The Art of Deflection...

So summer is over and I've not posted a damn thing and I'm feeling a little guilty about that...OK, not that guilty. But just to make good a bit I'm putting up this great video of two masters of Jazz. What does this have to do with visual art? EVERYTHING. Couldn't paint without Coltrane or Davis. And I'm not alone. Music inspires visual art much like visual art inspires musicians to write and play. A lovely synchronicity.

The Art of The Self Portrait.

When exactly does an artist decide it's time to paint themselves? I can tell you from my experience that it is a hard endeavor that I have done only two times in my life. I have posed for four other paintings, but anonymously.  

Is it easy for an artist to be subjective with their own face and body? My mother... yes, here we go again with my mother. I know it seems like a lot on my blog is written about her but there is so much of her life that I have not even touched on that is so monumental, so historical. One day soon I will need to write a book about her and our story. But I digress, so let me get back on point... my mother had this little song she used to sing that roughly translated from Italian says " Who cares if I'm not that pretty, I have a lover who is a painter and he will paint me beautiful!" Well, that is the question, isn't it? Does a painter go to truth or does he/she go to vanity. How does a painter want to see themselves on canvas? Can they paint themselves with complete honesty and candor? I have seen many examples of self-portraits that have done just that. And some that you sense a discomfort with the truth and therefore see a certain "Make-Up" application to the self-portrait. The artist puts in something that makes the artist feel less vulnerable to the viewer. And thus the viewer leaves feeling as though they have just seen a ghost and not a real person. Here are some examples of self-portraits that are stripped bare of vanity to the point of brutal honesty. 

Vincent Van Gogh,  Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 1889

In Van Gogh's work shown above, there is a calm resignation as though cutting away a part of himself has given him a serenity that escaped him in his previous self-portraits. He is not documenting his torment but rather his determination to get some peace, at any cost. His love of painting is still very much a part of his bliss as seen in his depiction of the beloved Japanese print that he places on the wall behind him. He does not let go of the parts of life that give him joy. Where there are those who look at this work and think of sorrow and desperation, I see a triumph of the human spirit. Van Gogh painted until the very end. He found bliss in spite of the demons that haunted him and eventually devoured him.

Lucien Freud, Reflection (Self Portrait), 1985

Lucien Freud's self-portrait above was done when he was 63. He is looking at a man in the mirror who is no longer young and with many years ahead of him. This is a time in life that is transitional, from mid-life to the threshold of old age. Freud decided to step over that threshold into that last portion of life with this self-portrait. He paints it with a gusto. He exaggerates each and every wrinkle and dip in his face. In a way he is painting his soon coming future. And that my dear reader takes enormous courage. Because it's not vanity that he is overcoming but death itself.

Atemisia Gentileschi, Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting, 1630's

My final example is a self-portrait done by the pioneer female painter, Artemisia Gentileschi. Gentileschi was born in Rome in 1593 to an artist father, Orazio Gentileschi. He had sons but his daughter Artemisia is the one who showed exceptional ability worthy of taking her in his successful studio. The very fact that she was the one chosen among her brothers shows just how amazing her talent was. She was one of the major painters of the Baroque period. She was accepted as a major talent by all in the art elite of the time. She was the first woman accepted into the Academy of the Arts of Drawing in Florence in the 1620's. She had patrons like Cosimo de' Medici, Queen Henrietta of France and was the court painter for a time to England's King Charles I. And in between this very glorious career, there was drama. Her father had his apprentice arrested and tried on rape charges against Artemisia. The trial lasted longer than his sentence, one year. And he did not even serve that. Artemisia was put through Hell during the trial. She was slandered and she was tortured with diabolical means to confess that she was a wonton whore who seduced the apprentice. She stayed strong and he was found guilty even if he didn't serve any time. So knowing all this, when I look at Gentileschi's self- portrait above I see a painter who wants us to watch her at work. There is a need, no, a hunger to make the viewer see that she is indeed the painter who makes these incredible paintings that most male painters could not even imagine to do. It's as though she does not trust history to keep her in the story of art. And in a way she was very correct in that fear, if she did indeed fear this. She was overlooked for the most part for the master that she was because of her sex. But in this self-portrait she demonstrates with entire body and head just how much she and her work are one. This self-portrait is a shot across the bow in the war of the sexes in the art world.  And it will forever be a shot that will hit it's target.

