. She was really intrigued by my painting of the inmates, and we began to talk. After a few moments, she pulled out a recorder type machine, and interviewed me. Tomorrow, she is interviewing Michael Findley- author and art world figure. She plans to present some information about me and my painting of the inmates, apparently, as a talking point in the show. Who knows?
Here's the info, to listen via the web.
Show: "Artsy Fartsy"
Station: WBAI
Online Station: wbai.org
Day: Tuesday, September 4th
Time: 2 p.m.
Apparently, they are going to take phone calls, to have listeners participate.
unpoetical
Ten years ago, I sat in an art class in New Paltz University. Across from me sat a pierced, dyed, tattooed young man, with a deep furrowed brow. In the front of the classroom, he had assembled something that looked like a pile of wood sticks, and written things all over them. When called upon by the professor in regards to his conceptual sculpture, he said "Society does not understand me, we artists are unappreciated, overlooked, and never acknowledged. People are so stupid. Nobody understands what I am trying to say. That is what this sculpture is about. Just how society is so ignorant, so devoid of understanding about what matters most. Nobody understands me."
What arrogance, that he demand society to come to him! I was infuriated, I was livid! Who was he, that he should tell everyone to come to him! Why didn't he go to society? Why should we feel obliged to understand him? AAAAGGH! But in his defense, his arrogance so well encapsulated all that I disagreed with in the arts. Or in the sciences. Or in religion. Or in life. Though a better man than me would have jumped over the table and slugged him for the betterment of the human race, I decided to be a turtle, and I shrank into my shell and kept my mouth closed. The teacher said his work was nice, very insightful. But I could tell that the young man was angered by the underwhelming response he received. When I went to leave the classroom at the end of the period, I read the words that he scrawled on his sticks. "The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time." "Be free, or free being." "You are not what you are." "Corporations suck the marrow out of the American dream." "Is not is?" Etc., etc.
The next morning, I woke up early and went to the New Paltz campus. There, across every building, on every sidewalk, on every wall was spray painted the following words "The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time." "Society does not appreciate artists." "Be free, or free being." Etc., etc. I was infuriated. The kid did not get the praise for his "genius" that he felt he deserved, so he forced it down the throat of everyone on campus. I thought of reporting him, I was so enraged, but then I realized he would certainly be discovered, and besides, I didn't want to tattle.
Shortly later, I discovered the poetry of John Keats. Keats was absolutely fascinated by life, by bees on flowers, and he was always in awe of the world around him. He felt that nature was fine, but people were finer yet. He lived to understand others, rather than ask others to understand him. And one day, it all fell into place for me: It is right, and effortless, to live my life trying to understand others. That is what Tolstoy wrote, what Sorolla painted, what Dvorak composed, what Bill Watterson drew. And then I came across a letter, written by Keats, in regards to this very concept.
"As to the poetical Character itself... it is not itself- it has no self- it is every thing and nothing- It has no character- it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated... what shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon Poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side of things any more than from its taste for the bright one; because they both end in speculations. A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity- he is continually in for- and filling some other Body- The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women... the poet has none; no identity- he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's Creatures."
And there it was, Keats' statement said it all. And it was no coincidence that his statement was diametrically opposed to those spray painted words in New Paltz.
And here it is, my painted agreement with Keats. It's not finished, the violin strings are not yet in place, but it's going to Washington Square with me tomorrow morning. Hope to see you at my booth this weekend, between 9th and 10th Streets, on University Place, just above Washington Square. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, 12 til 6.
murillo
Here are some details from the painting, and I'm in the process of layering colors, as you can see. It's so enjoyable, to slowly see a painting emerge. With my little three week old, Quinn, I've come to be amazed by what touch means to a baby. As you hold their hands, pat them, place your face against theirs, they respond. So fascinating.
