a NYC portrait commission, the end of the world, and a pretty good gospel choir
I woke up, took the train into New York City
Heard a pretty good blues band in Grand Central Station.
Got a couple slices of pizza at a nice, run down pizza shop. My brushes, turpentine, sun thickened linseed oil, etc., are in the leather bag. My palette is in the plastic bag.
Having already transported some heavier items in my truck a couple weeks before, I stored things such as the paintings, benches, and drapes at the Fifth Avenue apartment belonging to the couple commissioning the portrait. I'm in the process of setting up beside a north window. It's day five of the portrait commission.
An alligator clamp on the curtain drawstring...
... and an alligator clamp on the bathroom door...
...and I have a pretty good background.
My trusty workbench from Home Depot. I never paint without it. Lightweight, portable, tall- it's perfect.
An instant stand for my pallete, brushes, bag of garbage (mostly paper towels), mediums, turps.
All set up, ready to go.
Deborah and her husband Robert have been so wonderful to work with, I really couldn't find a nicer couple. They are very into the creative process of a portrait commission. Deborah is a doctor with a busy medical practice in Manhattan, and yet gladly takes time to pose for the paintings. For a portrait commission, I couldn't ask for a better situation. The two of us talk for the entire course of the afternoon. Sorry, a bleached photo- I'm not so good with the technical end of cameras.
Her figure was, compositionally speaking, running off of the bottom of the canvas. I had to invent some type of return, with a bold color note as well. This wrap might work. I brush it in quickly, just to see.
My palette gets more and more cluttered, as the day progresses
Yesterday, my brother Sean was talking to me about Sargent's painting, "The Match." In the painting, especially if seen in person, there seems to be a real flame at the tip of the match. It is this tiny impasto of painting, and it is just brilliant. I just love touches like that. I was thinking of this as I painted today, and wanted to really make the earring a note of interest- but not too much. I painted the earring with this tiny impasto of paint. I'm pleased with the balance.
John Singer Sargent, the Match, detail, 1882
As the daylight fades, I place the painting beside the window, and it looks like a real person. Pretty cool.
I cleaned up my paints, stored them away, and headed off to the subway. On the way, as I plodded along, I heard somebody screaming very loudly in the subway. It was a woman, and it sounded like she was on top of a soap box, announcing the French Revolution. The woman was lunging at all of the people passing by, shoving literature in their faces. As I drew close, I realized that she was actually screaming about the end of the world- she and five other people were wearing shirts that said "End of the World, May 21st, 2011." Fair enough, they could be right. She then approached me with a pamphlet and yelled "Repent!" Fair enough, I always have a sin or two to spare, and wouldn't mind repenting for them. I asked her if she truly believed that the world was going to end on May 21st. She said "Absolutely. With all my heart. You gotta repent, or else." I then asked her if she could sign over her car to me, to be delivered into my custody on the 22nd of May. She paused. She thought. She stared at me. Her eyebrows furrowed. Her mouth turned downward at the corners. She then yelled "Get oudda here." I said "Geez, I just didn't think you'd have any use for a car, being that the world would be in flames and all." She nearly punched me in the face, so I thought it best to continue home. Then I encountered a wonderful gospel choir, with a good upright bassist, at the west end of the Times Square- Grand Central Shuttle. They laughed and smiled and sang "Lord, it's good to be your child." My style of Christianity.
The train pulls into the station late, and I'm back home on Long Island.
i'm going to jail
I was ten years old, I had my tongue curled over my upper lip in intense concentration, and I was working on a drawing of a hockey player. Leaning over my kitchen table, my lucky number 2 pencil sharpened finely, I worked for hours to get the stenciling on the back of the hockey player's shirt. I was plodding along, thoroughly enjoying myself, when my dad came in the kitchen. He had just come back from work, covered with spackle dust, and he said to me "What a wonderful drawing! Incredible! Amazing! Kevin, do you have all of the supplies that you need, in order to draw or paint?" I told him that I really wanted a pencil set, with pencils that ranged from light values to dark values. He said "Let's go now then. Let's go to the store this second." We jumped in his truck, and headed to Smithaven mall. Wandering around, I eventually found an art supply store. He bought me a pencil set, and oil paint set, and anything else that I even hinted at needing. Twelve years later, my wife, my mother-in-law, and my father-in-law would all come to pick up the torch. Each of them encouraged me, assured me, stood beside me, and helped me to spend several years studying painting in Italy. Were I to list all of the ways they continue to enable me pursue my painting career, I think I would sprain my finger typing.
