Men: Beautiful Objects, or Humans With Feelings?

October 23, 2015

"What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! ...the beauty of the world!" (Hamlet, Act II, scene 2)

"Design" by Angelica Kauffman (1741-1807)

For centuries, in Western Art, women have completely dominated the field of painting. Men, for the most part, have been models, often nude, and almost always desirable. They have been completely unwilling, or unable, to stand up from their supine positions and join their place beside women as Artists. Of course, there have been a few notable exceptions, whose genius and skill we can't help but recognize.

But men like Caravaggio are a rarity; we are much more likely (and we prefer) to find our men, sensual and semi-nude, reclining amidst piles of ripe fruit, lying about on unmade beds, or sprawled in submissive repose upon deflowered stream banks.

detail from "Echo and Narcissus" by Poussin (1628-30)

It's only been since the second half of the twentieth century that proponents of men's civil rights have started taking a stand, asking for men to be seen as Artists and Equals, or, at the very least, Humans with Feelings. They complain about being objectified by women, and with good reason. Open any art history book and you will find the age-old story of a woman artist using her hapless male model to father a child, and then callously discarding them both to the whims of Fate.

Detail from "The Barque of Dante" by Delacroix (1822)

Of course we would be heartless not to feel a little sympathetic towards the Plight of Men. But, despite any personal sympathies we might harbor, it would be incorrect to adopt the current, trendy, politically correct attitude that men are more than just beautiful objects. Most educated people have to admit that, not only are men biologically inferior to women (as artists), but they are just too beautiful to be taken seriously.

"The Gardeners" by Robin F. Williams (2013)

Still, idealists can't stop dreaming. Wouldn't it be wonderful if Beauty permeated everything, and everyone? Rather than being a cage, what if Beauty flowed freely, from artist, to canvas, to model, to the world, and back again? And maybe then, in that future reality, we might be able to regard men as equals, even as we ask them to lie back and be painted...

Taking Notes: a weekend plein air workshop

October 16, 2015

"Whatever it is you want to do is already waiting for you to find it." --Adriano Farinella

On Saturday morning, I walked downtown to Adriano Farinella's studio in Easton, carrying my French easel, a folding table, and a backpack filled with art supplies. Despite the heaviness of everything I carried, I felt as if I were floating in the clouds; I was so excited to spend the whole weekend painting outdoors. I had a strong intuition that I would learn a lot.

At the studio, Adriano helped me streamline my collection of plein air gear, making it much lighter. Then off we drove to a lock along the Lehigh Canal, not far away from downtown Easton, but refreshingly green and bucolic. We painted scenes of the water, trees, and sky.

Here is Adriano's sketch of the same scene, also oil on gessoboard.

In order to create my painting of the canal, I learned a new, valuable technique called a "Notan Sketch" which is a quick, small sketch that establishes the composition, and reduces the values to only two. A "less is more" mentality comes in handy here. It helped me to go a step further and eliminate values altogether. I forced myself to keep everything as simple, straight, and geometric as possible. I got something abstract like this:

These are the bones of the painting, "Morning on the Lehigh Canal."

And here is the final painting, the bones fleshed out:

My painting, "Morning on Lehigh Canal" oil on gessoboard, 9x12''

During the painting workshop, I was able to identify one of my weaknesses as an artist. In previous landscapes, I had been really punching up the dramatic contrasts of light and shadow, immediately going for the darkest darks in every dark place in the scene. I did this to make a powerful, attractive painting that people admired, and also to cover up for my weaknesses as an artist. Mainly, I wasn't able to get the spirit of the landscape in subtler ways. So I painted it bam, pow, wham! style.

"Sunlight in the Cemetery" is an example of my bam! pow! wham! style.  I still like this painting, in the same motherly way that I am fond of all my painting, but you can see how I rely on an extreme use of darkest darks and lightest light… — "Sunlight in the Cemetery" is an example of my *bam! pow! wham!* style. I still like this painting, in the same motherly way that I am fond of all my painting, but you can see how I rely on an extreme use of darkest darks and lightest lights.