I was in Seville, Spain a while ago, and I wandered into some far off wing of an old, dusty museum. Wandering the corridors, I was alone, except for the occasional sleepy security guard. And then I came into a huge, lofty room, filled with tall paintings. And there, to the left, within a larger composition, there was this beautiful painting of a mother and child, painted with more tenderness than any of Raphael's tondos, or even Cassatt's pastels. For the poetic understanding of the love between mother and child, it is singular in the history of art- the child's motions seem alive, the mother's skin is soft. What sfumato, what light- a feat of painting. I found a little postcard of it in the dingy museum shop. I keep it taped to the wall of my studio.
Murillo, Detail of "Santo Tomas de Villanueva dando limosna", Museo de Bellas Artes de Sevilla
hope
This photograph is by Thomas Munita, for the New York Times. There is an article today about street gangs in El Salvador, and the efforts that are being made towards solidifying a peace treaty between rival gangs.
As I sipped my coffee this morning, and looked at this photo, I was just gripped by the intensity of their faces, the despair. As I set about painting in my studio, I haven't been able to shake the image out of my mind. My question is this: can painting play a role in bringing hope to these men? I have no answers. Just a desire.
I received an email the other day, confirming that my painting of the prisoners will be part of a group show, hanging at a prominent gallery which looks out on Central Park. I'm elated beyond words to have this opportunity, as it is my first major, commercial exhibition.
The thought keeps circling in my mind, and I believe painting can play a role in bringing hope to these men. But how?
"Rescue those being led towards death, hold back those staggering towards slaughter."
Proverbs 24:11
divine placement
Sometimes, you awake one morning, and as the sun streams through your windows, and the birds hover beside the feeder, you wonder where you are in the divine order of things. Has the divine authority approved in placing you in the center of his omniscient plan? In the workings of this grand universe, this bright blue ball of water hurdling through the heavens, what is your part? And as you pour your coffee, the milieu of your thoughts are borne into airy dalliance, ascending to Elysium, billowing ever upwards like the steam from your mug.
And then, the Google Street View car drives past your art studio as you happen to be walking to the front door. Large globular camera, high definition, just ten seconds away and approaching fast. Just in time, in fact, for you to pick up your shirt, distort your face into a Calvin-esque contortions, and laugh til your belly hurts. And suddenly, you know that the planets are all aligned, the gods march in rank, and that, in space and time, you were where you were just supposed to be, at the moment you were supposed to be there.
I wonder when it gets entered into the Google search for this address. Gosh, it's good to laugh again.
the four ages of man
Allan, detail, oil on linen, 20" x 40"
About five months ago, I received a call from a friend of mine. "Kevin, It's Vincent and Cecilia. We;re calling with some news, it's about our friend, Allan." Allan's face was very familiar to me, he was always sure to come by my small, local exhibitions. Once I exhibited paintings in my house, filling even the garage with my recent works. Weaving and wending his way through the crowd, Allan spent an hour, poring over each detail, smiling a congratulatory smile when he stumbled across a brushstroke he approved of. "Well Kevin, I just have to let you know that Allan is very sick. In fact, Allan only has a few months left to live." I didn't know what to say, and so I remained quiet. "Kevin, you might know that Allan is himself an artist, and I own a few of his paintings. And, Allan has always had the dream of studying painting with you. I know your semester is already underway, but would you possibly be able to squeeze him into any of your classes?" I immediately assured Vincent that Allan was welcome into any class he chose.
When Allan first came to the studio, I was struck by two things. Though Allan was always a vigorous, award winning athlete, I could see that his once limber frame had been greatly depleted by his struggle with cancer. But juxtaposed with his weakened body was his brilliant face, his steady eyes, a gaze which had not only been unaffected by the cancer, but had ironically acquired a new strength. He slowly made his way along, his walker in front of him, his mouth in a soft, half smile. Mary, his ever present companion and wife, affectionately called "Mom", carefully guided him along, helping him navigate the two steps down into the studio. "Careful, careful Dad, easy, watch it." "Okay, Mom, I got it. I got it!"