Every Monday, I teach classes on Main Street in Riverhead. The classes are wonderful, I really enjoy the range of people that come through those doors. Teaching painting in the Renaissance tradition, I've watched all of my students grow tremendously. I'm not the authority on classical art, nor am I the artist who spent the most years in Italy. But, whatever I have acquired, I really enjoy passing along to my students.
Every Monday, as I leave the teaching studio in Riverhead, I get into my truck and head west. And every single time, I see the tall, ominous figure of the Maximum Security Riverhead Correctional Facility. It is a massive, cold, terrifying structure, dotted with watchtowers here and there. It looks just like Suffolk Community College, but with a bit less barbed wire. As I drive past the correctional facility, I always wonder to myself: who is on the other side of that wall? How did they get there? What kind of a world did they grow up in? How did they come to be there?
When I was fifteen years old, I was walking through the woods of Connetquot State Park. Out of nowhere, four kids came out of the woods. Three white kids ran after me, jumped me, punched me, pushed me into the ground, broke my nose. I looked up from the ground, then suddenly I knew I was in for real trouble... a black kid who looked seven feet tall walked over to me. He had a mean stare, a vicious, cruel face. He lifted up his arm into the air, clenched his hand into a fist, and... smashed his friend in the head. He then picked up his other friend, and threw him across the floor of the forest. Another kid rushed at me, and the black kid grabbed him by the hair, and smashed him into a tree. The seven foot tall, black teenager then carefully lifted me up. He dusted me off, patted me gently on the back, and asked me if I was okay. I told him I was. His friends continued to rush at me, and he continued to swat them like flies. They all eventually left, until it was just me and him. He kept patting me on the back, telling me he was so sorry, telling me it would all be okay. The cops eventually arrived, and the guy just walked off quickly and quietly into the thick of the woods.
Somehow or other, the cops found out the name of one of the three white kids. That evening, they took me in a squad car to the home of "Vinny." His father came out on the lawn, in a filthy shirt. The house was disgusting and falling apart, the gutters hung down from the front roof. The yard was covered with garbage, cars were parked on the front lawn. Vinny came out, and I identified him to the police officers. He had a look of terror and fear on his face. I went home that night, and felt so sad for him. He was so angry, so hateful, and... so filled with hopelessness. I came to understand that Vinny never had a father who took him out to buy art supplies. The father never cared enough to find out what gifts his son had. The police officer in the squad car told me that Vinny had been in trouble since he was nine. He was caught with spray paint at first, then with cigarettes, then with mild drugs, then hard drugs. The police officer was visibly sad, said that Vinny was now in a gang, and that he was probably going to be incarcerated in a juvenile detention center. He said that, eventually, Vinny would either end up dead, or land himself in prison. Vinny was just fifteen.
