Showing Up

Eight and a half years ago I lost a very dear friend and one of the most important creative mentors in my life. Bob Lelle was a true creative force, exploring every bit of his world in an endlessly curious fashion and with a joy and passion that never waned. Whether it was a clever solution to a design problem, a sweetly obvious (yet overlooked) product name or a piece of multi-media fine art, he was constantly thinking of ways to communicate and project ideas different and interesting ways. The greatest lesson that I learned from Bob was the importance of simply “showing up,” that is, being present in the moment and doing the work of art. If you do that, he said, you’ve won half the battle. By offering yourself and your mind to the act of creating, whether it be sitting at the keyboard for hours, standing before your easel trying to locate the right color, or just allowing your eyes to see what’s right in front of you, magic will often happen. This, of course, is not a novel concept - in fact many teachers, co-workers and friends had imparted the exact same lesson throughout my life - but the difference was that Bob Lelle lived it. He always showed up, each and every day.

I have countless “Lelle Tales” having had the good fortune to travel with him and collaborate on both design and fine art projects for almost twenty years. One of my favorite stories, and one that I think illustrates the essence of his thought process happened about 15 years ago. We were having lunch and he told me of walking into his studio one morning and noticing a dead fly on the windowsill next to a baseball. His mind immediately went to “fly ball.” Simple right? Bob, being Bob, took that concept and pursued it…for no other reason than the joy of creative play. He pulled out his ever-present Composition/Sketch Book and showed me the evolution. First was a sketch of a baseball with the dead fly affixed to it, then a ball with a fork stuck in it, then a ball that was shredded and ground up,…and so on. Each drawing rendered in pen with notes alongside. He explained that he envisioned nine balls in plexiglass cubes, stacked three by three and then photographed in a poster format. “Maybe I could sell it to Major League Baseball or the Hall of Fame”, he posited. This was just how he thought: concept, execution and then, possibly, distribution. Always simple and accessible, always fun. Later on, he expanded this visual pun thinking to a series of alphabet graphics.

Though Bob spent the last years of his life in Southhampton, NY, much of his life was spent on Nantucket, his studio and home overlooking a salt marsh in Madaket. As I was unable to attend his memorial service, I’d always wanted a chance to pay him tribute and say goodbye. This past weekend, my wife and I were on the island visiting a friend from college, Stacy Fusaro. As we had some time before the boat left, Stacy was kind enough to bring us by the cemetery. It didn’t take long to locate Bob and his wife’s plot. To my delight, a cast concrete cowboy boot sat next to his stone. I don’t know why. Did he die with his boots on? Or was it a reference to Boot Hill? Whatever the meaning, Bob always got you thinking. I planted a paintbrush in the boot. Godspeed, my captain.

Do-over

Sometimes you just can’t leave things alone. You pick a little here, a little there, and before you know it, things are out of hand and someone ends up crying.

At least that’s what my mother always claimed.

I’ve always been good about knowing when to move on from a painting and mark it “done.” The time working on it varies, of course, depending on size, subject and more often than not, my interest level, but I’ve always known when it was ready to shelve. Or so I thought…

Cleaning and organizing the storage area in Intramural Studio a few weeks ago, I was faced with an odd (for me) decision. My modus operandi in sorting finished artwork is to create three piles - Available, Studies and Burn. Available are pieces worthy in my estimation of being shown. I may need to clean them up and/or frame them, but other than that, they are ready to hang. Studies are sometimes just that, sketches and preliminaries for more involved work, or sometimes they are less successful pieces that I still want to hold onto for reference or archiving. What’s left gets it’s picture taken for my database, then the panel is recycled (sanded and re-gessoed) or, if it REALLY sucks, burned, or as I like to think of it “released” back into the ether-world of inadequate effort.

This time though, something happened. Maybe it was the phase of the moon, or overthinking brought on by quarantine, or simply because it’s 2020 and what the hell? Anyway, halfway into sorting I had somehow ended up with the beginning of a 4th, unnamed pile. Stuff not worthy of hanging, storing or burning. I was seeing things in them that warranted a second look and just maybe, another round on the easel. Some in this rogue pile were quite old (some even forgotten completely). Perhaps that was why they represented new potential unseen before, or perhaps because it was the last light of Durin’s Day - at any rate, I was seeing them in new light.

