2019. Acrylic and collage on wood panel. 12 x 12 in.
Haven’t been posting because I’ve been painting and not feeling like switching to the talking-about-it channel. I have several new works but haven’t been able to settle down to signing and photographing them.
This is a collage from 2019, done on a cradled wood panel. The smoothness and solidity of wood panels are so different from canvas and provoke different moves from me. The materials here include the green handmade paper, a bit of resume paper, the linear piece of my precious vintage construction paper in a dusty rose, and a disk of matte photo paper painted red. The red netting is, indeed, plastic produce netting from the supermarket. It was gratifyingly easy to shape and glue down.
I enjoy making collages and always feel I’m about to make more, though I rarely actually do. That may change someday. I hope so, as they are a distinct channel with results I don’t get any other way. I think perhaps because I usually base my paintings on line, but the collages are much more about shape.
Anyway, I like this one.
Untitled (12 20)
December 2020. Acrylic and collage on canvas. 11 x 14 in.
From the three I started around the same time, last October. I had quite a different idea in mind at first, and played around with some colored pieces with really unsatisfying results. I ended up cutting them up and here they landed. This was much more the feeling I was going for originally, but not through the route I was expecting. The collage is deli paper painted with cadmium yellow medium acrylic, so it has a slight translucency which I liked.
I’m playing around with some similar ideas in the studio right now, and I have to say it’s not working out well. Lightning never strikes in the same place twice.
Untitled (1 5 21)
January 2021. Acrylic on canvas. 11 x 14 in.
I really love this painting. I finished it maybe five weeks ago, but I began it months before that, in 2020. It started with just the scaffolding of the black line, as my pieces so often do, and that part went quickly. But I looked at it for a long time before deciding on my next moves. It then fell into place just click-click-click, with no fussing.
I actually started three canvases in almost the same way at that same time, and they all resolved quite differently; I’ll post the other two sometime soon.
Anyway, the straight-ahead orange and yellow with the pastel turquoise please me, as does the handling of the small yellow figure at the bottom right and its connection to its uncolored echo in the upper mid left. Simple elements in balanced yet restless relation. Altogether abstract and yet mysteriously familiar, pleasurably resonant of something that actually doesn’t exist. This satisfies me.
Aquaria No. 6.
2020. Acrylic and ink on wood panel. 8 x 10 in.
I haven’t been exhibiting work for almost a year, either in-person or on-line. Covid obviously has interfered with gallery showing. And I’ve never been a fan of digital exhibition.
The estimable Twentynine Palms Gallery, however, has now put up their first solely on-line show, for their volunteers, and I do have a piece from the Plague Faces collection in it. The work is for sale, so do consider checking it out and supporting this historic gallery that has been, like so many, struggling to survive the epidemic.
Above: one of the Aquaria series, which have slowed down but not, I think, stopped entirely. This one is unusual in that it is horizontally oriented, and I’ve come to like it especially.
2001. Pastel on sandpaper, 8 x 7-3/8 in.
Axis is a small work that has remained important to me. It dates from many years ago, when I was still exploring what pastels could do. The surface was much affected by the use of spray fixative – a substance that I eventually came to mostly avoid, but whose modifying properties I have also at times found to be intriguing. The ultimate surface is difficult to accurately reproduce digitally, as is the color, which ranges from green to orange.
I’m not able to work in the studio for a few days or be focused on painting, but this piece has always been a touchstone for me. I’m always able to reach it, even when I can’t reach much else.
Bell Poem No. 11
October 2020. Acrylic on canvas. 20 x 10 in.
I haven’t posted about the Bell Poems in a while, but I haven’t stopped creating them. I wasn’t sure when I began just where they were going, and if they were ultimately going to comprise a true body of work. By early last fall I’d decided they were indeed all part of a collection that held together – if, through nothing else, that they all began with a large calligraphic gesture in black on white, on a canvas of 20 x 10 inches (or 10 x 20 – orientation is not a fixed attribute of this group). Nonetheless, they’ve proved to be of flexible character beyond that common beginning. Some, in truth, I did not designate as a bell poem at all at first, they just seemed too different. But I’ve given up on that. I think their origin dictates the class.