A couple of weeks ago, I called up the Riverhead Correctional Facility, and proposed a few ideas to the secretary who answered the phone. She put me on with the next secretary, who put me on with the next secretary, who put me on with the secretary of the warden. A few days later, I was sitting at the desk of the warden of the Maximum Security Riverhead Correctional Facility. I told him my idea: I want to exhibit paintings in the prison, and teach classical painting in the tradition of the Renaissance to the inmates. The warden's eyes opened wide, and he responded with a very enthusiastic "Yes, yes, of course, this is wonderful, this is great, of course. You can do all these things. Just tell us what to do next." I told him that I wanted to order sculptures of Greek portrait busts, charcoal, Florentine paper, canvases, easels, paints, brushes. He gave an enthusiastic approval to all of these things. The warden is named Chief Sharkie, and he and I continued to talk for a long time. Chief Sharkie skimmed through my portfolio, and asked to hang the painting of my wife (the one in which she is pregnant). He wanted to exhibit it in the maternity ward of the prison. In this ward, the inmates that are mothers are allowed to be with their children. The inmates with infants are allowed to have their children live there, where they nurse their children and spend the day with them. Chief Sharkie believed the painting would really resonate there. He asked to show the painting of the heavy metal rocker, the painting of Matteo.... and he went on to say that he would like me to do some portraits of the inmates, and that I could have them pose in a studio within the correctional facility. He cautioned me with the fact that some of these paintings might be damaged, and I'd have to sign waivers. While assuring me of my personal safety, he also cautioned me with the fact that the inmates are in there for the worst crimes- I will be teaching Renaissance painting to some of the worst gang members.
I'd like to tell you that I am impervious to fear, that I swell my chest and walk forward with a Clint Eastwood confidence. Actually, I am a little afraid. But, I am filled with such a joy, a peace, a sense of right... such as I've never before had in my art career. This is where I know I am supposed to be.
Five Months, oil on linen, 24" x 40"
Dan Acosta, oil on linen, 40" x 40"
Matteo, oil on linen, 18" x 24"
a guide to the "gallery guide to new york city"
Well, I may have swung and missed, and I would ask your apology if I've done so. My last blog insulted one of my readers, which I never intended to do. And so, I've got a bit of background to flesh out.
One year ago, I was at a gallery event in Chelsea with a wonderful couple. They are an unassuming, softspoken pair, and they prefer to stay in the background. They purchased many pricey paintings at the event, and then stood by the window quietly. A phone was resting on the window sill, and this fellow picked it up and said "Somebody must have left their phone. Let's check and see whose it is, so that we can return it to them." As he picked it up, the gallery owner came over. He snapped at the fellow and said "That's my phone, don't touch it. Some people just don't mind their own business." You see, the fellow who had purchased the paintings was so common looking, that the gallery owner didn't even realize that this was the individual who had just purchased so many paintings. I stood in astonishment. The generous benefactor simply did not fit the "artsy" profile of the collector. The couple were very insulted, and walked out the door.
A few nights ago, I headed into Manhattan on the train. I was off to an exhibition uptown, and I was excited. I took the subway uptown, and bounded out onto the street. As I was walking, I realized I must have made a wrong turn. I was standing in front of the Steinway Piano building, and the doors were wide open. Hmm, I thought- I've always wanted to visit this place. I had a full hour to spare, and so I entered the building. As I rounded the doorway, I entered a massive marble hall, covered in frescoes and oil paintings. In the center was a young woman, performing some dazzling excercises on a beautiful Steinway grand piano. It was unlike anything I had ever heard. There were chairs set up in front of the piano, and I asked an onlooker if I might stay. "Yes" she replied. "We do this regularly, for free. We want to bring music into people's lives. Steinway is about music into the world." I was so touched, I thanked her. I sat down amazed, as the room began to fill up. There were people from every walk of society- I heard one couple conversing in three languages. Beside me was a cartoonist from Japan. Beyond the cartoonist was a famous music professor. How kind, how generous, what a wonderful vision. The international pianist, Hitomi Koyama, performed the Schubert Sonata in A Major, D. 959. It was one of the most beautiful performances I have ever heard. Her emotions were so in touch with the music, there was no dry technique. I was so moved. After the piece ended, many people came up to me. "Hello, who are you? What do you do? Thanks so much for coming. Please come again." I passed on a card to the woman who was running the show, and she had wonderful things to say about the art work on my card.
I made my way out into the night air, and headed towards the gallery. My head was swimming with the beauty of Schubert's sonata, and Hitomi's performance.
