day five
Today, I worked on the painting for about three hours. But, without the model. As time goes by, I feel more and more that I want my paintings to be a marriage of observed reality, and my imagination. Rachmaninov has this wonderful series, called Variations on a Theme by Paganini. The melody is there, alive, outside of the material world, and he pulls the melody down, and allows it to pass through the filter of his imagination in dozens of different ways, producing variations. Painting is like that. Only, our melody is not outside of space and time, but rather, is material and present. We then take that corporeal melody, and let it filter through our imagination, and from the sincerity of our brushes comes the variation on the theme.
all things beautiful
The Starbucks corporation recently slotted their Islip location for renovation. In the past two weeks, they closed the store for a complete gutting and remodeling. Gone are the flat screen televisions and all other distracting electronic media. Late last night, they mounted my painting into the wall, in the center of the new Starbucks. Beneath my painting they are placing a small brass plaque, which has the title of the painting, my name and website, and a short poem which they asked me to select. I am very impressed with Starbucks, because in the midst of a recession, they have shifted away from the flashy and high tech, and have commissioned original oil paintings. They even requested Belgian linen.
As the reader of this blog might know, I was without a studio for about several months. During this same period, I also had this Starbucks commission for a large, outdoor landscape here in Islip. Waking at dawn, I would head out with my trusty super palette, my portable easel, and my big canvas. When I first began the painting, I was so troubled by the closing of the school at which I taught, on the east end. I was all too aware of the irony of having several portrait commissions which I couldn't produce, because I was without any studio. But, I had this landscape commission, which I could do outdoors, and so could work on that.
I set up at the Whitecap fish warehouse, the central Long Island home of the ocean going fishing fleet. Driving in my truck at about five thirty in the morning, I would hope that the rusty boat being featured in my painting was docked in its usual spot. If it was at sea, I worked on the other features in the painting- the dirty cement walls of the warehouse, the leaking ice chest, the warped wood of the docks. When the boat was there, I would try and record the dizzying details of ropes, winches, hoists, cranes, skiberdeens, spinnakers, ummm, spinnerakeen winch warp weft starboard clefty hook things. On occasion, I brought Liam and sat him down a few feet away from the water, with a fishing pole in hand.
Mark Twain has a short story about a young man who is in training, as a Mississippi River boat captain. When he first goes down the river, young and fresh, his heart was overjoyed by the splendor of beautiful sunsets, floating logs, the surface of the water "broken by boiling, tumbling rings, that were as many-tinted as an opal." But when Twain himself is older, and he himself is at the wheel, he learns that the beautiful sunset means wind comes tomorrow, that the opal colored tumbling water means a deadly bluff which could tear apart a vessel, that the floating log meant the river was rising, and with that rising came debris and dangerous shoals. Twain went on to wonder if, after all the years of navigating a boat down those dangerous waters, one could ever see the beauty of a sunset again.
At about nine in the morning, the faint bass note of deep gurgling engines could be heard from afar. Minutes later, the sluggish, hulking vessels would appear, roping themselves about the pilings, the taste of diesel in the air, the crew tying, scrubbing, coiling, cutting, throwing, catching. All of these things delighted a painter's eye, with their raw, simple beauty of ritual. Their radio would cackle Led Zeppelin, the crew would sing along, and a captain would vault off of the boat with a smile. With a laugh, he would convey his joyful enthusiasm for my painting. Sometimes though, the air was still, the crew did not speak, and the chores were carried out sullenly. I came to learn that this meant they had caught little- and hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars had been lost. But, the thing was, even on those bad days, the captains and crew still came over to the canvas. Not with a smile, not even with eye contact. They stared at the canvas silently, thanked me with a nod, and walked away.
The hot summer days subsided, the leaves turned red and orange, the birds left, the canals froze. All the while, the docks were filled with fishermen, and each one would stop by to excitedly comment on the painting. And as I put the finishing touches on the painting, a few days ago, I realized that the painting had become important to the captains, the crews, the delivery men, the owner of the warehouse. As they watched the painting unfold and details come to life, they paused in their weary lives, if only for a moment- they could once again see the tumbling rings, that waters that are as many-tinted as opal.
This morning, as I stood in Starbucks and stared at the painting, and listened to the enthusiastic comments of those passing by, I realized that a difficult time in my life had passed. All of these seemingly bad events had culminated in a beautiful studio, with my own school of students, new brushes, and dozens of awaiting, blank canvases. And from this time of displacement, this painting had been birthed. And the familiar words of Solomon entered my mind, "In his time, He makes all things beautiful."
And here is the painting. And here is the poem that will be placed beneath.
