Charles Ritchie after Bill Viola, graphite on Arches paper in bound volume, 4 x 6″. Sketch made from two photographic stills by Kira Perov from Three Women, a video project by Bill Viola.

Perhaps the artist working today I most admire is Bill Viola.

I was deeply moved by Viola’s retrospective exhibition at the Whitney Museum in 1998. While the artist’s installation/video projects often merge sophisticated devices such as high definition plasma screens and elaborately programmed projections, lighting, and audio; his art comes from the heart.

Many of his works are pungent, but one in particular has become a touchstone for me, The Sleep of Reason; the title an obvious reference to Francisco Goya.  The installation consists of an antique dresser set before one of the walls of an otherwise empty gallery.  On the dresser are a few items including a clock, lamp, and a small television bearing the image of someone sleeping.  Suddenly all of the lights drop from the room, and the walls from floor to ceiling fill with projections of the same moving image (I was witness to an agitated white owl flapping wings in a cacophony of deafening sound.)  Just as suddenly as they began, images and sound disappear and the dresser and lighted gallery return. Silence. The same event continues at random intervals. I felt I was diving into the subconscious; breaking through the veneer of reality and resurfacing each time

I heard Viola speak at the Smithsonian Art Museum a week or so ago.  As he stepped to the podium his notes spilled over the stage.  He quipped he had five hours worth of talk with him; considering all the paper, I believe him. He kept it to an hour and twenty minutes (thankfully). And although I wish he had talked more about specific works and his experiences making the pieces, I was riveted to what he was saying. Viola speaks from the deeply spiritual place his work emanates.

Viola’s presentation ended with a projected video entitled Three Women, one of his works I have not seen before.  It broke my heart.  The video opens to a gray curtain, subtly shifting. One senses fog being recorded on grainy film. Eventually three figures emerge, walking in slow motion towards the viewer.  It becomes apparent we are watching a mother and two daughters.  Suddenly the mother breaks through the curtain with a splash and into a world of color.  The viewer realizes the thin veil is an evenly flowing waterfall. The two daughters follow the mother through the falls one by one.  Each looks around and then they step back through the falls again. Turning away and fading back into the gray curtain.

Who are we? Where are we? Where are we going?  The biggest questions there are.  Viola rethinks them. And while my own journals, drawings, and prints follow a different program, I look to Bill Viola’s work as a model for the depths and spirit that art can contain in this often muddled and anti-spiritual contemporary life.

The Smithsonian has placed Viola’s lecture online here.  If one wishes to see the Three Women video, scroll out to 1:13:00.  While it is only a tiny facsimile, one does get the a sense of the magic in this work.

Photograph of the installation of the exhibition From the Inside Looking Out: The Journals, Drawings and Prints of Charles Ritchie at the Gregg Musuem of Art & Design, North Carolina State University, Raleigh. Photograph by Matthew Gay.

Pictures at an Exhibition

Stepping into one’s solo exhibition can be revealing; especially if work that’s been out of mind for years is included. It’s strange enough seeing one’s art framed and under glass, or presented in display cases; a situation that denies the whole tactile experience of creating the work as well as displacing it from the studio in which it grew. The unfamiliar, freshly-painted white room, the rarefied lighting, and the uncluttered, surprising juxtaposition of works serves to make everything feel alien: what a great place for an artist to be.

As I spent time going through my exhibition in at North Carolina State University, several things struck me. I enjoyed reviewing some early drawings that haven’t been shown before. The group includes Window with Moon and Star and Worktable with Open Book, drawings from 1983. Both works feature the same subject, the table and window of an earlier studio. The tight pen drawing of the former was made by thinning inks and building up layers of line with a very fine point pen. This very precise drawing process took months. Compared with Worktable with Open Book, a much larger piece created using large brushes in loose watercolor wash on a watercolor block; this drawing was executed in probably a half hour. I’m fascinated that I was working with such variant methods at the same time. I think the tension of swinging between loose and tight approaches has been one of the elements that has kept painting interesting for me. I still vascillate between these poles when I work. I should also note that Window with Moon and Star seems to me to be a reflection on the 19th century British artists that I was vitally interested in the time, William Blake, Edward Calvert, and Samuel Palmer. All of whom became more familiar to me during the summer of 1984 on our honeymoon in England.