The pile became “In Progress” and at the end of the day, there were a good 12 old guys stacked up in the corner next to the easel, looking for a shave and a haircut. Here’s the first, a small piece I completed first in 2014 of a building in Fall River, MA. This is new territory for me, but I found it exhilarating revisiting a painting with new eyes, experience and a different perspective. I’ll continue, I think, and see what it yields. If they suck, I’ll blame the Corona-virus and the Post Office, then I’ll light the match.

Parked Out Front, 12x12, oil on wood panel - Left: 2014, Right: 2020 update

Hand Jive

My hands have been on my mind a lot lately. For many reasons, but primarily because they are constantly numb and they hurt - especially my left hand. Not surprisingly, after 60+ years of drawing, writing, carving, painting, modeling, mousing and, yes, typing, I have carpal tunnel syndrome. In fact, just prior to the shelter in place, a hand surgeon recommended surgery, first on my left, then on my right wrist. So, I’ve spent a good part of the last few months sitting in the house mulling the decision over, all the while wearing wrist braces at night, taking Ibuprofen and avoiding handwriting.

Sidebar - when I was first married, my mother-in-law fretted every time I ventured down to her husband’s woodshop to help him with a project. She would say, “Please stay away from the table saw. You have to watch your hands - you’re an artist!!” At the time I would pass off her compassionate over-protectiveness and tell her I’d paint with my teeth if something ever happened to my hands. Today, this frivolous, glib comment makes me wince as I think of my friend and fellow artist Peter Damon, who bravely faces this very obstacle after losing his hands in Iraq. Though he surely wouldn’t want me to, I feel guilty even writing about my hand woes. It is a hangnail in comparison.

Anyway, an interesting thing has come out of my situation and that’s what I really set out to write about today. After a whole life of solid reliability, I cannot use my left hand to draw or paint anymore. Even if I could endure the numbness and pain, my left hand is incapable of the fine motor dexterity (see what I did there? “dexter” translates to “right” in Latin. Get It? Irony!!) I have been accustomed to when making art. I have always been somewhat ambidextrous, as any lefty has to be (try buying a left-handed chainsaw) and have switched hands when advantageous while painting, but this was a much more concerning scenario. But, I did it. And, after more than a few misfires, I think I’ve been fairly successful. We’ll see where it goes. I am planning on the surgery, at least to my left wrist, once I feel safer visiting a hospital. But, for now, put me in coach, I’m ready to paint! If I could only throw a knuckleball…

On another note, I have a favor to ask.

Like all artists forced to shift into a more robust on-line presence, I’m trying to expand my audience. Specifically, I’d like to increase my mailing list. If you are so inclined to help me out, I would truly appreciate your sharing of my email newsletters with people you’d think would enjoy it and asking them to subscribe if they do. I promise to NEVER use my list in nefarious ways, and will continue to try and make the content as interesting as possible.

Thanks in advance!

Deal Me In

It’s often been brought to my attention that my paintings rarely include people, that is, the figurative rendering of human beings. I guess in a way that’s true, but it has never been a conscious exclusion. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that my urban landscapes, especially the Bungalow Series, are actually portraits of the people I imagine to be living inside the buildings. And all the automobiles that inhabit my cityscapes? I expect that they represent the drivers and not the car. In other words, I suspect that I use vehicles, literally, as representational vehicles. For some reason…. no matter….

But, all this appears to be changing, for my studio is now filling with a new batch of work that feature people, specifically, people playing cribbage. Why cribbage? Well, I grew up with the game. My dad played with his friends regularly, culminating in an annual autumn pilgrimage to the self-proclaimed “Cribbage Hall of Fame” in Washington, Maine (my Uncle Ernie’s camp). There commenced a non-stop four-handed game, fortified by lobster, Scotch, Brandy Alexanders and other performance enhancing provisions. So, as my brother, sister and I learned to count to fifteen, we were naturally taught the game and have played it ever since.

But, that’s not wholly the reason I’m painting cribbage players now. No, the idea first presented itself to me in a supermarket coffee shop. Waiting for my brew one afternoon I glanced toward the seating area and spied a pair of gentlemen in the midst of a game while enjoying their coffee. I immediately saw in my mind’s eye Paul Cezanne’s “The Card Players” and, as is my habit, surreptitiously shot a few pictures with my iPhone and thought nothing more of it. A few weeks later I was going through my image library and was instantly drawn to the coffeeshop shots as the germ of a possible painting. I hit my art books and pulled out Cezanne’s work for additional reference, and a series of work was underway. It all felt very natural and close to the usual process I follow in the studio.

