After reading an article that cited several artists' beginnings-the moments when they first knew that they were going to be in the "creative" field, I'm a bit blank.
Here's several incidents I remember:
Making something out of clay in a pre-kindergarten special session, accompanied by both Mom and Dad. After splashing some primary color on this (and having the notion that I didn't know WTF I was doing), this object came home in a shoebox. The diorama has always been of interest to me and here I am, eons later, still working within the confines of the box…calling Sigmund….
A class session in Junior high School (aka 7th or 8th grade) in which we looked at Bridget Riley's OP Art paintings and were asked to do a graphic impression of same. Turns out, I was able to draw some fairly concentric rings. This, in turn, won me some praise from the instructor. Again, I didn't know just what I was doing or why I was doing it, but it got me some sorely-needed approval.
A set of watercolor paints was purchased for me at J.J. Korvette's. Dunno if I asked for these or if this was my Dad's desire to see his son become the artist he wanted to be (but was severely torn about, as later, when things got more serious for me and I wanted art school, not college). In true form, I was given some sheet rock panel scraps to paint on, made a mess (but a mess with intention: a seascape) and forgot about the watercolors (I'm still fairly allergic to this medium).
Wish I'd some beautiful/funny/tragic story to tell about my first steps towards becoming an artist, but this is the best I've got-pretty boring, yet all true.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Monday, December 28, 2015
dream
The bloodstone ring.
The Yellow L.T.D.
Outdoor showers with sand and sunburn.
Jessie.
The attic where we found the top hat and tails
from some gone era.
Some picnic table by a forgotten Jersey lake.
Jeanie was back with me last night, like some old ghost.
She, smiling her smile, seemed to forgive everyone for her
bouts with Lupus and early death.
The dream left me with tears in my eyes.
Her visitation preceded by Cara-she treated me
like a stranger when i stumbled into the old house,
filled with odd folks
who did not want me there, but still filled with my artwork.
I thought I had a right to be there, but was
told the opposite. We met, amongst these strangers,
who wanted me gone. We strolled around the house,
recalling some good from our past.
I left her by the strange stairway created by a hotel
that somehow got built almost on top of the old place.
The Yellow L.T.D.
Outdoor showers with sand and sunburn.
Jessie.
The attic where we found the top hat and tails
from some gone era.
Some picnic table by a forgotten Jersey lake.
Jeanie was back with me last night, like some old ghost.
She, smiling her smile, seemed to forgive everyone for her
bouts with Lupus and early death.
The dream left me with tears in my eyes.
Her visitation preceded by Cara-she treated me
like a stranger when i stumbled into the old house,
filled with odd folks
who did not want me there, but still filled with my artwork.
I thought I had a right to be there, but was
told the opposite. We met, amongst these strangers,
who wanted me gone. We strolled around the house,
recalling some good from our past.
I left her by the strange stairway created by a hotel
that somehow got built almost on top of the old place.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
letterpress
I find myself drawn to the letter form, like mathematics and straight (er) form are breaking their way into my life. I could say this is by hook or crook, but i know I have a part in welcoming them in. How long will they stay? Dunno.
I've always loved books, but not necessarily the kind created by the artist. When younger, i did some work with some old Thompson catalogs and a whole box of remaindered (and, I assume, forgotten) novels I picked up at the Salvation army store. These followed what i was doing at the time, taking a number of pages and cutting them into an imaginary topographic contour map. Then adding/subtracting successive layers…but , anyway, I love the printed page far more than the altered one.
I wonder if this will change, seeing as how, with the purchase of a LOT of letterpress equipment, my work will most definitely be influenced.
Stay tuned.
I've always loved books, but not necessarily the kind created by the artist. When younger, i did some work with some old Thompson catalogs and a whole box of remaindered (and, I assume, forgotten) novels I picked up at the Salvation army store. These followed what i was doing at the time, taking a number of pages and cutting them into an imaginary topographic contour map. Then adding/subtracting successive layers…but , anyway, I love the printed page far more than the altered one.
I wonder if this will change, seeing as how, with the purchase of a LOT of letterpress equipment, my work will most definitely be influenced.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
SteamPunk
Who the f%*k ever came up with this word?
Humans who use this as a descriptive for anything and everything that they are too lazy to otherwise describe should be forced to be (re?) educated in the use of the English language…
and , yes, I'm becoming a grumpy old man AND a bitter old artist…but, please let this buzz-word cease to exist and become supplanted by yet another inane bit of slang.
Humans who use this as a descriptive for anything and everything that they are too lazy to otherwise describe should be forced to be (re?) educated in the use of the English language…
and , yes, I'm becoming a grumpy old man AND a bitter old artist…but, please let this buzz-word cease to exist and become supplanted by yet another inane bit of slang.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Same
Is it me or the area we now inhabit or maybe the times we live in?
Now that cities and towns and even lil' villages are more homogenized, that is, infected with the same American box stores and rubber stamp "restaurants", it seems that the art I see becomes more mediocre by the day.
I wonder if this is one reason that the art market is doing so poorly: more and more, everything looks the same. After experiencing the shock value art that was prominent thirty five/forty years ago and then the pink hair and punks that followed it, I found real drama (meaningful content optional). Of course this was preceded by works that needed large warehouses in order to be seen…. and earlier yet, Andy's (et al) sarcastic contribution of Pop imagery-what went wrong? Where have we gone? Or , more to the point, not gone?
Like the cliche that history is doomed to repeat itself, it seems to me little was learned. Or maybe the LCD factor has a stronger hold: "art should be about making nice pictures, about making us laugh….and about happier times (even if we we never experienced this brand of nostalgia).
The majority of what I see out there are artists who have long ago stopped challenging themselves and joined the ranks of the Sunday painter, copying themselves (or others) ad nausea.
Born a pessimist, I expect few miracles from an art community that purports to be on the beam of the contemporary ("Western" painters excepted). But when I look for a pulse and feel nothing, I think it's time to wake up and smell the coffee.
Now that cities and towns and even lil' villages are more homogenized, that is, infected with the same American box stores and rubber stamp "restaurants", it seems that the art I see becomes more mediocre by the day.
I wonder if this is one reason that the art market is doing so poorly: more and more, everything looks the same. After experiencing the shock value art that was prominent thirty five/forty years ago and then the pink hair and punks that followed it, I found real drama (meaningful content optional). Of course this was preceded by works that needed large warehouses in order to be seen…. and earlier yet, Andy's (et al) sarcastic contribution of Pop imagery-what went wrong? Where have we gone? Or , more to the point, not gone?
Like the cliche that history is doomed to repeat itself, it seems to me little was learned. Or maybe the LCD factor has a stronger hold: "art should be about making nice pictures, about making us laugh….and about happier times (even if we we never experienced this brand of nostalgia).
The majority of what I see out there are artists who have long ago stopped challenging themselves and joined the ranks of the Sunday painter, copying themselves (or others) ad nausea.
Born a pessimist, I expect few miracles from an art community that purports to be on the beam of the contemporary ("Western" painters excepted). But when I look for a pulse and feel nothing, I think it's time to wake up and smell the coffee.
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