Another early work, The Bend, completed in the fall of 1984, (see my online journal entry for 17 August 2008), seemed to be a reflection on the period in which it was created. The year was a turning point of my life; I married, I began the move to my present studio, and my outside work shifted towards a curatorial career. Looking at the drawing, I felt as if the picture was a long jump; a leap across the dark space between the lights on the left and right of the composition. This kind of metaphor never occurs to me while I am working, but such associations emerge in hind sight. Perhaps I subconsciously scout such visual metaphors when I choose my subjects.

One of the discoveries I made looking at the show was that during the mid-to-late 1990s I was not drawing so much. There are few works from that period in this exhibition. During this period I began working with Jim Stroud at Center Street Studio making prints. Also at this time, I experimented with oil paint on gessoed board, an investigation that was never fully successful. During this diversion, I discovered that I like the versatility of working with paper and the quick drying time of watercolor.

Regarding the installation of the show; the journals seem particularly out of context when displayed in exhibitions. My books are utilitarian and when limited to a spread of two pages open in a display case they lose their functionality and serial richness. They are meant to be held in the hands and experienced as a sequence of pages. Of course, the alternative of giving up security within such a public setting seems far less palatable. I have found no better solution.

A final note; memories of the creation of the work can affect how one remembers it; such as remembering it bigger or smaller than it actually is. Ones hopes and dreams of what one wanted to achieve with with a work can also jade memory. Reacting to the inaccuracy of these mental images can often times spark the trajectory for a new journey when one steps back to contemplate in the setting of an exhibition.

Other installation photographs are below. Deepest thanks to the Gregg Museum of Art & Design at North Carolina State University, Raleigh for their beautiful presentation and particular thanks to Matthew Gay who documented the show with these images.

My Bookhouse. Two volumes from a set of six, The Latch Key, volume four (left) with cover by Joseph Cheneweth and The Treasure Chest, volume six (right) with cover by N.C Wyeth.

My Bookhouse

I treasure early memories of visiting my grandparents’ house in North Carolina where before bedtime we could read from My Bookhouse. These six gorgeous volumes (two are pictured above), published in the 1920’s, are filled with all the children’s stories you can think of, plus some, and embellished with works by Howard Pyle, N. C. Wyeth, and many others who forged the golden age of American illustration. My Bookhouse probably represents my first recollection of art as art.

How I love these images. They always surprise. You can never tell where they will be when you turn the page. They are imaginatively configured; often shaped irregularly, stretching across the top, or bottom, or up the side margins. Their use of color is savvy too; just a few hues blossom into alchemy greater than the parts with maximum expressive effect. And the dense, sparkly, letterpress type was an invigorator. It commanded your eyes to move through pages like waves. Even the lesser known artists could be fabulous. As an example, look at the Sugar Plum Tree by Eugene Field, illustrated by Donn P. Crane (see below). Crane is not a well known figure, but these images embody all that I mention above and have stuck with me for many, many years. With my deep interest in dreams, it is surely no accident my favorite poem beckoned to the garden of shut-eye town and a land of visions.

When I look at the pages of my journals (see below), I can’t help but think that in my own way I have been trying to create a Bookhouse of my own. I covet the element of surprise in My Bookhouse, the use of limited color to maximum effect, and dense regiments of words cultivated as expressive elements. And certainly the words “book” and “house” resonate off of my artistic trajectory. I believe that some of our earliest worldly encounters are the most powerful and lasting. My Bookhouse was fundamental for me.

My Bookhouse, In the Nursery, volume one, pp. 160-161, The Sugar Plum Tree, by Eugene Field, illustrated by Donn P. Crane. Edited by Olive Beaupre Miller, Published by The Bookhouse for Children, Chicago and Toronto, 1925 edition.

Charles Ritchie, Book 122, Jourrnal entries for 2-3 August 2002 including several studies for works in the Self-Portrait with Night series, watercolor, graphite, and pen and ink on Arches paper, 4 x 12″.

Footnote: Donn P. Crane went on to illustrate many story and textbooks through the early and mid-20th century, even contributing to the Dick and Jane series that taught a generation of Americans to read in the 1950s.

(above) Photograph of the artist copying in his journal at the Ashmolean Musuem, Oxford, England, June 1984.

Finding Forbears

In June of 1984 my wife, Jenny and I went to England for our honeymoon. We spent a week in London followed by a week driving around the country. We wanted to do something romantic and beautiful for the occasion, but neither of us are travelers so I look back now and imagine we were subconsciously homing in on spiritual forebears. On the trip, I certainly encountered artists who have changed the way I see the world who continue to inspire me with their achievements.

