Tibor De Nagy Gallery's Jane Freilicher Show, "A Painter Among Poets."

Painter in the Studio, 1987.

I recently went to the Tibor De Nagy Gallery's "A Painter Among Poets" show.  The emphasis is on the  friendship between Jane Freilicher and a group of poets, which included Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery, and the influence they had on her work and vice versa.  Initially, the show's theme seemed kind of gimmicky to me, but after thinking about it awhile I decided that it added to my appreciation of Freilicher.  There is often a correlation between an era's written and visual arts, after all:  A shared world view and artistic sensibilities.  So, knowing what literary ideas an artist was exposed to can certainly enhance one's understanding of their artwork.  After blowing the dust off an old American literature anthology, and rereading O'Hara's and Ashbery's respective poetry it is apparent to me that they and Freilicher do indeed have a certain shared sensibility.  (Unfortunately, I have no familiarity with the other poets in her circle and therefore no way of gauging whether or not the same holds true for them----I couldn't find any examples of their poems in my meagre library, either.)

As to Freilicher, O'Hara and Ashbery, there is an informality to all their work.  Freilicher's paintings have a seemingly accidental quality, as if a scene had just been happened upon.  Her friends' respective poetry has a similarly casual, incidental quality.   Freilicher's paintings seem intimate, personal. They present  the sights and things of everyday as they might be casually glanced:  The views from Freilicher's windows in New York and out on Long Island; flowers and personal nicknacks----all recurring motifs in her work.  All presented in informal compositions that can have an awkward quality; sometimes planes don't quite align, foregrounds are viewed from above, backgrounds from eye level; even within planes the perspective isn't always consistent, shifting from different angles.  This gives the paintings a slightly random and dissolute quality, like something only partially, or quickly, glanced.  In some, particularly those that combine a still life with a landscape or cityscape viewed through a window, the motifs are incongruously juxtaposed, imbuing them with a surreal aspect.  Likewise, O'Hara's and Ashbery's respective poetry presents the mundane stuff of personal experience in all its incongruity.

Parts of a world, 1987.

The show includes several examples of Freilicher's juxtapositions of interior and exterior views. Combining the two is a recurring compositional device for her, enabling her to juxtapose incongruous surreal elements, such as can be seen in "Parts of the World," 1987 or "Crosstown View, 1978.  In both, a table laden with objects appears in the foreground, in front of a window view of a cityscape.  Thus allowing Freilicher to play with scale.  She is able to present the personal and intimate as monumental, dwarfing the city's skyscrapers.  There is something particularly fun and theatrical about her still lifes.  Viewed in closeup against the city skyline, they have a Magritte apple-in-the-sky aspect without actually departing from the laws of gravity.

There are also several landscapes here that show the influence of abstract expressionism, such as her "Cover Crop," 1963, which has gestural flourishes that are reminiscent of some of de Kooning's work.  But in Freilicher's paintings the gestural figurations seem merely dreamy and atmospheric.  Her most abstracted paintings in the show, "Henry Ford's Dunes,"1961 and "Abstract Landscape," 1963 seem more ethereal and mirage-like than nonrepresentational:  As if the view had been obscured by a dense fog.

In addition to Freilicher's paintings, including portraits of the poets and some poems they wrote about her, the gallery also presents postcards and other scribblings she and her friends wrote to each other.  Personally, I thought there was too much of that in the show.  Much of it had the feel of inside jokes----"you-had-to-have-been- there..." kind of humor.  Although that stuff did mirror the general informality and humorousness of Freilicher's paintings, it seemed unnecessary.

One thing that is obvious from the show although it isn't actually mentioned, is that Freilicher and poets O'Hara and Ashbery focused on the personal and everyday to the exclusion of the political and social issues of their day; unlike the more cutting edge artists and writers of the sixties and on.  That makes their respective work seem somewhat insular at times.  But what consistently comes across is a light-hearted, genuine joie de vivre.  And, an appreciation for the absurdities of everyday life.  If you see the show, Freilicher's paintings will surely leave you smiling.

The show is at the Tibor de Nagy Gallery, 724 Fifth Avenue, NY, NY.  It continues until June 14.





  

The Gagosian Gallery Puts On A Frankenthaler Show To Rival Any Museum's.