The weeks went by, and Allan slipped into the classes seamlessly. He produced some beautiful drawings of our figure model, Becky, and even began a painting of Becky on a bike, leaning against the wall of the studio. His daughter Amy came to the studio, and he did a beautiful head and shoulders sketch of her, looking to the side. As Allan went along, something interesting happened. He got stronger. He looked healthier. He seemed more in command of his body. And then I realized that, among other things, these classes were buoying his spirits. We would pass three hours at a time, laughing, talking, joking. He would paint for three hours on Thursday morning, return home for a nap, and join me for another three hours of painting in the late afternoon and evening. I was delighted to see him grow as an artist, and yet Vincent's words remained with me- Allan had a timeline.
Having spent the day painting with my students and Allan, I returned home one evening. I wasn't troubled, but I was preoccupied with thoughts of Allan. Here this man was, eighty one years old, who had just come into my life as a friend. Allan was passing on soon, and I wanted to paint him. Upon asking Allan to sit for a portrait, he paused and then looked me square in the eye. He then said "I'll let you know tomorrow." The very next morning, he entered my studio and said "Kevin, I'd like to sit for that portrait." We began immediately.
From the beginning, I was faced with various challenges. Would Allan's health remain stable? Would I be able to get his likeness down in time? I was so impressed with the person of Allan, but what if, in these final moments of his life, Allan were to truly dislike the painting? Could I pull off such a large composition in such a short time? I had as many reasons to not paint the portrait as I could imagine. But I knew that this was simply my ever present cowardly side, trying to run from something great. I began to paint. My hands moved quickly, my eyes flashed back and forth. Top of his head, bottom of his chin. Left ear, right ear, the peculiar line of his eyebrows, running down t0 his nose. In just minutes, the painting looked as inspired as any work ever done by a blind, inebriated elephant with a paintbrush in its trunk. Sheesh, I thought- just gotta keep working. And so I kept working.
Though Allan was ordinarily very quiet, he began to talk. And as he began to talk, I became wholly immersed in his conversation, so much so that I forgot I was painting. I forgot my concerns. I never knew it, but Allan was a master story teller, with the ability to transport. The Irish have a word, seanchai, which means a historian and a story teller. And so the seanchai carried the the day along, his gentle narration wholly absorbing. He described his youth, how he spotted Mary across the college campus, asked her out through a third party, and was married to her just a few years later. A few months after their wedding, the U.S. government sent him abroad to Guam, as part of the post Korean Conflict troops stationed there. He had a true gift in tennis, and managed to play his way through the ranks of the navy. His victories brought him up and up, until the final rounds of the tennis matches brought him home to the final rounds of the tennis finals in Washington D.C. His tennis instruction was widely acknowledged in the world of sports, even landing him a wonderful article in the New York Times. A while later, in a job interview at Bay Shore public school, an administrator asked Allan what type of teaching position he envisioned himself in. "English" was Allan's reponse. But the administrator probed him for more, and then declared "Allan, you are a story teller. You have a gift for bringing your listeners along for the journey. You would be an excellent history teacher." And so, Allan spent several decades teaching history at Bay Shore public schools.
Day one passed. And slowly, Allan's face emerged from the canvas. In fact, by day two, I could say that the painting was looking promising.
By day six, the painting was looking great. I could write very little on this blog, as I didn't want to violate Allan's trust, in speaking about his illness. One morning, as I readied my paints and brushes, awaiting Allan, I realized that something was wrong with the painting. The hand was wrong. Allan arrived, and made his way down the steps, his walker in front of him, his movements slow and frail. A bag hung from the side of his walker, and as he moved, it suddenly shifted- and the bag began to fall off the walker. Then, like lightning, Allan's hand snapped out and snatched it midair, before the bag even made it to the floor. It was astonishing. And then I suddenly realized- Allan is vigorous, incredibly athletic, and the hand in his painting needed to have more vitality. Before he even settled into his seat, I was already scrubbing the canvas with steel wool and turpentine, removing the old hand quickly. We spent the next three hours painting the new hand.
