Big Drawings: Marathon 2014

The drawing marathon is over and the regular semester is starting. I suppose a bunch of things have been addressed recently, having to do with work ethic and how I want to be creating art. That's part of the brilliance of the pace which the marathon sets. For those who aren't familiar, the drawing marathon is a two week blitz of activity and productivity, where for about twelve hours a day, and sometimes even more, the group of those folks fortunate enough go into drawing mode, led by Graham Nickson. This marathon was physically and emotionally taxing, but at the end everyone's work was stronger and we had some pretty excellent drawings at the end of it. Here's a sample of what I've been up to recently. These images were edited with Gimp (which I literally downloaded and figured out how to use tonight), so the quality isn't necessarily reliable (in fact it's different in each one and certainly not true to life, but you get the idea). They're a completely different experience in person, especially considering the scale.

6'x5' acrylic, pastel, ink wash, and charcoal on paper

Red and Black Space, 39"x39", pastel and charcoal on paper.

Studio, 30"x30", charcoal on paper.

Studio twist, 39"x39" charcoal on paper.

The Muses Are A Bit Shorter Than I Expected, Among Other Things

PART I: "The Muses Are a Bit Shorter Than I Expected: Reflection on Famous Artists and the Act of Creation"

I had a pretty eventful week. The drawing marathon reached its halfway point, and after sneezing out the charcoal dust and pausing for some fresh air, an equally eventful weekend occurred. It began with a Pearlstein opening at NYSS curated by Robert Storr where I met Philip Pearlstein (and helped his wife down some steps). He was jovial and welcoming; he told me about his time spent drawing nearby the school during the 50's, across 8th street. A different time. A different world. I half expected myself to be star struck.

Maybe it's some jaded impression of people that I've unknowingly developed, or perhaps it's the few famous artists I've met while studying in New York that have clobbered my innocence, but the more I live, the more I realize that the gods of painting are mortal; Human beings make art. We are the only ones who can do it. We create, we name things art, and that ability is something truly great. Yet at the end of the day, there is no disenchantment. That is what truly packs the punch. The work. It is what makes human beings larger than life. The connection to the work, the act of making, the touching-upon of something transcendent, whatever you call it. That deeper connection to something a little bit more human than all the other human things. Art.

With this realization, I've been thrilled to meet a couple of the more well known originators of some of this amazing stuff. In my adventures I've met and talked to William Kentridge, George Condo, Alex Katz, Wolf Kahn, Philip Pearlstein (as mentioned above), among others. I try to ask them questions when I get the chance, and they answer. Yet my idea of an answer had been as if maybe the magic art dust would fly off their venerable hands to light on my perceptions. "If only I could have met Philip Guston" I would have said, six months ago. (I actually met the closest thing: his daughter) I still would like to have met him-but if this experience of meeting people has taught me anything, it's that the best way to learn about painting is by looking at the work. Even if Guston were still alive I would learn more from the paintings I can access right now. As Balthus said, when asked for a statement, "The best way to begin, is to say: 'Balthus is a painter of whom nothing is known.' And now let us have a look at the paintings." It's that sort of thing that is so obvious that sometimes it's a little hard to realize: it's all about the work. "By their fruits you shall know them." Not to say that an artist's work has nothing to do with the artist: I believe firmly that something of one's individual human nature is contained intimately in the creative process. Yet at the same time it is something completely other, completely separate than the artist. As Judy Glantzman said in drawing, and I paraphrase, "making a drawing is like having a kid." And I've heard this is true. Before you know it, they grow up into their own thing. You do what you can to help it along, and at a certain point you realize it's something truly apart from you, almost its own entity. I think Jackson Pollock said that he was just "helping his painting realize itself," (probably in other words) which at a first glance sounds sort of helpless and cheesy but after an inch of thought it is unavoidably true. Do we really control what we make? In a certain sense, we do. The art cannot exist without an artist. But where is the creating coming in? I know that I didn't create any of the materials I am using. I didn't grind the pigment, I didn't burn the wood for the charcoal-I didn't press the wood pulp and create paper. All I'm really doing objectively is fiddling with and rearranging some items around on a two-dimensional surface. What is "creating" anyways?

And let me break out the words (courtesy of the online etymology dictionary):

CREATE - late 14c., from Latin creatus, past participle of creare "to make, bring forth, produce, beget,"

So my simple conclusion is this: artists create worlds that touch something fundamental about the human condition by moving substances about on a surface. The creative, "begetting," and according to Vasari, the "god-like" and uniquely human force of the artist lies within the ability to create. A human being can affect matter and thus a world is created. The creation of something new, an existence that would not have existed had not those two particular hands (or other effective appendage) come together with bits of matter to shape it. Artists don't create the materials. Artists create existences. Artists create worlds. This is possible by the most ridiculous paradox ever. Creation is possible through things that one did not create. Amazing

Sometimes it takes a near act of faith to believe that it is possible for one to actually do this, to create a new reality, but it's something that is realized fully by the very act of doing it. Matisse was asked once if he believed in God. He answered "I do when I'm working." How appropriate.

