Departure

     I asked the subject of my work for the summer to take a small break from her own endless work schedule so that I could get a picture of her looking at this series of paintings.  She could not understand what was so interesting about her life, and viewed the work with skepticism.  At ninety, she does not have much time to reflect, only to dig, plant, mend, and maybe visit when that is done.  All of these paintings need work after transporting them back home.  To the right in the bottom left picture are crates full of recently dug potatoes...to her that's real work and she takes a lot of pride in that.

     All seven paintings are rolled up and wrapped with tape and craft/wax paper, and my stretchers are fastened to my easel waiting for more abuse next summer.  One last contribution from the flatbread truck, and everything pushed behind the farming tools and baby potatoes ready to be replanted.  The next adventure is getting these onto a plane and home after a couple days of rest in Tokyo.  My next post will be the re-stretching of this work thousands of miles from where it was made, and the continuance of my reflection and painting based on photos, drawing, memory, and yes...feelings.

Just Plain Air

     Today I got back to how I began painting more than fifteen years ago.  Packing up all my stuff, and tailgating Henri style.  The six paintings that I have been working on are ten days away from being stripped from their stretchers and rolled into a tube, so every minute of drying time is necessary.  For this reason I am forced to take a break from the figural works I have been happily struggling with.  Since painting is how I cope, and breathe, some good old fashioned on-site work was well deserved.  Although this was made with oil and canvas, I wouldn't compare it to what guys like the brothers Meyer are doing, this is more of a sketch or drawing to me.  There is no labor-intensive component, very little subtractive methods or nervous anticipation.  No big financial risk with regards to materials, and little expectations.  No underpainting, drawings in preparation or real contemplative spirit...just painting.  Mostly I spent this time working on calligraphic brushwork and playing with emphasis, focus, and color...too much color.  Ironically this painting will sell first if my own history repeats itself.
     I watched a documentary film about a bunch of art experts trying to determine the credibility of a dumpster diver who found an alleged Pollack and was searching for its provenance.  The movie is great if you have not seen it, but the sticking line was from an art historian whom when looking at the piece simply denied it's viability by saying, "It doesn't feel like a Pollack, it doesn't fly like a Pollack, it doesn't fail like a Pollack."  And rather than discredit the great tradition of outdoor painting, I would say that in the context of my own work, this just doesn't fail like a Fontinha.  That being said, tomorrow I will get out there and try to see what I can do about it in a second session.  I will try to post updates as to the state of my figural work while it lives in this purgatory stage of drying.  I look forward to re-stretching them and giving them some final moments of struggle in my studio back home.

A New Visitor

     I have been thinking about why I am working on this series about "the visit."  Above is the beginning of numbers three and four.  A visit requires planning, there are economic considerations, often it means more with time and space.  A visit is constructed and has a precarious set of circumstances within.  Sometimes after a visit I wish I said more or less, and many times this seemingly meaningless event takes an unexpected or important turn.  There is a vulnerability, an area of feeling opened.  These are all things that are true of the painting process, as well as a curious need for human contact.  Why do we do it?  I have thought a lot about a comment from a colleague whom I respect about my figures looking wooden.  This has made me think of the people who first turned me on to painting, particularly Max Beckmann.  His woodcuts and paintings are only separated by color.  Stiff celebrations of drawing and composition, layers of hands like limbs. Wood has a life after death that is intriguing to me.  There is a static breath in these wooden figures that I enjoy.   They are easier to understand than actual people.  After all, movement can be implied in a figural painting, but we know they are still.

     In regards to the paint itself, I am enjoying the increase in awkwardness, and the decision to be less decisive in areas.  I don't want to paint pretty things, or things that entirely make sense, that would be really abstract.  These paintings are of the same subject, my ninety year old Grandmother-in-law.  In these two, a man from next door who I have always admired named Ryokusan (6th son) is the guest.  As is usually the case, she defers to him being the host, everything is for his comfort, and this is why she sits lower in the paintings, I think she would feel awkward about the reverse.