But then the pandemic hit and as so many of us have been forced to do, I began thinking differently. And not only about when to wash my hands or whether I have enough toilet paper or what store is open. I began thinking differently about my painting and the stories they tell. It happened one evening in my studio after I had completed 4 or 5 additional Cribbage paintings. I was at the easel, and off to the side sat the first, original cribbage piece leaning against the wall, minding its own business. But something looked wrong and kept distracting me. I couldn’t figure out what it was at first, but eventually it came to me. The players weren’t wearing masks. And, If they were, wouldn’t THAT change the plot of the story?

As life feels rather desperate and unsettled, it’s easy to forget that we are presented with wonder, joy and beauty each and every day. I’m not talking about sunflowers, puppies and happy little trees either. I’m talking about the simple everyday interaction of human beings. I’m talking about meeting your friend at a coffee shop and playing a game of cards. Or a walk with your mom, an afternoon on the deck with your kids, reminiscing holidays past. I think it comes down to a tribal need to gather in groups small and large to share life as it happens. There’s a spirit present there that cannot be replicated with technology (yet) and perhaps never will. The Zoom of the future will try to go there, but I doubt it will fully succeed. Technology always sacrifices soulfulness in deference to convenience, speed and cost, unfortunately.

So, these new Cribbage Series paintings have taken a whole different meaning to me now - a silver lining in strange times. A reminder that we shouldn’t take for granted our need to be present in the company of other human beings. It is as life sustaining as air, water, food, coffee and shelter. That’s why live music sounds better than any recording, a church service feels richer in a sanctuary than on a monitor and a painting of card players connects so intimately with our humanity.

Pax Vobiscum.

At Least You Don't Have to Deal with Bridge Traffic

I’m really happy to announce that one of my paintings, “A Pair of Triples” is included in the 2020 Spring Open show at the Cape Cod Art Center. It’s all online, so if you’d like a really cheap virtual date, schedule a convenient time for an Opening Reception. Then slip into your hippest outfit (maybe ripped capri’s, painted clogs and a vintage bowling shirt labeled “Lance”), pour some bargain chardonnay into a plastic cup and FaceTime a fellow art lover to converse over the wonderful collection of work and agree to disagree about a touchy subject or two. It’ll be fun!!

Be sure and wear a mask though.

Puzzle Me This...

As jigsaw puzzles have made a comeback lately, due to “the great confinement",” I thought it apropos to talk about another branch of my artistic family tree. My maternal grandfather, Paul Cushman, was a restaurant manager and dairyman at Producer’s Dairy in Brockton, MA. He died in 1959, so I have no memories of him, but he did leave a trunk full of one of his many hobbies - handmade wooden jigsaw puzzles.

Made from prints taken from the weekly rotogravure newspaper insert, he would laminate them onto birch plywood and hand cut them into amazingly intricate pieces with a jeweler’s saw. He then packed them (without a reference picture, of course) into shoe boxes affixed with a custom label. During the Depression, he rented these “Crazycut Puzzles” out for extra income. Now, these creations are, by far, the most challenging puzzles you can imagine. Contours of objects in the picture are sometimes cut along, or not. Pieces often don’t completely interlock, but require a third piece. He had many tricks up his sleeve, it seems. The more maddeningly difficult he made them, the longer they would remain rented out, I suppose.

All I know is that I took seven or so out of the attic about two weeks ago and went to work. Many hours later, I’ve only completed two of the smaller (8”x 12”) ones, including “Boston Tea Party” above. I began the third, larger puzzle last Friday and have only managed to find the outer edges so far.

But, that’s the point, isn’t it? There certainly is time aplenty on hand - and no facemask, antibacterial spray or gloves required.

Studio in the Time of Pandemic

So, what does an artist do in these times of sheltering in place? Isolation would seem to be one of the few silver linings in the pandemic to those of us who make art. I mean, how many of us so often wish desperately for the gift of time away from our day jobs? Well, here we go - there’s no excuse now - time is here. If you need supplies? No worries. If you are out of Cerulean Blue, a palette knife, canvas? It’s a click on your smartphone and on your doorstep in no time. And I haven’t heard of anyone hoarding drawing paper yet (I certainly wouldn’t care to wipe my bottom with 20 lb. cold-pressed) or selling brushes for exorbitant prices. So this should be a perfect time for prolific output. Kurt Vonnegut said, “The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable.” Word.