No. 11 above is a bit of a throwback in style to an early example, Bell Poem No. 2. In this case, though, I pushed further in not stopping with a single layer of colored stain, but rather went over the first layer of quinacridone rose with another layer of a medium green, which gives the surface vibrancy.
But things are not stopping there. A snapshot of the three latest on the studio wall:
More detail on these to come, once I’m sure they’re finished and they’re properly photographed. But, briefly, the furthest left followed an early course much like No. 11 above; the middle piece will probably remain black and white like several other of the poems; and the painting on the right goes off the regular course completely, about which more later. But I think it belongs anyway. And that feels right.
I’m beginning to believe that this will go on for a while. The elongated format and the large black brush work on white inspires me. That just seems to be the fact.
2018. Acrylic and charcoal on canvas. 11 x 14 in.
I love working with charcoal, perhaps because I love working with line and a stick of charcoal makes line that is fast, direct, and highly expressive. The less wonderful part is that it is messy and easily smeared, attributes I had more than enough of while working with pastels for decades. The common remedy is spray fixative, which I used here and works well enough but I really don’t like it.
This painting is from early in my efforts with acrylic paint, and I learning a lot in working on it – lessons that have carried on into my work ever since. It was liberating to find I could use subtraction with acrylic paint in a way I really couldn’t with pastels – meaning I could take away or beat back something I didn’t like or that was too strong, or create openings over something that had already been figured with pigment. This allows me to work both forward and back, pushing and pulling, adding and subtracting, instead of every stroke being a largely irreversible commitment that I must work around.
In this case I used titanium white to paint over passages that I wanted to remove or sublimate/soften. If this work had been in pastel I could only have pushed a passage back by covering it with thick impasto and always been in danger of being “locked out”, i.e., the tooth of the paper being filled with pigment and unable to hold more layers.
Anyway, the overall experience was liberating and the lesson one of the more profound I have discovered in my transition from pastel to acrylic paint. Another lesson is…I still love working with charcoal. A brush filled with paint will never be quite the same.
The Heart in the Bardo
December 2020. Acrylic on canvas. 14 x 11 in.
Finally, after almost a year of denial and dismissal, an acknowledgement and honoring of those lost to the coronavirus: President Biden and Vice President Harris led a national mourning at the Lincoln Memorial this evening.
At 400,000 dead we are now double what we were when I last posted the number, in late September. May this be the last time I post this text to accompany the Plague Faces:
I paint this series to recognize those who have died or suffered grave loss in this crisis, and, further, to accuse those who have knowingly, willfully, or carelessly pursued polices, actions, and inactions that allowed these deaths and suffering to happen and who continue to do so at this moment.
Plague Faces No. 21
2020. Acrylic on canvas. 11 x 14 in.
April 2020. Acrylic on canvas. 10 x 8 in.
I miss seeing people’s faces. It’s a feeling that has reached a point of sadness. I am 100% on-board with the necessary effort to universally mask until it is safe to once again reveal our full selves. But I will be happy when that day comes.
So in the meantime I’m posting this rather cheerful countenance from last spring – painted in the first days of the pandemic, when masks were still novel, and home-made, and not yet a symbol of division. Before faces became in short supply.
He’s created with alizarin crimson straight from the tube, on a canvas stained by a sponge with a mix of alizarin and raw umber. He got the name Henri I think because I was reading about some fin-de-siecle Parisian artists, or their dealers – I no longer remember who – and he just came to life for me that way.
I miss your face.
December 2020. Acrylic on canvas. 12 x 16 in.
My mother, near the end of her life, was endowed by her illness with a truly awesome power of fury – a fury of which there had been little indication during her prior 90 years, and whose aura extended exponentially beyond her tiny frame. At that time she was truly fearsome to those around her, no matter how young or how strong.
My own fury at the ongoing losses and injuries caused by a malevolent and incompetent Administration does not have near the power hers had to affect anything except myself, I fear. But it does affect me, corrosively.
The Furies do not come to rest without leaving damage; it’s their job. And they are loose in the world now.