Winter Sunrise

A luscious sunrise this morning, with clouds flowing like waves over the White Mountains.

Winter Light: Curves

When the sun shines in winter, which has been rare this year, the light comes deep into the house at a raking angle and illuminates objects and surfaces in ways I do not see during longer days. Contrasts are strong and color is saturated. Sunlight touching an object can make it extraordinary; it calls for quiet attention, for a photograph to seize the moment of beauty.

Red and Black

Red and Black, 2010, egg tempera on panel, 12 x 12 inches


Here is Red and Black, which I finished over the weekend. I like the contrast between the bright, flat red shapes and the dark, more organically shaped interior. The disheveled wiring adds linear fun to the more geometric forms. (after thinking about Guston, I've been seeing my work through a cartoon lens, which I enjoy.)

"Roundabout" in Progress

Even though I was thinking of pottery when I did the drawing for this ruglet diptych, it looks closer to Philip Guston's light bulb, a rounded shape with a touch of the comic. The varied colors of the spot dyed orange-ish cloth meander giddily across the surface, held in by the rational lines of background.

Philip Guston

The Mirror, 1957, oil on canvas, 68 x 60 inches


Multiplied, 1972, oil on canvas, 66 x 80 1/2 inches


Philip Guston was an artist who achieved success with a series of beautiful abstract paintings, made of a mesh of active brushstrokes, who then made an abrupt shift into representational art. What he chose to paint were not subjects anyone had seen as high art; they were cartoon-like images of feet and cigars, of cars and klansmen. They were a bombshell. I was at the first exhibition of this new work at Guston's New York gallery, Marlborough, because a friend was his student; we all were stunned. Of course the reviews were devastating.

What a remarkable act of courage it was to turn away from success, although I imagine Guston must have felt he had no choice, that he had to paint what had meaning to him. If we had looked closely at the new paintings, we would have seen what we all acknowledge now, that they were painted with as much intensity, passion and lush bravura as his abstract paintings; that they were about the human condition, unfortunately often abject; that they were brilliant works, goofy yet profound.


Untitled (Light Bulb), oil on panel, 12 x 14 inches


Untitled, oil on panel, 12 x 9 1/4 inches


Untitled (Wall), oil on panel, 9 x 12 inches



When I was recently in nyc I had a chance to see an exhibition of small panel paintings in oil by Philip Guston at David McKee Gallery that were painted during the years 1969-1973. In these small works, Guston isolated elements of his larger paintings: one lightbulb, a wall, an easel, painting them with a vigorous sureness of touch. For me, the greatest pleasure in these paintings is the paint itself, which is so rich as to make me want to run my finger through it. I also love the imagery, that wonderful lightbulb that has become animate, every thing invested with organic life. Guston's color sense stayed consistent through the years, with pinks, reds, and grays predominating. He was able to use pink without sweetness, instead giving us life.

Update: reader rappel reminded me in an email that there was a flowering of artistic comics in the 70s and it's very possible that these influenced Guston. When I look at the work of R. Crumb, which I loved during those years, I can certainly see a resemblance of form and narrative content.

A Walk in the Woods: Winter Patterns

The snow is still clinging, in decorative fashion, to surfaces in the woods, not blown away by winds or melted by warmth. It emphasizes the rhythms of spreading branches, which seem to move like graceful arms in a dance.






Dollops of snow sit at the top of small young pine trees, like whipped cream topping a sundae.






Islands and continents of snow adhere to tree bark, which is colored by the subtle greens of winter mosses and lichens.






Plastic pipe for sugaring draws bright lines on the subdued winter palette. I love seeing them in the woods as they are buoyant reminders of the flow of sap in early spring.

A Walk in the Woods: Winter Tracks

This week has been gray, but not gloomy, with soft light reflected from ample snow. At times, snowflakes were in the air, gently floating as in a snowglobe. The temperature has been comfortably in the 20s, perfect weather for getting into the woods on my snowshoes. Yesterday was beautiful and still; I kept stopping to listen to the quiet. At a turn in the path, even the faint traffic sounds of the village were blocked and I heard nothing at all, until a crow raucously called, then a faint hum of a distant aircraft. The air smelled fresh and clean, with a faint sweetness. Snow decorated branches and trunks and was patterned with tracks.

Today I took my camera along for the walk. This is the first of two posts on today's photos. We begin with the track of my snowshoes and poles winding through the landscape.





In winter, with snow cover, I become more aware of the busy life of the woods with the clearly visible tracks of deer and other animals crisscrossing the snowy ground. Sometimes, for a short distance, deer follow the path made by skis, snowshoes or snowmobiles, then they turn off into the trees.