In recent years, the Gagosian Gallery has had the occasional comprehensive exhibition of an important artist that rivals that of any museum's.  "Painted on 21st Street:  Helen Frankenthaler from 1950 to 1959" is one such show.  Indeed it is curated by the Museum of Modern Art's Chief Curator Emeritus of Painting and Sculpture, John Elderfield, with the aid of the Frankenthaler estate:  All the paintings are on loan either from the Helen Frankenthaler Foundation or institutions such as museums.  I don't like to sound cynical, but I presume the purpose of putting on such events is really to enhance the gallery's sales ability by trying to establish a reputation as venerable cultural institution, as much as commercial enterprise.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining!  The opportunity to see great art is always welcome, particularly if the viewing is free!

Mountains and Sea, 1952.

The Gagosian even has a museum quality catalog put together with an intro by Elderfield.  At a hundred bucks, it's too expensive for me, but the gallery makes a copy available to peruse (which I took full advantage of).  Elderfield  points out that while these paintings aren't descriptive they are nevertheless depicitive.  In other words, although they are non-representational, non-narrative they are still figurative.  He also points out that the mind tends to interpret forms as positive objects and the surrounding area as background.  Also, According to him, Frankenthaler drew inspiration from landscapes, which is certainly suggested by some of the titles:   i.e., Abstract Landscape, 1951; Mountains and Sea, 1952; Ed Winston's Tropical Garden, 1957.  It is also suggested by compositional elements, such as low and mid-level dominant horizontal lines or shapes that tend to divide the compositions into foreground, mid-ground and/or far-ground.  Although, with their amorphous, and seemingly primal forms, Frankenthaler's paintings seem more like  landscapes of the mind, or dreamscapes, than anything tangible.

Eden, 1956.

Like first generation abstract expressionists, Pollack, Gorky and de Kooning, Frankenthaler was perhaps influenced by Jungian notions of archetypes and the collective unconscious; also, by surrealist automatism.  That is suggested by Frankenthaler's occasional use of titles that reference mythology (i.e., Eden; Jacob's Ladder; Europa).  And by her amorphous forms, which in aggregate give the impression of some sort of primordial soup.  While the forms are ambiguous, they tend to be suggestive enough to be associative images.  In Eden, for example, in the upper left corner the amorphous yellow form is somewhat suggestive of a child's painting of a sun; upper right-of-center a red form is suggestive of a reaching hand.  But, because the forms are all ambiguous the overall impression is of a free-flowing associative process.  Sort of like how the mind functions, which gives the paintings, or the act of viewing them, a mimetic aspect.

While the artwork in this show predates Frankenthaler's innovations in color field painting, her interest in color is very apparent here.  Indeed, Elderfield describes Mountains and Sea as a bridge between her abstract expressionist paintings and color field ones.  And, the colors tend toward the organic:  Beiges, browns, pale pinks and ochers dominate with an occasional blue that tends to read as sky, sea or shadow.  In addition to being gorgeous to look at, the muted colors appear much the way colors do to the mind's eye.  As a result, Frankenthaler's palette conjures a mental landscape,consisting of random images and/or thoughts.  So, the color contributes to the paintings' mimetic quality.

Seeing this show was a reminder that abstract art is never content free.   (Show me contentless "art" and I'll show you wallpaper!)  Many of the abstract expressionists found their subject matter by looking inward to find a commonality or the archetypal in our "collective unconscious"----Frankenthaler appears to have done so.

The show is at the Gagosian Gallery, 522 West 21st Street, NY, NY.  Unfortunately, it only runs through the 13th.  

A Retrospective Of Beat Artist Jay DeFeo At The Whitney.

I recently went to the Jay DeFeo exhibition at the Whitney Museum.  After the hyper-commercialism of the Armory show, it was quite a change to see a retrospective of an artist who spent eight years obsessively working on a single painting----The Rose.  Apparently without concern for her longterm commercial prospects.  Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with making money from art; heck, I wish I could make more from mine!  But, it's depressing when the emphasis seems to be on dollars and cents more than aesthetics. However, The Rose appears to have been something of a professional setback for DeFeo:  She didn't produce any other art during those eight years; and after finishing it, she took a four year hiatus from painting.  Perhaps that makes DeFeo's story something of a cautionary tale about the dangers of becoming too obsessed with a project.  According to the show's catalog, work stopped on The Rose only when DeFeo was evicted from her studio.  It is the centerpiece of the show though.  Indeed, for better or worse, it defines DeFeo's career.

