it's peaceful here
The other day, I put my two sons into my pickup truck, and headed out to the east end of Long Island. My first son, Liam, is nearly four, my second son, Evan, is a little older than one. As we passed sod farms and white sand beaches, I listened to Itzhak Perlman playing some short little violin pieces. Liam was looking at his picture book, Evan was happily babbling, and I was content. And in our truck, a beautiful melody began to play. It was one of those moments in which music and life seem to overlap so perfectly that the two are indistinguishable. It was Rachmaninov's "It's Peaceful Here," in the hands of Itzhak Perlman. Stripped of all superlatives, this piece celebrates the quiet everyday. Fittingly, the piece is as brief as the ephemeral moment which it celebrates.
As I set up my paints this afternoon, I held on to that memory with such a joy. I knew I was going to paint a still life today, but didn't know what. I decided to paint the joy of that moment. I placed the violin and table in front of the sun drenched window, and began to paint.
"Happiness makes up for in height what it lacks in length." - Robert Frost
but
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness." - John Keats
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Please click the following to listen to Itzhak Perlman play this tune.
"Summer", three hour progress
torn canvas
I've received a commission to do a portrait of a young man, entering his senior year in high school. However, the father, Jim, has stipulated that he doesn't want a portrait in the traditional sense of the word. He wants something that would stand alone as a work of art, itself, and to speak about who his son is. His son, Brandon, is a voracious reader, and though only seventeen years old, a talented writer who has already won a notable award from a newspaper. He's also into video games, cinema, and comics. Jim said "please don't put him in a cardigan, with a leatherbound book in his hand, and a tennis racket in his other hand. I want a real painting." I can't tell you how exciting it is to work with people that are this original.
Brandon has been alive for half as long as I have, and he's read twice as many books, watched ten times as many movies, and read twenty times as many comic books. He's really a fascinating young person, with a huge brain. He seamlessly melds together classical literature with pop culture, a common thread which I am always looking for. He comfortably jumps in conversation between Crime and Punishment, and the latest Marvel comic downloaded onto his Kindle. He then went on to explain corporate strategy in technology, vertical integration versus horizontal integration, as it pertains to the computer coding of droids versus apple technology. I was impressed, and lost. In speaking of movies, his thoughts range from Casablanca, to the Bike Thief, to the most recent horror flick. His loftiest dream is to be an actor, though he may want to write, perhaps be a journalist.
This painting presented itself to me. It's a theme I've actually been thinking about for years now, that of a canvas being torn open, and somebody staring into it. Brandon is the perfect subject for the painting, from his pensive face, to his young age, brimming with optimistic curiosity.
Here the commission is, at three hours progress.
el duende
This entry is a few years coming, and so I've got a long blog for you today. Make a cup of tea, get your reading glasses on, and be prepared for the first inclusion of music on this blog, a new feature that I've added to my wordpress account.
A few years ago, in Madrid, I was wandering the streets at night, looking for a place to eat. As I walked, my head was swimming with all of the paintings that I had seen earlier that day in el Prado- Goya, Velazquez, Zurburan, Ribera. I made my way down grimy alleyways covered in diesel soot. Mothers walked their babies in strollers, teenagers made out on the fountains, men called out to one another, and little boys played soccer in the plazas. I made a few wrong turns, was thoroughly lost, and suddenly happened upon Plaza Santa Ana. There, in front of an enormous, regal building, was a small and humble bronze statue of a man. The man held a small bird in his hands in such a tender way. He seemed to be cherishing its presence, and yet somehow releasing it. It was a truly beautiful sculpture.
Two years before that, a fellow artist in Florence gave me a packet of paper, stapled in the corner. It was an excerpt from a book, though the pages never said who the author was, or what the title of the work was. It simply said "El Duende." I was so moved by the piece, so gripped by its substance, that I kept it with me. I lost contact with the artist, but every so often I would read and reread the text. Then I lost the packet of pages. Margaret and I had moved so many times that I had unfortunately misplaced it, and so all I had with me was the internalized substance of the word, duende. It stayed with me as I painted in Italy, as I sought the ideal marriage of form and light. It stayed with me as I painted in New York, as I painted tired work boots, a fallen bird, and a lonely Vietnam Veteran, Murphy, staring out the window. Over the course of the next few years, I would continue to paint, with this word fluttering in and out of my mind. I held onto duende as if it were a talisman, as I navigated the art world of New York City. The word "duende" would validate many of my feelings on painting, on art; on a world view, on a way of living.
