the inside
"What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, and every day, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, (which are but the mute articulation of his feelings,) not those other things, are his history. His acts and his words are merely the visible thin crust of his world, with its scattered snow summits and its vacant wastes of water- and they are so trifling a part of his bulk! a mere skin enveloping it. The mass of him is hidden- it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil, and never rest, night nor day. These are his life, and they are not written, and cannot be written." - Mark Twain
"Well, I think that one of the best ways that humans have devised to describe what goes on, on the inside, is music." - Yo-Yo Ma
On occasion, somebody will ask me who my favorite artist is. I never hesitate, it's simple. It's Yo-Yo Ma. Typically, people then scold me and say "Not a musician, a painter. Who is your favorite painter? Is it Velazquez, or is it Sorolla, or Sargent, or..." But, to be perfectly honest, I am seldom as moved by these paintings as I am by Yo- Yo Ma's cello. He fascinates me with his empathy, his joy, his balance, his sensitivity to beauty. He is so curious as to what makes a people tick, what they delight in, what pains them, how they express joy. As he jumps from Schumann to Appalachian waltzes to Brazilian tangos, he never has the air of artistic exploitation of a culture- he is genuinely fascinated with people. I believe the thing that sets him apart is not mere technical facility, but something I'm going to call an emotional organ. It's this highly developed emotional organ, in balanced dialogue with the intellect, that enables him to probe the inner depths. And in this exploration, he describes what can't be described.
Painting can describe what goes on inside. But painting is particularly challenging, in that we painters are dealing with a tangible medium, generally speaking. Music is, by nature, abstract. Because of the material aspect of painting, painters often get seduced by the recording of topography, rather than probing into the geology. And so, contrived classical realism and its spurious step-brother, photorealism, barely go beyond the subcutaneous. It is a fine line, indeed, between observing and exploring, between recording and delighting, between seeing and perceiving, between depicting and composing. Would that I could paint like Yo-Yo Ma plays.
Today, I painted for about six hours. My entire days' work consisted of painting the notes on the music sheets on my most recent painting. To the person who first figures out the music I've painted, respond to this blog and I'll mail the conceptual drawing sketches for this painting. Good heavens, what a fun blog!
inspiration
So, I've got some nice news- my painting "The Fiddle and the Violin" won first prize at the Huntington Arts Council Still Life show. Woo- hoo! The reception is Friday the 3rd, 6 to 8 pm, at the Main Street Petite Gallery in Huntington. When I completed this painting eight months ago, I feel like I really stepped into something that is all my own. People have responded so enthusiastically to this work, which has been such a momentum builder for me.
The Fiddle and the Violin, 24" x 30", oil on linen
The reader of this blog will be able to see how this still life painting has brought me into another painting. My wife always grossly exaggerates, and says that my favorite painting is the one which I am working on. That being said, I am so excited about the following painting- it is my favorite piece I've ever worked on. And so it needs to be- an artist has to be the most excited about the current work, but cannot see that work clearly until it has been out of eyesight for a few months.
Once the sheet music and the cloth went in... the painting took on a whole different dimension. I finally achieved something of the mystery and the metaphor, the poetry. I was able to say things about art, about life, about beauty, about passion, desire, expression, inspiration, nature, the beauty of form... things which I can't describe in words. Isn't that why we paint, and play music?
Well, the rabbi who praises himself has an audience of one- so I'll stop being so loquacious, and let you look at the work in progress.
Untitled, 84" x 40", oil on linen
time with my sons
Liam, pencil on Amatruda paper, 8.5" x 11"
A while ago, I read Teddy Roosevelt's biography. I remember a short story, paraphrased here, in which he was having a meeting in the Oval Office with the Ambassador or Emporer or something or other of Russia. At one point in the meeting, he stood up and said "I'm sorry, your Excellency, but I have a very important meeting to attend. You may join me if you wish." He went outside, where his children were waiting on the lawn of the White House, and proceeded to run and jump and play tag and hide and seek.
Somewhat serendipitously, my entire little family got sick this past week. Runny noses, coughs, sneezing, headaches, etc. I have to admit, I also took this as an opportunity to disappear. I spent the past four days with my two sons and wife, playing puzzles, building block castles, running trains through castles, raking leaves, getting coffee on Main Street. I haven't left their side for four days now. As I write this, Evan is asleep on my chest, snoring a congested snore. Other than one drawing an hour ago, I haven't painted, drawn, written emails, or even thought about art.