The Rose, 1958-66.

The Rose (1958-66) has an intensely mystical aura about it; partially because of its installation in a small, dimly lit rectangular area separate from the rest of the gallery.  The space has a cathedral-chapel feel to it.  The curator, Dana Miller, also recreated the lighting conditions that existed in DeFeo's studio when she worked on the piece, installing side lights.  Apparently, the 11'x8' painting blocked a large central window in her studio----so that the work, which is more relief sculpture than painting----was lit by two side windows.  According to the show's catalog, DeFeo considered the oblique light in her studio to be an integral part of The Rose.  And when you see it, it is obvious why.  The light glances off the relief creating sharply contrasting values that both reveal and obscure its surface.  The effect is truly transformative:  The lighting makes The Rose look as if it were an ancient artifact from some long ago civilization carved in stone, rather than the twentieth century oil paint and wood artwork that it is.

DeFeo reportedly made The Rose through an arduous process of addition and subtraction.  According to the show's wall text, she piled layer upon layer of white and grey paint on her canvas and then scraped off many layers, in the process creating a relief of sharply angled radii that expand outward like a starburst.  The work's title seems to refer to a cathedral rose window though.  Given that rose windows traditionally are a source of natural light, it is interesting that DeFeo's artwork blocked more light than it let into her studio, obscuring it in semi-darkness.  Perhaps the darkness is meant to be a statement about the nature of faith?

The show's catalog identifies DeFeo with the Beat Generation.  She came into her own professionally during the '50s and, according to the exhibition catalog, hung out with a crowd that included Beat luminaries such as Allen Ginsberg.   I suppose the mysticism in her early work is a reflection of the Beat sensibility.  I have to admit, though, before this show I wasn't aware that Beat literature had a visual corollary.

According to the museum's wall text,  DeFeo was awarded a traveling fellowship from the University of California, Berkeley enabling her to go to Europe and North Africa were she was exposed to pre-historic and nonwestern art----both in museums and archeological sites.  Perhaps that too was part of the inspiration for the mystical motifs in her work:  Cruciforms, roses, starbursts and other forms suggestive of spiritual or cosmic symbols recur in DeFeo's early work.  (I've never studied religious symbols, but my guess is that the rose, with its spiraling concentric circles, represents a labyrinth-like journey of self-discovery, or something like that.  While the starburst, with its radiating rays, is suggestive of infinite expansion----infinity.)

I took one of the museum's free daily tours of the retrospective; according to our tour guide, Helena Sokoloff, Defeo was taught abstract expressionist painting at Berkeley, which surprised me because I have always thought of it as an exclusively New York art movement.  But that influence is particularly obvious.  Most of all in her earlier work, where there is no attempt to define objects,----at least not on canvas---DeFeo tends to use titles to define her art instead.  Examples include The Annunciation and The Veronica.  Both paintings are strictly gestural, with no recognizable forms.  It is left to the titles to create their respective subject matter:  According to the show's wall text, The Veronica refers to the positioning of a matador's cape; additionally The Annunciation looks as much like a bird carcass as an angel.  Only the title tells us it is meant to be the latter.

Origin, 1956.

What most distinguishes DeFeo's  early work though is her limited palette----mainly greys---and the thick impasto texture of her paintings.  In fact, when it comes to much of her early work (not just The Rose), "painting" seems like something of a misnomer, relief sculpture might be more accurate.  My personal favorite was Origin.  Created in greys, with only a hint of color, the composition is delineated by the texture as well as a subtle variation in value.  While the title certainly is evocative, the work itself is enigmatic; the viewer can only speculate what DeFeo meant by "Origin."  Despite the heavy layering of paint, her work has an ethereal quality.  In pieces such as The Annunciation, that is partly because the texture DeFeo achieved with her palette-knife just looks like feathers.  Also though, the impasto texture plus  the glossy paint create luminous, light refracting surfaces.  It isn't as obvious as it is with The Rose, but lighting is a configuring element in all of DeFeo's highly textured canvases:  The cast light emphasizes compositional forms and, to some extent, creates them too.

There is a sharp stylistic break between  DeFeo's early work and what she created after a four year hiatus.  The thick layering of paint is gone; and abstraction is replaced with visually identifiable objects:  And very personal ones at that.  But the portrayals are unexpected in ways that obscure their utility.  My favorites are Crescent Bridge I, 1972 and Crescent Bridge II, 1972----which, side-by-side, look  a bit like a photographic positive and negative.  Although, there are compositional differences, making it clear that these are separate paintings, not a diptych.