Then, a few weeks ago, in an old sketchbook stored away in a box in my attic, I came across the packet of pages. I read "El Duende" again for the first time in five years. Through a bit of research, I came to find that the man who was the author of this piece, Federico Garcia Lorca, was the subject of that same bronze statue in the plaza in Spain, that of the man holding the bird. It suddenly all made sense to me.
Lorca first recited "Juego y Teoria del Duende" in Buenos Aires in 1933. Here, I am going to include only segments of the text, as it pertains to the influence it has upon me. But at the end of the blog will be a link to the full body of text.
"Play and Theory of the Duende"
Ladies and gentlemen:
From 1918, when I entered the Residencia de Estudiantes de Madrid, until 1928, when I finished my studies in Philosophy and Letters and left, I attended, in that elegant salon where the old Spanish aristocracy did penance for its frivolous seaside vacations in France, around one thousand lectures.
Hungry for air and for sunlight, I used to grow so bored as to feel myself covered by a light film of ash about to turn into sneezing powder.
And that is why I promise never to let the terrible botfly of boredom into this room, stringing your heads together on the fine thread of sleep and putting tiny pins and needles in your eyes.
As simply as possible, in the register of my poetic voice that has neither the glow of woodwinds nor bends of hemlocks, nor sheep who suddenly turn into knives or irony, I shall try to give you a simple lesson in the hidden, aching spirit of Spain.
Whoever finds himself on the bull's hide stretched between the Jucar, Guadalfeo, Sil, and Pisuerga rivers- not to mention the great streams that empty their churning water into the tawny Plata_ often hears people say, "This has much duende." Manuel Torre, great artist of the Andalusian people, once told a singer, "You have a voice, you know the styles, but you will never triumph, because you have no duende."
All over Andalusia, from the rock of Jaen to the whorled shell of Cadiz, the people speak constantly of the "duende," and identify it accurately and instinctively whenever it appears. The marvelous singer El Lebrijano, creator of the debla, used to say, "On days when I sing with duende, no one can touch me." The old Gypsy dancer La Malena once heard Brailowsky play a fragment of Bach and exclaimed "Ole! That has duende!" but was bored by Gluck, Brahms, and Darius Milhaud. Manuel Torre, who had more culture in the blood than any man I ever met, pronounced this splendid sentence on hearing Falla play his own Ncturno del generalife- "All that has black sounds has duende." And there is no greater truth.
These "black sounds" are the mystery, the roots fastened in the mire that we all know and all ignore, the fertile silt that gives us the very substance of art. "Black sounds," said that man of the Spanish peopple, concurring with Goethe, who defined the duende while speaking of Paganini: "A mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains."
The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, "The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet." Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation... Every man and every artist, whether he is Nietzche or Cezanne, climbs each step in the tower of his perfection by fighting his duende, not his angel, as has been said, nor his muse. This distinction is fundamental, at the very root of the work... the muse and angel come from outside us: the angel gives lights, and the muse gives forms... but one must awaken the duende in the remotest mansions of the blood. The true fight is with the duende.
We know the roads where we can search for God, from the barbarous way of the hermit to the subtle one of the mystic. With a tower like Saint Teresa or with the three ways of Saint John of the Cross. And though we may have to cry out in the voice of Isaiah, "Truly thou art a hidden God," in the end God sends each seeker his first fiery thorns.
But there are neither maps nor exercises to help us find the duende. We only know that he burns the blood like a poultice of broken glass, that he exhausts, that he rejects all the sweet geometry we have learned, that he smashes styles, that he leans on human pain with no consolation and makes Goya (master of the grays, silvers, and pinks of the best English painting) work with his fists and knees in horrible bitumens.
The great artists of the south of Spain, whether Gypsy or flamenco, whether they sing, dance, or play, know that no emotion is possible unless the duende comes. They may be able to fool people into thinking they have duende- authors and painters and literary fashionmongers do so every day- but we have only to pay a little attention and not surrender to indifference in order to discover the fraud and chase away their clumsy artifice.
