Serizawa Keisuke and Textile Design

Serizawa, Pattern Imitating Glaze Dripping Down the Side of a Jar, 1961. Kimono, stencil-dyed banana-bark cloth, 61 x 50 inches


Another of the exciting shows I saw while on my recent trip to NYC was a survey of the textile works of Serizawa Keisuke (1895-1984) at Japan Society, a Japanese designer who took his inspiration from the traditional techniques of stencil dyeing. This kimono was stunning in its color harmonies and surprising shapes. There were others just as dramatically beautiful. Some of the most startling designs were on Noren, or entrance curtains, their shapes strong and simple.



Kimono shaped comforter, Edo period, 19th century, indigo dyeing, cotton


After seeing the show, I became interested in earlier stencil dyeing, and found this example; I can hardly say anything but "wow". The grand sweep of shapes, flat against ropey forms, create a compelling visual energy.



Serizawa, Japanese Syllables, 1960s, stencil dyed raw silk, 26 x 14 inches


The works by Serizawa using Japanese syllables were balanced in the interesting place between language and design. Because we can't read the text, it becomes pure art in the dance of color and shape; but we also know that it is language, even if hidden from us, so carries narrative weight.



Kazimir Malevich, Fabric Ornament, 1919, watercolor on paper,14 x 10 inches


Spurred on by the show at Japan Society, and by a conversation with Sandy Chilewich at her studio, I began to think about the intersection of fine art and design in the 20th century. There's a rich history of painters working with textiles; there is also a increasingly non-existent gap between the fine art and design worlds (see the Museum of Arts and Design). In the early 20th century, the utopian ideals of the Russian constructivists, such as Malevich and Popova, led them to design everyday items: fabrics and ceramics and books. Both these artists are primarily known as painters; their works have inspired several of my textile pieces.



Liubov Popova, Embroidered Book Cover, ca, 1923-24, silk thread on grosgrain, 18 x 12"



Sonia Delaunay, Design, ca. 1930


Sonia Delaunay is a painter who worked intensively in the design world, becoming very influential in abstract design. Abstraction has become so embedded in the way we see the world, in our sense of pattern and decoration, that we forget how very recent it is. Delaunay brought an inventive and lively sense of color, shape and line to her work.



Chilewich, details of two tabletop runners, Crochet and Dots, pressed vinyl


Not only is there a wonderful range of pattern in textile design (a good source of information is The Textile Blog, which covers the history of textiles), there's also been expansion in the idea of what a textile is. I remember seeing a great show of contemporary textiles from Japan at MOMA called "Structure and Surface" (the website is pretty poor, being from 1998). New materials were being used, such as polyester, and steel: quite amazing. A contemporary company, Chilewich, is weaving fabric using vinyl; they also press vinyl into contemporary forms, using a technique that we all remember from plastic doilies.

The richly inventive traditions, continuing today, of textile design are inspiring. As a painter, I sometimes feel that my art is too rarified, too much apart from life. My hooked rugs, being one of a kind pieces, are closer to painting than to repeatable design. That there are so many terrific artists, bringing us beautiful things for daily use, makes me happy.

UPDATE, November 16: In an email correspondence with a friend, I realized that my link to the Museum of Arts and Design was not truly germane to the discussion. A more appropriate collection to look at is the Architecture and Design department at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC.

A Walk in the Woods: an Artist's Conk Mushroom

A couple of days ago, under my post on the red mushroom, readers commented on painting on mushrooms. The red mushroom pictured could certainly be painted on its flat side, but it's on the small side so is not the traditional artist's mushroom. I remembered seeing some of what are called "Artist's Conks" in the woods, so took along my camera on my walk yesterday. Growing on dead wood, they can get quite large, up to 20 inches; this one is eight inches across. The underside is beautifully white, calling for an artist's touch. You can make a line drawing on the surface: when you etch it with a sharp point, the white bruises to a warm brown color, which will remain when the mushroom is fully dried. Or, the mushroom provides a shaped and curving ground for painting, as in the landscape pictured below, which I acquired years ago from an antique shop in Maine. There's something very appealing about a painting on a non-traditional surface, be it mushroom or rock, sawblade or metal tray.

