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Andrew Wyeth 1917-2009
Jan 19, 2009 — 5 comments
Hay Ledge by Andrew Wyeth
Andrew Wyeth, one of my idols, one of the greatest painters to have ever lived, passed away last week. I am really bummed out about this. There is something about his work that I can’t fully describe, something that I feel would be misrepresented if I tried to put it into words myself. I think even throwing out an adjective could color an opinion of his paintings, in a way that would be a huge disservice to him and to his body of work, which is nothing short of brilliant. I have seen Christina’s World in person, three times, and it is amazing. His use of tempera, which I consider to be one of the most difficult of painting media, was incredible, the strange and bleak atmosphere of each scene created by the insanely layered and detailed brushwork. I know my work may not reflect this, but I get a lot of inspiration, very directly, from Andrew Wyeth.
Slight Breeze by Andrew Wyeth
Your Hand Drawing Your Hero
Jan 15, 2009 — 3 comments
Speaking of Michelangelo, this is a picture of my hand, drawing Michelangelo. Hand, hero. Alliteration sort of bothers me, but it’s catchy, and until I can come up with a better name, this is it.
This idea began with my uncle, who is a neurosurgeon. He wanted a drawing of his hand, which is his main tool, drawing Harvey Cushing, the father of modern neurosurgery. I think it turned out pretty well (see below) and I also think it’s an excellent idea.
You need a drawing of your hand drawing your hero. Yes, you.
A portrait has always been considered an honor, a permanent representation of a respect, someone’s image and character eternalized and glorified. Whoever you idolize, whoever influenced you and helped to form you into person you are, whoever you think is worthy, send me a photograph of them (or I can find a good one if the person is find-able), and a photograph of your hand (if you are somewhere within driving distance, I will take the photos myself), and I will draw your hand drawing your hero. You can give it to that person as a sign of respect, or keep it for yourself as a constant reminder of his/her greatness, as an inspiration to do something great yourself. Email me if you are interested, and we can talk specifics. Price would be around $140 for a drawing with the same general setup as you see below, which is 16”x12.5”, on archival quality Rives BFK paper. Nothing is out of bounds.
Left: Harvey Cushing. Right: Michelangelo
Ocular Patdown
Jan 13, 2009 — 1 comment
It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia. Best show on tv.
I, Leonardo, Obsession, A Michelangelo Odyssey
Jan 13, 2009 — 3 comments
The art world (and the world in general for that matter) has always been rife with various forms of obsessive behavior. Example: Marcel Duchamp’s Opposition and Sister Squares are Reconciled, which is basically an obscenely intensive study of endgame scenarios in chess. It’s also a brilliant and not-at-first-obvious piece of conceptual art, a bizarre, obsessive and esoteric metaphorical and symbolic send-up of the art world. (Click here for an excellent explanation of why this is so great, written by a favorite professor of mine from college).
Artists have always studied the work of other artists, learning from the previous generations of masters, interpreting and incorporating (read: stealing) the techniques and ideas into their own work. Personal tendencies lead an artist toward a certain style, then toward an individual artist, one that the person feels connected to— man, he gets it, and man, if that person was still alive we would totally be friends. The more connected they feel, the stronger the desire for more, for further understanding, which can become an autocatalytic process, building and accelerating toward outright obsession (another professor of mine told me once that he thinks all great artists are at least somewhat schizophrenic, driven subconsciously by something, some… thing, and also a little OCD, a convenient foundation for obsessive behavior). More examples: Francis Bacon (click here to read my post about his obsession with Velázquez). This guy who is clearly obsessed with Vermeer, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Salvador Dali, who was obsessed with basically everything.
Then, probably my favorite example, the book I, Leonardo, by Ralph Steadman.
I had heard vague rumors about this book, and I actually originally found a copy buried under stacks of books for sale on a broken picnic table under a bridge in London. I couldn’t afford it, so I didn’t buy it then, but I found it immediately after I returned to the US. In brief, the book is an illustrated history of the life and work of Leonardo, and is essentially Steadman’s attempt to be Leonardo. In preparation for this project, Steadman went to all the places Leonardo worked, studied and repainted his paintings, built flying machines from his drawings, and generally obsessed about him to the point that when it came time to actually write the book, he wrote it as an autobiography, a first person narrative.