Working on learning to use value in a more mature and subtle way was like learning a whole new language of painting. I also learned a different way of looking at my subject, of holding and using the paintbrush, and of organizing the thoughts in my mind. My brain felt all stretched out from so much learning in so short a time!

Me, working on "View from Clear Spring Farm."  Clamps from Home Depot proved invaluable in holding the gessoboard onto the easels in the face of the wind. — Me, working on "View from Clear Spring Farm." Clamps from Home Depot proved invaluable in holding the gessoboard onto the easels in the face of the wind.

On Sunday, we went to Clear Spring Farm to paint. The kind owners, Terry and Dave, let us go up on a hill way behind the barn. This hill seemed to be on top of the world. There were vistas all around; it was incredible. All day long the sun shone down and autumn wind blew all around us.

Adriano, painting the distant hills from our perch on top of the world at Clear Spring Farm. — Adriano, painting the distant hills from our perch on top of the world at Clear Spring Farm.

As I painted, Adriano told me it's helpful to think, "I'm not here to make a painting. I'm here to take notes." This takes an enormous amount of pressure off, and allows me the freedom to develop my skill without feeling like I need to produce something finished.

"View from Clear Spring Farm" oil on gessoboard, 9x12''

At some point, you have to let go, and allow the painting to happen. "Think about values, not trees, and trust," advised Adriano. "It will take form. The tree will take form."

There is a deeper meaning in the painting than just faithful reproduction of a lovely landscape. There is a dimension of spirit, of feeling, and of getting at what it feels like to look at the scene before you. It doesn't have to be perfect.

It could be that the painting is guiding me, the artist.

"Listen to what the painting wants," said Adriano, "And just follow it."

Nude Descending

October 9, 2015

"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks."

---Plutarch

The first time I saw "Nude Descending a Staircase" by Duchamp I was in first or second grade. They had some program where a lady would drive a big trailer full of art (nice quality, large prints of famous paintings, to be more precise) and visit classrooms. I LOVED that lady and her trailer. I remember her talking about this particular Duchamp painting, and I thought it was interesting. All of the different lines and shapes seemed to be in motion. I thought EVERYTHING the art lady showed us was interesting. I wanted to live in the trailer with her and drive across the country with all that art. I was filled with excitement!

But when I grew up, I must have forgotten my initial enthusiasm for "Nude Descending a Staircase." I thought the lines and shapes were uninspired and boring, and Duchamp was worthy of nothing but my apathy. I never gave the painting another look. Never, that is, until a month ago, when I found this poem by X.J. Kennedy.

Poem by X.J. Kennedy:

Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,

A gold of lemon, root and rind,

She sifts in sunlight down the stairs

With nothing on. Nor on her mind.

We spy beneath the banister

A constant thresh of thigh on thigh—

Her lips imprint the swinging air

That parts to let her parts go by.

One-woman waterfall, she wears

Her slow descent like a long cape

And pausing, on the final stair

Collects her motions into shape.

Sigh..... This poem speaks to me. The "...air/ That parts to let her parts go by." It makes me think of the many different parts of myself, the multitudes I contain, normally hidden away, but sometimes flowing free, like a "one-woman waterfall." I take a closer look at the vibrating rhythms of the lines, the mysterious machinery hidden in the shadows, and the awkward grace of all of those elbows and knees. I keep looking and looking at this painting.

So, somehow, the poet X.J. Kennedy has reclaimed the Duchamp painting for me, and placed it back into the temple of my heart, the temple where I hang all of the paintings that I love so much, and that speak so intimately to me.

I hope you will look at the painting again, and read the poem again. And maybe a third time. My 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. Augenblick, always advised us to read every poem three times. Until we did that, we couldn't even pretend to understand it. Perhaps a painting is the same way. You can't just look at it once, as a child, or twice, as a young adult, but you must continue to go back to it again, and again, as you mature through life.

Poetry Submissions Accepted Here: This post is Part 1 of an ongoing series called "Poems About Paintings." If you find a poem that fits, or better yet, if you write one yourself, please feel free to submit it to me. I will consider it for publication in a future blog post. Write a poem about a painting you love, or a painting you hate, or a painting that refuses to stay in either category. I can't wait to see what comes forth!