The Andalusian singer Pastora Pavon, La Nina de los Peines, dark Hispanic genius whose powers of fantasy are equal to those of Goya or Rafael el Gallo, was once singing in a little tavern in Cadiz. For a while she played with her voice of shadow, of beaten tin, her moss-covered voice, braiding it into her hair or soaking it in wine or letting it wander away to the farthest, darkest bramble patches. No use. Nothing. The audience remained silent... When Pastora Pavon finished singing there was total silence, until a tiny man, one of those dancing manikins that rise suddenly out of brandy bottles, sarcastically murmured "Long live Paris!" As if to say: "Here we care nothing about ability, technique, skill. Here we are after something else."
As though crazy, torn like a medieval mourner, La Nina de los Peines [Pastora Pavon] leaped to her feet, tossed off a big glass of burning liquor, and began to sing with a scorched throat: without voice, without breath or color, but with duende. She was able to kill all the scaffolding of the song and leave way for a furious, enslaving duende, friend of sand winds, who made the listeners rip their clothes with the same rhythm as do the blacks of the Antilles when, in the "lucumi" rite, they huddle in heaps before the statue of Santa Barbara.
La Nina de los Peines [Pavon] had to tear her voice because she knew she had an exquisite audience, one which demanded not forms but the marrow of forms, pure music, with a body lean enough to stay in the air. She had to rob herself of skill and security, send away her muse and beome helpless, that her duende might come and deign to fight her hand-to-hand. And how she sang! Her voice was no longer playing. It was a jet of blood worthy of her pain and sincerity, and it opened like a ten-fingered hand around the nailed but stormy feet of a Christ by Juan de Juni.
The duende's arrival always means a radical change in forms. It brings to old planes unknown feelings of freshness, with the quality of something newly created, like a miracle, and it produces an almost religious enthusiasm... In all Arabic music, whether dance, song, or elegy, the duende's arrival is greeted with energetic cries of Allah! Allah!, which is so close to the Ole! of the bullfight that who knows it it is not the same thing! And in all the songs of the south of Spain the duende is greeted with sincere cries of !Viva Dios!-- deep and tender human cry of communication with God by means of the five sense, thank to the duende, who shakes the body and voice of the dancer.
Naturally, when this evasion succeeds, everyone feels its effects, both the initiate, who sees that style has conquered a poor material, and the unenlightened, who feel some sort of authentic emotion. Years ago, an eighty-year-old woman won first prize at a dance contest in Jerez de la Frontera. She was competing against beautiful women and young girls with waists supple as water, but all she did was raise her arms, throw back her head, and stamp her foot on the floor. In that gathering of muses and angels-- beautiful forms and beautiful smiles-- who could have won but her moribund duende, sweeping the ground with its wings of rusty knives.
All arts are capable of duende, but where it finds greatest range, naturally, is in music, dance, and spoken poetry, for these arts require a living body to interpret them, being forms, that are born, die, and open their contours against an exact present.
Often the duende of the composer passes into the duende of the interpreter, and at other times, when a composer or poet is no such thing, the interpreter's duende- this is interesting- creates a new marvel that looks like, but is not, the primitive form. This was ... the case of Paganini, as explained by Goethe, who made one hear deep melodies in vulgar trifles, and the case of a delightful little girl I saw in Puerto de Santa Maria singing and dancing that horrible, corny Italian song "Oh Mari!" with such rhythms, silences, and intention, that she turned the Neapolitan gewgaw into something new and totally unprecedented that could give lifeblood and art to bodies devoid of expressiveness.
Each art has a duende different in form and style, but their roots meet in the place where the black sounds of Manual Torre come from- the essential, uncontrollable, quivering, common base of wood, sound, canvas, and word.
Ladies and gentlemen: I have raised three arches, and with clumsy hand have placed in them the angel, the muse, and the duende. The muse stays still. She can have a minutely folded tunic or cow eyes like the ones that stare at us in Pompeii, or the huge, four-faceted nose given to her by her great friend Picasso. The angel can ruffle the hair of Antonello de Messina, the tunic of Lippi, and the violin of Masolino or Rousseau.