Sure, I liked John Constable’s landscapes before our trip, but when we stepped into an exhibition of his small studies at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, I was overwhelmed. Constable communicates a thrill in depicting his world, putting painterly bravura at the service of the humble and commonplace. At Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum, I fell in love with Samuel Palmer’s work; I too wanted to invest a small page with mystery. Palmer’s varied mix of pen and ink and watercolor has informed my own drawing technique over the years. During the trip I also became aware of the work of John Martin whose command of scale is breathtaking. You may never feel as tiny as in front of one of Martin’s works. For example, his Creation of Light (see also below) convincingly evokes the immensity of the universe, juxtaposing human form with astronomical. What a master of light! The brightest point in the work is not the depicted sun, moon, or stars. It is the vaguely defined point just to the right of the sun; possibly a reflection off of a cloud bank? Who knows? Such is the imagination of John Martin.

(above) Book 130, Charles Ritchie after John Martin, Creation of Light, 2008, watercolor made from a reproduction of a mezzotint, illustration from John Milton, Paradise Lost. Published 1827.

One of the most resonant moments of the trip was our visit to Fountain’s Abbey in North Yorkshire whose ruins struck me as the greatest memento mori I had seen in my life. How do powerful cultures wither and leave these bones? I grasped the book in my pocket. Perhaps in my own way small way I seek to leave a skeleton of my life. My desire to organize my work around a linear series of journals is a satisfying conceptual framework, but it serves an emotional purpose as well. Through my own private memento mori I mark the passing, days, and months, and years; recognizing my mortality and attempting to come to terms with it.

(above) Photograph of the artist’s wife, Jenny, standing before Fountain’s Abbey, North Yorkshire, England, June 1984.

Charles Ritchie, Study after Starry Night by Jean-François Millet, 27 April 2008, watercolor and graphite on Arches paper in bound volume, sheet size: 4 x 6″

Millet’s Falling Star

The Painting:
What a thrill to finally see Jean-François Millet’s painting Starry Night. I had known it previously only through a poor black and white reproduction. When I discovered the work hanging with the In the Forest of Fontainebleau exhibition at the National Gallery of Art, Washington, I was stunned to see its boiling darkness.

But the more I looked at the subject the more something seemed out of place. In Millet’s picture, we stand in a dark road with fields on either side. Trees are silhouetted against a glowing horizon that bleeds upward into a dark sky of accurately observed constellations. To the right, the belt and sword Orion are prominent and Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky follows at upper left. What troubled me is that another star stands just to the right of Orion’s belt, challenging Sirius. No bright star is in this location nor do bright planets tread there. What a terrible inaccuracy for Millet, an artist who prides himself on truth to observation.

In the left center are two streaks of falling stars; one with a fiery head and another, a vaporous streak. It suddenly became clear to me, that by reading a right to left sequence, we see three stages of a single falling star: the bright flash of the meteor’s encounter with earth’s atmosphere (the misplaced star in question), the flaming rock’s descent (at center), and the vaporized trail still illuminated (at left). When we consider the image this way; the metaphor is clarified; individuals are no more than a single falling star in the night. The dark road where we stand is transient and solitary.

Copying Technique:
To make my copy I stood in front of the actual painting penciling out the composition in my journal and recording an inventory of the colors I saw. Returning to the studio I painted the image in watercolor based on my notes and a reproduction that I printed from the Yale University Art Gallery web site; an image that carried far more detail than any catalogue reproduction I could find. I began my watercolor with light application of three loosely blended yellows: Winsor, Indian, and Naples, the three give a warm underpainting for the stars and the glowing horizon. I then begin to work with darker colors moving from light to dark, never wetting the pinpoints where the stars are located. This allows the white of the paper to spark through in these areas. Other colors I used in the general order I introduced them: Cerulean Blue, Lapis Lazuli, Burnt Sienna, Ultramarine Blue, Winsor Yellow/Indigo (a color that I mix to get a transparent, versatile green), Alizarin Crimson, Prussian Blue, Raw Umber Violet, and Indigo. By the way, one should take this color study with a grain of salt. Millet’s painting needs to be cleaned. Who knows what will emerge when the old varnish is stripped away.

Other Notes:
It is not known for certain whether Van Gogh saw Millet’s painting before he painted his well-known masterpiece. Millet prefigured; he was a force from earlier in the 19th century and his works influenced Vincent. Both shared an interest in rendering subjects from everyday life with deep compassion.