I went to an event a week ago, at the Salmagundi Club in Manhattan. Richard Schmidt was giving a painting demonstration. As he is currently one of the biggest names in the representational art world, the crowd was enthusiastic. I was lucky enough to be given a choice seat in the front, for which I was greatful. In front of me was a seat marked "Reserved." And, in front of that was Richard, painting away. He laughed and joked and rambled, all the while delighting the audience with his grace and candor. Suddenly, a woman rushed past me and sat in the reserved seat. Thing is, I knew the seat was not reserved for her- she was stealing the spot. I couldn't care less, I was somewhat amused by her audacity. The woman proceeded to pull out a notebook and loudly scratch away at the pad, taking copious notes. Her pen was flying, there was practically smoke rising off of the page. She leaned this way, now that way, now this way, half stood up, neck craning all the while. She took out her camera, and proceeded to shoot hundreds and hundreds of photos- her digital camera producing a digital click with every photo. Everybody within a twenty foot circle began to get very annoyed. People were giving her scolding looks, as if to say "Calm down, you're obsessed." She returned their gazes with her own unspoken language "And what are you going to do about it?" Alas, the woman was suffering from artistic rabies, and continued to stalk Richard for the next half hour.
Now, I would just like to pause to say that I am not given to laughing when something bad happens. If I see somebody stand up and smash their head on a counter top, it doesn't really cross my mind to laugh. It's not that I'm nice, I'm just not wired to laugh in such a setting.
Well, the woman decided she need to snap a photo from around the side of Richard's shoulder. So she leaned out. And leaned a little further. A bit further, and she was just about able to get that photo she wanted and... over she went. Chairs went flying, drinks were knocked over, pens and pencils and pads and cameras and a stenographer's typewriter and everything went up in the air and came down with a terrific crash. I was elated. Richard turned around and saw the woman wiggling on the floor like a beetle on its back. I couldn't stop laughing. Everybody was glad that she had been placed in check. I lifted her up, overturned chairs, picked up papers. She looked at me with an empty, proud stare, eyebrows uplifted, as if to say "And what are you looking at?" Once settled, she stopped taking notes, and just watched quietly.
Liam was sitting beside me on the couch today, happily watching Toy Story. It was wonderful to see him so absorbed. I pulled out my sketchbook, and set to work. My sketch, done on the couch beside him, is better than anything I would have produced in my painting studio these past four days. His wild delight, his open mouth, his chubby hands, his rainboots, his innocence, captured forever on this paper. A moment in my son's life, frozen, to be enjoyed by future generations.
And yet, Russian emperors, Richard Schmidt's demonstration, painting and drawing- they're not worth leaning so far over in your chair for.
my hero, batman
This is the story of the boldest man, the greatest hero that I have ever known. To fully understand the heroism and the originality of this man of valour, one must understand the oppressive circumstances from which he emerged. It all takes place at the Selden Campus of Suffolk Community College.
Suffolk Community College is located in central Long Island, New York, between the Long Island Expressway and Sheol. It is a plot of land on which, I am sure, some contract with Beelzebub had taken place several millenia before. There is no way in which that plot of land could have become so successfully cursed in such a short amount of time- it takes more than seventy five years of botched federal spending to create something that monstrous. But I digress- let us start at the beginning.
When you arrive on Suffolk Community College's campus, the first thing you will notice is that the sky turns grey above your head, and the bright colorful clothes you are wearing turn a rancid hue of their former pigmentation. As you cross over the campus line, the music in your car automatically turns into clubbing dance music, and your car automatically turns into a souped up Honda Civic or a Ford Mustang. If you are a woman, your makeup becomes overly saturated in color, and if you are a man, your hair will suddenly turn into spikes gushing with gooey gel.
The trees on the campus are in a perpetual state of late November. I've witnessed the same patch of trees hold onto the same grey leaves through an entire spring. The concrete on the campus walkways is cleverly poured in such a way as to permit all various types of floribunda to sprout through the cracks. And so, withered dandelions and brown grass are to be seen underfoot every few steps. The buildings were contracted to the same fellow who designed Alcatraz, mind you he was given a bit more creative license. Instead of having only concrete and brick as a building materials, he was allowed to incorporate rusted metal. Windows were discouraged. I relayed some of my architectural observations to one of my art history professors. She retorted "The buildings are after the paintings of Mondrian. They are pared down, pure shapes. Essences. The campus is minimalist." I replied "Minimalism is convenient for a federal budget that wants cheap buildings built quick." My professor said I was ignorant. I dropped her class. It's not that the building were so ugly- no, that adjective implies some aesthetic violation of sorts. No, it's that the buildings were nothing- just unnoticeable squares, devoid of human spirit. What's worse, these horrid, monolithic structures were thoughtlessly littered across the campus, as if some angry, giant child had kicked his blocks here and there and never cleaned up after himself.