I’m using my newfound time to explore a series of figure paintings. Having concentrated on landscapes for the past twelve years, it feels like the right time to make a left turn and see what I can do with the human body, More to come in the future about that, but in my pre-painting research, I came upon an early influence of mine, Edvard Munch (he who created “The Scream”) and was particularly struck by two of his mid-career paintings that he made during the last world-wide pandemic - the Spanish Flu.

Poor Edvard was obsessed with death and suffering - for a number of reasons - and explored the darkness often and with strange relish. So, the pandemic was a motif right up his alley. In fact, when he contracted the illness himself in 1919, he used the time in his sick bed to paint the picture below, “Self-portrait with the Spanish Flu.”

I can assure you that the last thing right now that should I contract COVID-19, (knock-knock) I will NOT be painting much of anything and will tuck myself away from everyone until I arise, stronger than ever. Thin, sallow and unshaven are not a good look, in my opinion. As I said though, Edvard was a bit dark and his catalogue of work contains many portrayals of sickness, mental anguish and death. In fact, as a follow-up to the first self-portrait, later in 1919, he painted “Self Portrait After the Spanish Flu” in which he looks only slightly more animated. He apparently spent most of his life convinced he was flirting with death on a daily basis. To his dismay, he lived a good long life, leaving us in 1944 at the advanced age of 80. Crazy Scandihoovian…

Not the artistic avenue I care to trod. I would rather heed Mr. Vonnegut’s words and do my part to make the world bearable. We need it more than ever right now. My studio has never felt more like a holy place than it does today, where I can retreat for the greater good.

Peace be with you all.

March Pop-up

March has never been a favorite month of mine. I feel as though it has no personality, palette or presence - just a boring month of grayness between a (usually) white winter and green spring. I’m not Irish nor a fan of college basketball either, so as February ends, I have nothing to look forward to except 31 days of limbo until spring finally emerges in April and the curtain lifts on a new day.

This year, however, an early gift arrived in my studio in the form of a call from the intrepid artist and arts advocate Don Wilkinson. In the event you aren’t familiar with Don, he’s another Southcoast Swain graduate who writes regularly for the New Bedford Standard-Times, Artscope and Art New England magazine. Look him up - his writing is very good and you can always count on Don to stir things up when needed.

One of Don’s many hats is that of curator at the New Bedford grill and tavern, The Pour Farm, where he organizes a monthly show of local work to coincide with AHA night, New Bedford’s free Downtown Cultural Night. He called to offer me a last minute slot, to be hung this week. If there’s anything I hate to see, its artwork gathering dust in the corner of the studio, so I jumped. Artwork was exchanged yesterday and Thursday night, my Bungalow Series will be hanging alongside the well-stocked bar. If you’re in the area, stop by after checking out the local galleries, events and other arts venues. I’ll be there - perhaps we can share a pint!

The "Process"

Ever since I’ve been blogging and sending out newsletters, I’ve been asked countless times how I make my art. It’s easily the second most asked question I receive after “How long did that painting take?” (why does that even matter? Why do we need to quantify everything?) Anyway…there’s many levels of answers to the relatively simple query of how one makes art - many of which lead to philosophical rabbit holes that are best left to art school students and stoned bookstore clerks. Been there. Done that. Instead, I’ll join the fray and try and map out the quantifiable mechanics - the PROCESS - of how this guy makes his art. At the end of the day, it’s importance only applies to me, and it changes constantly, but I’ll give you a peek behind the curtain at the basics…since you asked…because curiosity should be rewarded.

This is the point in my former life in the corporate world where I carefully map out a schematic diagram, complete with boxes, arrows, dotted lines (oh, the dotted lines of uncertainty!) and parallel paths. Then I put it in a Powerpoint slide (to make it real,) and promptly forget about it. In my current world, there are only three main boxes, each containing their own cloudy and chaotic stuff. They most often occur in this order:

Hunting - Where I open my eyes, mind and emotions to what is possible. In the case of landscapes, this most often takes the form of wandering. I go to a spot and walk around. If I see something that captures my interest I take a photo. It can be anything - an object, a panorama, a person, a manhole, a simple color or odd shape. It all goes into the photo library in my Cloud for later inspection. I try not to fall in love with something, but merely flirt with it. I scavenge, steal and scrape stuff from the place I’m exploring and never edit. You never know what will resonate later on. My good friend, Bob Byrnes taught me this sensibility. His studio was festooned (I love that word - festooned) with leaves, sticks, candy wrappers, anything he might glean a color or whatever from in a painting to come. It is a valuable tool, this wandering eye, although it does make for a rather large Cloud subscription - I’m currently at over 50,000 images. These are my raw materials.