Johannes Vermeer's The Milkmaid, and Others

Vermeer, The Milkmaid, 1657-58, 18 x 16 inches

Among the special exhibitions currently on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one is a small and intimate look at several Dutch paintings in the Met's collection, gathered to highlight and provide context for Vermeer's painting The Milkmaid, loaned by the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the voyage of Henry Hudson. The painting is very beautiful, with brightly vivid color (I assume it has been recently cleaned) and sparkling light.

What was surprising to me about this work is how realistic it is: looking at the flesh of the face and arms, we see precise rendering of form, with details like a color change from the woman's hands to her forearms, which would have been shielded from sun. The musculature is evident; if we instead look at the Woman with a Water Pitcher below, the forms of the arms are simplified, as is the face. It's as though the Milkmaid is a particular woman, while the woman in the white headdress is Woman.

The part of the painting that most interested me was, believe it or not, the wall. The plaster wall was painted with such attention that the paint became wall; it seemed as though my hand could pass over the surface and feel its irregularities. The wall's color changes from warm to cool, giving a sense of seeing something that is true.

Vermeer, Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, 1662, 18 x 16 inches

The Vermeers from the Met's collection are all much more subdued in color than The Milkmaid. Now I wonder if they were painted differently, or if cleaning would make them brighter. I tend to think that it is likely that Vermeer, in making his paintings less realistic in form, decided to make the color less intense. Instead he makes a world that feels solid, yet transcendent. Although the scenes he presents are everyday ones, they are also timeless.

I remember seeing a large show of Dutch painting at the Met several years ago which included several Vermeers. They stood out from what were many wonderful paintings in their powerful weighty presence, in their transformation of ordinary life into something extraordinary.

Gerard ter Borch, A Young Woman at Her Toilet, 1650-51, 19 x 14 inches

We can see something of this when we compare the Vermeer paintings to this lovely ter Borch and to the Metsu below. Ter Borch specialized in painting shiny silken fabrics, and they do glisten; the velvet chair covering looks soft and inviting to the touch. But the painting remains a charming depiction of a moment.

Gabriel Metsu, A Woman Seated at a Window, 1660, 11 x 9 inches

Rather than a woman at her toilet, in the Metsu painting we have a woman with what might be symbols––a book, a bunch of grapes, a piece of fruit––pointing towards a meaning that could be more than mundane. Yet for me, the painting, in its specificity of form, doesn't rise above a portrait of a woman in a window.

A very different painting, Vermeer's Study of a Young Woman, below, is emotionally moving; her direct gaze invites and questions. In looking at this work, we can feel ourselves not only in conversation with her, but understanding something more of the human spirit, of beauty, and of art.

Vermeer, Study of a Young Woman, 1665-67, 17 x 15 inches

Working on Green Tilt

At this early stage of the painting process, I focused on getting the drawing of the forms accurately, making sure that each line and shape is the direction and size that looks right. I use a ruler and a pencil to measure and draw outlines on the panel; I then paint up to those edges. Color and value can change the visual weight of a shape, so adding paint to the newly delineated shapes is the only way to see if the drawing is convincing. The egg tempera medium allows me to add translucent layers of color which will build a solid-looking surface.

This painting depicts a shallow space, nothing like the volume of Red Cone, but still a challenge to paint. I'm also finding it very interesting to work on a painting that has no direct sunlight and shadow, which are elements of almost all my previous work. In this piece, the color in itself has to hold light.