I just went to class, did as I was told, and told myself that I would be out of there soon.
I was fighting across a windtorn parking lot, the sky was cloudy and the land was grey, when suddenly I saw a flash of yellow run across the sidewalk. It went up the side of a tree. I thought I was seeing things. The yellow blur in the distance hung from a tree, then a loud noise came bleating across the parking lot, followed by the sound of laughter. I quickened my steps, but it was too late. When I approached the scene, all that remained was a starstruck young woman. "Oh my God, it was batman. He was like, a chubby dude in a batman costume, he had a yellow beach towel around his neck like a cape, and he like ran up to the tree, totally climbed up it, and then started to sing the superman theme song on a bull horn. And then, like, he fell off the tree, and ran off. I think he got a little hurt, he was limping and shit. That was, like, fucking awesome."
I was dazed, I was stunned, I was perplexed, I was filled with hope. Did somebody dare do this? Who would dream of doing that? Who could conceive, who on earth would put on a batman costume and...
I got to class, and two other kids had seen him. Somebody else said that they saw him, two days ago, dressed in a batman costume, sprinting across the central square at top speed, singing the superman theme song. "Oh my gawd, then he layed down in the middle of the square, and put a sign out that said "Do not disturb." And then, like, he put this little tape player out, and played some kind of rainforest, psychic music shit, and pretended to go to sleep. I was fuckin dyin. The security guards came up to him, but he picked up his tape player and skipped around them in circles, singin the superman theme song. Then he ran into the cafeteria, ran across the table tops, and out the door into the trees. It was fuckin amazin."
And so, the sightings continued for the next few weeks. And the next months. And the next year. Everyone had seen him everywhere, but never with any pattern. One day, he hid in the back seats of Professor Boyd's music composition class, and he stood up and ran to the front of the room. He handed out flowers to the girls in the front row, at which point the professor tried to grab him. He squirted him with a water pistol and ran. The next time he was spotted, he ran across the field during a woman's soccer match, and disappeared into the trees near the baseball bleachers. Next time, he ran up to some meathead guido in the middle of the square, and tickled the guy for a minute straight. And the next time, he ran across an honor society ceremony, grabbed somebody's cap, and ran behind the curtains of the auditorium and disappeared backstage.
Oh, if I could only relay the joy, the sheer joy, the heavenly elation that this brought me. Here, in this godforsaken wilderness of cement and scrub oak, one man took a stand for all that is right and true and beautiful and absurd and funny and stupid. My next year at the college was changed. Everywhere, everyone was heard talking about Batman. People could be seen laughing. Publicly. Twenty thousand college students talked about him over coffee, in labs, in gymnasiums. His yellow cape had introduced color into this grey world. I later found out that, upon the day of graduation, Batman spoke to the college paper. He said that he kept his costume in the trunk of his Honda Civic. He donned his cape and mask because he just wanted to make people laugh. He graduated with straight A's and went on to NYU film academy. I've never heard about him since.
I spend too much money on roses for my front garden. I never clip a morning glory vine, no matter where it chooses to climb. Onto my palette, I squeeze out ribbons of vermillion paint, costliest of colors, as if there is no tomorrow. I paint on canvases that are too big to sell. At night, I play my violin to an open street window, and cause a woman walking her dog to pause on the sidewalk. I hang my paintings in the local coffee shop. I built my front door with my own two hands, and on it I placed a gnarled lion's head door knocker. I freeze people in time, capturing their faces on canvas like children capture fireflies in jars. I am forever living in the wake of Batman. Everybody should.
"I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free."
-Steven King, Shawshank Redemption
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_lp4_Jfz7U
a five second motion sketch of a
violinist on a Florentine street, pencil on paper, 3" x 9"
cellulitis
Most people don't know this, but I have a serious disease which comes and goes in bouts of illness. I'm fine for a while, but if I don't watch my habits, I soon am sickened with debilitating cerebral pain, curmudgeonly cramps, an inability to focus, and general irritability. Worse symptoms soon come about, but I won't burden the reader with tales of the woe and pain that I suffer.
You see, I have cellulitis.