I too follow snowmobile trails where they merge with mine.





There are small creatures leaving tracks; this likely that of a rabbit. I've also seen tiny mincing marks, close together, and the pads of coyote.






Not a track, but a swirling pattern, of seeds dropped and scattered, readying themselves for a new growing season.

Cream of Corn Soup

A few days ago I was rummaging in my freezer for some vegetables (I have a chest freezer full of summer bounty out in the mud room) and I noticed the bulging gallon bag full of corn kernels. It reminded me that I should make some corn soup, and when I friend came over for lunch yesterday, this is what I served. I adapted the recipe from a long out of print cookbook A Celebration of Soups by Robert Ackart, which you can find used. I also used this cookbook for the recipe for cabbage soup, which I posted here. This is a simple recipe enriched with butter and milk, lovely for a winter day. I like to leave the kernels whole, but you can puree them if you prefer a smooth soup.

3 Tbs butter
1 large onion, chopped
4 Tbs flour
3 cups water
1/2 teas white pepper
3 cups fresh corn kernels or 20 oz frozen
2 cups milk or half and half (I use low fat milk)

1. Heat the butter and onion in a large saucepan, cooking the onion till translucent.
2. Stir in the flour and cook over gentle heat for a few minutes.
3. Gradually add the water, stirring constantly till the mixture is thickened and smooth; stir in the pepper.
4. Add the corn kernels and simmer, covered, for 15 minutes. If desired, puree in food processor.
   
5. Stir in the milk or cream, salt to taste.
   

Philip Pearlstein

Female Nude on Yellow Drape, 1965, oil on canvas, 54 x 72


When I was in nyc three weeks ago I was happy to see a small retrospective exhibition of the work of Philip Pearlstein, along with that of Al Held. Pearlstein was my teacher during both my undergraduate and graduate study at Brooklyn College; he was more than a teacher, he was a mentor and a quiet inspiration. His tastes in art were broad so he pointed us towards very different kinds of work; this open attitude has guided me throughout my art life. There were two things he said to me as a student that were very important to my development, and which I repeated to many of my own students: No matter what you choose to do, go deeply into it and push the idea as far as you can; you can be a humble person, but you should not be a humble artist. I took both of these statements to mean that I should be ambitious in my goals as an artist.

Pearlstein's nudes of the 1960s were seen as shocking at the time; he painted the model in the unadorned studio, with no romanticism, just a powerful presentation of a body in space, flesh as form and shape, presented as solid fact. The figure was over life size and aggressively pushed against the picture plane which separates the viewer from the image. The movement of limbs recalled the abstract painting of a painter of lines in space, Franz Kline. At times, the head of a figure was cut off at the top of the canvas if the composition demanded it, which was very difficult for viewers who believed that the portrayal of a human figure must be humanistic and inviolate. These are stunning and radical pictures.


Female Model on Ladder, 1976, oil on canvas, 72 x 96 inches


In the model on ladder painting, it seems essential that the small form that is the head not be part of the composition; the movement of the body, following the backward movement of the ladder, yet twisting away from it, is emphasized by the forward shoulder at the top edge of the painting. The hand with its large ring jumps across space, jolting our sense of what is whole and complete. The flat green floor is probably the most beautifully painted floor I've ever seen; with its shadows cast from multiple sources, in subtle shifts of hue and value, it is a tour de force of painting.


Model with Chrome Chair and Dotted Felt Rug, 2009, oil on canvas, 48 x 36 inches


Pearlstein became an avid collector of art and of varied antique objects; these collections began to appear in his paintings, adding elements of pattern, of disjunctive space, sometimes of humor, as object interacted with model. A rigorous eye and practiced hand have remained constants in this body of remarkable work as it has changed and developed over many years, creating paintings of great complexity with a unique and personal view of reality.

A New Rug Hooking Project: Roundabout

After my visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art three weeks ago, I was inspired by the pots and porcelain and glass that I'd seen there (see this post on Chinese porcelain, and this one on the Greek and Roman study collection.)The curves, full bodied or narrow and refined, stayed in my mind; photographing them helped me to feel their shapes and keep them in memory. I did a number of thumbnail sketches––which is where I first work out my compositional ideas––placing a form alone or next to another in the frame. I then added color, using either watercolor or egg tempera. You can see one composition––of a narrow tongue-like shape on top of a rounder one––in three different color schemes.





I decided that I would use this diptych for my next project, so did a larger drawing; I liked the bulbous shapes, and the format allows for a moment of uncertainty between one panel and the next: we think the shape is echoed from left to right, but there's a variation in outline that is a small surprise, a disjunction.