The duende... Where is the duende? Through the empty arch comes a wind, a mental wind blowing relentlessly over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents; a wind that smells of baby's spittle, crushed grass, and jellyfish veil, announcing the constant baptism of newly created things.
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Two years ago, my wife and I were expecting our second child. In the morning we had a routine doctor's appointment, and in the afternoon we had scheduled for her to pose for a painting. In the doctor's office, the sonogram showed that there were some problems in the brain development. In the image, you could see my unborn child's brain, with numerous, gaping holes in it. These were cysts, and they were abnormal, though not altogether uncommon. It could mean two things: the baby could die in the womb, or the baby could be perfectly normal. The statistics were given to us. It was one of the most painful times of my entire life. As I sat and listened to the medical specialist describe this terrible disease, I found myself spinning, my head getting light. I looked over at Margaret, and everything seemed to go quiet. She was radiant, her head was held strongly, she was suffering, yet her eyes were determined. She was a mother, and something was going on inside of her that was eternal, transcendent, and outside of me. I was so impressed by her strength, her resolve. She never looked more beautiful to me.
When we got out to the parking lot, I was speechless. I asked Margaret what she wanted to do. She said "I want to go to your studio, and pose for the painting." We went to the studio, and she put on a simple white dress, and stood beside the window. Before her strength, I was speechless. In her face, I saw pain and hope, coexistent. Fear, and resolve. She was radiant to me. I admired her so deeply. With tears in my eyes, I painted. I finished the painting several weeks later. A couple months after that, Margaret gave birth to our perfectly healthy boy, Evan, a beautiful boy with not a single health issue.
In my application of this untranslatable word duende, I don't at all espouse an art form that is preoccupied with death. That's not what duende is. Duende acknowledges the interwoven, full spectrum of living, ranging from joy to sorrow, and how these circles overlap. It is opening one's eyes to how wonderful life is. Nick Cave writes "The writer who refuses to explore the darker regions of the heart will never be able to write convincingly about the wonder, the magic and the joy of love. For just as goodness cannot be trusted unless it has breathed the same air as evil - the enduring metaphor of Christ crucified between two criminals comes to mind here - so within the fabric of the love song, within its melody, its lyric, one must sense an acknowledgment of its capacity for suffering."
Here is a beautiful song that expresses all of the duende that I've been speaking about. It was written by a gifted musician, Helene Samzun, from Brittany, the northwest coast of France. Click the following link.
second weekend
So, it's the first morning of second weekend of the outdoor show at Washington Square. Two days- today, and Sunday. I'm excited. Here goes.
At the end of this blog is the url for my snippet on Japanese television. I'm a little disappointed to be thrust into international celebrity status so soon. For some time now, I had wanted to visit Japan, but may no longer do so. The teeming hordes, the swarming sea of humanity, the stampeding throngs of screaming fans- by God, they would swallow me up alive, the moment I set foot on Japanese soil. I'll ask Brad Pitt how he deals with it. Ah, the burden of fame.
http://www.fujisankei.com/video_library/local-news/wsqart.html
the flat tire, japanese television,and the show
So, the weekend of the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibition is here, and things have been pretty busy.
As always, I waited until last minute to pack the dozen paintings, tent, and easel into my truck. Sounds easy enough, but it's actually quite complicated, especially when you throw seven feet wide painting into the mix. And to add to that, I was always bad at all things Tetris. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever worked on a table puzzle, without smashing my fist against two pieces that probably weren't meant to be. So, finishing that bit of packing at one in the morning, I awoke at six to head to the city.
As my faithful truck rounded the corner at Fifth Avenue and 9th, I heard a faint hissing, like the sound of locust wings descending upon Egypt in God's wrath. I looked out my window, down at my wheel, and saw that a nail had snugly nestled itself between the treads of my tire.
Now, changing a tire is never an enjoyable activity, but it is somewhat less so when NYC taxis zoom by and homeless people stop to watch. And, changing a tire is even less enjoyable when your jack breaks apart, right in front of your eyes. As the sun beat down, as the horns wailed, as the other exhibitors finished setting up their tents, I searched for another truck owner who was kind enough to lend me a jack. Eventually I found one. As I changed the tire, I reflected on how small things like this can just epitomize, or symbolize, hardship. Late winter to spring is a trying time for all artists- between Christmas and June, the simple problem is that there aren't many options for exhibiting. But, I remembered Twain's quote in his autobiography, "The events of life are mainly small, but we are so close to them, that we perceive them as being bigger than they actually are." And I thought of things that were on my mind from the past few weeks, and put them all into this context.