In the past week, I've made three trips into Manhattan, two trips to the east end of Long Island, several trips to the north shore. I have a slough of business emails to answer, I need to tabulate my business expenses, I need to order canvases for portrait commissions, I need to drop off canvases at upcoming gallery shows, I need to drop off more business cards at the four locations in which my paintings are currently hanging, I need to fill out a scholarship form for which I have been invited to apply, I need to finish a portrait commission by December 25th, I need to drop off another already finished portrait commission that has been revised, I need to attend Artist Advisory Board Meetings at a nearby not for profit organization, I need to attend meetings in the city to jury membership applications for an art club.
My phone says that I either sent or received 92 calls. My inbox was so filled with text messages that I had to erase it- after only one week of texts.
Nine years ago, I was in a similar situation. I was a full time student at Stony Brook University, I was spackling full time, I was saving money in order to marry my girlfriend Margaret. As I stood on line at a Starbucks in Stony Brook, my phone kept ringing with so many calls that I opened it up and shut it off.
I sat down with my coffee, pulled a sketchpad out of my bag, and did this drawing. Forty five minutes after I began, I had a small crowd gathered around my table. There was a group of nurses, doctors, administrative types, office workers- all from the nearby Stony Brook University. They were all on their coffee break, all wearing their cellphone in that little cell phone holder thing on their waist, and they were all holding their coffees and laughing.
"Cellulitis" Collection of Ralph Vicinanza.
Shortly after doing this drawing, I took it to the Kinkos in Hauppauge to have it scanned onto a disk. The girl behind the counter was laughing so hard and was so taken by the drawing, that she asked me if she could have a copy. She printed it out, still laughing, and then said "Would you ever mind it if I got a tattoo of this drawing?" I told her that it would be flattering. She said "I am going to go to the tattoo parlour as soon as I get off of work!"
You know, I just received a rejection slip from Eleanor Ettinger gallery in Manhattan today. I might be paraphrasing, but they said something to the effect of "No, you are a good kisser, it's not that, it's me. It's just that I'm not looking for a relationship right now." Fair enough. But, I am consoled by the fact that, somewhere in Hauppauge, a woman has a tattoo of my artwork on her.
the table and the chair next to the window
A postcard of Jane Austen's Chair in Chawton Cottage
While in Florence three years ago, a fellow artist, Jenny Pitt, invited Margaret and I up to her home in England. Jenny took us all over the countryside, from Salisbury to Stonehenge to a massive natural park with wild horses rambling around. One of our stops was at Jane Austen's home, Chawton Cottage, in Hampshire. The grounds were pretty, the bricks were pleasantly aged, the roses clambered over doors. We rambled through her house, which looked much like any other old house- pretty porcelain, a bucket, that's where Jane Austen brushed her teeth, here is where Jane Austen used to put her clothes, here is where Jane Austen played with dolls as a child. I actually started to dislike the tour of the house, it began to give me that uncomfortable feeling I used to get as a child on field trips: welcome to Historic Old Bethpage Village, team up with one friend, go see the blacksmith at the forge, be back on the bus by two.
We rounded the corner, and came into a small room with a window that looked out over the street. At the base of the window was a simple table, and a chair. On that table was an inkwell, a pen, and a piece of paper.
A small plaque read "This is where Jane Austen penned many of her major works. She would look out this window overlooking the crossroads of the small town, and write her novels. She did not reveal to all of her family members that she was an author. To hide this fact, she mandated that the servants not oil the door leading to the room, so that the door would let out a loud squeak. This would give her enough time to close up her papers and hide them."
I stood transfixed for a few minutes. That was it. A chair. A round table measuring about two feet across. A pen. A piece of paper. This is where she created worlds. I was stunned. It was that simple. No laptops, no fax machines, no daylight lamps to make her feel happy during the dark winter months, no rollout desk with swivel chair, no engraved pen from her Alma Mater, no iPod to listen to her favorite author's podcasts, no destresser ball to knead her hands with, no calendar with tour dates marked in red. Just a chair and a table. I stood and stared for the longest time.
You see, I was actually on my way back to America. Margaret stood beside me, five months pregnant. We had left Italy early, due to her pregnancy, and were leaving from England. I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was so terribly overwhelmed by my soon-to-be child, my mortgage awaiting me back home, my truck, my gutters filled with leaves, my... art career that I had to begin. I would stay up at night, wondering where I would paint, how I could afford the $3,200 Santa Fe easel (every serious artist has one), the paints, the palettes, the brush holders, the pencil holders, the holder for the brush and pencil holders, the draughtsman table, that cool little magnifying glass swivel thing that every serious artist has attached to his draughtsman table, the brush cleaning machine, the slop sink with the heavy-metals filter for the brushes, the tube of vermillion paint that has real mercury in it (every serious artist paints with dangerous paints), some canada balsam so that I can "paint like the old masters", the special malette stick with the leather thing on the end, a portable malette stick that you can fold up like an antennae, a field easel for painting outdoors, a solar reflective umbrella to shield the direct light as you paint outdoors, the drapery for the background of my models, the wooden bases for the models, a high powered Mac computer for super graphics, some cool web program so that I can make a super-sexy-flashy website, a "Webdesign for Dummies" book so that I can do some cool graphic thingy with my signature that comes across the screen when you go on my website, some cool edgy music that starts playing when my signature flashes across the screen, a super digital camera so that I can capture the weave of my canvas from 45 feet away and have enough resolution to print the painting as big as a the side of a building, a super printer to print the super high resolution, some super inkjet color thingy pods for the super printer, some super gloss paper for the super inkjet color stuff, a file cabinet to put all this super cool printed media, the subscriptions to all of the top artist magazines in the country, the press list so that I can contact all the major art papers and newspapers, the... the.... the...
...table, and the chair, next to the window. There is nothing else that is needed.
how the owlet sings
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things;
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
- William Wordsworth
painting walls and canvases
Here are a few shots of a painting begun several days ago. The painting is only about forty five minutes in. I'm not entirely certain I am going to leave the painting composition as is, or if I am going to change it. I may turn both the woman and cello inward. I'm hesitant to say much about the painting, in that my ideas are still in a relatively early stage.
My Islip studio is not altogether private, and so I am unable to paint figurative works there. This has been a frustration for me, especially after the success of the painting Anna, which I did in Florence. But, I'm glad to say that I've been able to find a studio in which I can work on figurative pieces. The studio in which I am painting is actually a part of the Hampton Studio of Fine Art, where I teach classes. I haven't painted the human figure since I came back from Florence a year and a half ago. I've drawn the figure often, I've painted a quick sketch here and there, but I haven't had any opportunity to paint a serious figurative piece. So, I'm very excited to be working on the painting of the cello and the woman.
Anna, 36" x 60", oil on linenYesterday, I spent the entire day painting. Not painting canvases, but walls. The church has been so generous in allowing me to use their chapel as a studio, and so I am painting the walls as a token of gratitude.
Fortunately, today I painted canvases. In fact, I worked on portrait commissions. In between portrait commissions, I spent some time on "The Spackler," as the painting has come to be called.
detail of "The Spackler", 30" x 46", oil on linen
That's all that I can show of this painting. My wife enjoys reminding me of the fact that all my paintings go through an awful stage of adolescence, much like I did. Proportions are strange, skin tone is bizarre, but the eyes are often pretty good. So, here is the eye of the spackling painting. More to come soon...
still water
The Squirrel, 9" x 12", pencil on Amatruda paper
I came into the studio this morning, and found that a squirrel had broken in the night before. He had somehow managed to squeeze in a window, and spent the night trying to get out. I don't know what caused the squirrel to die, perhaps it was exhaustion. Its body lay on the floor in the corner of my studio.
My immediate thought was to get a shovel, and move its body outside. But, I remembered how a few months ago, my son Liam had brought my attention to the beauty of a fallen bird. I bent over the squirrel with my son's eyes, and was amazed. Its body is such an incredible feat of engineering, with the absurdly large tail counterbalancing the muscular torso. A course in physics in college helped me to observe the amazing proportions of the bones of its rear legs, creating a powerful lever capable of an enormous burst of energy. The comparatively smaller front legs serving as fine tuners, enabling the squirrel to steer. The long whiskers, I would imagine, picking up on the power and direction of the wind. The longer I looked, the more amazed I was with the beauty of its design.
Though I had a strict deadline today in the studio, with portrait commissions, emails, and phone calls looming, I took out my sketchpad and began to draw. I spent the next two hours admiring such an incredibly designed machine.
When I was a teenager in high school, I sometimes would cut out of school for an entire day, and wander into Blydenburgh Park in Smithtown. I would sit on one particular tree that jutted out into the lake. I recall one day that the lake was perfectly still, like a sheet of glass. Then a light gust of breeze came through, and I could literally watch the breeze rush across the surface of the water, turning the glass into tiny little ripples. I could trace the every movement of the invisible breeze, and then... it was instantly gone. Another gust would come along, and I would trace its wandering path on the face of the water. Observing this, I had a sudden understanding of how my heart should be towards the things of God, that my spirit should be still enough to receive the slightest breath from his being. If I am a blabbering mess of distracted white caps, then I'll have no ability to be sensitive and receptive to that wind. I will miss out on something.
Here in my quiet studio, away from all the clamor of cities and cell phones and cars, here in Islip, I can trace the hand of God moving over the water.
For a more left brained interpretation of this theme, read this fascinating cover article on the New York Times. A bit test-tubey for my taste, but I do like hearing scientists address this theme.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/16/technology/16brain.html?_r=1&ref=your_brain_on_computers
the ebony hillbillies, praxiteles, and the tapping of feet
The Ebony Hillbilly, pencil on Italian paper, 6" x 10"
Yesterday, I was brimming with excitement to head to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I rose early, armed with nothing but sketchbooks, and wove my way through the Long Island Rail Road and the NYC subway system. I was on my way to the Greco Roman section of the Met, to draw a statue by Praxiteles. As I made my way out of the final subway car, I heard a familiar sound around the corner. It was the Ebony Hillbillies.
The Ebony Hillbillies is a music group that performs in subway stations around the city. The lead fiddler has a huge bone pierced through his ear, long dredlocks, and a winsome grimace as he lays into his fiddle. The bassist has a soft, relaxed smile, and a nod for anybody who will stop. The guy who plays some kind of washboard instrument is just cool. I bought a cd by them a few years ago. Beyond their dashing looks, they are some of the best musicians I've ever heard. They range from Cajun zeideco to Vivaldi, from Scottish marches to Motown. They are incredible.
I took out my sketchbook, and began sketching. As I worked away, I noticed that every time an attractive woman passed by, the lead fiddler would do some jazz improvisation that flew up the neck of the violin, right in the middle of a song. The more attractive, the higher the note. He would look at the other members of the group, and if they nodded "yes", then it was agreed that the woman was, indeed, beautiful. If they shook their head "no", then she wasn't up to par. All this without a break in the music.
During a break, I spoke with them. I told them I was an artist, and would love to paint them, if they were willing. They were all thrilled with the idea, but each one lives pretty far away... Westchester, Lower East Side, Queens. Who knows, maybe I can make something work.
I continued on to the Met, and sketched the statue of Praxiteles. The statue is a final statement, by the Greeks, on mathematical perfection in human form... an idealized essence. I can't describe how useful it is to regularly sketch from statues, such as this. It is like practicing scales on the piano, developing dexterity, allowing your senses to perceive beauty in line, gradation of light.
Praxiteles, pencil on Italian paper, 6" x 10"
Leaving from the Met, I walked further downtown to meet with a fellow who I met in the city, and who reads this blog. Reading the entry "Cassie," he was moved by the drawing of the fallen bird, and was interested in purchasing it. We met up in midtown Manhattan and had a wonderful time talking. I'm glad the drawing is in his hands.
So, I have to digress to another scene altogether. Ten years ago, I sat in a huge barn in Smithtown, New York. Kevin Burke was playing jigs, reels, and airs. This famed Irish musician has a gift of interpretation, giving immediate life to tunes that are hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. As he performed his tunes to a rapt audience, I suddenly became aware of a steady rhythm that resonated through the entire barn. Kevin Burke was leaning into his fiddle, his shoulder bouncing, his gaze far off... and the audience was keeping time to his reel. I looked down at the floor, and realized that every last person was lightly tapping their feet in time with his music. The cumulative light tap of eighty feet turned into a hushed heartbeat that infused Kevin Burke's music with life. It was a moment to never forget.
As I paint, and go about my day, I oftentimes find myself wondering if my work belongs to a people. I am so afraid of becoming a gallery painter, with my works going from easel to gallery wall to collectors wall, with nobody in between. I want my paintings to belong to a people, in whatever capacity that might be. As I returned from Manhattan, thoroughly fulfilled by my long day, I checked my blog to see if there was anything happening. There were eighty or so visits to the site, everyday, for the past few months. As I sketched in a subway, as I copied the statue of Praxiteles, as I delivered the drawing of the fallen bird, as I write this blog... I'm aware of a steady rhythm of feet, a hushed heartbeat, that is keeping time with my paintings and drawings. I am so fulfilled, and I wanted to thank you all of you, the readers of my ramblings.
http://www.ebonyhillbillies.com/
and
http://www.kevinburke.com/