I arrived at the gallery. As I walked up to the door, I was approached by a man. "Name." I said my name, and he poured through the list. "Mr. McEvoy, we see you have a reservation, but how did you come to know about the event? You are obviously an artist. This event is only open to collectors and the constituents of the artist." I was so insulted. I told him of my friendship with one star artist. He allowed me to pass. I walked around the show. There were really well known artists there. The art work was oftentimes calculated for commercial purposes, where the artists painted a piece for a certain sale. At times, the art was nice, but the atmosphere was so cold that I had a hard time appreciating it. Eventually, my artist friend recognized me, and greeted me warmly. She passed on a few kind words, then wished me a good night. Her artwork reflects her kind spirit.
I returned to the cold, winter air with a sadness. Why had Steinway sent me out singing, and this gallery sent me out dejected? It is because certain people have decided to have an opposite vision to that of Steinway- painting is about a select few. This elitism is not necessarily about money, it is about the established network of individuals. Everybody owes everybody a favor, and that is how the scene works. Many gallery owners (not all), have cordoned off the movement of classical realism, reserving it for the few. Art salons used to exhibit hundreds of paintings, open to the public. Tens of thousands of people would come. Now though, the fine art world of classical realism is making no effort to reach society. It is a tight network of insiders that are only concerned with securing sales with certain collectors. How sad.
As I headed home on the train, my mind jumped back and forth between Classical music and Classical realism, between artistic sincerity and slick commercial venues, between art and artifice. And as I sat on the train, I wondered how I am so lucky as to be surrounded by a web of the kindest, most giving individuals. I am amazed by the generosity of these people, and how they are never purchasing a piece for vanity's sake. Though they love art, they are not "artsy." They genuinely love the art, and they genuinely support me. They open their homes, their lives, their worlds to me and my family. I'm so lucky to be able to exist outside of the New York City gallery circuit- and I'm so grateful. This blog has become my gallery, a web of kindred spirits. I'm so charged by this support!
And so, I'm just ending this blog with a summary. My art is about opening people's eyes to seeing art where you may not have ever seen it. My art is about the worth of the human spirit, wherever it is found- from an illegal immigrant in Riverhead, to a nomadic playwright from southern England, to a distinguished doctor in Manhattan. And the thing that makes me the most angry is when art is privatized, compartmentalized into the hands of a few. It has nothing to do with money, as some of the wealthiest are turned away from membership. It has to do with cultural elitism, and power. I left the gallery in Manhattan as angry as Martin Luther was angry about sermons being preached in Latin, preventing the masses from participating. If I had a nail and a long piece of paper, I would have nailed my 95 theses to the door of the gallery. Except for the fact that the door was glass. It would have shattered. That would have been embarrassing and difficult to explain to a New York City cop. And so, my past blog, the "gallery guide to new york city" was my 95 theses, angrily nailed to the door of the elitist behavior of the movement of classical realism. We're behaving just like the bizarre modern schools of art, when this language of painting, classical realism, was meant for everybody. The Renaissance patrons, the Medici, actually employed realism as a tool of conveying messages to the masses! The Renaissance patronage system sought to convey the most profound themes in the most universal language possible. Is that our goal, today? Rather than being Dada artists, practicing an art form reserved for the select few, we should be stained glass, where our art strives to speak to every man. Arnolfo di Cambio's bronze sculpture of St. Peter, in the Vatican, has a foot that is worn down by the untold millions of pilgrims who reach out to touch it. Are today's realists above this?
I would really appreciate comments on this blog in particular, if you are at all interested in this topic.
gallery guide to new york city
Dearest readers,
It has come to my attention that many of you are unschooled in the ways of gallery going in New York City. I will not hold this against you, though I would ask that you take all necessary steps towards remedying your naiviete, so that you might navigate these social settings with propriety and decorum. I contemplated, the other day, when returning from a gallery event, that I represent quite a wealth of knowledge as regards the New York Gallery scene. I've been there, I've walked these rooms, I've heard these conversations, I've drank that Yellow Tail Shiraz from Australia. I've heard them in the rooms come and go, and talk of Michelangelo. And now, heavens, I feel I am as a dam that might burst with all of this wonderful wisdom. I am writing this blog to impart to you, my reader, a guide to New York galleries, and all of their delectable felicities of cultural sophistication and refinement.