Crescent Bridge I, 1972.

Both paintings play with the viewer's conceptions of scale, using an image of a dental bridge of DeFeo's:  A very small object, but that she depicts on a grand scale, as if it were monumental.  She does the same thing in drawings of earrings.  Taking minuscule objects and enlarging them so that they become almost unrecognizable.

According to the show's catalog and wall text DeFeo became interested in photography in the early '70s while teaching an undergraduate art class, which perhaps accounts for her interest in working figuratively during the period:  In addition to the dental bridges and earrings, the show includes representational drawings and paintings of other personal belongings such as water goggles and a tripod.  According to Ms. Sokoloff, DeFeo wanted to portray manufactured objects organically and in some of her drawings (such as some from her series of water-goggles and tripods) that takes the form of anthropomorphism.  There is one particularly amusing drawing in which water-goggle lenses are bent so that each one seems to be looking at the other.  There are also a number of collages in the show made of photos.  Some of these are quite beautiful but the passion that is evident in DeFeo's early work is missing.  Instead they seem overly cautious to me, as if DeFeo were afraid to become too emotionally invested.  After the debacle of The Rose it is understandable if she was gun-shy.

It isn't until paintings of the late '70s/early '80s such as Hawk Moon No. 2, (1983-85) that DeFeo's earlier interest in abstraction returns and with it something approaching the boldness (although not the abandon) of those earlier works.

Hawk Moon No. 2, 1983-85.

 Stylistically the paintings of this phase are quite different though.  The Abstract Expressionist influenced amorphousness of the earlier canvases is gone.  Instead these have sharply delineated shapes even if the objects themselves are not identifiable.  The same emphatic rendering that can be seen in DeFeo's figurative works, such as Crescent Bridge I, has been merged with abstraction to create a new style.  Interestingly, during the late phase in her career, DeFeo often portrayed organic subjects as machine-like----the inverse of what she did in her figurative work. And the mystical spiritual quality that pervaded her early abstract work has been replaced with fiercer motifs.  There are birds of prey, images meant to convey sonic booms and samurai.  It isn't until the very end of her life, when she knew she was dying, that DeFeo returned to a softer more amorphous style as can be seen in Dove One, 1989 and Last Valentine,1989.  Both of which are reminiscent stylistically of The Annunciation and The Veronica, amongst other early pieces.

Last Valentine.

The DeFeo retrospective is not likely to inspire imitation; however, there is something undeniably special about the singularity of her body of work.  I think one comes away from the show with a heightened sense of the importance of being true to one's own aesthetic vision.  And the sense that an artist's career is sometimes a journey of self-discovery, as much as anything.  One senses it was for DeFeo.


The DeFeo retrospective is curated by Dana Miller.  The show runs until June 2 at the Whitney Museum.

A Saturday Class At The Art Students League And The Annual Class Show.

If you are an artist, you know that painting can be a pretty solitary activity.  So, it is important to either get together with other artists who will give you a candid critique of your work or take an art class with an instructor who will.  I take an all day watercolor painting class Saturdays at The Art Students League with artist Naomi Campbell.  This is the second year I've been in Campbell's class.  Her enthusiasm and high octane teaching style is truly inspiring.   (It is very easy to get discouraged when paintings don't quite work out, so just being around someone upbeat is helpful.)  And regular feedback makes me think more analytically about my work, which can make the difference between creating visually arresting paintings and merely pretty ones.  I find Ms. Campbell's criticisms to generally be spot on; although I like to think for myself, so I pretty much never agree with anyone one hundred percent.

The Art Students League is quite the bargain too.  In fact, I know people who go there because the classrooms provide a comparatively inexpensive alternative to renting studio space in the New York area.  ( I certainly can't afford to rent a studio; instead I work out of my rent-controlled apartment when not painting at the League or en plein air.)  And the student body is very  diverse; running the gamut from neophytes to semi-professionals who have gallery representation.  Campbell's class is similarly diverse.  Although there is no one there who could by any stretch be described as a professional artist.  Many of my classmates, though, are accomplished painters who have shown and sometimes sold work.  Since they are fairly knowledgable and talented, I learn a fair amount from them too.  And the camaraderie that being around other artists provides is important.  It makes the creative process seem a little less eccentric than it is.  (No small thing!)