Turnip Soup

Through frosts and freezes, the short row of fall turnips in the garden continues to thrive. So last night I made a pot of turnip soup, from a recipe I'd printed last year from allrecipes.com and not yet tried. It turned out wonderfully well; I think that the slight caramelizing of the turnips and onions before adding liquid gives a smooth sweet background to the tang of the turnips. Throughout the winter, my lunch is usually a bowl of soup with bread and cheese, so having another good soup in my repetoire is welcome.

2 Tbs olive oil
1 1/2 lbs turnips, peeled and cut into 1 inch pieces
1 large onion, cut into large dice
1 Tbs butter
pinch of sugar
3 large garlic cloves, thickly sliced
2 teas paprika
1 teas dried thyme leaves
1/8 teas cayenne (or less to taste)
3 cups water (the recipe calls for chicken broth, but I rarely use it, finding vegetables flavorful enough on their own.)
1 1/2 cups milk (or half and half, or low fat milk. I use low fat milk), approx.
salt and pepper to taste

1. Put oil, turnips and onion in large deep pan. Cook over medium high heat till vegetables start to turn golden, 7 to 8 minutes, stirring occasionally.
   
2. Reduce heat to low, add butter, sugar and garlic; continue cooking till all vegetables are a rich spotty caramel color, about 10 more minutes
3. Add paprika, thyme and cayenne; saute till fragant, about a minute
4. Add water or broth, simmer partially covered till turnips are tender, about 10 minutes
5. Blend solids till smooth, then return to pot and add milk. Add more milk if the soup is too thick.
   
6. Add salt and pepper to taste.
   

Floating Squares in Progress 2

I've finished hooking one of the panels of "Floating Squares"; for the square, I've stayed within the geometry, starting with the outside edge and moving inwards around the square, row by row, which makes a nice crisscross through the center. The random hooking of the variegated wool creates a soft background color. When I work on the background, I try to choose colors and hooking directions to create a gentle sense of movement or pattern. Below is a closeup of the completed blue square from the second panel.

A Walk in the Woods: a Red Mushroom

This beautiful mushroom, a deep red, glossy-surfaced polypore, starts out as a wackily obscene knob topped with a ruby shine. I first saw the knob last summer, and watched as it grew outward into a fan. Looking at my mushroom book, I'm guessing that it's called a Hemlock Varnish Shelf. It's lovely to see the color red among the greens and browns of the woods, the hard bright surface alongside the soft mosses.

Thomas Chambers, American Landscape Painter

Ship in a Storm, ca. 1836-45, 14 x 18 inches



Delaware Water Gap, ca. 1840-50, 18 x 24 inches



View of Nahant (Sunset), ca. 1843-50, 22 x 30 inches



Niagara Falls from the American Side, ca. 1843-58, 18 x 24 inches



Landscape with Mount Vesuvius, ca. 1843-60, 22 x 30


A wonderfully peculiar painter, Thomas Chambers' work stood out to me in books that surveyed American landscape painting of the 19th century. That is, if it was shown at all, since he was very much overlooked and forgotten till recent years. There is currently a large survey show of his painting at the American Folk Art Museum in New York, on view till March 2010, which is a real treat to see.

For many years, I've had a soft spot in my heart for American primitive, or naive, paintings, similar to that for Italian primitives, as mentioned in my previous post. I consider myself a "linear" painter, as opposed to a "painterly" one, using relatively flat forms with hard edges, and clear planar space. These characteristics describe a primitive sensibility, as opposed to the more fluid and volumetric painting of what I might call a sophisticated aesthetic. Fra Angelico to Veronese, for instance. Chambers' paintings are linear with verve and sweep, his color a decorative romp. Within the simplified and stylized form are passages of amazing sensitivity: he gets the translucent color of water, whether waves or waterfalls, uncannily accurately; his skies, whether colored with softness or drama, carry a convincing quality of light.

Chambers' paintings are such fun to look at; he paints everything with pizazz. Since he got most of his images from black and white prints, we know that his imagination was a driving force in his work, and as you can see from the images above, it ranged widely in subject and mood, but was always full of exuberant energy, as though even the most peaceful scenes embodied an unstoppable life force.

