Two Figures, 2007, graphite on wove paper in ring-bound sketchbook

I’m usually tired by Thursday night but I go to figure drawing group anyway. It’s probably the same reason some people won’t miss a physical workout; I feel better after three hours of exercising eyes, hands, and brain. Part of the energy spills from the drawing games I play: no eraser allowed, get the complete figure down (including hands and feet) no matter the length of the pose, draw without my reading glasses, don’t look at the paper while drawing, draw the subject from memory after the pose is over. These are just a few of the ever-changing boundaries I set and reset as I dig with a 6B graphite stick into my sketchpad. But, as with all satisfying games, there’s a serious side. I am practicing my scales, training the eye and hand to synchronize, and developing my ability to structure and proportion intuitively. One of my favorite masters of the figure, Auguste Rodin, often preferred to draw his subject nude, then after selecting the pose, he redrew the subject clothed. He sought to understand the underpinnings before he attempted the mantle. The body is the world laid bare. And though the nude is foreign to my prints and drawings, I see it as a winter tree before my window that soon will be covered with summer leaves.

Self-Portrait, 1979, acrylic and tempera on paper, 5 7/8 x 7 5/8″, collection of the artist

Wall/Window/Mirror: “I dwell in possibility”

The paintings I enjoy are true to reality; honest about the fact that their surface is a wall no eye can penetrate. They seduce with materials and technique. At the same time I expect a painting to take me somewhere; usually through the magic of illusionism, converting that wall into a window upon other worlds. I believe such transformations can empower the viewer, providing a mirror to turn upon themselves. Wall, window, mirror: three expectations for painting. Emily Dickenson’s poem I dwell in possibility (#657) develops through these states. The poem passes from the concreteness of house and prose; dives through windows and doors through diaphanous cedars, and then springs through roof to open sky. In the first two stanzas we see interpenetrations of house and landscape, interior and exterior, and intimate and immense space which return and unite with the self in the third stanza. Wall, window, mirror; I seek these in my work.

Folded Self Portrait with Night I: Graphite, 2007, graphite on Fabriano paper, 4 1/4 x 12 1/4″, collection of the artist

(above) Second and final state. Copy after J.M.W. Turner from a reproduction of the watercolor The Burning of the Houses of Parliament, from Old Palace Yard, with Westminster Abbey, watercolor and graphite on Arches paper in bound volume.

J.M.W. Turner: Yellow/Red/Blue

As I stood in front of J.M.W. Turner’s watercolors at the recent National Gallery of Art exhibition, it seemed to me that he basically relies on yellow, red, and blue. These primary colors are organized into zones: yellow for light sources, red for land and figures, and blue for skies and water. Details within these areas are generally layered light to dark, starting with yellows, adding reds, and finishing with blues. By overlapping these few colors the artist can create any nuance of hue that is needed. Light penetrates the transparent color, bounces off the underlying paper support and back into the viewer’s eyes. Think of the brilliance of stained glass as opposed to light off a painted wall. Turner’s message is clear - retain transparency in color and the light remains crystalline. “Light is the lion that comes down to drink”, said Wallace Stevens. Turner offers a luminous pool.

Link to Wallace Stevens poem, The Glass of Water.

(above) First state showing first washes of yellow overlaid with washes of red. Copy after J.M.W. Turner from a reproduction of the watercolor The Burning of the Houses of Parliament, from Old Palace Yard, with Westminster Abbey, watercolor and graphite on Arches paper in bound volume.

Link to an image of the original watercolor in the collection of the Tate Gallery, London.

James Gordon Irving, Front and Back Cover of Stars: A Golden Nature Guide, Herbert S. Zim, author, St. Martin’s Press, New York. Originally published by Golden Books, this paperback edition published 1956, 1951.

Stars. My own copy of this book worn from love and misuse is pictured here. When I was young it taught me the patterns of the constellations, their names, the movement of the sun, phases of the moon, and other celestial and planetary phenomena. This knowledge still informs my work. Artist James Gordon Irving’s images were seminal; his pervasive indigo night and passion for geometry certainly influenced me. I see a clear echo in my print Pegasus, for example. However, rather than articulating the mechanics of the heavens as Irving did, I have leaned towards imaging fictions; or at least the houses of the sky beside the ones we build on the ground. Above all this book sparked a love of the miniature collection. Here the largest things you can think of: planets, stars, galaxies, nebulae are compressed into a tiny volume; a universe that you can slip into your pocket – like a journal.

James Gordon Irving, Auroras or Northern Lights from Stars: A Golden Nature Guide, Herbert S. Zim, author, St. Martin’s Press, New York. Originally published by Golden Books, this paperback edition published 1956, 1951.