Three Rooms

Not long ago a student wrote me asking me to describe what went into the painting Interior with Three Rooms (1996-2000, Oil canvas, 90 x 72 in.)  As I drafted a reply, memories of grappling with my largest work returned, and I decided to put the experience into my long-overdue blog.

In early 1996 I moved from a small apartment in Long Island City, NY (which also served as my studio) to a cavernous Victorian floor- through just outside of Manhattan.  I was intoxicated by the space, the light, the character of the place.  I immediately stretched up the biggest canvas possible, with no idea what I would do with it.

I started painting…the floors, doors, walls, an old steam radiator.  Bit by bit furnishings crept in, and I added those elements too, as well as the items of the day, a coffee cup, newspaper, a shelf with glassware etc.  At some point the floor caught my attention, and as it became the focus of the work, I began painting other things out.  An endless process of adding, deleting and harmonizing, the piece dominated me for about four years.

Then came the shock – showtime was days away and the painting wouldn’t pass through my narrow staircase!  I felt like I had built a boat in the basement.

In a mild panic, I called Silvio, the local handyman.  Together we disassembled one of my second floor studio windows, pushed the piece through, tied it to a rope and gently lowered it to the ground, curious neighbors buzzing .  All the while I prayed my landlord wouldn’t show up; I doubt he would have approved of my “renovation”.

The work took up permanent residence in the New Britain Museum of American Art in 2002.  Thanks to the museum’s generosity,  it still hangs next to the work of many of my heroes. A  happy ending indeed.

.

content

Vija Celmins, one of my favorite painters, describes her subject matter as little more than an “armature” on which to hang her deepest feelings while indulging her passion for painting.  As with most art forms, there is so much more to a painting than its content. Words like “landscape” or “still-life” seem so confining.

Many artists would agree that when engaged in a work, labels inevitably come off of things.  We no longer see a tree, a face, or a flower, but the countless unnameable shapes that embody those things.  For many of us, a painting has little to do with its content and everything to do with the artist’s embrace of the visual world.

expectations

It’s a paradox that the very thing that makes the art of painting “work” is the same thing that makes it so difficult to do.  And that is the fact that we see what we expect.

Strokes of paint on a canvas, like dots on a television or still photos flashed in succession on a movie screen, do not in themselves create an illusion.  What creates the illusion is the mind filling in the gaps with its expectations.

Which is why painting is hard to do, and harder to learn.  Artists themselves are haunted by their own visual bias when confronting a subject.  My greatest struggle as a painter is trying to distinguish what I see from what I “know”.  What I see I can paint truthfully; what I “know” always ends up looking artificial.

Like so many things, painting is indeed an inner game.  That’s what makes it so rewarding.

How do you choose?

I’ve decided to devote my first blog to the question I get most often about my work: “How do you choose the subjects you paint?” A fair question I suppose, especially when directed to an artist who paints things like rubber gloves or an old bag of plaster.

Often I think it’s a polite way of asking, “what were you thinking when you painted that?”; often I fumble around for an answer. Truth is I don’t really choose my subjects at all, or at least the choice is not all that conscious or deliberate. The adage, “You don’t find love; love finds you” could very well apply here.

As I go through my daily routine, the sight of something ordinary will grab my attention. It may be the light bathing an object or an empty room, or perhaps the surface texture of something very old. Invariably it comes from my surroundings and immediate experience. This visual “pull” can be very powerful; the effect can only be described as hypnotic. If the attraction persists, then I feel confident I will be able to stay with that motif for the many months it will take to complete a painting. A half dozen sketches and a few weeks of procrastination later, I may actually begin the work.

Truly, the greatest reward to being a visual artist that of being enthralled with whatever happens to pass before your eyes. The world becomes a very beautiful place. If we do our job well, maybe we can pass that feeling onto our viewers.