But before I begin, I must address the question which the reader may understandably present "Kevin, who cares bout how them New York galleries work?" Dearest friend, I can only convey to you the joy imparted by the identification of artistic stratifications. Consider for a moment, if you will, the ability to walk into a gallery and instantly identify who the owner of the gallery is. Why, if that is your objective, your goal will be attained in mere seconds, if only you read my guide. And so, a wealth of knowledge which weighs so heavily upon my shoulders is now lovingly dispersed amongst your eager hands.
First off, we shall begin with the most general information. How does one stand in a gallery? That is simple. However, as we further delve into social niches, we find variants upon the theme. But I digress. How should one stand? Let us begin with the fact that males stand with weight evenly distributed between both legs, with the legs being spread apart a mere foot or so. No exceptions.
Females, however, do something that we shall here term as "The Flamingo." All of the weight goes on one leg. No exceptions. Now, the hip above the load bearing leg is then thrust out. The younger and more attractive the woman, the further the thrust of the hip. Furthermore, the elbow is then placed on the projecting hip, with the glass holding the wine resting neatly on the said hip. Don't believe me? Try it in the comfort and privacy of your own home or office cubicle, wherever you might be gleaning this valuable information.
The identificatory signs of Gallery owners are a bit more subjective, but I can assure you that they are just as easy to find. First off, look for heavy, black rimmed glasses. This is not a surefire sign, as the same glasses are worn by art critics, but it does narrow your search quite well. To continue on- their garb will either be flamboyantly colored silk, or black cotton. Never in between (no browns, navy blues, etc.) In the summer, in SoHo, they will be wearing flamboyantly colored silk. In the winter, on the upper East Side of Manhattan, they are adorned in black. Black turtlenecks. Black skirts. Black buttondown shirts with black buttons. Belt buckles may be silver, on occasion. Let's see, I've covered glasses, clothing... oh yes, physiognomy is next. Look for eyebrows that are perpetually raised.
Now, now... where are we? Ah yes. Artists. They are the easiest to spot. Can you say "Rodin's Thinker"? In Manhattan galleries, artists always touch their chins. They do so to convey the fact that they are the thinkers in society. That's as easy as it is. They always have their hands to their chins, their brows furrowed, and their heads leaned forward in sincere conversation. On occasion, they will lean their heads back, and look up to the skies as Jean d' Arc might have gazed through the earthly firmament to receive divine revelations from on high. That is to say, artists will occasionally look up into the corner of the ceiling in the room, while the rest of humanity hovers somewhere around the horizon. If the artist is from Brooklyn, his or her hair will be messy (though to make his hair messy, he or she spent 45 minutes in the bathroom, curiously enough.) If the artist is from Europe, he will have long hair and a faint beard ( the "I'm too busy to shave look"), while the woman will be wearing couture and green galoshes. I need not waste my time with more manners of description- in galleries, all artists touch their chins.
I shall here give an abbreviated description for the remaining figures in the New York City art world.
Solo Artist- in a solo show, this is the individual in the room whose face is completely devoid of all emotion. And, he or she touches his or her chin.
Art critics- black rimmed glasses, very quiet earth tones in clothing. However, as soon as they open their mouths you see that they are, sadly, covered in connoi soars.
Art Professors- Clad in worn clothing. Plaid shirts, torn jeans, an old sports jacket
Art gallery staff- all black clothing, though with an overeager look on the face.
Art Agents- may be wearing various combinations of the aforementioned attire, but one feature remains constant- eyes that dart back and forth quickly.