I drew this from the Pieta in Florence, about 16 hours before I left for America. The male non-Christ figure is a Michelangelo self portrait
The book is brilliantly written and illustrated, and it resonated with me, standing under the bridge next to the Thames, because at that time I was on my own version of Steadman’s odyssey: I was attempting to see every piece of art by Michelangelo Bounarroti, the greatest artist who has ever lived. In person. I was studying painting and sculpture in Florence, where Michelangelo lived much of his life, and where one could easily see a good amount of his work that still exists. And I did just that. I looked into the eyes of his Brutus, face to face, studying the chiselwork; I answered questions (in broken German and Italian) from high school kids, middle aged women and college students who watched over my shoulder as I drew the David and the slaves; I studied the way he applied paint, my face about 6 inches away from the Tondo Doni; I led a small rogue team away from our tour group to see the Last Judgement and Sistine Ceiling, I hid in the corner of the Medici Chapel for four hours drawing the Tomb sculptures; I couldn’t get enough, I wanted to be him. On weekends I traveled by train to various cities in Italy, where I would immediately find the sculpture I was looking for, then, and only then, I would wander around the city to see what else it had to offer me. There were a few obstacles along the way, most importantly a Madonna and Child, way the hell up north in Bruges, Belgium. I had counted that as a loss immediately. But at the end of my time in Europe, I planned with a friend a northern expedition, a nation-skipping adventure, the path of which I of course maneuvered and coaxed toward Bruges.
The Bruges Madonna
Generally I was alone for this whole experience, and when there were others with me, they at first gave me a hard time for my mania. But when they actually saw a piece of marble sculpted by Michelangelo in person, the power of his work was made clear by the look on their faces, and they came to understand and respect my quest.
Two pages from my sketchbook: a slave and the David
Certain things you remember during all this madness. What song was going through your head when you first saw the Sistine Chapel (Orestes by A Perfect Circle). The folding chairs set up 5 feet from the Genius of Victory, with people walking right past it like it was in a cafeteria or gymnasium or something. The strange feeling of knowing that the room I am standing in is the most incredible space I have ever occupied (I felt this twice, first in the Sistine Chapel, and second, more powerfully, in the Medici Chapel. Hands down most amazing room I’ve ever been in).
Medici Chapel, image found on this guy’s site
Drawings from the Medici Chapel
I failed. There are certain things you can’t see. A little known (and unimpressive, relatively) fresco he did late in his life is in the private quarters of St Peters. The rest I just missed, for various reasons: in London, I went to the wrong museum, missing the Taddei Tondo. I was in Milan, I saw the Duomo (the single most impressive building I’ve ever witnessed), but I did not see his final Pieta, on which he was working when he died. I walked right past the front door of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, home of Christ the Redeemer (click here. You see the big dark door behind the idiot in the pink? I walked right past the door, right to left. Up the steps, down the steps. Had no idea until twenty minutes later when it was too late. Idiot.) There is a sculpture of a Crouching Boy in Russia, and though it is generally regarded as being by Michelangelo, I’m not so sure. Either way I’ve never seen it. Most maddening, The Apollo, in the Bargello in Florence, had the distinction and the nerve of being the first Michelangelo piece to go on tour in over two hundred years. It was in Detroit. Of course. Unreal. Not that I remember things like that.
Drawing from The Battle of the Centuars
Everything else, I saw, in person.
Ok, this has gone on long enough. I guess this needs a sort of summary statement. Here it is. On obsession: I can relate. Click here for a list of all the major pieces by Michelangelo that still exist.
New Terracotta Sculpture, A Few Photos
Jan 08, 2009 — 2 comments
I recently had a request to resculpt a version of the Jesus Head. So here it is. It’s terracotta, I just finished it so it needs to dry and be fired. Having been occupied with painting lately, this is the first sculpture I’ve worked on for a while, and it was a good time. I’ve got clay left over (found for me by my mom’s friend who is an artist, click here to see her site ), so I’m going to do a few more soon. Ahhh, the tension mounts.
This picture I took from the highway; there was some weird sort of convergence of clouds that made the setting sun coming through look like a comet streaking across the sky. At least that’s what I saw. I tend to see strange things. More obviously, this picture is reminiscent of Lost Highway. Robert Blake as the Mystery Man may be the creepiest thing ever filmed. David Lynch is awesome.
This is Lake Michigan from an airplane. There’s something otherworldly about the color of the water with the floating ice and the haze of the atmosphere.
This is just a good picture. Very good. According to me.