Serendipity placed this painting in my path considering I’ve been involved with my current, unfinished Night with Orion drawing. I admit the influence of Millet’s painting on me, however, I don’t remember being conscious that Orion and Canis Major (Sirius is the prominent star of the latter constellation) were part of Millet’s Starry Night.

Much credit goes to the wonderful article, Millet’s Shooting Stars by Martin Beech, Royal Astronomical Society, Canada, 1988. Beech’s insightful study fueled some of my questioning. Beech, however suggests that these are several meteors belonging to the Orionids, an October shower emanating from the Orion region of the sky (actually the radiant is well above the core of Orion, see here). I believe that because Orion is leaning to the right in Millet’s Starry Night, the constellation is falling into the sunset (as it does in the mid-Northern latitudes). With plenty of foliage visible, I would say this is late spring when Orion sets just after the sun.

Charles Ritchie, Study after Starry Night by Jean-François Millet (first state), 24 April 2008, watercolor and graphite on Arches paper in bound volume, sheet size: 4 x 6″

Link to Jean-François Millet (French, 1814–1875), Starry Night (Nuit Étoilée), c. 1855-1867, oil on canvas, 25 3/4 x 32″, Yale University Art Gallery.

Study after Francisco Goya, Third of May 1808, watercolor and graphite on Arches paper in bound volume, 4 x 6″

I was in second grade when I noticed a book on the coffee table in our living room; Fifty Centuries of Art by Francis Henry Taylor. This was surely my first immersion into the strange, fantastic, beautiful, and sometimes disturbing world of fine art. I remember paging slowly until I discovered the works by Francisco Goya. At bottom left was an image that startled me; the Third of May, 1808. I wanted to look away, yet I couldn’t. Who is that man with his arms raised? Why are the soldiers shooting him? Who are these gunmen, I can’t see their faces? How horrible, the dead already piled in the foreground and those soon to die in the background! This was the stuff of nightmares; to a young child there is no difference between image and actual event. Eventually, I learned the historical fact that Napoleon’s troops had executed Madrid’s insurgents who rose up against them; but Goya relied largely upon his imagination when he painted this masterpiece seven years after the event. Goya had taken a rectangle of canvas and used techniques developed over the centuries; linear perspective, atmospheric perspective, sfumato, others; and had created an image that shook me, changed the shape of my brain, and shifted my world view by waging its potent magic. I looked at Goya’s work and wanted to learn that magic. I began there.

Link to image of Goya’s original oil painting, Third of May 1808.

(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.

I’ve always enjoyed drawing in front of works of art. Certainly seeing the artist’s actual creation versus a reproduction has much to do with it. For example, Seurat’s drawings are much looser than the camera translates them and seeing those gestures is vital when making pen and ink sketches like those above. I enjoy testing my ability to distill an image, drawing without looking down at my journal as much as possible. My focus is eye/hand synchrony. Working in a crowded gallery can actually create a useful tension; forcing me to work faster and search for barest essentials. Stepping out of the way of other viewers also forces me to study works from different vantage points, to draw while moving, and work from a subject that can be frequently eclipsed; all useful challenges. I try not to think too much about page layout; thus my series of studies joins a landscape sketch of my own composition (upper left).

I’ve always wondered why the window on the right is blazing red in Hopper’s Night Windows, 1928. It turns out there is a lamp pressed close to the pane and the color, presumably red curtains or a painted wall, is set off by the glow. The woman, partially seen in center window leans away from the window on the left, a soft white and ultramarine blue curtain that waves in the night breeze. There is a tension between hot and cool, eroticism and purity in this oil painting that reminds me of a poem by Philip Larkin. Not so much the atmosphere but the tension between profane and sacred that the windows on right and left could represent. See Philip Larkin High Windows [warning: this poem contains graphic language]

One of my favorite works by Hopper is in this show. High Road, 1931, a very large watercolor. It spreads out and is very empty with few visual events immediately apparent. The overall effect is openness and light only the the deep shadows of chimneys, and the stark verticals of telephone poles widely spaced in the composition. The road in the foreground balances another road in the distance. Is this a broken single road? Regardless; the effect carries the viewer out out into a vast, planetary space. It is as if Hopper lifts up the horizon to show a great continent with bays and estuaries in the sky. The blue peninsula of Emily Dickenson’s poem 132 “It might be easier.” Unlike Hopper’s contemporary Charles Burchfield, Hopper never uses the moon or sun as a motif to imply the cosmic. His more subtle approach is never clearer to me than in this work.

Link to Edward Hopper’s High Road.