Indian Summer

Yesterday morning I walked out onto the porch and felt the air's lovely mildness. It was the beginning of an Indian summer day, which has continued today. The feeling of such warmth after cold frosty weeks is similar to that of stepping out of an airplane into southern humid heat, which you'd entered in northern winter chill: magical.

The climbing rose by the front door has a few small blooms alongside its burgundy-colored foliage; the yellow foliage of the honeysuckle alongside it is punctuated by some orange flowers. I spent a bit of time doing yardwork, edging the flower borders, a chore I thought would have to wait till spring. While out working, and walking, I couldn't help but notice the raking angle of the sun, casting long shadows even in early afternoon. Seeing this quality of light, I cannot mistake these mild days for anything but a brief reprieve in the advance of winter.

Two Paintings

Ammi Phillips, Girl in Red Dress with Cat and Dog, ca. 1830-1835, oil on canvas, 30 x 25 in.


Lucas Cranach the Elder, John, Duke of Saxony, ca. 1537, oil on wood, 25 x 17 in.


Sometimes while wandering through museums, as I did this past week, I am struck by surprising affinities I had never noticed. At the American Folk Art Museum, where I went to see the Thomas Chambers show (more on that in a later post), I was very happy to be able to have a long look at the Girl in Red Dress by Ammi Phillips, America's greatest itinerant portrait painter; this painting is the best of his work that I've seen. The face of the little girl is painted with softness and subtlety; the sense of volume is minimal, yet full of life. The little dog has the kind, melting look in its eye that all dog lovers know. These delicate hints at volume are set against a strong dark background and the crisp outline and color of the red dress, which heighten a powerful sense of two dimensional design. The carefully rendered outlines of the dress allude to its mass; although painted flatly, we feel its weight.

The next day, I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which had a treasure trove of special exhibitions going on. I always visit a few of the European painting galleries while there: the early Renaissance in Italy and in Northern Europe, where I check in on my favorite panel paintings. When I saw the Cranach portrait, with its dominant triangle of black costume against a red ground, I immediately thought of the Phillips portrait, in which the color of ground and clothing is reversed. Both paintings have only small amounts of modeling of form in the faces (though the Cranach has stronger outlines) with flat rendering of clothing; in both, the drama of the solid color adds to the power of the painting.

Italian painters of the early Renaissance are often called "primitives", and though Cranach is not of that time, his work has much of their characteristics: form that is dominated by line, with a minimal development of volume, and strongly decorative compositions. This too describes the work of American primitive, or naive, painters such as Phillips. Although one is the image of a powerful man and the other of a little girl, across the centuries these works speak of similar concerns and approaches to the portrait.

A Walk in the Woods: Lichen

In recent days on my woodland walks I've noticed the white patterning on rocks and trees. I don't know if these lichens are especially vividly contrasting with the rocks which provide their ground at this time of year, or that I've become more aware of them because of my photographic project. They have a marvelously animated quality, looking like organic abstraction, paintings based on natural forms. The range of textures from the subtly variegated white lichen to the rough granite, and then to the softly fuzzy greens of mosses draws focused attention, as my eye wanders across a terrain that, at times, loses its sense of scale and becomes an immensity.

Traveling

I'm heading into New York City today to see family, friends and art, so won't be posting for a few days. There's a lot of art viewing on my schedule; I hope to have some images to share on my return on Saturday. Have a wonderful, productive week.