In order to have a larger amount of color variation in the positive shapes than is possible to achieve in pot dyeing, I lay the wool in a wide pan and dropped the different colors onto it; the folds in the wool add to the irregularity of color as the dye reaches exposed areas with greater strength. I dropped some of the green color from the background here and there along with a warm brown. As you can see below, this process gave me a rich range of hue, as colors mixed in uneven patterns.

Drifting Snow

The snow is piling up against window and door today, as the wind blows it into graceful drifts. Although the forecast was for 8 - 16 inches, there's only a light snowfall that is being blown sideways by the strong winds. It's not a day for venturing out, and I'm happy to be indoors working, and gazing through windows at the storm.

Reading Willa Cather

One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away.

This is the first sentence of O, Pioneers!, Willa Cather's first important novel. At a meeting of our local book club this fall, we were deciding what novel to read from a few on hand; I asked to hear the first sentence of each and was struck by the direct descriptive prose, which included a touch of humor. Cather goes on to describe the town

A mist of fine snowflakes was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky. The dwelling-houses were set about haphazard on the tough prairie sod; some of them looked as if they had been moved in overnight, and others as if they were straying off by themselves, headed straight for the open plain.

Reading this, we have a clear picture of the small town, a town that could at any moment be abandoned, heightened perhaps by our memory of dust bowl photos from the thirties. The prose is clear, strong and simple, without an unnecessary word, yet gives a vivid picture of place and time, with character and a welcome lack of sentimentality. While reading O, Pioneers!, I had a sharp realisation that Cather's prose was a model for mine in my blogging. I am very conscious of the craft of writing as I work on blog posts, though it's not something I've mentioned before. For me, the writing of each post, no matter the length, is a careful process in which I try to provide information with prose that is totally transparent yet has some poetry in it.

A beautiful passage from My Antonia by Cather describes the end of day, at a time when sun and moon were both low in the sky, and the

....two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world.

In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed, the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall.

Cather's deep love of the stark prairie landscape is always present in her writing; she is intent on observing all aspects of it and the people who live on it. Reading some passages in her novels makes my heart swell with the comprehension of beauty. It is a grand goal for me, to touch a reader the way Cather touches me.

Here is one last paragraph from My Antonia that is a remarkable evocation of a season and a time of day; the metaphor of the hero is surprising and shouldn't work, yet it does.

All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never got used to them. As far as we could see, the miles of copper-red grass were drenched in sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at any other time of the day. The blond cornfields were red gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw long shadows. The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire and was not consumed. That hour always had the exultation of victory, of triumphant ending, like a hero's death––heroes who died young and gloriously. It was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of day.

Happy New Year

I would like to wish everyone a peaceful and productive new year,
filled with kindness and joy, and pleasure in small things.

Beginning a New Painting: Red and Black

The new painting I've recently begun is based on a 12 inch square study from last summer, that I'm calling Red and Black. You've probably noticed that my titles are quite straightforward and descriptive, and this title follows that practice. The image has a strong contrast, in both color and value, between the red metal of the covering and the black innards of the machine, especially noticeable in the underdrawing.






There are a couple of days of work at the stage of the painting below. First I lay down several coats of color; after that, I worked on measuring the parts of the image, balancing them, and making sure horizontals were straight and diagonals parallel. The process is like bringing an image into focus in a camera viewfinder. My next task will be to develop the "inside" of the machine, then paint the wires on top of that. The reds will be last to be painted.






This image reminds me of a painting I did earlier this year, which also has a glimpse under the cover: below the bright flat color areas is a hidden, darker, and more complex world.



Lozenge, 2009, 16 x 16 inches

Seed Order

I usually work on my seed order for the spring garden during the week between Christmas and New Year; it seems to be a good time to be looking ahead to the coming growing season. It's also good to get onion and leek seeds as early as possible; the earlier I start them indoors, the better they will grow when transplanted to the garden.

As you can see, I keep a list in a garden notebook; each year gets one page: on one side is that year's garden layout and on the other, the list of seeds I'll be needing for the following year. I try to be very organized about it because I hate to get into the garden and then realize I'm missing some seeds, maybe something essential like peas or corn. It's a pleasure to wander through the catalogs that come in the mail, reading about new varieties, thinking of new crops.

My very favorite catalog is from Fedco Seeds, a co-op in Maine that specializes in seeds for northern gardeners. They carry lots of organic seed (no GMOs) and all seed and supplies are remarkably fairly priced. The vegetable descriptions are honest and detailed, and the newsprint catalog is full of wonderful antique black and white illustrations.

While it's still early winter, I'm happy to be thinking about the growing season to come.

