A New Painting: "Orange, Light and Shadow"

Orange, Light and Shadow, egg tempera on calfskin parchment, 6 1/2 x 8 3/4 in.

This painting is on the same panel as another that I struggled with and finally gave up on. It was a relief to work on this image after the fight with the previous one, though it wasn't at all easy to balance the hues and values to achieve convincing light; each rectangle of color was repainted several times. For me the image is calm and satisfying: balanced geometry can be a balm. 

Orange, Light and Shadow detail

The Gardening Season Begins

What a difference a week makes! Last week, in my "Spring Hope" post, although there were small signs of coming spring, the ground was still mainly covered in snow. Now, after a few days of mild weather and bright sun and brisk winds, the snow remains only along shaded areas. The snowdrops, those delightfully hardy little blossoms, have opened to inaugurate the flowering season.

Parsnips are the first vegetable of spring, which I dig after the ground thaws and dries out a little. The freezes of winter sweeten this delicious root. I had a bountiful crop this year: I made some roast parsnips earlier in the week, and a pot of curried parsnip soup (recipe here) this morning.

 Most of the perennials are still asleep, but some fresh green leaves of Oriental poppy have appeared.

                            

Of course, daffodils are early risers, and they are coming along well, even showing buds.

Tulips have also come to life, with early leaves bright red. I've tried to research why this happens, and it may be protective. There is a double file of tulip leaves in my vegetable garden, where I plant them for cutting, and for protection since deer love them. Now that they're up, I have to put up the garden's electric fence.

Alongside the tulips, the garlic has also emerged.

Another allium in the vegetable garden, Egyptian onions, will soon be adding flavor to dishes. These very early greens have a sprightly onion flavor.

Last year I planted some scallions, and they too are emerging, though I imagine it'll take longer for them to mature than the greens of Egyptian onions.

Sorrel is another plant with young leaves that have a red coloration. They look beautiful at this young stage of life, but will soon be green, and large enough to pick for meals. I love its lemony taste.

Lastly, the sexy red knobs of rhubarb are coming up. The plant is marvelous at all its stages: knobby, young frilly leafy, enormously grand. It will be the first fruit of spring in June (though not actually a fruit since it doesn't have seeds), a treat in pies and made into jam. It's been so thrilling to feel spring actually begin––to hear all the birds that have now arrived, to sit outdoors with the sun on my face, to do yard work of various kinds––that I've had a hard time staying indoors to do artwork. Oh well, it's okay to enjoy this fleeting feeling and take some time off from the studio...until it rains, which it's supposed to do tomorrow.

Walter Darby Bannard: Minimal Form, Lush Color

The Model #3, 1961; alkyd resin on canvas, 66 3/4 x 62 3/4 in.

Flanked by Alexander #2, 1959 on the left; Alexander #3, 1960 on the right.

When I think of minimalist painting, colors that come to mind are primaries and black, as in Mondrian, red/blue/green as in Ellsworth Kelly, white in Robert Ryman: simple clear colors. Robert Mangold uses some offbeat hues, grays and oranges and lemon yellows. But Walter Darby Bannard's color is unique and surprising. In the exhibition at Berry Campbell Gallery "Walter Darby Bannard: Minimal Color Field Paintings, 1958-1965" there are pinks and warm reds and cool greens, and all colors confound expectations with their pleasurable seriousness.

The Model #3 detail

After all...pink? When I think of a great painter using pink, Philip Guston comes to mind; in his works pink becomes a subversive color. Bannard's pink isn't brash and saturated, but subtle; it looks like a mixed hue. The circle sits solidly in its field, perfectly balanced, slightly above the midpoint of a rectangle slightly taller than square. The pink becomes transcendent. In a recent interview, Bannard describes that making these works was very labor intensive:

They required layer after layer of paint. Otherwise you wouldn't get the simplicity and the lack of brushstrokes. It was like Chinese lacquer, you needed the layers to make it work. 

Alexander #2, 1959; alkyd resin on canvas, 66 3/4 x 60 3/4 in.

Another of Bannard's formats is a horizontal rectangle situated high on the vertical rectangle's field. The weights of color and form feel very satisfying. The color is beautiful, tertiary reds that carry a lot of light. (The gallery is small and the lighting was uneven, so we have to imagine perfect viewing conditions.)

Marriage #3, 1961; alkyd resin on canvas, 66 3/4 x 62 3/4 in.

Another circle painting shows how color changes the presence of a simple shape. Even in its simplicity, the color turns the painting into something lyrical. We can compare this to Malevich's Black Circle to see a very different expression with the same form.

Cherokee Blanket #1, 1960; alkyd resin on canvas, 66 x 62 in.

I love the nerviness of using a thin shocking pink border (or cherry red; I'm not sure how accurate my color is) for a large field of pink. There is some subversiveness to this use of pink, different from that of Guston: a color usually decorative and frothy is here an atmospheric bounded field, tied to its geometry.

Pacific Glass, 1961; alkyd resin on canvas, 66 3/4 x 62 3/4 in.

Pacific Glass has a similar structure to Alexander #2 above, but a very different sense of light and weight. Like its title it feels translucent.

Aqua Same, 1962; alkyd resin on canvas, 66 3/4 x 62 3/4 in.

Another circle, difficult to see in the sea-colored field. The surfaces, glossy and matte, are what differentiate figure and ground; they create a shifting visual experience, a poetry of color and light.

Yellow Rose #1, 1963; alkyd resin on canvas, 66 3/4 x 62 3/4 in.

A semicircle sits at the bottom of a canvas, yet because of its golden color, does not weigh the work down. It sits, it also rises; it animates the space above it.

Seasons #1; 1965; oil on canvas, 66 3/4 x 62 3/4 in.

This painting indicates a different direction in the minimalist series. The forms bulge, swerve, float, bend. In the interview mentioned above, Bannard says that he became bored with doing the laborious work needed for these paintings. Seeing Jules Olitski's paintings showed him a different way forward.

Bildad's Garden, 1980; acrylic on canvas, 11 1/4 x 34 3/4 in.

Bildad's Garden, a later painting, has the same wonderful sense of color of the minimalist work, with more complexity in the relationship of hue and value. The poured surfaces are rich and varied. I saw this painting last year in a show at the same gallery, titled "Walter Darby Bannard: Dragon Water", which included works from the 70s. There were a lot of beautiful works in this show, which you can see at the link. Both bodies of work show a keen sensitivity to surface and paint, and a vivid and personal use of color.

A New Textile: "Two Rectangles and a Trapezoid"

Two Rectangles and a Trapezoid, hand dyed wool on linen, 11 1/2 x 13 in. 

Three shapes, an illusion of overlapping; three colors, cool and warm, each one mixed with a bit of one of the other colors to harmonize them. This overlapping idea is similar to the one in another recent textile, Shield, although not as dramatic. 

Two Rectangles and a Trapezoid detail

I use different directions of hooking the loops of wool in order to enhance the illusion of overlap. I often use a random pattern for backgrounds; its overall-ness works well for that purpose. It is the most labor intensive of all hooking directions; straight lines are the easiest, angled lines and curves in between. It's all quite relaxing handwork, done while I sit in front of the tv in the evening, a nice way to wind down the day.

James Siena: Grids of Sticks and String

Freeman Dyson, 2014; bamboo, string, and glue; 20 1/2 x 7 1/4 x 21 1/4 in.

I love seeing everyday materials––in this case toothpicks, bamboo skewers, string––transformed into art. It is a reminder that art making does not have to be a grand and exalted process, but can be one of imagination and invention, couched in everyday-ness. In his show at Pace Gallery, James Siena presents small marvels of sculpture made of thin sticks of wood, held together by glue and string. The gridded forms are complex and varied, and in that way are similar to the paintings and drawings that he's been making for many years.

Richard Feynman, 2014; bamboo, string, and glue; 21 1/2 x 21 x 21 in.

There is order of a very personal sort, a measured regularity that is lightened by the wavering lines of bamboo. The structure of some of these sculptures reminded me of the space in Giacometti's The Palace at 4 a.m., though without any of the surreal elements. I do feel that I want to wander into Siena's spaces to try to decipher them.

Richard Feynman detail

To me, the simple wrapping of string to hold crossing sticks together emphasizes the handmade, the artist's close attention to detail, and in its fragility is very touching.

Barbara Tuchman, 2014; bamboo, string, and glue; 21 1/2 x 21 x 3 3/4 in. 

I love that Siena has titled his pieces using the names of (mostly) famous people, scientists as in the case of Richard Feynman and Freeman Dyson, or writer and historian for Barbara Tuchman; it's a wonderful way to pay homage to their work. Barbara Tuchman has spaces that feel very architectural, as though this is a model of the interior of a building, with divisions and subdivisions.