The class has an annual show, which is open to the public.  I am participating, as I did last year.  It runs from Monday the eighteenth to Saturday the twenty-third.  I hope you will see it!  The show is on the second floor of The League, 215 West 57th Street, NY, NY.  The hours are Monday-Friday 9:00-8:30, Saturday 9:00-3:00.  Bellow, one of five paintings I have on display:

Lobsters & Crab, 2012.  All copyrights reserved.

This painting received a red dot, which stands for "best in show."  (I am very pleased of course, but I wish the honor sounded a little less like something out of the Westminister Dog Show.)

A Look At The Wheelock Whitney Collection & A Gallery Talk At The Met.

I recently decided to go to one of the Metropolitan Museum's Gallery Talks.  Hey, they're free!  I don't have much money so I try to avail myself of any free cultural offerings I can.  This particular talk concerned the exhibition The Path of Nature:  French Painting from the Wheelock Whitney Collection, 1785-1850.  (Although the show has genre and history paintings and portraits too, its special feature is plein air studies.)  I was impressed, our Gallery Talker, Elizabeth Perkins was very organized and informative.  The exhibition is of the Picturesque movement in painting, an era of art history that I am woefully under informed about, so I found the talk helpful:  It focused on the landscapes in the collection (particularly, the plein air ones).

What is the Picturesque, you might ask?  It is part of the Romantic movement that emerged toward the end of the 18th century.  The Romantic sensibility was a rejection of the Baroque as typified by painters such as Poussin, who believed that a painting should appeal to reason , not the senses.  The Romantic, instead, favored a more intuitive approach to experience.  And the Picturesque is meant to be a median marrying the opposed Romantic ideals of the Beautiful and Sublime, which were described by Edmund Burke in his 1757 treatise on aesthetics as respectively,  appealing to human desire and to an instinct for self-preservation:  In short, the Romantic movement was meant to speak directly to the emotions, not the intellect.  And the Romantics used depictions of nature as a means to project internal feelings, giving it a dramatic quality. (Okay!  Okay!  So I blew the dust off some old textbooks and looked a few things up too.)

Cloud Study (Distant Storm), Simon Denis, ca.1786-1806.

The above painting, Cloud Study (Distant Storm), is an obvious example of using nature to suggest a state of mind.  The use of  meteorological phenomena as a pictorial metaphor for human strife or emotional turbulence is something of a tired cliche.  Yet the elemental composition , with only a thin strip of dark green at the bottom to suggest the landscape and the massing of the clouds into big shapes, gives the painting an austere beauty that feels in tune with modern and  contemporary sensibilities, too.

With the exception of Camille Corot, whose late landscapes I've always been fond of, I didn't think I cared much for Romantic art.  This show changed my mind though----at least in regard to landscapes; I still don't like Romantic genre or history paintings:  The figures depicted in them are drawn mainly from classical mythology (although brigands were, apparently popular, at least with the Picturesque artists).  These figures all seem ridiculously emotive----histrionic even.  Except for the afore mentioned Corot, I had never heard of any of the painters featured in this show either, which made it a twofold revelation to me.

I enjoy painting en plein air and so I know what a challenge it is to capture a scene as seen at a particular time of day; so, I am particularly impressed with the show's plein air studies.  One thing they all have in common is a strong sense of light and shadow; so, you can really tell what time of day they were painted:  Many were done late afternoon/early evening----a time of day when shadows tend to be most pronounced and light often has a reddish or pinkish tinge.   The two paintings below are wonderful examples.

View of the Villa Torlonia, Friscati, at Dusk, Paul Flandrin,
ca. 1834-38.

Mountainous Landscape at Tivoli, Simon Denis, ca. 1786-97.

Since the paintings were done on site, they were executed fairly quickly and don't have the amount of detail a studio one might.  Both of which gives these paintings a comparatively simple and reductionist feel that is more likely to appeal to current sensibilities than their studio counterparts would.  They also avoid the hokey mythological narratives that mar many a studio painting of the era.  This is not to suggest that the Picturesque painters didn't include classical (mythical) elements in their plein air artwork, they did:  You probably noticed the lone traveller in Flandrin's painting; perhaps you also noticed it was clad in classical garb.  However, the figures in these paintings feel more like organic parts of the landscape than the more elaborately detailed ones in studio paintings of the era----they are certainly less obtrusive!  The narrative elements in the plein air pieces are, also more subtle, by and large.  The painting below is an example, the title is evocative:  It implies something dark and enigmatic, but that is all.