Day seven came, and Allan did not look well. He seemed like he was in pain. I worked on his hand more, refining various aspects. He brought along a cd of old gospel hymns, and as I painted, we listened to "Amazing Grace", and "The Old Rugged Cross." Tears came to Allan's eyes. He was in pain, it was time to stop painting. I asked Allan if I could pray for him. As I placed my hand on his shoulder, he agreed with me in prayer. I called Mary, and she came and picked him up. As Mary and Allan pulled away from the building, I knew it was the last time he would be able to make it to my studio.
The next day, I set out to finish up the remaining unfinished area of the canvas. I set up the tennis racket. I began to paint, without Allan. It was a hard day for me.
In the midst of all of this, Margaret and I were counting down the days until the arrival of our baby. Margaret and I would visit Allan and Mary, Margaret's belly swelled nine months pregnant. We sat on the couch, we talked about history. Allan was a gifted landscape painter, he showed me his beautiful seascapes, brimming with color and force. His paintings of his family, on Fire Island beaches. We slowly navigated the backyard, and Allan and Mary gave us a tour of their exquisite, Colonial Williamsburg inspired gardens, built with their own hands. As I watched Allan slowly maneuver his walker, and as Margaret waddled back and forth alongside, the joy of the arriving child commingled with the pain of Allan's passing, like light and shadow flowing over form. After a confident day's work at the studio, I brought over the painting and placed it in Allan's kitchen. He carried it triumphantly to the very center of his house, removed from the wall the former centerpiece painting above the dining room table, placed my painting, and praised the portrait for the rest of the evening. Mary was speechless. Allan's children came over, and thanked me. Vincent and Cecilia were pleased..
As is to be expected, the next few days we experienced the anxious, overwhelming expectation that comes with a pending childbirth. The day finally came, and we rushed off to the emergency room. The baby arrived in just a few hours, and I held another boy in my arms. But the doctors informed me that Margaret had encountered some problems.
The next few days were the most difficult days of my life. There is no close second to even compare these days to. Margaret was very sick, and several times we raced back and forth between home and emergency room. We ran through a hospital parking lot in a horrific storm, at midnight, newborn Quinlan in my arms, Margaret clutching her back. After a few hours, I went home and passed of my baby to my brother Sean, and he watched the newborn for the next couple of days. Serious tests were performed. I sat in a chair, beside her bed, for several days in the hospital. And many times I thought to myself, "Allan told me that he went through terribly difficult things. He simply carried on, minute by minute, day by day. And he hoped." Time passed, minute by minute. I never felt towards any person what I felt towards my wife, as I rested my head on her shoulder. Ultimately, after much debate, a procedure was performed on Margaret, and the situation was rectified. Having returned home, Margaret was still in significant pain from the procedure. The doctors said that it would be a while before she fully recovered. Liam and Evan came home, Quinlan returned to our arms, and we made an effort to resume routines.
Vincent gave another call to me, a few nights ago. Allan had passed. The wake was on Thursday.