Frederick J. Brown

Frederick J. Brown
1945-2012

The handsome man above was a great painter. He was also a marvelous man. Intelligent, kind and always ready to laugh. I shall always remember Fred with great affection. He had a smile I can still remember to this day. It was as beautiful as him. It was a smile that came from the very core of what made him so special. 

The Art of Being Two People.

Above is a 1810 Goya painting called "Bullfight in a Divided Ring'. This is what is on and staring at my sleepy face when I turn on my laptop in the morning. I chose it as my laptop wallpaper for many reasons. The most compelling is my love for this strange and most beautiful painting. I discover little secrets about it every time I look at it. Each time I turn on the laptop to do whatever I had in mind to do, this painting stops me cold. I stare and stare at it like a hungry chubby child in a candy store. Goya is one of my painter heros. His work is from every part of his mind and experience. And a part of his experience is the long running history of the Spanish Bullfight. And this is where the title of my post comes in. I'm torn about this subject matter. Part of me is fascinated by the pageantry and the spectacle. Imagine the balls it takes to stand in a ring with just a sword and await a twelve hundred pound, pissed off bull to charge at you. It's like the famous quote of Hemingway, "Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor". On all things bullfighting, Hemingway says it best and Goya shows it best. The problem is that while bullfighting may seem like a semi-fair fight between man and beast, it is not. It is still a forced and sadistic death of an animal for entertainment. The Picadores horses that are also in the ring with the Matador are blindfolded and attacked repeatedly by the massive and angry bull. Yes, the horses get some padding but I hardly think that is enough to make the slightest difference when that bull is charging over and over again at that blindfolded horse. I have been to a bullfight a very long time ago and I was surrounded by people who were trying to get me not to run away and throw up. I managed to disassociate myself and and by the end of the thing I was completely desensitized and an "Ole!" cheering zombie. It was only later that I realized that I had lost a part of my ethical soul. A little piece of it died that day by being able to stay through and watch such sadism. I have never seen another bullfight again, even on film. But alas this is where I am two people on this subject. Because you see, I love the art that comes from this horrible and despicable ritual. The bullfighting paintings of Goya and Manet are some of the most raw and soul curdling works ever painted. Manet's 'Dead Matador' so touched me viewing it as a child that I painted my own version of it called 'Dead Housewife'. This back and forth struggle does not end well. I'm constantly in mental pain and guilt when I indulge myself in any of the pageantry of the bullfight. While I would never attend another bullfight, I do love looking at all of the beautiful accoutrements that go with it, the clothes, the esthetics of the ancient bullrings, the strange rituals. But then I think of what all that beauty is for...

Edouard Manet, Dead Matador, 1864

Lola Scarpitta, Dead Housewife, 2006

The Studio.

This is my studio. This is where I have painted for the last 8 years. It's not big but it has good light and a wonderful feeling of being, at least in my mind, in a 17th century Paris apartment. It's here that my imagination takes root and takes me on far away journeys. It's in the studio where I can have conversations with myself and with those long gone but essential to the alchemy of creating. It has great windows with jasmine growing outside and when the scent of jasmine combines with my favorite smell of oil paint, it just adds to the intoxicating conversation. And to add to the mix there is a large library where I keep all of my well worn art books and biographies. When I need a slap of direction I go to the library with some if not all of the answers waiting there for me.

I have had a great many studios. Some more glamourous than others. I have worked in my parents studios, school studios, my living room, garage, basement, my bedroom, a loft above a glorious 1920's Art Deco movie theater in Hollywood but none have been as joyous as the studio I work in now. It's in my home and that makes it so easy. I get a flash and I go paint. No matter what time of the day or night. The clock does not exist, only my ideas and my energy map the day. My dog Charley, a very large and distinguished blue-black standard Poodle, loves to sleep near me as I paint. Sometimes I don't see him move and I trip over him as I move around the canvas. He just looks up at me with a look that says "Your forgiven, now go about your business without being so clumsy!"  There is also Tina, my little dog that only likes to go into my studio to give her opinion of my work with a well placed poop. Usually in front of the painting I'm working on. Lucky for me (and her) I'm Italian and we consider it really good luck when there is poop on or near us in times of importance. So as you can see, this is really my very sacred place. It is my touchstone. It is my talisman. In truth, the thought was that as long as I did not have to share a studio it was bliss. Unless my studio mates are my dogs...they are part of the bliss now.