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
-Longfellow, "My Lost Youth," 1858
day four
Today, I worked on the upper part of the back. I only had about two hours. I wish I had five hours to paint. Stopping after two hours, when the paint is finally all layed down, is kind of like getting cut off, mid sentence. The flow of light, down the back, is just beautiful.
macho
At the jail, on Friday, the inmate who goes by "Macho" posed for four hours. I brought more detail to the painting.
In Italy, I learned that small details can be absolutely everything. In a Giotto fresco, I once looked closely at a face of a woman, and saw a faint tear on the side of her cheek. It was painted so delicately, that it almost wasn't there. If that detail were not there, the piece would have failed, in my opinion; and with the tear, to me, the fresco stands out in all of art history.
I observed a slight sneer in Macho's lip, as he spoke. It wasn't a sneer of indifference, or of callous derision. It was a small detail, a something which I can't put into words.
a new year, a new McEvoy, a new studio, a newd painting
I'm glad to announce, on this blog, that my wife and I are expecting our third child. And, with these glad tidings of great joy, comes morning sickness for my poor wife. Forgive me for my bloglessness, things have been quite busy at the McEvoy home.
My new studio is beautiful, and I've enjoyed doing several commissions in the studio lately. And, I'm also glad to say that the classes are going so well. I'm just so pleased, I can't describe. The new studio does not come without its work, though- there is so much to be done. Yesterday morning, I woke at five, bought plywood and two by fours from Home Depot, and assembled four wooden pedestals for portrait models to sit on. I had to then clear the tables saws, jigsaws, chopsaws, airguns, compressors out of the studio, in order to set up for the portrait class, which began at ten. It was tight, but it all worked out. We had a wonderful portrait class, followed by a figure painting class in the afternoon.
In order to make the studio run smoothly, I have a checklist a mile long. I have to fine tune some aspects of my homemade easels, build painting racks, build shelves, organize painting materials, etc. But, as I chip away at each project, bit by bit, I've already seen progress. I'm grateful to my students, for their appreciation of the studio, and for their patience with all of the modifications that are in progress.
The most exciting thing about the studio is the light. Though I've focused so much attenti0n on commissions, and have done very little independent work lately, today was different. A friend came to help me organize all of the overwhelming clutter in my studio, and then we passed a wonderful few hours, painting with a model.
at the jail
At the jail, the other day, I worked some more on the portrait of the inmate on the left side of the painting. I shared a simple conversation with this guy. He was amazed at the process of painting, the act of working on something to completion. He talked about his daughter, who is seven years old. He asked me how he might "get the ghetto out of his voice," so that he could pursue a regular career when he is released. I suggested reading good authors. I encouraged him to read aloud, to learn how to communicate more clearly.
As time goes by, I think that touching people's lives has less to do with painting, or music, or literary programs, or garden programs... and is just simply letting people know that they are worth something, through the medium of the art form. And then on the heels of this, ironically, comes art. Perhaps it's the opposite of a vicious circle.
Lately, I've been sitting in on the counseling groups at the jail, and painting the inmates. I haven't been able to teach, because a while ago, I lost access to the easels which I was transporting to the Riverhead jail. And so, in my garage, I made one easel for the jail. The prison staff and administration have been wonderfully accommodating, and have given the go ahead to the inmate wood shop workers. The guys in the jail woodshop are taking the easel apart, copying the schematics, and producing six of them. My hope is that, in a couple of weeks, I can resume teaching classical painting to the inmates.
my studio
Six months ago, my wife and I wandered the warehouse districts of Farmingdale, the airport district of Bohemia, the defunct factories of Patchogue. I was canvassing Long Island, searching for a studio. I knew that I could ply the art scenes of Manhattan, slipping into the salmon stream of the Long Island Expressway, trying to wedge myself into the grid somewhere. I knew I could wear black rimmed glasses and black turtlenecks and hang out in Brooklyn, trying to look twentyfirstcentury. But, I read about Winslow Homer, disappearing to coastal Maine, with an occasional foray into New York City. I read about Sorolla, painting for months on the beaches of obscure Valencia, then returning to Madrid. I read about Poussin, disappearing to Rome, when France was the only place for any serious artist. I just wanted to be in peace and quiet, near my home in Islip. I wanted to focus, and to be near my wife and sons. And then, my father in law generously rented the front of his warehouse to me. He enabled the opening the ceiling of the warehouse, to allow a twelve by fifteen foot skylight to be placed. Here, I have the most beautiful light that I've ever seen, in a studio. And now, there's a full roster of classes, and a couple dozen canvases waiting. And I've gladly welcomed the first bout of insomnia I've ever experienced, owing to the excitement and expectation coursing through me.
