i'm well
Well, the big bad wolf (named Sandy) huffed and puffed, but my house is made of stucco and plaster. So, it didn't fall. No water damage, no trees down, and our power is on. Margaret and I are just so grateful, to have things running along- it would be pretty difficult otherwise, with two boys and an infant! And just as wonderful is the fact that my studio, with enormous 12 x 15 skylight, is watertight- no damage at all.
I've actually been able to get a load of work done. Portrait commissions have kept me busy, lately. And otherwise, a funky still life has emerged from my hands. This painting is about forty five minutes in. I think it's funny. No, I think it's hysterical. Reminiscent of my ol' vice painting, in my opinion. I would talk about the painting at length, but then, I don't want to bastardize the poor thing. I will say that I will be framing this with rusted steel, just like my other inmate painting. Excited to put another ten days or so of work into this painting.
You know, somebody at an exhibition asked me once, "When you paint, do you think of where the painting is going to hang. I mean, what kind of weirdo would put that up in their house?" The answer is, the statistic function on my blog informs me that regularly there are about seventy of you, checking in on me every day or so. It's comforting to know that I am not alone- many thanks to all of you weirdos for your kindred company.
Education, 18" x 24", oil on linen
velazquez, goya, sorolla, and me
Today, I took a bunch of my painting students to the museum of the Hispanic Society in Harlem, New York City. They have this baroque statue, right in the front as you walk in. I can't tell you how many people, in fact complete strangers, have told me that this statue looks like me. Next time I take my class in to see the paintings of Velazquez, Goya, and Sorolla, I will grow my hair longer, and have a faint goatee. Then, I will place my hand on the statue, and a golden beam of light will descend on my shoulders, and I will be able to paint like the Spanish Masters.
Perhaps I watched a wee bit too much MacGyver, when I was younger.
something i know very well
"There are always new emotions when I go back to something that I know very well. I suppose this is very odd, because most people need fresh things to paint. I'm actually bored by fresh things to paint." -Andrew Wyeth
the ark
His calloused hands dropped the hammer to the ground. His arm was weary from swinging, his knees stiff from kneeling. He looked up. Wiping the sweat away from his forehead, he shook the sawdust out of his hair. What on earth am I doing, he wondered. What on earth am I doing. I've chopped and quarter-sawed an entire forest, dragged the timbers up the side of this mountain. I've routed and planed and chipped and tarred and bored holes. I've lifted and dragged and hoisted. What on earth am I doing- I'm building a big boat. On the side of a mountain. On the side of a big, dry mountain, I'm building an ark, miles away from any water. And, I'm bringing my family, my sons, along for the ride.
Noah paused. He shook a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose. Where would the water come from?
He picked up his hammer, a nail, and with one heavy blow drove it deep into the wood, the smell of cedar released by the blow.
Where would the water come from? Would the water come from the sky? There's no such thing as water from the sky. Our water comes like dew, covers the earth every morning. Water never falls from the sky, we have no word for such a thing.
Jehovah Jireh... I'm building your boat, you will provide the water.
Another nail.
Another.
Here is my five foot by eight foot canvas, which I assembled today. I've dreamed of doing this painting for eight years. It will be the largest canvas I've ever worked on. I will not be sharing the future aspects of the painting- the subject I am planning, where it will eventually be exhibited. I have to allow the narrative of this painting to unfold gradually, step by step, blow by blow, nail by nail, over the course of the upcoming year. I'm pleased to have you join me.
carly
This is day three of a painting I've been working on. I am thrilled with the progress. The model has striking features, and the light in the studio is just amazing.
sean
Sean, oil on linen, 18" x 24"
About four years ago, I was over my best friend Dave's home. His son Sean was sitting at the kitchen table, eating Milano cookies, drinking milk, and reading Calvin and Hobbes. He was laughing out loud, reading each page with pleasure. Sean was the picture of contentment. To look at him was to participate in his joy, in that wonderful season of life, just before that growth spurt of early adolescence.
I turned to Dave and said "I gotta paint Sean. In just a few months, he's going to lose the boy. He's going to have a growth spurt, and then, it's all over- he'll be jumping out his window at night, wrecking your car, and setting the town on fire. It's all over. Quick, while he's still human." Dave understood fully well, and agreed that it was necessary to paint him soon.
Sean came to my studio, quiet and awkward. He sat down with his Calvin and Hobbes book, and he began to giggle. Giggles turned to laughter turned to guffaw. The only problem I had, in painting this piece, was that the model wouldn't stop laughing. I spent about three hours on the first day. The next day he came to my studio, I spent another three hours or so. I had another few sessions to go, in order to finish his hands, polish his facial features.
Then, as is often the case on the south shore of Long Island, Sean was raptured off to Fire Island, all before I had a chance to finish his painting. His family has a home in Fair Harbor, and the summer swallowed Sean into the sand dunes and salt spray of the Atlantic and Great South Bay. He came back to the mainland of Long Island three months later, about three to four inches taller. His face was longer, his voice was cracking, he was less inclined to the unrestrained laughter of childhood. I wanted to tell him that pirate ships and planks were incomparably more enjoyable than New York State Tax Form IT-201, that the Lost Boys were much better company than church deacon boards, that Captain Hook was a much better nemesis than the political party he may grow to disagree with, that... although Wendy might be hot, he couldn't go back to Neverland, should he continue along this spurious path.
Sean wouldn't listen. He is now six feet tall, handsome, built, with a deep voice. Fortunately, he has retained all of the kindness and warmth of his youth. But though he is now a man, here is my painting from four years ago. The soft, half smile of a boy, the joy of youth, stilled forever, a moment frozen in time for his father to hold on to, forever.
This following is a beautiful tune, called "Mama," and is composed by Edgar Meyer, and performed by Yo- Yo ma. In this tune, the bass is the voice of the boy, speaking to his mother.
Click here
figure drawing class
A quick study, done this evening. The evenings are getting dark sooner, and so it's done under electric light. I haven't had a chance to do such sketching, since the Cecil studio, in Florence.
wavelengths
The sounds of the canal are as enjoyable as the sights. The continual clang of the lines against sailboat masts, the water lapping against the boat, Canadian Geese honking overhead, the diesel engine gurgling down the canal. Plein air painting is as much about sounds, as sights. It is all wavelengths. When you look at John Singer Sargent's paint sketches from Venice, you come to understand why it's so important to live in what you paint, or as Frank McCourt said, "Write what you know."
whitecap
I've been to the tip of the world, and hiked through Patagonia. I've slept beneath a tree in the Boboli Gardens of Florence. I've thrown rocks at sheep as they fed in the rolling hills of Wicklow, Ireland. I've snowboarded into a tree in the middle of the Rockies. I've stolen a rock from the floor of the apostle Paul's prison cell, somewhere around Thessaloniki, Greece. I've bought communist era coins from a street peddler in Talinn, Estonia. I've muttered inutterable curses at the pigeon that pooped on my head, outside of the Vatican. I've jumped off a thirty foot waterfall in the heart of Maine. I've washed my hair alongside homeless rastafarians, in a waterfall in rural Jamaica.
But nothing is as beautiful, or as paintable, as the commercial fishing docks of Islip.