Edge of a Wood, Theodore Caruelle d'Aligny, ca.1850.

In addition to the sensational landscapes there are some really special interiors as well.  I particularly liked Granet's (below):

Monks in the Cloister of the Church of Geru e Maria, Rome,
Francois-Marius Granet, 1808.

I love the repeating arches they create a dramatically cavernous interior.  Perhaps not coincidently, "Monks in the Cloister" makes as much use of natural light and cast shadows as any of the landscapes on view:  The Picturesque artists' concern with accurately depicting light and shadow is as evident here as in those works.  Also, as in many of the plein air studies, Granet's figures seem like organic parts of a whole rather than the elaborately staged characters featured in many a studio painting of the era.

In order to make some points about the differences between the studio and plein air paintings, our talker, Ms. Perkins, led us to an elaborate Corot in the Lehman Collection, two rooms away.  This particular Corot has a ridiculously contrived mythological scene, which I didn't like at all.  However, there are some wonderful landscapes on the adjacent wall that are well worth a look.  My two favorites were by Barbizon painter Theodore Rousseau.  This might seem a bit off the topic of the Picturesque since the Barbizon school represented a movement away from Romanticism, towards Realism.  However, certain elements of the Picturesque plein air studies, such as the attention paid to capturing natural light as seen at a specific time of day and the loose brushwork, have a sensibility that is more in tune with the Barbizon school than with Corot's early studio work.  I guess that shows good paintings, even of different eras and of diverging philosophical outlooks, are likely to have more in common than not.

The Pool (Memory of the Forest of Chambord), Theodore
Rousseau, 1839.

As an occasional landscape painter, I have thought about what any particular landscape might convey; or, what sort of statement one might want to make, using landscape as metaphor.  So, I'm always interested in looking at landscapes of any era that try to make a broader statement, whether social, metaphysical or just personal.  Don't get me wrong though, I am not advocating painting in a 19th century mode:  I strongly believe that an artist must reflect their own time in their art!

The show is up until April 21, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY, NY.

Expanding My Crustaceans & Clocks Series to Incude Birds.

I recently added birds to my Crustaceans & Clocks series repertoire, see:
www.margaretmontgomeryartwork.com
Some examples below:

Crab Confronts Pheasant Over Empty Container, 2013,
20"x15," Watercolor On Paper.
Copyrights reserved to Margaret Montgomery.

Pheasant Versus Crab With Garlic, 2013, 12"x16," Watercolor
On Paper.
Copyrights reserved to Margaret Montgomery.

Crab Versus Pheasant, Round I, 2013, 12"x 16," Watercolor
On Paper.
Copyrights reserved to Margaret Montgomery.

My primary objective is to create a dynamic composition that is visually arresting; however, the addition of narrative elements can make for a more interesting multilayered work of art.  It is toward that end that I have chosen my subject matter for this series.  Why "Crustaceans & clocks," in the first place, you might ask?  Well, in part, because by depicting crustaceans with a symbol of recordable time, I hope to make the viewer consider how briefly we humans have been on this planet.  By comparison, crustaceans date way back, all the way back to the Cambrian period (about 500 million years ago) to be precise.  Crabs date to the Jurassic period (200-145 million years ago); and, lobsters to the Cretaceous Period (145-66 million years ago).  In contrast, we humans are but a blip on the geological time scale!  Additionally, the aquatic theme is meant to imply the phenomena of rising sea levels----due to human activity!

We people could, perhaps, find ourselves going the way of the dinosaurs in the not too distant future.  But, crustaceans might conceivably flourish in a more watery world:  They are now as common in the oceans as insects are on land, many of them are just as hardy too!  Birds also date back zillions of years----like lobsters----back to the Cretaceous period.  Their existence also dwarfs that of man!  But, unlike crustaceans, many bird species currently face extinction due to deforestation and other human activity----making their continuum on the geological time scale somewhat precarious.

I have chosen to depict my crustaceans and birds locked in a primal fight for survival!  (The outcome is not assured, but perhaps the crustaceans' pincers suggest a bias.)  This is meant to be an allegory for the coming struggle different peoples will almost surely find themselves locked in as vital resources----such as potable water and arable land----begin to disappear.  And, the fight will be weighted in favor of those with the most arms.