My Studio taken with a Lumix LX 5

Cosmos Mariner, 60 X 48, oil on canvas

This is the painting that was on the easel in the photo above. I finally finished it, after many different incarnations and many months, this is what the painting wanted me to do. I should have just listened to it from the start.

The Art of a Good Joke.

Sometimes, and some might say most times, art historians get things very wrong. This I would say is one of those occassions. The news yesterday and today was full of headlines proclaiming that the Mona Lisa has a long lost twin. This "Twin Mona" has been in the Prado since 1819 and before that in the hands of the Spanish royal family from 1666 (a full 160 years or so AFTER the Leonardo's Mona Lisa). The claim is not that Leonardo himself painted it but that one of his students did... side by side with Leonardo himself. Uh....Why?... because the black overpainting of the background was removed and that uncovered a landscape! Hey! Leonardo's Mona has a landscape!!! Ok, Leonardo's landscape is exquisite and this one not so much. But let's not stop there. And because the painting is on a Walnut panel! Hey! Leonardo's Mona is on a Poplar Panel!.. but wood is wood, right??? Nevermind that wood panels were used by countless other painters from that period until now. 
Here is my biggest problem with the "Twin" Mona Lisa. She's butt ugly. Yep. There. I said it. No way would Leonardo let a student make a copy of a portrait that he carried with him all over Europe for years, that was that ugly. Nope. Never. This Mona is not a twin but a mere copy made *after* Leonardo. So far and so after Leonardo, that there was no danger of this person getting a kick in the ass from Leonardo's well placed foot. That's my belief and I'm sticking with it. 
What's that, Leonardo sir? Oh, You're most welcomed.

The real Mona Lisa on the left and the ugly "Twin" on the right.

The Art of Being Cool Without Being Cold.

On this first day of 2012 I wish to remember my first glimpse of NYC. While I arrived from Rome a few years later than this film below, it was, more or less, what I walked into. The sidewalks of Rome and the path to my beautiful and enormous 4 bedroom "Piano Nobile" floor apartment on Via Bocca di Leone, in the Spanish Steps neighborhood was traded out for some mysterious reason for a 400 square foot apartment with one bedroom and bath in NYC's Greenwich Village. It was a healthy five floor walk up that made your chest pound by the time you got up to 4th floor. 

At times, my generous mother even had needy guests stay with us for months at a time. There would be four people in that tiny apartment with hardly a kitchen. And then there were the parties...and boy, could my mother throw a party!! Usually 3 or 4 a month. Almost all writers, artists and art collectors with I'm sure more than a few street people spotting a free drink to be had. My mother had an uncanny ability to do what Jesus did with the multiplying of the fishes in finding a way to have enough booze for her guests. Sometimes so many people came that there would be a complete takeover of the small Morton Street apartment building. People all over place... the stairwell, the roof, the firescape. I was always present for these parties. And I was taken to parties as well. It was the best part of my childhood to see and hear the goings on in these get togethers. Some were more exciting than others. Like the party my mother's good friends the Italian newspaper journalist Marco Cesarini Sforza and his wife, the glorious Antonietta gave for John Huston in their beautiful upper east side apartment. I can remember that party so well.  Huston's film "The Bible" had just opened. We actually did not see the film or for that matter, any films because my mother suffered from claustrophobia so movie theaters were out for her. A lively and packed party was one thing but closed and dark places with people surrounding her was quite another. But what I remember most vividly from that particular party was the crowd telling Mr. Huston that, at age 9, I  wished to become a movie star. I'm not sure I really had a passion for acting, just the fame. I was most certainly suffering from what must have been the first case of ParisHiltonkardashianitis. That prompted him to prop me on his lap and rightly explain myself. I must have done a good job and I really wish that I could remember what I said because he let out a huge laugh, gave me a hug and promised to put me in one of his films when I turned 18. The crowd roared with laughter. I was such a flirt. Even at that age. 

But I digress...The Village had become our strange refuge from the fairytale that was my childhood in Rome. The end of innocence but the beginning of a new life in a city that remains my most loved home. And where I learned from all those around me, especially my mother, how to be cool without being cold.

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