Ten Years and a Teapot

October 2, 2015

"There is no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap...patience is everything."

--Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

"Grandmommy's Teapot, After She Is Gone," oil on canvas, 11x14'' 2015

Last week, I finished this still life. It is a painting of my Grandmommy's teapot, and it has a lot of significance for me. It's also not the first time I have painted this teapot. Ten years ago, without any real training, I gave it a shot. I think it's interesting to look back and see how my painting style has changed.

"Grandmommy's Teapot When She Was Alive," oil on masonite, 24x24''  2005 — "Grandmommy's Teapot When She Was Alive," oil on masonite, 24x24'' 2005

I was living with Grandmommy when I finished my first teapot painting in 2005. I remember carrying it down to the living room and showing it proudly to her. She seemed pleased, and she praised my efforts, but then she reminded me firmly that she needed to have her butter dish back immediately. In fact, she had been wondering where it was all week. We butted heads; I couldn't understand why she couldn't live without her butter dish for the sake of Art. But she was more stubborn than me, and she always won these types of arguments. She was an old lady, living in the house she had lived in for over fifty years. Of course she liked things to be just so.

"Grandmommy's Cream Pitcher," oil on canvas, 8x10'' 2013

My husband and I had moved into Grandmommy's house in Hampton, New Jersey, when I was 24 years old. We had been married for over a year, living a nomadic life in various forests across the country, with not much more than a tent and some camping gear. But, when Papa (my grandfather) died, Grandmommy could no longer live alone. It seemed natural for Ian and me to live with her, since we had no real home or job tying us down. We took care of her, making her meals and taking her to doctor appointments. During the day, Ian worked on his novel and I worked on my paintings. Every night, I would make a pot of green tea in Grandmommy's teapot, and we all would sit in the living room watching "Murder She Wrote," or something similar, drinking tea, and eating cookies. It was very cozy.

This diary entry from 2005 further illuminates my obsession with teapots.

As an artist, I was very lucky to have that time to grow and learn. With few responsibilities, I could really dive into my creativity. "I have been joyfully painting," I recounted in my diary. But it wasn't always easy living with Grandmommy. Another diary entry says: "I am very selfish. I want people (Grandmommy) to respect my time to do art. I know it is not a "real" job but I want to treat it like a real job...I feel so mad, and I can't talk about it, because my feelings are selfish and unjustified, and I don't want to make Grandmommy upset."

"Grandmommy's Mustard Pot" oil on canvas, 8x10'' 2013

I didn't realize that the real treasure of my experience was the quality time I was spending with Grandmommy, time that could never come again. The painting was just a happy by-product. I often feel the awful pain of remorse, wishing I could go back in time and be with her again, and this time, be more loving and patient. Now that I am older, with kids of my own, I feel I could do a much better job of taking care of her. But I think Grandmommy understood that. She knew I loved her. And she loved me with an infinite depth of love and forgiveness, completely accepting my 24 year old self, with all my immaturity and imperfections.

And so, now I am ten years older. Perhaps I am wiser and more skilled as an artist, but... I miss Grandmommy! My paintings are my love songs to her; the teapots, cream pitchers, and mustard pots are hymns of gratitude for all of our good times together.

I love you, Grandmommy!

Thoughts on Perfection and Motherhood

September 18, 2015

“Turn the child over to love. Turn yourself over to the idea that love and peace simply are.”

---Polly Berrien Berends, Whole Child/ Whole Parent

Yesterday, I painted this portrait of my sister nursing her new baby. I was trying to capture the holiness, the other-worldliness, that is expressed in one of my favorite paintings, The Virgin Holding the Sleeping Child, With Saint John and Two Angels, by Bernardino Luini (1480-1532). Of course, I failed completely. With my eager, plodding brushstrokes, I piled the paint on too thickly, and made the figures heavy and crude. And how did Luini get them to almost glow with light? Oh, that's right, he knew and worked with Leonardo da Vinci himself! I'm sure they painted together, and da Vinci must have taught him a few things.

The Virgin Holding the Sleeping Child, With Saint John and Two Angels by Bernardino Luini — *The Virgin Holding the Sleeping Child, With Saint John and Two Angels* by Bernardino Luini

Really take a look at this detail. Is anything more perfect?

A small print of Luini’s painting hangs in my studio, where it continues to give me a sense of peace and comfort every time I look at it. The Mother’s quiet love and the Baby’s complete trust are ideals for which I strive daily.

But let's be real. We all know that motherhood is not always serene. Children are not always blissfully sleeping. Mothers are not always graceful, patient, and kind. Motherhood is hard. It's messy, stressful, and overwhelming. It can bring out the worst in us.

a sketch of my sister nursing her new baby

I think most mothers look a little more like Madame Renoir: wrinkly clothes, disheveled hair, and a dazed look from not getting quite enough sleep. But still, Renoir loves her and thinks she is beautiful. Look how tenderly he has painted her, as she nurses their little son Pierre.

And as for me, well, this whole parenthood thing has been a very humbling experience. I'm so far from perfect. As an example, here is an excerpt from my diary, August 7, 2010. (Morgan is 4 months old; Nell is 3 and a half. And you will need to know that Liza is my good friend and neighbor.)

Blah! Hard day...Everyone is sick but me...I was terribly cranky all day, and had almost as many emotional meltdowns as my 3-year-old daughter. I feel really stressed...I MISS art...I feel drained...It all caught up with me today, despite a walk to the farmer's market with Morgan, where I got fresh basil, peaches, and nectarines, and a bouquet of flowers. I fell in a heap on the floor of the kitchen, crying at the Goliath-load of housework looming over me. Nell was sweet and hugged me. "That's okay, mommy," she said. "Just get a broom"

Liza came over and brought me a gift, a bottle of her favorite Portuguese white wine. Also, she presented me with a little bound notebook, pocket-sized, in which to write all of my ideas for paintings, etc. It's wonderful to have such a delightful, understanding friend.

I hit a low point a few months later, when I wrote this in my diary:

Two days ago I really LOST IT at Nell. I was really angry. She was really scared and crying...I feel like the very worst awful mother I could be...I am like a wretched, hideous, putrid, disgusting worm.

But then, two weeks later, we get a moment like this:

Driving in the car today, Morgan asleep, Nell in the back seat asks me: "Mommy, how did you get so beautiful?" On our left, the shining, ice-glazed river. On our right, the steep, snow-white cliffs. And the road before us. And the road behind us. Beauty all around.

I think what I am trying to say is that you can hold the two ideas of motherhood at the same time; the miserable, stressed-out mother and the Holy mother are two sides to the same coin. Perfection, like a golden thread, is inextricably woven into our woefully imperfect experiences: the tantrum on the kitchen floor, and the bouquet of flowers on the counter. And it doesn't hurt to have a good friend stop by, just when you need her.

And what became of the little notebook that Liza gave me? I used it so much it practically disintegrated. But it was a spark that kindled the flame that is burning in my heart today, the flame of artistic creativity.

Disclaimer:  I know I'm being "mother-biased," because I happen to be a mother.  Sorry about that!  This sketch is my shout-out to all those great DADS out there, doing such a great job, and struggling with the same things.  Kee… — Disclaimer: I know I'm being "mother-biased," because I happen to be a mother. Sorry about that! This sketch is my shout-out to all those great DADS out there, doing such a great job, and struggling with the same things. Keep up the good work, dads!

Thanks for reading my new blog! Please post a comment below, and you will be entered into a raffle to win a free 5x7'' high-quality print of any of my paintings or drawings you choose. The deadline is 9 pm next Thursday night, September 24, 2015.

Sharing Wonder: Looking at Art Books With my Daughter

September 11, 2015

"What we need is more sense of the wonder of life

and less of this business of making a picture."

--Robert Henri, The Art Spirit

We are looking at paintings by one of my favorite artists, Pierre Bonnard.

Parenthood is all-consuming; it’s the kind of thing you need to embrace wholeheartedly, or suffer in futile resistance. Your passion for your children and your passion for your art appear to compete with each other, and it can feel painful. Maybe this is your struggle. If so, take heart. There is a middle path, a path of wonder.