And then, there is the few stragglers who come in off the street. Heaven knows where they come from, or why they come, but there is always a few in the crowd. They wear simple shirts, knit sweaters, blue jeans, normal dresses, a baseball cap. They smile. They converse quietly. I even saw one fellow with a baby carrier, with a small infant dangling from the front. They stare at the paintings. Hmph.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
-Emily Dickinson
common things
Boots and Beer, oil on linen, 16" x 20"
"... the life in common things-
the endless store of things,
Rare, or at least so seeming every day
Found all about me in one neighborhood-"
-Wordsworth, The Growth of a Poet's Mind
--------------
You've been reading my ramblings, now come see some pieces of cloth that I covered with various colors. I'm excited- ten works altogether, spread out over two exhibitions.
-Gallery North, Winners Circle Exhibition, opening January 7th, 5 - 7 p.m. www.gallerynorth.org
-Salmagundi Club, Junior Scholarship Exhibition, opening January 14th, 6 - 8 p.m., www.salmagundi.org
happy new year
Here is what the living room of an artist with two children looks like, on the morning of an exhibition drop off. In fact, I have two exhibitions coming up, and this is only some of the work that I'm exhibiting. I've been so busy preparing- running all over the place, printing postcards, mailing postcards, painting.
I'm pretty excited- some of the work goes to the Salmagundi Club in Manhattan, some goes to Gallery North on Long Island. A few of the people who bought my paintings have allowed me to borrow them for a while, to exhibit them at the Salmagundi. I can't tell you how grateful I am, it's nice to be able to assemble a good body of work!
Now, on a foggy Sunday morning, with a coat of snow still over the ground, I'm off to the Salmagundi Club, to drop off my work.
For info on the exhibitions, see my website (to be updated with the info later this evening- aaah, another thing for my wife and I to do.)
Happy 2011!
Juan Carlos
Juan Carlos, 18" x 24", pencil on paper
On Main Street in Riverhead, on any given corner, there are dozens of unemployed, illegal immigrants. They stand and wait, hoping someone will come along and pick them up for a construction job. They have to be both seen and unseen. Visible, so that they are first in line to be hired by some general contractor who is passing by in his truck, looking for a helper for the day. Invisible, so that they attract no attention from any of the residents of the town.
Yesterday, I crossed Main Street in Riverhead, and walked over to a couple of middle aged, hispanic men. I asked them if anybody was looking for work. They did not reply, so I asked them in Spanish. They still didn't reply. I was a bit confused, but then I realized that I was wearing a button down shirt, a nice pair of jeans, and leather shoes- I didn't fit the profile for a carpenter looking for help, and they were suspicious. Maybe they thought I was a police officer. Realizing this, and realizing that neither spoke a word of English, I then told them that I was an artist from across the street, and that I was looking for a portrait model for the day. I pay models ten dollars per hour to sit still, and simply pose for drawings and paintings. They asked in disbelief whether I payed them to simply sit still. Yes, I said. They couldn't believe it. The two men then looked at eachother, wondering who would let the other go. One fellow pushed the other in the shoulder, and with a smile said "Puedes, Juan Carlos." Juan Carlos smiled a grateful smile to his friend, and headed off with me.
We walked quickly to the studio, because it was freezing cold- just twenty something degrees. We made our way up the stairs, into the warm, heated space.
He was very quiet, his eyes darted about quickly- he was clearly uncomfortable. He stared at the paintings which were littered about the studio, the plaster casts of Greek statues. I knew that the only way to dispel this awkwardness was to make him at home. And so, I made him a cup of coffee, and I began to draw.
Juan Carlos is a landscaper who lives in Riverhead and works on the east end of Long Island. He is from Ecuador, has a wife and two children, all of whom he left years ago to come and work in the States. He said that he loves the United States, but he did not want to stay here. I asked him why, and he searched for words. Loco, rapido, dificil... finally, he shook his head and took out his cell phone. It's too this- and he pointed to his phone and laughed. It was really funny. Juan Carlos said that he is going to return home to Ecuador, in about a year. His eyes lit up in describing his return to his family. He happily described how he is going to raise cows- a very good business, he said.