Just the Washing Instructions on Life's Rich Tapestry, 2013 - 14; bamboo, string, and glue; 11 1/2 x 

5  3/4 x 5 3/4 in. 

In this dense little piece, the tight rounds of string become prominent: points marking a journey, stars in constellations. The title––which I hope is correct since my documentation isn't perfect––is one of the more rare metaphoric ones, and it's very funny.

Katherine Dalsimer, 2013; bamboo, string, and glue; 5 3/4 x 4 3/4 x 5 in.

Katherine Dalsimer (who by the way is a psychologist and author who wrote a book on Virginia Woolf [I had to look that up]) is another very small piece which makes us very aware of the joining of elements; their tightly bound crossings are poignant, as though overcoming the natural desire of things to pull apart.

Dorothy Vogel, 2013-14; toothpicks and glue; 3 x 5 1/4 x 4 1/2 in.

Anthony Braxton, 2013; toothpicks and glue; 2 3/4 x 3 x 3 1/4 in.

Terrance McKenna, 2007; grape stems, toothpicks, and glue; 2 1/4 x 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 in.

There were several tables in the exhibition on which were very small pieces, whose structures were dense and irregular; they were like little explosions of line, full of vibrant energy.

Terrance McKenna, 2007; grape stems, toothpicks, and glue; 2 1/4 x 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 in.

In some of the small pieces bits of grape stems or wood are embedded within the toothpick structure, as though captured. This early piece leads me to imagine how Siena began making these sculptures: sitting at the dinner table, looking at discarded grape stems and some toothpicks scattered about, he picks them up and thinks....hmmm....then goes and gets a bottle of Elmer's glue and starts building.

Eschatologist (First Version), 2013; toothpicks and glue; 4 1/4 x 4 3/4 x 4 in.

Villa Aurelia (one), 2013; toothpicks, wood, and glue; 4 3/4 x 7 1/4 x 4 1/2 in.

There is so much life and energy in these tiny works. Siena seems very at ease with their bursting structures. This type of form also shows up in his large bronze works, but for me what begins as an idea with fragility and the handmade as main components is ruined by casting into hard bronze. The bronzes held no interest at all for me.

Richard Rand, 2014; bamboo, string, and glue; 12 x 16 1/4 x 12 in.

In Richard Rand, the spreading circles of string holding the bamboo together become almost decorative; they make us aware of the crisscrossing of line on this tilted grid.

Richard Rand, another view.

Seen from another angle, the sculpture is completely different: from seeing flat planes to being aware of the two long points that support the structure made of of three squares on its face. With his toothpick and bamboo sculpture, James Siena is finding wonderful new possibilities for the medium, and expanding his sensibility into new forms.

Spring Hope

No other season brings with it the excited anticipation, or the hope of Spring. After months of cold within nature's suspended animation come signs that life will begin again. It is very easy to understand how the myth of Persephone was formed, with her living in the underworld for part of the year, and her return to earth in spring; the stirrings of growth do seem to ask for a magical intervention. I returned home yesterday after several days away, and although there was some fresh snow on the ground, there was also a large sweep of bare lawn. This means the robins will soon return to peck at the frozen ground.

At the edge of the pond a spring is running with fresh water.

At another clear circle a tiny shoot of Yellow Flag iris pokes up bravely.

Along the south facing foundation daylilies have emerged, even warming holes in ice.

Snowdrops, the earliest and most hardy of flowers, are raising their pristine heads.

In the woods, the receding snow has exposed mosses at the base of trees, vividly green after the winter's moisture.

Above my back door is a line of Phoebe nests. Each year a female builds a new nest, though I've read that they sometimes use an old one. They'll return soon and soon there will be eggs, then little beaks sticking up above the nest's edge. Sometimes I wonder why they return to this spot, since I annoy them by using the door to go out to the backyard. Then I see the female sitting in the ash tree, bobbing her tail and waiting for me to leave.

When I took a close look at the nest I was surprised that the nest was anchored by mud on its bottom, with grasses and mosses and feathers above. Birds' nests are beautiful things, and a sign of the persistence and hope of life.