My new studio, at the Ulster Linen Building, importers of fine Belgian, Irish, and Czech linen, www.ulsterlinen.com
Oh, When I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
light
Two and a half years ago, I walked up a long flight of stairs in an old, dilapidated building. I entered a classroom, and there were artists hunched over their easels. The windows were covered with heavy black curtains. The room was pitch black. Each easel had a tiny lamp with an energy saver bulb, from which emanated a cold, unearthly light. It looked like a setup for veals.
The next class, I walked up the long flight of stairs in the old, dilapidated building. Entering the classroom, I sullenly looked at the curtains. The room was pitch black, even though it was morning. The students would arrive in just fifteen minutes. Walking over to the curtains, I paused. On the other side of that curtain was light. Real light. Vitamin D. I paused. I thought of how Charles Cecil opened my eyes to the beauty of light, flowing across the human form. I looked at the curtain. I contemplated the fact that I was a hired teacher, and these were not my curtains. I tugged the curtain slightly. Hmm, stapled up. I thought. I tugged a little harder. Hmmm. I gave a ferocious pull, and down they came with a crash. I proceeded on to the next window, and the next, and the next.
I stood in front of the windows, gazing at the light falling in golden squares on the wooden floors. The small dust particles floated across the rays of light, small galaxies in empty space.
The Painting Studio, by Saul Rosenstreich
As the students arrived, they looked like moles, squinting in the sunlight. The spirit of the class changed in an instant. The day flew by, and as the last student trickled out, I climbed a ladder, heavy curtains in one hand, staple gun in the other. As I restapled each cloth, I prayed "God, please give me a studio one day, one with beautiful light."
And the curtains came down, and we laughed, and painted, and sharpened charcoal. And we coughed from the charcoal dust, and we painted, and we observed the light falling across a young ballet dancer's shoulders. And the curtains went back up. And the curtains came down, and we fumbled with the coffee machine, and laughed, and painted a small makeup set, a pipe, and understood that a rainy winter day was as useful to a painter as a sun drenched summer day. And the curtains went up. And loved ones passed away, and the curtains came down, and we comforted, and we were quiet, and we painted the beloved whiskey tumbler of those who passed. And we laughed as we painted a portrait of an older man who wouldn't stop talking. And the curtains went up.
Today, a couple friends came by my studio. They are my students, and have been studying painting with me for two and a half years. They came bearing gifts. They shared with me that all of my students had banded together, and to make a long story short, they have all enabled me to purchase a whole new set of martora kolinsky and bristle brushes. My existing brushes are from Florence, and although well cared for, are falling apart from use. I was speechless. We continued on to lunch, and enjoyed a long conversation about things to come.
When we returned to the studio in my father in law's building, a large truck pulled up. It was the glass. A crane lifted the panels of glass onto the roof. The fifteen by twelve foot skylight will be in place on Wednesday, flooding my studio with light from above.
"You, Lord, keep my lamp burning. My God turns my darkness into light." -a psalm of David
wren day
Today, in Ireland, a bunch of men caught a wren and killed the poor bird. They then took to the streets, and are now running around, going door to door, wearing goofy clothes and playing the fiddle and the tin whistle. They are singing, dancing, and drinking.
In Greece, temples dedicated to Saturn are festooned with decorations. Statues of Saturn, once bound with ropes, are set free.
In Sweden, chosen girls are temporarily renamed "Lucia," dressed in white gowns with a red sash, and adorned with crowns. The Lucia travel door to door, with candles, and hand out pastries to children.
In Kurdistan, families are getting together for feasts, and giving treats to children. They are celebrating the victory of light over darkness, of the longest night of the year giving way to the ever increasing day.
In Egypt, constructed along the solar axis, the temple of Karnak can be seen giving birth to the sun, a womb for light. The temple is gradually roused from its sleep of darkness, as the sun god awakens the earth.
In outerspace, as the earth orbits the sun, the axial tilt of the north pole is at its greatest degree, furthest away from the sun as it will ever be.
In Islip, a young man with a paintbrush, trying desperately to finish a portrait commission by Christmas, is looking out the dark window and muttering angrily beneath his breath. And then he remembers that today is the winter solstice, and that the days will finally get longer so that he can paint more. In the age of incadescent, xenon, halogen, LED, mercury vapor, self ballasted mercury bulbs... it's kind of nice to be a painter, and be so connected to the rhythms of nature.
All solstice things considered, though the Egyptians might have the coolest temple, and the Greeks might have the best statues, and the Swedes might have the best pastries, and the Kurds might have the best hummus... the Irish have the best song. And fittingly, our food is awful.
Click the following to hear The Chieftainsperform:
