day six
So, after working a while on a painting, I reach a point where I pause. Sometimes, I pause for ten minutes, sometimes I lay the painting to the side for a few days. After working on the painting today, I'll look at it tonight. If nothing jumps out at me, I won't work on it tomorrow- I might lose ground then. It's the initial impression that I want to retain, and the more I work on a piece, the more I risk losing that initial impression. And, this is why I always keep five to ten paintings running- when I suddenly stop with one canvas, I pick another one up, and keep working.
walls r klosing, and light
Speedy, pencil on bristol paper, 18" x 24"
Out in Riverhead, today, I worked on Speedy's drawing. When asked by one of the inmates, I actually forgot how long I spent on this drawing. Speedy said "As of right now, spread out over all of the days, we've spent seventy minutes. I'm keeping track." So there it is.
Last time I was in the jail, I brought in a plaster copy from the statue of the Laocoon Group, a marble piece created in Rhodes, Greece, in 25 BC. One young guy from the group, Philip, came forward to work on the drawing. Covered with tattoos, from his neck down to his knuckles, he steadily worked away on the drawing, and did a beautiful sketch of the statue. It was very impressive, and showed a real talent. This week, Philip approached me with a portfolio. Inside were a dozen drawings- beautiful works, very subtle and calligraphic. Through symbolism, he was telling the story of his life. The work had a graffiti quality, melded together with realism. I was very impressed, and I told him so. When we had a spare moment in the day, Sargent Fischer told me that there's been a real change in Philip. He's always getting into trouble on the floor, and oftentimes displays a real frustration. But the past two weeks, he hasn't gotten into any trouble- he's disappeared into his cell, and worked on these drawings for hours and hours. Sargent Fischer said that, perhaps, the best thing is Philip's sense of accomplishment with these drawings- which is well deserved. He is proud of something that he has worked for. She said that many of these guys have never known what it is to work for something, to achieve.
After I was done working on Speedy's drawing, a young, quiet black man got up to read a poem aloud, which he had scribbled a notebook in his cell earlier that week. I had a copy of it run off, and have reproduced it exactly as it was written.
Walls R Klosing
I swear these walls are closing in on me,
They've passed my skin & now I kan't breathe
They've boxed in my larynx & now I kant speak
They've choked my throat & now I'm too weak
The space to grow is obsolete, I can't focus
Never before was I scared of bein klaustrophobic
I wish I had a wish, fuck- 3, I don't care
With closure like this, all a man needs is air.
I kant move, I kant grow, I kant speak
I kant see, yet this prison seems to
grow from within like a cancer deep inside of me.
Why's this happening, what's the kaws, who's 2 believe?
I'd ask you 4 answers, but I fear for you its the same.
Sanity is slipping my grasp but to some its just a game
This seems to come with the koncept of
a number replacing your name
I feel erratic and ecstatic, but I'm compulsive
and asthmatic
Why so jovial on a dull tip, if I'm depressive
& impulsive
I feel like exploding, dying a death unpleasantly
revolting
But I'll take that any day if it stops the walls from
closing
- by Antsy Dolce
day five, and synthesizing shifting lights
Today, I spent most of my time painting the face. I intentionally posed her face slightly off profile, tilting it slightly, so as to allow the far eyelashes to show.
As I am painting this work in south light, the light is constantly shifting, and the color changes quickly. Three years ago, I found light changes to be frustrating, but now I almost prefer south light. Though the form is always the same, the light can vary from cold to warm, from blue to yellow, all due to the time of day, or the cloud cover. I take a little bit from each light, and meld it into my work. The result is a light that, actually, doesn't exist- a synthesis of many lights. This appreciation of daylight isn't my original thought, as it has been the hallmark of painting for centuries. Currently, a number of naturalist artists continue in this vein, acknowledging that a painter is not painting the thing, but rather, the light falling on the thing. However, art catalogues sell simulated daylight bulbs, which read "Steady, consistent light, color temperature operating at 2,700 Kelvins- it perfectly simulates daylight!" Lark of mercy, will science never stop overstepping its bounds. The daylight bulbs are consistent, for sure, but so is vinyl siding. You want the light to change, it's like getting multiple opinions on the same subject. In conversation, I am oftentimes bored by individuals that listen to the same news station every day, and likewise I am underwhelmed by a model lit by electric light. Artists such as Rembrandt and Andrew Wyeth take the red glow of morning, the blue overcast of rainy skies, and arrive at a wonderful synthesis, an amalgamation of lights that is as unique to their personal vision as a fingerprint.
day four, and the mystical rite
As a painting progresses, there is a mystical rite that I perform over the painting. These things are usually only whispered over a bubbling cauldron, in a dark castle in a black forest in northern Italy, amongst those initiated by blood oath. I will now permit the reader to partake of this knowledge.