I realize the above might strike some people as unnecessarily gimmicky; but since it is impossible to altogether avoid the possibility of a narrative interpretation when art is representational, an artist should pick their subject matter with that in mind:  Even things as commonplace and innocuous as fruit or trees come laden with cultural significance.  And, an artist should want to control the narrative!

A Look At Matisse's Creative Process.

I recently went to the Metropolitan Museum's "Matisse:  In Search Of True Painting" show.  It was way, way interesting!  As a painter, I liked this show's emphasis on Matisse's processes:  In particular, his reworking of paintings; his repeated use of the same composition (with variations) and his work on sets or series of paintings.  It is unusual for a museum exhibition to reveal the work that went into an artist's finished product, which makes this show quite special. Matisse's canvases always look so elegant and effortless, so it is something of a revelation to see how many metamorphosis they went through.  But, as this show makes clear, they were the products of a very deliberate multi-stage process. The show also chronicles Matisse's aesthetic development, beginning with his stylistic borrowings from Cezanne and the pointillist Signac-----as can be seen, respectively, in "Still Life with Purro I, "1904 and "Luxe, calme, et volupte," 1904.

Luxe, calme, et volupte, 1904.

But, mostly, the exhibition displays the evolution of Matisse's own style:  His rejection of three- dimensional illusionism in favor of emphasizing the two-dimensionality of the canvas surface through the use of flat color and line.  I'm not an art historian, but I think Matisse may have been the first modern European painter to completely eschew the tradition of spatial illusionism that evolved during the Renaissance.  "Nasturtiums with the Painting 'Dance' I," 1912 (below) is an example.

The painting suggests three-dimensionality because of the scale, placement and juxtaposition of objects:  The chair in the lower lefthand corner establishes a foreground both because of its placement on the canvas and its comparative size in relation to the table with the nasturtiums, which in turn, through scale and placement, establish that the painting "Dance" is a background of sorts.  However, the painting is obviously meant to be viewed, first and foremost, as a two-dimensional work.  In addition to the composition, I love that it is so, well, self-referential.  Matisse liked to depict his artwork-----both sculpture and painting----in his compositions.  Another example includes, "Goldfish," 1912, which showcases one of Matisse's sculptures.  The frequent use of his artwork as subject matter turns it into a recurring motif, standing for the realm of the artist's imagination.  Thus, setting up a dichotomy between the sphere of imagination and the mundane one of everyday objects.  The latter is represented in "Nasturtiums with the painting 'Dance' I" by the chair, table and plant.

Another favorite theme of Matisse's is the dichotomy between interior and Exterior spheres.  That can be seen in many of the paintings in this show, including: "Woman on a Divan (Room at the Hotel Mediteranee)" 1920-21; "Interior with Goldfish," 1914.

Woman on a Divan, (Room at the Mediteranee), 1920-21.

Interior with Goldfish, 1914.

The dichotomy that is represented is between the private and intimate environment of these rooms and the public, non-intimate one shown through a window.  As the Met's Rebecca Rabinow points out in her text for "Matisse:  In Search of True Painting," because windows connect the outer and interior spheres, Matisse's use of them is symbolic:  The windows are passageways between the two spheres.  While, of course, any painting has to work on purely visual grounds, themes and motifs can certainly add interest to a work.  That is something that I think about as a representational painter.  The problem is to develop a visual vocabulary that is accessible enough to be understood and that isn't gimmicky.  Matisse has certainly succeeded in doing that:  Nothing ever feels forced or phony in his paintings, instead his art always seems absolutely perfect.

I also loved the late paintings in the show such as, "Interior in Yellow and Blue," 1946 and "Large Red Interior," 1948.

Interior in Yellow and Blue, 1946.

Large Red Interior, 1948.

Both paintings play with notions of space by conflating two-dimensional and three-dimensional objects through the use of line and color.  In "Interior in Yellow and Blue" there is little difference between the treatment of the wall hanging and the tabletop with lemons, indeed Matisse gives equal weight to the two by using the same intense blue in rectangles of similar size for both.  In "Large Red Interior" the painting on the wall seems more substantial than the objects in the room.  Matisse plays with the viewer's notions of what is real or artificial in a very clever, fun way in these and other paintings.

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"Matisse:  In Search Of True Painting" is on through March 17, at The Metropolitan Museum.