I hastily assembled my tent, hung my artwork, and pulled other odds and ends together. Two minutes later I had an excellent sale, and then an excellent portrait commission. A steady stream of people filled my booth.
Then, two beautiful Japanese women came to my tent with an elaborate video camera. "Kevin McEvoy? The head of the Washington Square Show directed us to you. We are one of the major news stations in Japan, and we would like to use your work for our program, and interview you." Initially, I was nervous, but soon became comfortable and spoke with them for fifteen minutes or so.
And then, a while later, a wonderful couple came in, and bought the painting of the violin with the broken strings and the wine glass.
And then, another big portrait commission.
And, another work sold.
I submitted my painting "Alembic" into the judging of the show, which is carried out by the Salmagundi Club. Remember this painting, the one of the woman and the cello? It didn't win any award. But, this painting has had the greatest success that I've ever had at any of these shows. I've never had more interest from the public- everybody stops and says something. No other painting, done by me, has ever received half this much attention.
I hope all this doesn't come across as gloating. I'm writing this to say that I'm so grateful.
20 minutes
45 minutes
two hours
three hoursto pee, or not to pee
A few weeks ago, Margaret and I attended the preview of an auction at Sotheby's. As we entered the lobby of the building, I was struck by how very attractive the employees were. Each and every employee wore sharp black rimmed glasses, a smart French cut suit, a sharp nose, and an angular jaw. As the doors of the elevator swung open, we were greeted by conversations in both Russian and England English. The Russian dialogue went something like "Nustrovyitch stztrempztrovyitch Andy Warholyovitch. The England English dialogue went something like "Quite right, rather languid, and, rather pinkish. But, indeed, the Ondy Warhol, carry on, do, please, quite right." I was struck by the abundance of commas in the England English vernacular, the poor little comma must be the most worn down key on their keyboard. There were other New Yorkers, chatting about this and that. It was actually a nice atmosphere, as each individual seemed excited about what was to come.
As the doors opened, I was greeted by an enormous, strategically placed painting by Andy Warhol. You couldn't miss it. If you did, somebody would have grabbed you, scolded you for not paying homage, and forced you to genuflect in front of your canvas, on your knees. There were guards on either side. The guards were rather effeminate, and in the event of an armed heist would probably be as effective as an angry Cockapoo. However, the mere presence of a guard served to remind you that you were in the presence of forty five million dollars. I wasn't bothered by Andy's painting, but I was really disturbed by the price tag. It seemed like such a horrific cultural contrivance to deem any painting as being worth that much.
I proceeded on to the other rooms, and was thrilled by what I saw. Two beautiful sculptures by Rodin, amazing landscapes by no name artists, a whimsical Picasso, a beautiful still life by LaTour. It was so wonderful, I couldn't believe what I was seeing: innumerable works of art that are normally inaccessible for the general public, here in front of my eyes. Were the Metropolitan Museum of Art to acquire some of these pieces, they would stand out in their collection.
Margaret and I walked and walked, spending as much time as we wished, gladly gazing at all the works. In one of the final rooms, there was a beautiful pencil drawing that grabbed me from thirty feet away. It was a soft, kind portrait of an old man. The eyes of the portrait glowed with a quiet contentment. I got closer, and read that the drawing was of Monet, done by his friend Renoir. To be honest, I usually dislike Renoir's work, but this drawing was wonderful.