From Painting to Hooked Rug: Tantra Drawings

Anonymous, Untitled, Jodphur, India. Gouache, watercolor and tempera on paper, 11"x 10.5"


Anonymous, Untitled, 2003, Jaipur, India. Gouache, watercolor, tempera on paper, 13 x 8.5


Anonymous, Untitled, 1997, Jaipur, India. Gouache, watercolor, tempera on paper, 13 x 10"


In 2004 The Drawing Center in NYC mounted a beautiful small show of Tantric drawings from India that were made as aids in meditation. The works were intimate, modest, yet very inventive within their simple formal tradition. Looking at them, it was hard to believe that they were made as a religious practice, because they seemed so artistically sophisticated and could fit right in to the contemporary minimalist aesthetic. I found the show thrilling, and almost every image was quietly compelling. The memory of the show stayed with me for a long time, and was the inspiration for my first move from utilitarian floor covering to an artwork to be hung on the wall.

Blue Circle, Red Triangle, 2006, wool on linen, 12 x 10 inches

In the almost four years that I've been making textiles, many have been homages to various abstract artists whose work I admire. I plan to have an occasional series of posts showing these relationships. I've played around from time to time with purely non-objective painting, because I do love it so much, but my eye and hand have so long worked with the things of the world that I can't leave them. With this new medium of rug hooking I was able to indulge my longing for abstraction, since it is so amenable to clear and simple design.

Kale and Potato Soup

Here's another simple and delicious soup recipe for warming body and heart. It's from Deborah Madison's The Greens Cookbook, which along with her Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, is a great resource for inventive vegetarian cookery. I use these two books a lot.

A bunch of kale (very vague, isn't it? I used 4 very large leaves)
3 Tbs virgin olive oil
1 medium red or yellow onion, diced into 1/2 inch squares
6 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced
1/2 small red chili, or 1/4 teas crushed chili
salt
1 pound potatoes, diced into 1/2 inch cubes
6 cups water
pepper

1. Pull the leaves off the kale stems and tear or cut into 2 inch pieces. Wash thoroughly
2. Heat olive oil with onion, garlic, chili and salt and cook over medium-high heat for 3 or 4 minutes
3. Add potatoes and 1 cup stock. Cover and cook slowly for 5 minutes
4. Add kale, cover, and steam till wilted. Pour in the rest of the water and simmer, covered, till potatoes are quite soft, 30-40 minutes
5. Use potato masher or back of wooden spoon to break up potatoes by mashing against side of pot. This makes a nicely thicker broth.
6. Taste for salt and add a generous grinding of black pepper. The soup tastes better after sitting for a while, as the flavors blend and become richer.

Painted Light

Fra Angelico, The Virgin Annunciate, 12 x 10 inches, late 1420s


In my last post, I wrote about using a different kind of light in the painting just underway, which made me think about the different ways light has appeared throughout the history of painting. Of course, without light there is no vision and no depiction of the world, but each period of art and each artist approaches its use with different aims.

Through much of the Renaissance, form was bathed in an even light, coming from upper left or right, and this clear light-to-dark of each object gave it weight and a position in space. In early Renaissance panel paintings, shown in this post, the form doesn't achieve the full volume of later artists such as Raphael or Michelangelo, but light in these works often has a spiritual dimension. In the Fra Angelico above, the Virgin is shown in a soft light that seems to emanate from her figure. The use of gold leaf in the background intensifies this feeling.



Georges de La Tour, The Penitent Magdalene, oil on canvas, 53 x 36 inches, 1638-43


When we move into the late 16th and 17th century, light becomes a subject in itself, as with the paintings of Caravaggio, with their strong single sources of light that partially illuminate the scene, while throwing much of it into shadow. This drama is made more intimate in the works of de La Tour, who often has a candle as light source within the painting. I imagine de La Tour enjoying the challenge of depicting the specific quality of candlelight and its effect on objects and flesh. The mood in this painting––quiet, enclosed, thoughtful, isolated––makes us think of spirit, but in such a different way from the Fra Angelico. It's almost as if Magdalene is alone in her faith, while the Virgin is enveloped by a larger presence.