For the past year, my 8-year-old daughter Nell has been getting up very early in the morning to spend time alone with me while the others are still asleep. We creep downstairs together quietly and I make some tea and coffee. Then I let Nell choose one of the many big art books on my bookshelf, stuffed with full-color reproductions of beloved paintings. And then we sit, slowly turning the pages, talking about our favorite artists, snuggled under our blankets, until the boys came downstairs wanting breakfast.

Nell's favorite painting by Georgia O'Keeffe, Red and Orange Hills, 1938 — Nell's favorite painting by Georgia O'Keeffe, *Red and Orange Hills, 1938*

Lately, those mornings are fewer and fewer, as I’ve been trying to fit in some morning exercise for myself. But we try to have at least one morning a week when we connect in this special way. It’s wonderful for me to see the paintings through her eyes, to ask her what it is about the paintings that speaks to her soul. Her fresh perspective invigorates my own understanding of each artwork, and gives me new inspiration. I am always learning, and my appreciation of art is always growing wider.

In his book The Art Spirit, Robert Henri asks us not to focus so much on "this business of making a picture," or, as I understand it, the egotistical idea that as an artist, I am defined and valued by my material production of Art. Instead, Henri calls for us to cultivate our "sense of the wonder of life." This wonder is the real mark of an artist, and who can help us more in our quest for wonder than the children who share our lives?

Generous Permission

September 4, 2015

”Nothing redeems but beauty, its generous permission, its gorgeous celebration of all that has previously been uncelebrated.” --Dave Hickey, The Invisible Dragon

I’m so excited about the next two years. I can’t contain myself! Here is what is happening with me: I have been a stay-at-home mom, devoted to raising my two wonderful children for nearly 9 years, and they started school this week: both of them! (kindergarten and 3rd grade) It has been a long time since I didn’t have a little one at home all day. Suddenly, I will have the hours between 8:30 am and 3:30 pm all to myself. It couldn’t come at a better time.

For the past year, I have been on fire, fiercely, in my soul. I am an artist! I want to paint! I need to paint! Of course, I have been painting all along, squeezing it in wherever I can, but now the doors are opening. And I am so ready.

Several months ago, I was surfing the internet, cruising around looking at artist-residency opportunities, and fantasizing about packing my bags full of paint brushes and canvas and moving to Italy, to immerse myself in painting. After a few days of this, Ian, my patient, loving, albeit somewhat startled husband, started to protest. In his opinion, abandoning my own family in pursuit of Art was not my best course of action. “Why not have an artist residency here?” he asked. “It could be a mom-housewife-artist residency. Let’s call it a two-year residency, and then we’ll have a meeting at the end of the two years, and plan our next steps.”

"Father and Son," oil on canvas, 11x14'' — **"Father and Son**," oil on canvas, 11x14''

And so, Ian gave me generous permission to go for it, to really work on what I am passionate about, without worrying about money. And it will be work. I intend to WORK. In the most joyful, most enthusiastic, most exhausting sense of the word. For the next two years, I have been given this generous permission to pursue my passion to the hilt. As with all artist-residencies, I do have to uphold my side of the deal. In this situation, I have to keep the house from completely decomposing into the ground, feed my family, and meet the kids when they get off the bus. No problem! I don’t plan to win any housekeeping awards, but certain mediocre standards will be upheld. (However, I do have high standards for loving my family and being a good mother, so I will be vigilant to make sure that doesn’t slacken.)

In the meantime: Art! It’s not really Ian who has given me this generous permission. I am giving it to myself, by speaking up about what I need, by listening to my heart, and by valuing my vocation as more than a selfish hobby. Instead, it is the life-blood of my existence. And I would like to give you, dear reader, the same generous permission. Redeem your life, take up your paintbrush, your pencil, your camera, your monologue, your artistic weapon of choice, and follow me into this awesome battle, to slay our monsters and conquer lands that until now have only been in our dreams.

Stay tuned. Every Wednesday I will write an art-related blog post to encourage, inspire, intrigue, amuse, or surprise you. May my blog be “a glorious celebration of all that has previously been uncelebrated.”