We talked for a couple of hours, and as we went along, I really came to admire his optimism and determination. He never once complained, he never talked negatively, he never had anything bad to say about anybody. He just talked about life, music, memories, but most of all the future.
Years ago, my dad went on a spackling estimate and gave a bottom line price. The estimate was so low, in fact, that my dad didn't stand to make a profit. But if my dad got the job, it would keep his crew of workers busy. The homeowner never called back, and so, my dad knew that he didn't get the job.
A couple of months later, the homeowner did call back. He said to my dad that he had, indeed, hired another company, but they had botched the job. He asked my father "Could you come and repair their job?" My dad said "Just tell me, how much money did you get the other guys to do the job for?" The homeowner had gotten the job for less than half the price that my father had offered. It turns out, the homeowner had gone to Farmingville, where many of the hispanic, illegal immigrants live, crammed thirty to forty in a single house. The homeowner hired a few "illegals" as they are called. He payed them pennies. He got a shoddy job. Then he called my dad to fix the job. My dad said no.
In that same period of time, several years ago, my dad and I were driving along in his Ford truck, making our way down some of the back roads on the east end of Long Island. We were on our way to a huge spackle job. It was freezing cold, and as we sipped our coffees in his truck, we saw a man walking on the side of the road. The man was squinting, fighting against the cold, winter wind. We were in a stretch of road that was empty for miles and miles. He was obviously an illegal immigrant, going from one job site to another. My dad slowed down, rolled down his window, and said to me "Talk to that guy in Spanish. Tell him to hop inside. Tell him that we'll take him to wherever he's going." I spoke to him. The guy paused, thought, smiled, then hopped inside the truck. My dad asked me to speak to him, and asked him if he was hungry. He wasn't. My dad stopped at a deli anyway, and bought him a sandwich. Then we dropped him off at the construction site he had been headed towards.
I am going to start a painting of Juan Carlos in mid January. I can't wait.
play on
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore ye soft pipes,
Play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone..."
-Keats
the conundrum of hirsuteness
So, this will probably be the shortest and most random post that I will ever write. But I think it's funny.
When I log on to my blog account, I can review loads of information as regards my blog. And so, I can look into what is called "search engine terms." This feature allows me to see how people are searching on the internet and finding out about my blog. When somebody goes onto Google and types "Courbet's Atelier", or "portrait painter New York", or "Kevin McEvoy artist", or something of the sort, my blog pops up on their screen.
And so, I read in my "search engine terms" that yesterday, somebody typed into their computer "How can I wax my entire body without using any wax?" Then, they were directed to my blog, "Without Wax."
I envision some hairy, weightlifting meathead in Venice Beach, California, who was about to head off to a bodybuilding competition in Las Vegas. In the past, he had all of his hair removed by going down to the local salon, and having a burly Russian woman apply wax and tear the strips of hair off of his body. It hurt so bad that he said to himself "I will never do this again." He sat down to his computer, but instead of finding a way to remove hair from his back, he instead found "Lilies of the Field."
I don't know why, but things like this make me laugh so hard.
the lilies of the field
the wildflower, 4" x 2", pencil on paper
About eight years ago, my father gave me an enormous spackling job, an entire house which I was to spackle from beginning to end. It was a new home, in Lake Ronkonkoma, and he was giving me the job and taking no money for himself. He did this so that I could pay for my university tuition. I was twenty one years old, I had been spackling for five years already, and I knew what this job meant to my dad and me: I was entering the world of adulthood, I had acquired the trade of spackling fully, and I could now pay my way through life. My dad trained me for those five years, all the while telling me "No matter what you do in life, you will at least have spackling to fall back on."