Sometimes, on the fourth or fifth day of a painting, I work on the painting, with the model, until the sun sets. I continue to paint until the sun dips, the gloaming passes, and the night falls. Artistic shamanism aside, the reason is very simple- it allows me to see the whole picture, and not be distracted with any superfluous details. And so, color and line are subordinated, and I am only left with the vague masses of light and dark on the canvas. It is during this time that I typically make fundamental changes to my work, as I am best able to see the whole picture. However, on this day, day four, I did not make fundamental changes in the fading light. I only softened the light flowing over the form of the figure, in a delicate sfumato. I'm happy with the overall balance of light and dark on the canvas.
newsday
And so, the reader of this blog will remember that Newsday went into the jail with me. I am so impressed with the piece that was written by Joye Brown, it is nuanced, balanced, and honest. It's found on page 16 of today's newspaper, Sunday, the 1oth. Here is a link to the page:
<a href="http://www.newsday.com/columnists/joye-brown/seeing-jail-inmates-with-an-artist-s-eye-1.2809934">
Article</a>
It's so interesting to see the comments left on Newsday's webpage . There are some wonderful, encouraging things written. As is to be expected, there is some criticism. I'm looking forward to the dialogue with all of these readers.
Photo by Gordon M. Grant
day three, and working hard
Untitled, 36" x 36", oil on linen
So, here is day three of the painting. After teaching classes on Thursday morning, I worked alongside a couple other artists, painting from the model. Although the background is very simple, I spent just as much time on the background as on the figure. I just had to figure out the correct value to place against the figure. As the eye is drawn to contrast, it is important to carefully control the value of the background- if the contrast is unintentionally high, there will be an unintended focus. If everything is in focus, then, ironically, there is no focus. I wanted this painting to be about the calligraphy of line, and the calligraphy that runs from her forehead, down to her hand, and back up her right side. To bring attention there, I allowed the highest contrast in this moment- the dark shadow is pitted against the light background. Had I placed a dark background against the light on left side of the figure, the eye would be drawn there- but I don't want the eye to go there. Is this confusing? Simply put, painting is more about composing, than it is about observing.
You know, when I arrive home exhausted after a long day in the studio, my wife often ribs me and says "Oh, hard day of work? Did you sprain your index finger, painting pretty colors?" A friend shot this video of me in the Hampton Studio of Fine Art, hard at work. I am posting it to clear my name, once and for all, and to show people what difficult work painting and teaching actually is.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XS-T8VAdrII&feature=related]
day two
Today, after a day of teaching painting classes, a fellow artist joined me in painting from a model. We only had about two hours to work, before dark. I really enjoyed working, time flew, and dusk came quickly. So, the photo was shot in the fading light, and you can see that the back is unresolved, about two thirds down- I have to wait til next time.
I've brought in more definition in the figure, by painting in the light and shadow. The light paint is applied heavily, with a generous build up of lead white paint, while the shadows are thinly applied, luminous, to allow the dark of the initial ground to show through. While I bring in more information, I'm very concerned with retaining the initial, quiet impression. That's where the balance lies- just enough information to get the story across, little enough information so as to not distract. It's so easy for me to ramble on for hours in a painting, and it's so hard to achieve the understatement, the Gettysburg Address, rather than the two hour speech beforehand.
bill leet
Bill Leet, pencil on bristol paper, 16" x 10"
A couple of years ago, a fellow artist called me up and asked me to fill in for a class he was unable to teach. I was new to teaching, in that I had never really gone before a large group of art students and taught for a few hours. But it sounded fun, so I said yes. I entered the room, and was struck by the sheer number of students, there must have been twenty of them all packed into one small room. As I made my way around, I eventually arrived at the easel of an older man with a kind face. He was working on a still life painting, and seemed utterly frustrated. I can't remember the exact exchange between the two of us, but I do remember that, somehow, we ended up talking about Yeats, and a couple other Irish authors. About ten minutes of animated conversation passed, when I realized that I was neglecting the rest of the room.
Well, I was eventually offered a position teaching at the school, and the first student to sign up for the course was that same, kind gentleman. He shook my hand, told me he was excited to work with me, and told me about another Irish author I should look into. I suddenly knew that I would be good friends with Bill, as sometimes will randomly happen in life- you meet a kindred spirit, and it feels as if you've known eachother for ages. And, a year passed by like this. Every Monday, I would teach a group of students, and in that group Bill worked on a beautiful copy of a Rembrandt painting.