As we came to the final room, I realized that the foot traffic had been strategically directed in one huge loop, which brought you around again to... no other than... his holiness... drum roll please... Dandy Norwal. I mean Handy Wormhal. Agh, I drank too much caffeine... ahem... Andy Warhol. And there he was, and there were the crowds around him. Forty five million dollars. I reflected on the fact that the other pieces were just pennies in comparison. The Rodin bronze was going for $400,000, the Renoir drawing for $30,000. But, 45 million dollars for the Warhol. And then, the thought struck me... what would happen if I walked up to the canvas, and... peed on it. Yup. You read it. What if I just stood there, and peed on it. What would the guards do? Mind you, the whole deed would be quite difficult to pull off, but with determination and a bit of courage, it could be done. What would happen if you peed on a forty five million dollar painting? Would it be worth forty four million dollars then? Or, would it be worth 200 million then? Come on, while we are at it, perhaps it could be the first painting worth a billion dollars. In all honesty, this thought truly ran through my head. If you are offended by my writing these things, well then, maybe you should be offended that Jesus overturned the money changer's tables in the temple. There, in the middle of Manhattan, in the most elite auction house in the world, I would strike one blow for all of the sane world. "Man Pees on 45 Million Dollar Painting" would be written on the cover of the New York Times. "Urine Trouble" would be the always witty New York Post, with a picture of me, in handcuffs, being escorted to the police car. Hong Kong would be chattering away, Moscow would be furious, Paris would be indignant, Valparaiso would be laughing really hard. I would probably be deemed insane, by some judge, and be escorted off to some distant penitentiary far away.
And as quickly as the thought came, it left. The thought only lasted about nine seconds, but oh, what a rush while it lasted.
Since that auction, I had such a steady stream of irritated thoughts. I've been bothered by just how contrived the art world is, by how political it is, by how money driven it is. Everything I came across seemed to reinforce my disappointment with the elaborate machine of the mainstream art market.
Kurt Vonnegut, in the final scene of his book Bluebeard, taught me a very important lesson in my art career. He wrestles with the theme of value, and art, and in the final scene of the book, the main character... you have to read it to find out.
I took care of my son Evan today, while Liam went to nursery school, and my wife Margaret took care of some administrative work for my art business. As I went walking on the quiet little Main Street in my town, holding my little boy Evan in my arms, the grey sky suddenly gushed with rain. I ducked under the awning of a small shop, and the owner came out and lent me his umbrella. "Return it whenever it's convenient, don't worry." I raced home in the pouring rain, my son laughing and playing with the underside of the umbrella. By the time we reached the door, he had fallen asleep in my arms. I lay him down in the bed, beneath the window. I grabbed my sketchbook of Amatruda paper, and began to sharpen my pencils. Evan was so warm and content that he didn't even stir in his sleep. As his head tilted, gravity pulled his mouth to the side, and his lips parted in such a funny way. The rain lashed the windows, and I drew.
Painting is about delighting, life is about delighting. Art delights in the full spectrum of living, of dead branches silhouetted against a bleak sky, of slugs leaving their trails across leaves, of a perfectly engineered spitball sticking to the neck of the kid across the room, of a well said insult, of a beautiful woman's neck, in the back, just above the shoulders. I want to spend my life delighting in these things, not embittered by the dizzying labyrinth of human institutions. Though I have to say, it would have been funny if I had peed on that painting.
the tune without the words
Julian Schnabel directed a movie entitled "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly." In my opinion, it is one of the greatest works of art, whether it be marble or oil paint or clay or cinema. There is a touching scene in the movie, in which a young, healthy man tenderly shaves the beard of his aging father. It is such a beautiful scene, it stands out in my mind like an exquisite painting. The movie goes on to address life and death, pain, and beauty. When Julian Schnabel was asked why he created the movie, he told of how his father's death stirred some difficult themes in him. Julian went on to say that he made the movie because (I'm paraphrasing) "I couldn't not do it."
I couldn't not do this painting. And yet, it was a difficult painting to do. I think it is a beautiful piece, a quiet and contemplative piece. It is intentionally metaphorical on many levels, though I won't limit the viewer by saying what those metaphors might be. It was begun about eight months ago, then leaned against the wall of my studio for six months. I picked it up two months ago, and worked on it on and off for several weeks, then I stopped. Then I worked on it all day, everyday. If you read this, right now, chances are that in the back of your mind, there are tsunamis, civil wars, recessions, the passing of a loved one. Before the glass has been finished, the strings have snapped, the book is finished. It's hard to understand.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
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-Emily Dickinson
heightening
Here Is day three? four? of the violin painting. I really enjoyed working on the painting today. Today's work was very simple. I heightened the painting, making the lights lighter, softening some transitions, saturating the colors, globbing on some thick, impastoed paint in the highlights on the glass.