Sometimes, in the midst of difficulty and pain, the thought will come to mind "What is the thing that I will not be able to bear? Can the pillars hold all of this weight?" After all I had been through, I was scared of the wake, burdened by the thought of the intense emotion of grieving. But I had to go, to honor Allan. I arrived late to the wake, just in time for the memorial service. As I walked in the door, I was directed to the right. I rounded the corner, and it seemed as if time stopped. There were perhaps a couple hundred people, crammed into every seat, people standing in every corner, along every aisle. And in the center of all of this, they placed Allan's painting. And Allan's son was talking. Throughout the entire speech, he referred to the painting for the confirmation of his every point. It was surreal, an artistic experience so moving- it seemed as if Allan himself were in the room. Not in the corporeal sense. It seemed as if the portrait had retained something of the human spirit. Vincent got up to speak, and with charm and optimism described the profound influence that my art studio had upon Allan, and how the portrait had so deeply resonated with him. It "lifted his spirits" in his final days, and allowed him to go out with a colorful burst of autumn. Another friend, Richard, spoke. He too referred to the painting, and Allan's final hours in my studio. As the wake came to a close, I went to thank Vincent and Cecilia for bringing Allan to my studio. They announced to all those nearby that I was the artist, and the rest of the evening was unlike any of my life. Friends of Allan approached me with the deepest gratitude, saying that the painting had truly captured this great man. A man named Ira said "This is a moving painting. You are going to take painting to places Long Island has never seen." Allan's granddaughter described his blissful last days, and the portrait that she cherished so deeply. Mary hugged me. His son thanked me again.
As I drove home, I thought of how circular life is. I thought of how love and suffering are absolutely inseparable. How love is not an emotion but is an act of will, how selfless love is, and the limited window of opportunity we have with each other. Such heights, such depths. And with the deepest joy, I realized that everything that I have ever dreamed of, hoped for, aspired towards in painting, had taken place.
And as I neared home, I thought about Titian's painting, the Three Ages of Man. I don't know when the painting was given its existing title, but it is wrong. Titian painted four ages of man. Look at the cathedral on the horizon. He painted eternity.
The Three Ages of Man, Titian
"You, O Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light."
-David, Psalms
quin
Then God said "let us make man in our image, in our likeness..."
Quinlan Graham McEvoy, eight pounds, one ounce. August third, 2012, six thirty p.m.
nanny's hands
Nanny came over to America in 1956. She raised nine children. She now has thirty seven grandchildren, and three great grandchildren. Here are her hands.
nanny's eyes
Two weeks ago, I headed out east on Long Island in my truck, plodding along Sunrise Highway. The air was warm, the sky was blue, and the highway was filled with traffic. And as was expected, there were the numerous bottle necks, where a stray SUV had gone off the road into the woods while the driver was tweeting. I was in a rush to get to a gallery in Sag Harbor, to see a painting exhibition of a fellow artist.
This artist fellow is a friend of mine, is exceptionally talented, and I've really admired him throughout my painting career. We met in Florence, hung out a few times, and have since had a distant, albeit warm, series of exchanges over the past few years. I wove my way through cars and trucks, hoping that I would make it to the gallery showing before it opened.
And as often occurs on long car rides, my mind began to churn with thoughts. Good thoughts. I was so excited to have a month or two of painting in front of me. As the baby is coming, the calendar is cleared, and the summer is free. I can paint. I can paint whatever I want. I can paint my wife and boys on the beach, I can paint my sister playing the piano, I can paint my father in law playing chess. I can paint the landscaper with the tattoos. Maybe the captain of the commercial fishing boat, the Dakota, will pose for a small portrait. His boat is docked down by Whitecap, here in Islip. His face is such an uncommon juxtaposition of weathered, brown skin, and clear, blue eyes. Maybe I can paint the baby who is coming, in Margaret's arms, beside a window. I can paint Dino, the fellow who served twelve years in jail, and has spent the past twenty years working in inmate rehabilitation. Thoughts like these will make an artist drunk with anticipation.
And as the buildings on Sunrise Highway slowly gave way to more and more trees, other thoughts came. Unwelcome thoughts. I remembered the gallery owner who looked at my work, and said "We would like you to be a part of our gallery. But on one condition: no painting pregnant women. That painting would never sell. I don't know why you ever would do that." I recalled the sneer of the man with the pink polo, at the Washington Square Show, who said "What the hell are you doing, painting in Islip?" And the joy of painting gave way to the gloom of careerism. "What am I doing? Why am I in Islip? Why aren't I the one having a show tonight, at this gallery in Sag Harbor? Am I not good enough? Am I too much of a maverick, some stupid cowboy that won't conform, doomed to a life of saddle burns in the plains?" And as the last glow of light disappeared from the tops of the trees, and as the landscape turned silhouette, I chewed the cud of insecurity.