Then, there was some drama at the school. I wasn't at all involved, nor was I interested in getting in the middle of the brawl. In fact, I found the whole situation so disheartening, I pulled out of my class for a semester, and I contemplated ending my teaching career early, one year in, and just going back to painting full time. Bill knew what was going on in my head, and sent me an email. He told me how much my teaching had meant to him, and he urged me to continue. I was encouraged by Bill's letter, and so I resumed teaching the following semester.
Over the course of this time, Bill came to all of my shows- the outdoor shows in New York City, the Salmagundi shows, the painting exhibitions I put that Margaret and I put on in the living room of my home. Everything I put my hand to, Bill was there encouraging me, laughing. He was a real force in giving me momentum for this blog, because he read every line of it, and gave me such enthusiastic feedback. He signed up for my portrait and figure classes this past January, and was excited to hear that I occasionally opted out of teaching, and played the fiddle to my class.
But, the day before my class started, I got a call. Bill told me he was in the hospital, that they had found a large tumor on his lung. He had a very aggressive form of cancer.
I was so sad, I can't describe. I asked Bill if I could paint his portrait, and he agreed. But when I went over his house, he was so weak that he couldn't pose. Instead, he just talked gently, smiled, and listened to me play the fiddle. The doctors gave him six months, and he told me he was working on finishing the Rembrandt painting that we had done together in class.
I called him up the next week, and his wife Carol answered, and told me that a complication had arisen, and he had suddenly died. I took a trip to the Met, and stood before a sculpture by Daniel Chester French. The sculpture is of Death, stopping a young artist in the middle of his work. The man is unable to make eye contact with death, because there is a hood draped over her eyes. Death is not a vicious grim reaper, but comes softly, mysteriously, sternly, and bearing poppies, symbolizing eternal sleep. I can't put words to the power of this piece.
Death Staying the Hand of the Sculptor, Daniel Chester French, marble, Metropolitan Museum of Art
In my little family, all is going very well- my boys are happy, my wife is baking bread, and I am painting away. But, Bill's passing has brought a sadness to the end of this winter. I started this painting a long time ago, and recently resumed, having put two days work into it. It is a violin whose strings are silenced, a glass of wine that has been drunk, a book whose cover has been closed. This painting is not intended to be morbid, but rather, a celebration of a well lived life, and an acceptance that all things pass. This painting is my way of accepting that life is seasonal, and choosing to see beauty, despite the presence of pain.
Bill's wife called me up the other day, and said that she had some news to share. Before Bill had passed, one of his last requests was that a memorial fund might be created in his name. He said that painting had given him a new joy in life, a returned childhood joy that had been eclipsed by his long years as a finance lawyer in Manhattan. And, he asked that the fund might be used towards generous purposes, to help those whom I know, in the arts, who might be in need. The fund was to be placed in the stewardship of his wife, his daughter, and myself, to be directed to any artistic causes that we might deem worthy. Initially, I was somewhat reluctant to be a steward- the responsibility is great, and I felt awkward. But his wife assured me that this is what Bill wanted, and he spoke of it with such enthusiasm and certainty. I'm so grateful to Bill, and I've accepted my part in the stewardship of the fund.
Today, I headed out east to Riverhead, to teach at the Maximum Security Correctional Facility. I'd been nervous about today for a while, because a pretty significant event was lined up. Newsday, a major newspaper of New York, and specific to Long Island, had gotten word of my teaching classical oil painting at the Riverhead jail. And so, Newsday contacted the jail, and asked to do an in depth article, with photography. I was worried, though, that the prisoners might think that I set this whole thing up as a sort of photo op. I was worried that the inmates might perceive me as objectifying or exploiting them. The heads of the jail spoke to me over the phone, and assured me that everybody knew my motives were sincere, and that everything would be well received by the men.
And so it was! The easels were set up, the Greek statues were placed beside them, and then the inmates filed in. As we discussed the newspaper, every face was lit up with excitement. In fact, they were all so eager to get photographed for the paper, that we had to draw tickets randomly to select a portion of the crowd. And, the reporter for Newsday was, simply put, a very warm and personable person. She sat right in the middle of the prisoners, and talked to them as comfortably as if she were at a family reunion or something. I can't describe what a good feeling it was. You know, this group is a pretty rare thing. Typically, the gangs members do not coexist- much jail violence is connected to gang warfare. But, when I looked out on the group today, there were many gangs of New York represented... and they were all studying the book of paintings by Sir Anthony van Dyck, the Flemish painter from the Baroque period.
I overheard the reporter speaking to one guy, Speedy. "I gotta be honest wit you, I'm just always so angry. I'm fuckin angry, and this jail makes me wanna fuckin kill people, because they're always pissin me off. But, when I'm here, when I'm drawing... this is the first sense of calm I've had in... first peace... I don't know how long."