Gathering - This either takes place back in the studio or in a coffee shop over a steaming cuppa. It’s the time to open the entire library of images, stir in the intangibles - such as my current state of mind, the weather outside, and the aroma of the Americano next to your monitor - and start putting it all together. Sometimes it coalesces quickly and assembles itself, but more often it takes some time to work out. In theory, it could even be raw - one image begging to turn into a painting. In my studio, that never happens - I’m always going to monkey around with things. The tools I use at this point are pencil, Illustrator, charcoal, Photoshop and my laser printer. The idea is to produce a maquette or sketch to be used as a blueprint for the final piece.

Making - Tack up the plan in the studio next to the easel, find a surface to manipulate and a medium to play with, choose the appropriate playlist, and GO. In my youth, I started by sketching onto the surface first, then added color. Now, since the drawing is done in the second step, I only plot out the basic composition and then add color and other elements layer by layer. From there on, the painting determines it’s own path. It’s done when it says it’s done, no sooner, no later. I like hard surfaces - in watercolors, I use thick board, in oils I most often use cradled wooden panels. My oil paint of choice is Williamsburg. My watercolors are a Japanese brand I haven’t the keyboard to type here. Brushes and knives and sticks vary as needed and/or available. The playlist is very important and it can be anything from acoustic to zydeco. The only constant is that the end of a painting session ALWAYS ends with metal, preferably Motorhead, Metallica or Tool. It clears the palette, so to speak.

The best part about this dance is that it should, can and will fluctuate with the wind.

The only discipline needed is to show up.

Curiosity will be rewarded.

New Work for a New Year

Like most of us, I spend the period immediately following the holidays trying to catch my breath. The compacted burst of energy expended in the sprint of celebration gives way first to a trot, then a slow walk, and then hopefully, respite. As a large mammal, I relish this “hibernation time” and squeeze as much relaxation as possible out of the short, dark days of winter. I tell myself that I deserve the midday nap, the rescheduling of an appointment, or putting off of a mundane chore. Of course, it’s all procrastination. But still…it feels pretty good.

EXCEPT in the studio. Time away from making art only makes it harder to make art when you finally get off your ass and stand again before the easel. Your visual calibration is off. You find yourself seeing color less acutely and the pieces of a composition take longer to fit into the perfect spot. Your brush feels stiff (as does your lower back) and your tubes of pigment are difficult to crack open due to negligence. And you know this. You’ve been painting for a long time and it’s not like the holidays and their aftermath are a surprise. Yet every year I fall into the same pattern and arise from the couch in mid-to-late January wondering why I haven’t made any new paintings yet. It would be easy to say it’s all part of the process, but it’s more likely just laziness.

At any rate, last week I stumbled down to Intramural Studio, dusted off my workspace and got back to work. After some sketching, watercolor wandering and false starts, this painting of Queen Cleans emerged. The subject matter surprised me, to tell the truth. I thought I’d left vintage signage and crusty urban landscapes behind a few years ago. But, I’ve learned to trust in my internal compass, so here it is. Don’t know what’s next in the queue, but I’ll keep you posted.

Uncle Olaf, My Swedish Sculptural Heritage

I am actually only a small percentage Swedish, yet that strand of my DNA takes over every December, as Christmas in my household is full-on Scandinavian, complete with mostly colorless (but delicious) smorgasbord and my brother’s amazing Jul Glogg. My Swedish-born grandmother made sure of that and it has been that way ever since in my heart and stomach. Of course, it may also have something to do with the 100% Swede I married 40 years ago. At any rate, Christmas means “God Jul!!” and “Skol!” and always brings that branch of the family tree to the forefront of my consciousness.