I arrived at the gallery quite late, and was greeted by friends. The paintings were stunning, the show was brilliant, the lights were bright, and I was happy for my friend. He pulled together an outstanding show. I wondered how I might compliment him in such a way that he could be sure that I was sincere in my enthusiasm- because I truly was pleased. I recognized many faces, spoke to many artists that I haven't seen in a long while. I sipped Perrier sparkling water from a plastic cup. The colors sang, the figures dissolved into brushstrokes, and the light emanated from the canvases. But I was disappointed to see that he didn't paint any eyes. Some galleries don't like paintings with eyes. Eyes take the paintings out of the decorative category, and place them into some literary-esque category. Eyes risk narrative, involvement. No eyes anywhere.
The evening was wrapping up, and the after-party was beginning. I'd been to an after-party before, I knew how the deal went. You had to be invited to go upstairs, you couldn't just walk up. Though there are no written rules, the code of inclusion is felt and understood by all in the room. I watched as a bunch of artists made their way up the stairs to the after party. The lights were dimmed, and I was among a handful of artists who were shepherded discreetly onto the sidewalk. Ten minutes or so passed awkwardly. I carried on conversation with one fellow artist, talking about this and that, about purple and green paint. A few last people slipped inside the door of the gallery. Only the other artist and I were left. As I spoke to the artist, he suddenly reached to his pocket, declaring "Woop, text!" He paused. "Oh, Kev, gotta go. Upstairs. Uhh, talk to you later."
I stood alone on the sidewalk. I paused. I was waiting for the blow to hit me, the crushing feeling of being left out, the Rudolph-the-red-nose-never-gets-to-join-in-the-reindeer-games feeling. I paused. I could hear everybody laughing upstairs. I recognized the voices. This was it, that excruciating moment that every child of the nineties feared- I was Screech, and this was Saved by the Bell, and any minute now the sad synthesizer music would begin to play. I paused. Nothing. Crickets chirped. Where was the sigh that accompanied the let down? Why wasn't it here yet? I paused.
And then, I suddenly knew that I didn't belong here anymore. Not at all. I don't mean to say I don't belong in that town, or that I don't belong in that geographic region. This gallery, this gallery owner, this particular scene... it wasn't for me. There are no eyes here. They don't want eyes here. They don't want pregnant women in this gallery. There are those that hold beauty as an existence which is devoid of pain, or aging, or suffering. I used to agree. But my notion of beauty has evolved into something altogether different. And that's all.
Epiphanies come instantly, though the framework for the conclusion may span years, even lifetimes. A sense of relief washed over me like a tide that had been out a long time, and now returned. I half jogged to my truck. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I called Margaret. "How are you, Maggie?" "I'm good, Kev. But I'm having some mild contractions. Try to come home in the next few hours." "I'm coming home now. I'll see you soon." The whole ride home, I listened to Ricky Skaggs bluegrass, and a stream of thoughts rushed into my mind. The canvases I can't wait to begin, the eyes I can't wait to paint.
On the way home, my friend sent a text, apologizing profusely, as he didn't realize the gallery owner had locked me out. As best I could, I tried to assure him that I knew it wasn't his doing, and what's more, I didn't mind. Closed doors have given me much more direction than open doors ever have.
Today, as I bounded up the stairs to the studio, I could hear the chickens clucking in the yard. I set up a large canvas, and placed all of my paints on my palette. I reflected on the painting I was about to begin, that of my grandmother, "Nanny." Nanny has a severe case of Parkinsons, and its effects are so devastating that she is uncomfortable sitting for more than a few minutes. I asked her, two years ago, to sit for a few photographs, holding my newborn Evan. The file has sat unopened for two years, and today I opened it. As Martin Hayes fiddled away in the background, I began to paint my grandmother.