And so, the inmates drew classical Greek casts, with the sight size technique that was used by John Singer Sargent. Some of them did really nice work. One guy was so frustrated, he laughed and sat down. Another guy hopped up, erased his drawing, and began his own cast drawing. He did a great job. When we had a half hour left in the class, I returned to the drawing that I had begun the other week. The reader of this blog will remember that I was not able to give the true name of the sitter, nor was I able to post his picture. Well, he has signed a release form, allowing his picture and nickname to be publicized. And so, instead of Hades, his name is Speedy. Most everybody in jail goes by a pseudonym- other guys in my class are named Agony, Macho, Ripper. In addition to being really quick and perceptive, he's well read. He understands a lot about baroque painting, especially about Rembrandt.
Speedy, pencil on bristol paper, 18" x 24"
The most moving event of the day was the announcement that I was able to make to the group. Although it is not a certain thing, I told them that it was possible that the new painting program was going to receive an undetermined contribution by a private donor. "Who the hell's gonna give us money to buy paints and brushes?" somebody called out. "There was a wonderful friend of mine, a gifted artist named Bill Leet. I told him about the work I was doing with you guys, and he was very interested. He, sadly, discovered that he had a really aggressive form of cancer, and he passed away the other week. Though I have to meet with others to determine the certainty of the funding, I can say to you with confidence that Bill was very touched by your stories, and wanted to see you guys paint something beautiful. He encouraged me to do this work with you guys."
After everybody had gone, the Newsday reporter asked me what I saw, when I looked out on these guys. I shared this quote with her. It is by C.S. Lewis, from The Weight of Glory.
"There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations- these are mortal, and their life is to ours as is the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit- immortal horrors or everlasting splendors..."
To Bill, an everlasting splendor.
the easter bunny and the man in the bath robe
During this Lent season, I would invite my reader to join me in contemplating the deep theological and mythological truths of Easter. I would suggest you now remove yourself to a quiet abode with nothing but your laptop, some Gregorian chant music, and a stick of aromatic incense, and meditate upon a masterpiece that I executed some years ago. Reflect upon the power of this work, upon my gift as an artist, upon the ability that I have to plumb the very depths of human existence. Behold, an exquisite piece, a gem, a masterpiece of my Easter Bunny period.
At the tender age of three and a half, perhaps four, I was struck with an existential crisis, a watershed moment of ontological ramifications, as it were. I was undergoing deep introspection, wracked with religious fervor. I was devouring the various texts of Augustine, Luther, and Erasmus, even delving into obscure Agnostic scrolls, trying to glean, as it were, the crux of the myth of the Easter Bunny. Who was he? Why did he deliver chocolate to my kitchen table, with such abundant, boundless benevolence? Who was I, mere man, to partake of such divine delicacies, of an Easter basket bestowing bountiful blessings?
Actually, all I really remember is not understanding why on earth we had to go church. Before I ran out the door, I grabbed my enormous Easter Bunny out of his box, and bit off his ear, clean to his bunny skull. His loss. But, the hare had the last laugh- he was as hollow as my heart was cold. I cried out in consternation, bit off the rest of his head, and then tried to figure out how I might speedily ingest the rest of his frame. No time, my dad hated being late for church, and he was beeping the horn like a devout madman. I clearly remember licking the entire chocolate bunny from neck to toe, in my zeal. As I got in the car, I can recall telling my siblings that I had licked my entire chocolate bunny so they'd better not touch it.
In church, I was struck by the coincidence of the fact that the Jesus man who was always in a bath robe came out of that circle tomb thing on the very same day that the easter bunny dropped off his culinary delights at my house! Later that week, under the compunction of this powerful religious epiphany, I remember drawing this picture. My cousin Jonathan saved this masterpiece, and twenty seven years later, which is two days ago, he texted me the photo of this drawing. From whence cometh the bunny, to where does he traverse? And why does he have such pain in his eyes? Ah, it is better not to look into the bunny, for as they say, then the bunny looks into you.
The Purveyor of Shady Lenten Wares, marker and crayon on Caldor oaktag, 12" x 24"
available at Sotheby's, bidding begins at 1.7 million
light patterns
Here is the first moments of a painting I began yesterday evening. The painting is only about one and a half hours in. Lately, in figure painting, I've been enjoying the effect of the background being lighter than the foreground. For this painting, several weeks beforehand I tinted the canvas pretty dark. And so, yesterday I only painted with white and yellow ochre. I was concerned with the light pattern, the dark of the canvas functioning as my shadow.