In the studio, that inevitably leads to thoughts of Uncle Olaf Anderson, my great-grandfather’s older brother. It was he who first emigrated to America from Goteborg, Sweden in the late 1800’s. He was a sculptor, trained at the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris, and I imagine that America, particularly New York City, was viewed as a land of artistic opportunity. Virtually all other details of Olaf’s life are bits of family history and conjecture, which in themselves are fascinating, such as:

He worked on the sculpture in the New York Public Library, specifically the ceiling friezes and the lions on either sides of the front steps.

He was acquainted with and worked for Stanford White, the preeminent NY architect.

He married a jazz singer, Svea Doderberg, who frequented the speakeasies of Harlem (and sadly, died very young of complications due to alcoholism).

He had a sculpture in the 1939 World’s Fair in New York.

He traveled the world extensively, bringing back stories of adventure.

These tidbits of oral history are only hearsay, and yet to be confirmed. There are many personal theories, supposed connections and leads to be explored, but I have taken it upon myself to track down what I can. At the moment the only tangible evidence he left is a small collection of artwork, dispersed among my family. A couple of plaster busts, relief maquettes and bronze commemorative medals. They lead me to think that he was a decorative artisan, charged with executing the artistic ideas of architects and artists in the age before computerized fabrication. A time when hand skills were highly valued and hard to come by.

I actually have visual memories of meeting my Great-Uncle Olaf in his last years in a nursing home in Brockton, MA. I was but a toddler, yet a large old man with a funny accent and white mustache holding me in his lap is burned in the back corners of my mind even today. I hope to build on that memory. Any suggestions or information would be most appreciated.

God Jul!

Library Galleries

I was sitting in the gallery of the Newton Free Library a couple weeks ago after hanging my latest show, when it occurred to me how often I had been there before. Not specifically in Newton (though I had shown there in 2012), but in the art space of a public library. In fact, the first time I ever showed my artwork in public was in the Flora T. Little Gallery, a small, but inviting exhibition space at the Bridgewater Public Library. That was in 1981 and I had no idea what I was doing. I was fresh out of college, painting in an unheated studio in my garage (2Car Studio). I was eager and excited, though more than a little nervous to reveal my artwork to the masses. Little did I know I had stumbled upon the gentlest and most benevolent of venues - a public space where people who didn’t often visit commercial galleries could browse comfortably and without pressure. The space was unpretentious and honest and, because of this, patrons were at ease and incredibly engaging. I didn’t sell any paintings, but I did get a write-up in the local paper (www.printmedia.what?) and received all manners of commentary, both good and bad, all constructive.

Since that time, I’ve shown in many library galleries, including Lakeville (Great Ponds Gallery), Bridgewater State University (Wallace Anderson Gallery) and, as mentioned, Newton Free Library. All have been nothing but positive experiences, yielding exposure to many sets of eyes, thoughtful feedback and, yes, even a few sales. Suffice it to say, they have been an integral part of my artistic dialogue with the world.

Hey, Bungalow Bill...

Returning for a repeat performance from last summer’s show in Bridgewater, is my Bungalow Series of paintings. This time, they will grace the main hall of Newton Free Library, 330 Homer St., Newton, MA. I’ve shown my work at this library before and it is a wonderful venue in which to view art. This time around I’m sharing the month of November with another fine artist, watercolorist Anita Helen Cohen. We will be hosting a joint opening reception on Thursday, November 7 from 7:00PM to 8:30PM. I hope you can join us!

If you are not familiar with the Bungalow Series, it is a collection of small paintings I did in 2017 and 2018. My wife and I were considering downsizing at the time, and were intrigued by the design, economy, and personality of the many cozy bungalow homes we came across in our travels. They were geometrically curious and distinctive, often painted in unique hues, and very friendly-looking. I found myself taking a lot of photos and cropping them to explore various compositions. Bringing those images into the studio, and painting from them, they began to assemble themselves into an unplanned collection, each informing the next, until a family was born.

Looking at the series now, I see them as group of portraits, each bungalow facing forward, proud and confident. Accordingly, they are presented in found vintage frames, such as you’d find hanging over the steam radiator in the corner of your Aunt Jane’s home. They feel like icons from an earlier, more humble time.