Swing

Swing, 2009, hand-dyed wool on linen, 20 x 10 inches

It's done. I like the almost-candy-colored relationships, the forms resting edge to edge. Another thing I find enlivening about the ruglets is the irregularity of edge caused by the hooking process, a straying from the perfection of geometry, so different from the crispness of my paintings.

Contemporary Agriculture

Silage Covered by Plastic and Tires, Newbury, Vermont, 1999, oil on canvas, 45 x 60 inches


Two readers left interesting comments on my post "Black V" regarding my choice of agricultural implements as subject matter. I thought I'd expand a bit on my ideas, touched on in the post "At a Point in Time, Change"; I forget that many of my readers are not familiar with my previous work or what it was about, and how it led to the paintings I've been doing for the past few years.

I found my way to landscape by expanding my view from domestic architecture, which I painted during the beginning years of my career. Then I found that the landscape that interested me was not pristine fields and forests, but the working agricultural landscape. I set up my easel at farms; in speaking with farmers, I began to know more about agricultural issues, and thought more about the history and current dilemmas of ag policies.

The US began as a farming nation, and we still tend to see farmers in a golden light, except for the corporations of Big Ag. Our national farm policies have created an abundance of cheap food, which is a great boon for many, but at what cost to the health of body and land? can we go back to small, sustainable farms? will our policies change to encourage healthy soil and healthy food?

In the painting above, the contrasts of nature and technology, beauty and raw plainness are evident. There's a manure lagoon in the background, which nourishes the soil, yet can pollute horribly if used incorrectly.



Hay Storage, Central Valley, California, 1995, oil on canvas, 44 x 66 inches


In the Central Valley of California there are huge dairy farms, dwarfing even the larger Vermont dairies. They bring in thousands of haybales to feed their cattle, stored in giant pyramid-like structures. I find these white plastic mounds beautiful, although I'm always aware of the factory farms that demand them, with their thousands of cows standing around on piles of manure in paddocks.



Tractor and Ag-Bags, Groton, Vermont, 1994, oil on canvas, 30 x 90 inches


Irrigation Pipes, Barnet, Vermont, 2002, oil on canvas, 50 x 84 inches


In these landscapes of Vermont, the working tools of the farmer are contrasted with the grand views behind them, views which are very Vermont Life. Real life isn't as simple as a lovely view; it is full of contradictions, compromises, and bad outcomes. It is also full of beauty, found in the oddest places.



Draped Tires, 2003, egg tempera on panel, 40 x 30 inches


Over time, I found myself more interested in the things of farming, rather than its landscape; I wanted a sense of touch in the work, a frisson of realness. In Draped Tires, we feel the plastic tarp and the texture of silage beneath it. This is a painting of oppositions: the plastic, which will become a landfill problem, is preserving food for cows, who will feed us. It's gorgeous in its light, but also looks like a funereal covering.

The paintings I've been doing for the past three years, in their move closer to abstraction, have left behind the overt content of my earlier work, while continuing to have a similar meaning; the implements that serve as models for color, design, and form, also carry a complicated history of land use and abuse, of abundance and hard, often thankless, but necessary work.

A Row of Paintings

Here is the photo requested by reader Rappel: four paintings sit on a bookshelf, leaning against the old milk-painted hand-planed wall panels, sharing space with the framed paintings of friends: on the right Nancy Grilikhes, on the left David Vereano. I'll move the paintings out to the cold studio after they've had time to dry in the warm house.

Black V

Black V, 2009, egg tempera on panel, 20 x 10 inches



This finished painting is now propped up on a shelf alongside Opposing Angles, Light Tube, and Green Tilt. They make a good group, conversing about form and color and shape. The flat black strap and cylindrical black pipe make a strong statement in their contrast with the lighter blue (the actual painting has a more intense blue than the photos, so the blue/black balance has more equilibrium); they are pushed back spacially by the square volume of blue overlapping the strap. This shape, moving in from the left, floats in front of the subtle curve of blue, and creates an illusion of shallow space, similar to the space behind the crossed pipes of Light Tube. I like the balance of this painting, and the way our eye is drawn down and then up again, following a bulge outward and back. I hope that the use of the tall vertical seems successful to you.

White World

This morning I woke to a pale white landscape, of branches covered with delicate frost. The soft haze made everything seem immaterial, untethered from the weight of reality.

It was likely an event caused by elevation, as the cold fog settled on trees and shrubs and froze. When I went for a ski in the woods below my house, the frost could only be seen at the very tops of the trees. Climbing the road to my home, I saw the white lacy branches everywhere, and they've persisted through the overcast day, creating a lovely accompaniment to the snow-covered ground.