you know him

 

X-Ray of Peach in Dish, 1973, William Wegman.

Dear Shutterbugs,

Today I'd like to sing the praises of Wm. Wegman.  You know him, of course, as the photographer of dogs; luscious, velvety & lustrous skinned Weimaraners; they are funny, they are cute.  No one is saying they aren't.  However, however, however, there is more to this photographer.  Take these hilarious photographs; funny, smart, all about ideas and absences.  While you are on his site, check out his work on paper, and his interesting mixed media paintings.

I have had the tab to his website open on my computer for over a year now; mostly because I was not sure what I wanted to say to you about these works; and I am still not overflowing with words; but, but, but, I want you to see them, and that seems like it might be more important than waiting for me to come up with 'le bon mot,' le mot juste.'

My enthusiasm for these photographs circles around austere atmosphere and elation about ideas; may you also find frisson in viewing them!

diagrams

 

Dear Drawing,

Ooh, I love these diagrams!  I found them in a book of paintings of birds, and they are really wonderful.  They are more compelling than the actual paintings, but I give you a few of them, so you can see for yourself.  I love the compositions of the shapes, untethered from their landscape.  If you are crazy curious about the books, you can see one here, and the other, there.

The whole thing has got me thinking about the outlines, the minimum that you need to tell the tale of identity, and I am also considering the circled numbers; the corresponding text.  Is that the compelling part?  Is the appeal the way this diagram hopes to instruct?  When we see a diagram, do we get ready to receive direction?

What if, say, I took a whole lot of outlines, of things, like leaves, cups, pillows, fruit; and I put some numbers on, or near, and I painted it all up in a nice buttercup color?  That sounds like it would be swell, doesn't it?  The outlines would have maybe the barest hint of reference to them, just enough to make you think, and then we can enjoy contemplating the question posed by having these varied objects in the same picture.  

Katzen.

 

Bendix Harms

Frau Grenadier, 2019

Oil on canvas

74 3/4 x 59 1/8 in

Dear Kitties,

Do you know this painter, this artist, Bendix Harms?  Because I did not know them, and I see now that I was living a shallow, empty, passion-less life before Bendix Harms.  Be enlightened and influenced by Bendix Harms here, and here, and here, too.

herd

 

White Robe, Susan Rothenberg, 1974.

Dear Riders,

Today, a small herd of horses: a poem, two paintings, and a song.  None of these horses have been overly romanticized, or infantilized, or idealized, and I like to see that.  I hope you do, too.

Chix, Susan Rothenberg, 2003.

Marking Time.

Image courtesy of the Museum at Eldridge Street.

Dear Calendar,

You are chock full of National Days (case in point: National Create a Vacuum Day), and I cannot seem to manage to celebrate even a few of these, so I am setting my sights low, on just one per year, and National Egg Cream Day is today!  

If you have never had one, well, you can go out and find one, or you can make your own.  Here is a website devoted to egg creams to set you off enjoying, celebrating, and drinking egg creams on their big National day!

We used to drink them outdoors, at a cafe called Swilly's, in the sun, with Nanaimo Bars, near the train tracks, when the walls of the cafe were covered in a friend's beautiful paintings.  It was a feast of sight, sound, and taste.

So good!

Dear Artists, Chefs, and Saints,

Oh!  This is a lovely thing you will want to read right away.  I am working today on a lecture that I will give in a few months, collecting images that I hope will enlighten and expand the attendees minds and spirits.

Of course, I will show a few images of my own work, which, in review, looks very feeble and dubious.  Can I stand behind this big pink painting and pretend I know what I am doing?  What I am talking about?  No, of course I cannot.  I must fake it, or pull back the curtain enough to admit it is absurd to paint, and even slightly more absurd to talk about painting.  Some of them will not be ready for that, so maybe I can do it very cleverly, so that only the prepared ones will notice?  The trouble lies in the fact that I am certain the absurd is worthwhile; in fact, the more absurd, the more truthful it is likely to be, and so then, the more vulnerable and fragile and again, worthwhile.

Here, I will tell all; the Dodo is that kind of a thing; it's yelling out my worst fears and fantasies into an empty canyon without echo.  Stay tuned for the images in the days to come.

Blue, blue, electric blue.*

 

Selene Santucci, Light Noise, oil on canvas, 2016.

Dear Students of Seeing,

I will soon be addressing and guiding a group of people through discourse and exercise in color, and I am thinking constantly about what color feels like, what it tells me.  It's not an easily verbalized thing;  it's more a startled awareness, a sharp in-drawing of breath, a sense of belonging.

 

Selene Santucci, Musical Effects, oil on canvas, 2016

 

Making Music, oil on canvas, 2016.

 

 



Do these blues hit you right there?  Do you want to run out and open your paint box?  I do-  I want to potter and dabble in blues like these:  the sky, the sea, the chenille bedspread, the faded book cover, the moth-eaten plaid coat, the blue that says "look at me" the blue that says "don't you want me, baby?" The blue of the white lie, the blue of the bird wing, Madonna blue, wildflower blue, the blue that says, "please keep warm."

The sages of color, Goethe, Albers, Itten, Birren, and Munsell tell us that a color is nothing without another color; that color is relative, and so we must remember to consider the ochers, russets, vermilions, and scarlets in these paintings as well as the blues. 

Italian Towns, oil on canvas, 2016.

If you are a lucky one, you can go and feel these myriad shades, hues and tints in the flesh, until the end of the month, at Gallery IMA in Seattle.  See more of the wonderful paintings on exhibition here.












* That's the color of my room, where I will live.

Holiday Set

Book, Jasper Johns, 1957

 

Green Target, Jasper Johns, 1955.

 

 

 



Dear Red and Green,

A short set of Xmas songs for you today on Radio Dodo:  one, two, three, and four.  All my best wishes!

Charmed, I'm sure.

 

 

The Smiling Spider, 1891, Odilon Redon.

Dear Miss Muffet,

I lead an utterly charmed life-  I step out the door, only to have the birds sing out their message, just for me!  I turn up my stereo too loud, and the people sing along!  I bumble along at work, and a friend treats me to lunch!  I read my email, and there is this wonder of the world!

Spiders, kiss your homes goodbye, I am coming to take your webs for substrates.  This elaboration of our current symbiosis (you make the webs, I let the flies in the door) hampered by my occasional disturbance of your homes could be a beautiful thing.  Instead of just casually and heartlessly dusting and vacuuming your webs away, I could tenderly lift, layer, and mount them.

I imagine my spider web painting will be a very simple color study, with a several small, infinitesimal, even, spiders on it.  In soft blue and lilac, with a warm charcoal grey of complexity for the arachnids.  I hope the tiny weavers will be pleased by it.