Johannes Vermeer, Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, 18 x 16.5 inches, 1662-3


With Vermeer, and other Dutch painters of the 17th century, light comes from a source indicated within the painting, a window or a door. Very different from the dramatic light in a Caravaggio, which illuminates a narrative, the daylight shows a mundane scene of everyday life. Each ordinary object, however, is transformed by light and clarity of form into a marvel of creation that we contemplate with deep pleasure.



Camille Pissarro, L'Hermitage a Pointoise, 59 x 79 inches, 1867


In the Impressionist landscape paintings of the late 19th century, real, visible sunlight becomes a primary subject as it shines on land and figure and building. Light had for so long been generalized that's it's surprising to see the freshness of color and light in these works. In American landscape paintings of the 19th century, such as those of Fitz Hugh Lane, light is all encompassing, not specific, an idea rather than a fact; this style was later called "Luminism". "Impressionism" was more about the eye and the fleeting effects of light, made even more vivid in the later paintings of Monet.



Persian, Sultan-Mahmud of Ghazna in Discussion with a Dervish, 7 x 3.6 inches, 1577-78



Henri Matisse, The Yellow Curtain, 57 x 38 inches, 1915


Within the sweep of 20th century painting, abstraction has been the primary mode of expression, which might seem to discount the use of light. I'd argue, however, that light is embedded within color and for a painting to be successful it must have life, and therefore light. I'm giving myself an easy example by choosing Matisse to illustrate this point, whose paintings, whether figurative or abstract, are drenched in the light of southern France. I've paired the Matisse painting with a Persian miniature that is remarkably similar in its linear composition. Both paintings use line to sensitively surround the flat forms, giving them an illusion of fullness. Both have a quality of light coming from the color itself, though in the Matisse this is enhanced by the use of transparency.

The works illustrated are just a tiny taste of the variations in light used to make form, and as subject. We each see the world a bit differently, so the way we use light in our work must be richly varied. But none of us can do without it.

Beginning a New Painting: Green Tilt

This morning I started a new painting, which I'm calling Green Tilt; it's a 10 x 24 inch horizontal; the gouache study done on site is above. I found the three major colors in the image very appealing, with the cool colors of blue and green against the warmth of the red-brown rusts. A major shift for me in this painting is that there is no direct sunlight playing across the surface, something that has always been a major part of composing for me. I like having cast shadows as compositional elements, and sunlight adds vibrant color variations in reflected and direct light. But there I was, standing in front of a motif that I liked a lot, and there was no sun. So this painting will be an attempt to work with a different kind of light, one that is softer and in a sense more embedded in the forms. I wonder if this will make the work more abstract, since we are not shown a real world sunlight.





Above is the first layer of paint applied to the panel, on top of an ink drawing. I wanted to photograph this early stage of work to illustrate some of the wonderful qualities of egg tempera: its translucency, quick drying, ease of handling, vivid color. It doesn't yet look as rich as the gouache study, but that's because tempera does require layers of paint to achieve its full intensity of color. One thing I wanted to point out was that when white is added to the color, the paint becomes more opaque and this is clearly seen above. This opacity is very useful as I develop the painting. Please click on the image (even those of you reading this in an email subscription can do this; the enlargements are always embedded in the emails) to see this more clearly. I'm looking forward to the challenge of picturing what is essentially a flat image, having only a shallow space.

Dried Grasses

As I look out my windows in recent days, I've seen the landscape change color in its inexorable movement towards winter. There's some deep reddish-brown in the beech trees and yellow in the tamaracks, but soon all will be dun-colored, the grayish brown of winter, made exciting again by the contrast with fallen snow.




Against this dulling landscape, the color of dried grasses becomes vibrant. The pale brownish-yellow of the brittle leaves and stems glistens even under the day's gloomy skies. When I see the five foot tall seed heads against the sky, I can't help but think of the Great Plains, where the original tall grass prairies stretched for hundreds of miles, and were taller than a man on horseback, a sight both stark and fecund, and overpowering.