What's the Idea?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about conceptual art. More specifically on how it fits into my art-making process. And I’ve decided that it doesn’t, and that’s ok. Though most of the big shows and art press are all about installations, performances, and the like, I don’t work that way. I work the other way around - let me ‘splain…

All artist’s conceptualize - even Bob Ross did. His happy trees and babbling brooks didn’t appear out of the ether. We humans are thinking machines, even artists. It’s simply a matter of how you conceptualize. Some artists (like me) work out our ideas visually and then ruminate on a body of work to see what that unconscious incubator between the ears has been conceptualizing in the background. Others do the thinking part up front. And I would guess that the execution is already mostly completed in their heads before they pick up a tool. It’s simply a matter of the order of the process.

It took me awhile to figure this out. In art school, one of my best friends was probably the first conceptualist I knew of. Her name was Sharon McCarthy (RIP), and she was a conceptual sculptor. She often spent more time planning and thinking about her work than in the execution. We had many animated discussions about what was more important - the idea or the finished piece. The answer, of course, is both, but I didn’t know that at the age of nineteen.

Fast forward forty years and I’ve learned a few things, thank God. Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have the deep appreciation for guys like John Magnan. You can see his new show at The Narrows Center for the Arts in Fall River. It’s entitled “Thor’s Hammer” and it’s well worth the trip if you want to be intellectually stimulated AND visually floored by a body of conceptual art. The entire package needs to be experienced in person, so I won’t synopsize here, but please check it out. It has everything a great piece of conceptual art needs: a unique perspective, clarity and an idea that excites your mind AND eyes.

THAT’s conceptualism.

The Shed Off the Kitchen

While cleaning in my studio this past week, I came upon a triptych tucked in a corner that played a big role in kicking off my expedition into the arts. The woman who painted it is unknown to me - she signed the piece with a rune/symbol not unlike Prince - but what she created, the space she worked in and how she brought a painting to life, has stayed with me to this day.

In the spring of 1971, my mother decided to commission portraits of her children by an artist in the neighboring town of East Bridgewater. So off we went one chilly spring day to sit for her. I was 14, Pam was turning 13 and Mark was 9. The idea was to have us each sit for a half hour at a time while the other two entertained themselves and stayed out of trouble. A bold plan, especially in the space we found ourselves - a cramped and cluttered shed next to the back door of an old farmhouse in the woods. It was heated by wood too, so staying out of the artist’s way, comfortable, and safely away from the pot-bellied stove was a challenge. We each balanced on a tall stool for our individual poses and, when “on deck” I found myself completely transfixed by this artist’s dance with her craft. I probably expected her to draw an outline and “color it in” with paint - blue for my sister’s eyes, brown for my groovy fringed vest, etc. What I witnessed instead was what later became so familiar - deep observation, not of the objects themselves, but of form and color, light and shape. And it was magic….and I wanted to learn how to do it.

When the sessions were over and the transaction completed, the three portraits came home and were hung on our den wall for a short time, as I recall. I don’t think they were well-received by my parents, being a bit too contemporary for their tastes, and they sat in a closet until I rediscovered them while in art school. Since then, they have traveled with me. Each time I see them, they immediately recall the smell of linseed oil, turpentine, wood smoke and earth - smells that forever mean STUDIO to me.

Postscript - If anyone out there has any information about the identity of this artist, I would be very grateful to hear it. As I said, she was living in East Bridgewater, MA (very close to Robbins Pond) in 1971. I think she was about 30 or so. Thanks.

Randy, 1971, oil on linen - Artist Unknown

Influencers

People often ask me who has influenced my work, but what they’re really looking for is an “art-anchor” to link me to a style. While I fully understand that need, I wish we as adults could clear our minds enough to experience things afresh and see art more viscerally. As adults we have a pressing need for context to what we’re experiencing at any given moment. We have big brains and, by god, we’re going to use them to their fullest! That’s why children’s reactions to my work matter greatly to me. Uncluttered minds and innocent eyes see and process clearly and cleanly.

But, I’m an adult, and have thought more deeply and thoroughly about my art than some would think. Someone once said “You don’t HAVE to be an idiot to be an artist” and I think truer words have not been spoken. I don’t know any painter, sculptor, designer, musician, writer or basket weaver who hasn’t studied fanatically their particular medium and it’s history. And, in art education you attach yourself to the coattails of some heavy hitters…and they become your personal gurus.

Among my personal Jesus’ are Fairfield Porter, Rackstraw Downes, Edward Hopper, Richard Diebenkorn and Louisa Mattiasdottir. If you don’t know them, look them up. To me they are eternally interesting, inspiring and full of untapped lessons.