As for the other members of my household, Poppy and Blinky have decided that it is indeed spring, and mild enough, though still chilly, to go outside and get some fresh air. We in the animal kingdom, and our friends in the plant kingdom are all full of joy at this turn of seasons, as fitful as it may be.

A New Painting: "Red Crossing"

Red Crossing, egg tempera on calfskin parchment, 9 1/2 x 7 7/8 in.

The image is basically very simple: a red rectangle and  a long red stepped shape overlap a black rectangle. Some complexity is added with the shadows: angled bars at top, curves on the black. The large curved shadow reminds me of a proscenium arch, the red line below it becoming a presence on a stage. (Sometimes strange metaphors creep in to paintings.)

Red Crossing detail

This detail shows the translucency of the shadows. One thing I learned in art school, that has proved true in my years of painting from the motif, is that shadows are translucent, light is opaque. Translucency brings light into the darks.

At the Met: Robert Motherwell's Lyricism

From Lyric Suite, 1965; ink on paper, 11 x 9 in.

Freely brushed inks spread across paper with fresh abandon, a color haloing a darker one; circles that might have been accidents mark a path, add a loose geometry to fat flowing lines.

From Lyric Suite

In 1965, Robert Motherwell bought 1000 sheets of Japanese paper; 600 drawings were the result of his brushing colored inks on unsized paper. He wrote (my information from the Metropolitan Museum of Art's wall labels):

Each picture would change before my eyes. The pictures literally continued to paint themselves as the ink spread in collaboration with the paper. 

A selection of this series, named after Alban Berg's Lyric Suite––a string quartet that Motherwell listened to in his studio––is currently on view at the Met. It's wonderful to see the variations of form, to get a sense of the immediacy of these works.

From Lyric Suite

According to the Met: "Motherwell worked quickly and without conscious control, executing between ten and fifty drawings a session." I can readily imagine how thrilling it was to work in this manner, to wonder how a mark, a splash will transform into an image.

From Lyric Suite

There is so much life in these drawings; they don't stay still politely, but have a continuing pulsing energy. The drawings remind me of the looser forms of Asian calligraphy, which require many years of study in order to have the knowledge to use free brushwork.

From Lyric Suite

I had never thought much of Motherwell's work, since all I knew of it were the Elegies to the Spanish Republic, a series of works whose forms I found leaden and repetitive. Then last year I saw a couple of later paintings from the Open series, and realized that I didn't know the artist at all; I loved those works. The mezzotints below are from that series. They are minimal, but have an expansive space, beautifully brushed color, and inherent light.

From Lyric Suite

I see a similar sensibility in the Lyric Suite drawings and the Open series, with their forms inhabiting large spaces, floating within them. There is a great respect for the ground plane and its strong presence; the artist's entry into it is as collaboration, not dominance.  

Mezzotint in Crimson, 1969; mezzotint, plate: 8 11/16 x 5 13/16, sheet: 25 1/8 x 19 15/16 in.

The exhibit included several other works in different mediums by Motherwell, including mezzotints using the form of his Open series. I have read a couple of different origin stories for this series, which he began in 1967. One is that it came from a chance arrangement of one small vertical canvas leaning against a larger one. Another, from MoMA, is that it was "responding to the impulse in European and American visual arts to regard painting as a window". But that goes against the general idea of the "integrity of the picture plane".

Mezzontint in Indigo detail, 1968; mezzotint, plate: 8 13/16 x 5 13/16 in..

To me the works are existential: the open rectangle a human structure, existing in boundless space. The intervention of geometry is delicate, unassertive, but insistently present; the field, though dark, is luminous. I find them very moving.

Gauloises Bleues, 1968; aquatint and collage, plate: 9 3/4 x 5 1/4, sheet: 22 x 14 5/16 in.

Motherwell was also a master of collage, and I have regretted missing recent shows of this work. This small piece shows a perfect balancing of large and small shapes, and color. There's a narrative to the work, too, since we realize that the sky blue wrapper is from a cigarette package. 

Untitled, 1973; pasted papers and lithograph on paper. 

A later collage makes reference to Motherwell's Elegy series, as rounded forms are bound between vertical lines; protected? imprisoned? The two ovoids have more buoyancy than the black shapes of his Elegies; they feel human, even musical. Their colors––green and white––have hope within them, and the irregular pink bars have some warmth. It is such a pleasure to newly discover an artist I'd long dismissed; thanks to the Met for this nice little show, on the 100th anniversary of Motherwell's birth.