And so, I began the job. I worked long days, sometimes twelve hours long. I skimmed entire walls, I walked on stilts, I hung from scaffolding, I went through bucket after bucket of spackle. I was deeply satisfied with myself, and was proud to be making so much money at such a young age. As the weeks went by, the job approached perfection. My father came in and said "Incredible. It is a perfect job, Kevin." I spent a few more hours on the job, polishing a few last walls, when suddenly I began to feel a pinch in my right hand. I looked down, and everything looked fine. So, I just kept working. I sanded, skimmed, mixed, sanded. The pinch continued, and I just finished the job. I got into my truck, and looked down at my hand. It was a bit swollen. It looked puffy at the base of my thumb. I ignored it, and headed home. The swelling continued, and my hand grew in size until it looked as if a huge egg were stuffed into the heel of my hand. The pain was intense.
I went to a doctor a few days later. I showed him my throbbing hand, and he said "I have no idea what is wrong with your hand. It is a very bizarre type of tear or muscle strain. It will heal, you'll regain use of your hand. But one thing is certain, you can never work in construction again."
At the time, I couldn't understand why this was happening. I couldn't understand why I had invested years of my youth into a trade, only to lose it overnight. "If you have spackling, you always have something to fall back on" was the phrase, but now I didn't have that. Margaret stood beside me as my girlfriend, one day, and said to me "Kevin, I know you are upset by this injury, but put it to the side for a moment. If this never happened, what would you want to do most in life?" She knew the answer. I said "I want to be an artist, a painter." She asked me where I would study. I said "I would study in Florence." Margaret said "I'll help you make this happen. We can do it."
Two years later, after my injury, I found myself standing at the twenty foot tall door of the Charles Cecil Studios in Florence, Italy. I knocked at the door, and as it creaked open, I heard a British accent say "May I help you?" I replied that I wanted to see the head of the school. "Quite right" the accent returned, and he led me up a narrow flight of marble steps. It wrapped around the back of a huge medieval cathedral, over a sanctuary filled with enormous baroque sculptures, and into a back wing of the church. "It's a deconsecrated church, it's been used by artists for two centuries now. Let me go and see if Charles is busy- wait here." He slipped behind a curtain, and I heard some mumbling. A tall man with hair in his eyes and a beat up cuordoroy jacket emerged, palette and brushes in hand. He had the swagger of an American, and he sang out in a booming American voice "HI, CHARLES CECIL. How are you, where are you from?" "New York." "Great to have a yankee in here, I'm getting sick of all these brits. Just kidding. Well anyway, are you interested in learning how to paint?" He motioned me behind the curtain and into his studio. It was a beautiful room, flooded with north light, and the walls were covered with enormous, life sized canvases. It was some of the most beautiful art I had ever seen in my life. "Well, New York, want to show me any work?" "Uh yeah" I gulped. I showed him some drawings. "Nice, they show promise and talent, but they're pretty crude. You have no link, yet, to the tradition of the old masters. You have a lot to both learn and unlearn. You may enroll in the evening classes immediately. Start today."
Had I never hurt my hand, I would, most likely, never have pursued painting. I don't think I would have ever squeezed it into my busy construction schedule. It's very likely that I would never have moved to Italy. My greatest curse, a terrible injury, turned out to be my greatest blessing.
A week ago, I walked into my studio, located in the church on Main Street in Islip. The room was filled with furniture, covered with tables that completely occupied the floor space. I was notified that I was not to move them, that I was to "work around them." I soon found out that some people are in the process of kicking me out of the studio. And yet, others in the church found out that the tables were put there, and they contacted me and said "Move the tables. You are welcome to work here."
I layed in bed tonight, staring out the window, worrying about the studio. This is where I work, where I paint, how I feed my family. How would I survive without this space? What would I do? Where would I paint portrait commissions? These worries came steadily, descending like a heavy blanket of snow over my thoughts. And then, I suddenly remembered my old hand injury, and how it ushered me into a better situation than I could ever have imagined. And as I type this, I think of how well things are going now, how many portrait commissions have come about, how many classes I've been able to teach, recent sales of paintings, how I am surrounded by the most supportive family, in laws, and friends. I might lose this studio. I might not. But, the studio is not the issue.
"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for wildflowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you." Matthew 6