Sixth Avenue I - Fairfield Porter

Horizon, Ocean View - Richard Diebenkorn

Icelandic Village, 1991 - Louisa Mattiasdottir

110th Street & Broadway, Whelan’s from Sloan’s - Rackstraw Downes

Therapy

Watercolor painting is relatively new to me. In the past, I avoided it like the plague. I like to think that was because my sense of color is richer than the medium is capable of, but I suspect the real reason is because I’m a control freak. Tight composition and geometry has always been my strong suit and the thought of swirling, interweaving of pigment in my painting made me shiver with anxiety. At any rate, the only time I used watercolor was in solitary hikes among the woods and bogs of Myles Standish State Forest. This was about 30 years ago and I had a small field palette I would bring with me to sketch out plein air studies for future, larger paintings. They were useful as studies, but I paid them little mind, really.

About a year ago I lost my little sister to cancer - a loss that continues to deeply pain me daily. Immediately afterward, the very thought of doing any painting at all was practically impossible, though I knew that if I did, it would help me get through the sadness. Not to be over-dramatic, but me entering my studio has always been like going to church - a place of ritual where I hold conversations with my conscience and my better self. So, I dragged myself there as much as I could, though many times I just sat in my hammock-chair and brooded.

Enter watercolors, the medium that forced me to give up control and let expression flow freely. I still had the little field kit and a dusty pad of Arches paper sitting on a shelf. One day I picked up a brush, poured some water in a tumbler and made some marks….then some more, and the faucet was open. Watercolors became my tears.

Now, a year later, I have a tall stack of watercolors - some good, most not. But regardless of their quality and value as art, they served a very real purpose - one of grief, pain, redemption, second guessing, but also joy, confirmation and freedom. My work has been affirmed.

Failures

There is no one, absolutely no one, who is above failure and that is no different in the arts. Just as Mookie Betts goes 0 for 5 in the occasional game, a painter produces a dog here and there…in fact, it’s more often than not that the work doesn’t stand up to expectations. The basement archives of the Metropolitan Museum of Art are filled with examples. A clumsy figure study by Degas, a boring still-life by Renoir, they are all there, only held onto because of historical and academic value.

The trick is to learn from the bad apples and try to avoid them in future projects. Lately I seem to have produced many, many simply bad paintings and drawings. I won’t even show them to my cat. But, I will take photos of them for my archive (far less impressive than The Met’s) and then trash them or save them for the springtime rite of studio cleansing and toss them in the sacrificial pyre.

Bogs

I’ve recently begun returning to an old motif that early in my career meant very much to me - cranberry bogs. They were everywhere around me at home and on weekends while camping in Myles Standish Reservation. I thought of their geometry and design as my own personal vistas - dare I say, much like Cezanne and his quarries. They were manmade landscapes, full of angles and planes and all the puzzle pieces I enjoy playing with on canvas.

Ironically, it was around the time I embarked on my corporate day job as a Graphic Design Manager for Ocean Spray Cranberries that I left the painting of bogs behind and explored more urban areas. Maybe it was because I was I need of relief from little red berries in both sides of my artistic life…or perhaps I was just sick of them. Nevertheless, I didn’t paint a bog, shack or surrounding area for many years.

Until recently. I walk by a couple bogs right around the corner from where I live and not too long ago, they began calling again. It was like finding an old friend on Facebook. They looked pretty much the same, but I have started looking at them in a quite different way.

The Shack at Rocky Pond, 1980 - 5x7, watercolor

The Bogs at Rocky Pond, 1980 - 5x7, watercolor

Tripledeckers

Throughout my art career, the three storied apartment building, commonly called a “tripledecker” (or in the vernacular, “tripledeckah” has often been a motif I explore. Of course, in my neck of the woods they are everywhere, so if you’re an urban landscapist it’s hard to avoid them. But they are also a deep part of my heritage. In fact, the first apartment my parents brought me home from the hospital to was in a triple that still stands on the south side of Brockton. And one of my own first apartments was the top floor of another one on Hillberg Ave. Many of my relatives, friends and acquaintances lived in them and the spiraling staircases to the 2nd and 3rd floors are a common pathway in my psyche. To me, tripledeckers represent family life, multi-generational living and interdependency. I’m comforted that they stand tall in my world.