In all, I'd like to put my experience of meeting famous artists into perspective. These are people that have been especially good at that act of "creation through non-created things". They deserve their places in the continuum of humanity as perhaps being "especially human." But that's what they are. People. People who have exercised the uniquely human ability to be an artist, and enjoy telling me (that one time) about their new house in rural Vermont with 16 varieties of apple trees and a beautiful sunset.

PART II: "El Greco"

My friend Will (also a painter) visited from Massachusetts this weekend, and almost three days of museum visits and art conversations over craft beer and New York City food ensued. We saw the Isa Genzken retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art (I may write a post on that later). More importantly, we went to the Met to hunt out a particularly special painting by El Greco: "The Vision of St. John," in front of which we spent quite a while, and talked about for a long time. I won't get into the inspired and at some times uncontrollably excited conversation we had, but what I will say is that this is now one of my favorite paintings, and re-kindles my belief in all those beloved art-related things that I will hold onto forever. This picture of the painting does things that words cannot. The painting itself, in person, is a world that does things that can actually change your life. Go see it at the Met.

El Greco, "The Vision of St. John" 1608-1614

PART III: "The Modern"

I think it's a good idea to call the Museum of Modern Art "The Modern" for short, instead of "MoMA." I've heard older folks who haven't been affected by internet slang call it "The Modern" and it's exciting to hear. Maybe it's just that it's elegant, and serious, and on the imaginary scale of "Squishy Toy" to "Buckingham Palace", moves the abbreviation of a fantastic museum a few solid steps toward the latter. Anybody with me? 

Anyhow, apologies for not posting my own work. I think this is the first post I've ever made that has not included images of my own stuff. My camera is hiding somewhere in Brooklyn, and when I get it back I'll be able to post some of the more recent things. Apologies for typos. I will proofread this later. Cheers.

Ceres: Mythical Experiment

Continuing the mythical theme I made some drawings after the story of Proserpina and Pluto, but decided to take my current experimental process a step or two further. There's a part in the story where the goddess Ceres, mourning for her lost daughter Proserpina, is taken in and shown hospitality by a poor country family. She cures their ailing child, and as a reward for their generosity, secretly decides to make the boy immortal. The spell she uses involves first anointing the boy and then placing him over hot coals. Ceres is in the process of this, when suddenly the boy's mother bursts through the door and (understandably) snatches her child away from the goddess. Ceres reveals who she is to the mother and tells her what she unknowingly took from her son: immortality, superhuman strength, celestial powers, etc., and then is on her way.

For my project, I thought about the moment when the mother bursts into the doorway and seizes her child from the goddess. I created a series of about 15 black ink drawings in a derivative process (e.g. I made one, drew from that, and on and on) trying to show the tension between the goddess, the child in the fire, and the mother more as ideas than depicted reality. Eventually, the marks got away from simple representation and began to create shapes that became familiar to me. I then took about 6 of these drawings, cut the marks out of them, and re-collaged them onto a larger piece of paper in a way that I felt was more descriptive of the story than the more distanced sketches. Investing some time into this one bigger piece (18"x24"), after the marks were all arranged on the page, I drew more corrective marks on top of the piece. Deciding I had enough with that piece, I set it aside and made another drawing the same size (18"x24") after that piece. As a final step, I responded to some feelings of business that I had concerning the two pieces I had just made. I felt that they were relational but too busy somehow. So I cut both of the 18"x24" pieces into quarters, so I found myself with eight 9"x12" drawings. Below I paired the severed drawing quarters with their collage counterparts. Each pair represents an area of the original derivative scene of Ceres, the mother, and the child, as their titles should suggest.

These pieces are not as concerned with a representational narrative as they are with simply conveying my imaginative sensation concerning the types of energies I found in the story, the act of mark-making, the act of recycling mark-making, and the return to the beginning of the journey. I suppose there was something destructive in cutting the drawings apart but I think it taught me a bit about my instinctual sense of composition.


"Ceres' Tension Beam 1," Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

 "Ceres' Tension Beam 2" Collaged Marks, Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

"Ceres' Disguises 1" Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

 "Ceres' Disguises 2" Collaged Marks, Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

 "Crowded Doorway 1"  Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

 " Crowded Doorway 2" Collaged Marks, Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

 "Mother Reaching 1"  Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

 "Mother Reaching 2" Collaged Marks, Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 9"x12"

Phaëton's Death

Here's a little series about Phaeton's demise, done from imagination (similar to the Actaeon post). The story of Phaeton is another myth in which someone dies tragically after overstepping their boundaries. Phaeton, a mortal son of Apollo, journey's to find his father and is granted a wish of anything his heart desires from his father. To impress his friends, he requests to drive the Chariot of the Sun. Apollo warns him not to ask for this this but Phaeton insists. Phaeton ignorantly has a less-than-smooth ride along the pathway of the Sun and, long story short, drives the chariot far too close to Earth, almost burns it up, and ends up getting zapped by one of Zeus' thunderbolts. He falls to his death. The moral of the story: if you're granted a wish by your immortal father, ask for money. Here's Phaeton's trajectory chronicled:

"Phaeton's Departure" Gouache and Blue Ink on Paper, 6"x8"

 "Phaeton Scorches the Earth" Gouache and Ink (Blue and Black) on Paper, 6"x8"










"Phaeton Struck" Gouache and Ink (Blue and Black) on Paper, 6"x8"









"Phaeton Falls From The Sky" Gouache and Ink on Paper, 6"x8"

 "Phaeton's Burial" Gouache and Ink on Paper, 6"x8"

Irony, Humor, Mike Kelley, the MET, and My Sketchbook

I wanted to see some art this weekend to start off 2014. I had visited the Mike Kelley show at PS1 and felt that I needed to go to the MET afterwards. I spent a lot of time in the Ancient Greek section and the Asian Art section, particularly the Ink Art exhibit and the Art from Tibet gallery. 

A recurring theme that kept striking me was the notion of ironic art vs. authentic art, especially after the intensely ironic nature of the Mike Kelley exhibit.

I sort of had an idea of why I felt that I needed to see some more "authentic" work but I tried to sort it out for myself and figure out what exactly was it about that irony I encountered at PS1 that made me want to go look at the work at the MET. I suppose dissecting my emotional response has always led to some sort of critical insight for me. I thought for quite a while about what irony did to me, and what kind of art I wanted to be making, or should be making. I rather missed the authentic stuff. What is irony anyways?

On Irony:

From an existentialist point of view (the following quotes are all from my notes on Kierkegaard) Irony is "the difference between the literal situation and what is said. It accomplishes a distancing of oneself from a situation, and what it does is dispose the aesthetic will to the recognition that there might be more to life." In other words, irony is distancing or breaking down something to provide insight into whatever situation it is addressing, e.g. Mike Kelley.

On Humor:

Kierkegaard compares irony vis-a-vis humor, where he distinguishes what humor does differently. Humor is genuine and "offers a connectedness towards it subject, and requires a very keen sense of observation. True humor is harder to pull off, but according to K., it restores a sense of intimacy with the divine, transcendental, etc." I didn't exactly find humor per se in the work at the MET, but what I did find was it's definition. I found Greek sculpture that showed how beautiful the human figure can be. I found tapestries and furniture from Tibetan monasteries which blew my mind with their devotion and craftsmanship and showed an unbelievable sense of wonder. I found calligraphy and brushwork that showed how profoundly human a deliberate mark can possibly be. I found real things, genuine things, and art that had a real connectedness to the world, a love of man, a truly human sense of observation. This art was exciting, mysterious in the best way, and above all, it was proud to exist and build up the human family in it's own way.

More on Mike Kelley and what kind of art I want to be making:

I suppose my visit to PS1 left me feeling sad and troubled. Mike Kelley scoured his childhood for material for his work, destroyed it, and built up the pieces in different ways to create a sort of irony with each piece. I spent several hours mentally participating in Kelley's frustrations, his extremely clever and pithy oeuvre (there's about 250 works at PS1), and the realization that he committed suicide in 2012 strangely made sense after seeing the exhibit, almost as the logical conclusion to his works. Not to make light of his show; I found it highly personal and I found it almost an assault on his own sincerity with every piece. I found a man with only irony and no authenticity left. He took all those authentic parts and experiences of his childhood and repeatedly destroyed them with irony to make his work (Stuffed animals, superhero comics, his highschool experience, movie making, his parents, etc.). Quotes about destruction being underappreciated in art recurred, and made almost too much sense. Kelley even filled rooms with work made from broken shards of pottery and memorabilia. Again and again, there were whole things that were broken or transformed from their original function.

A quote stood out for me in "Pay for Your Pleasure" (a long hallway with famous people paired with their quotes) which summarized something crucial for me that happened in Mike Kelley's mind:

"I LOVE THE UNFROCKED PRIEST

THE FREED CONVICT

THEY ARE WITHOUT PAST

AND WITHOUT FUTURE

AND THEREFORE LIVE IN THE PRESENT"

~PICABIA

[Don't just scroll through quickly and assume I am quoting this because I agree with it! I understand that it's in capitals.]

I am at complete odds with this quote. For me, painting, drawing, or any other sort of art making  starts with the belief in something simple and beautiful. That a mark can, in some strange way, be a true metaphor for my experience of the world. A true experience. The experiences worth having. For myself, art is worth making when it is authentic and contains a sense of wonder (true connectedness with the world) for no other reason than that human beings are amazing and the fact we can create anything at all proves this. That's why I make art. Simply put, because I like this world and need to do something about that feeling. The Picabia quote above glorifies disconnectedness with one's world and tries to destroy what I value the most in what I do. 

Back to Irony:

Irony in my opinion has a place, and may need to happen at certain times but I know I have little interest in it. I think it has much too large of a role in modernism. Perhaps it really started taking over with Duchamp's Fountain. Who knows? All I know is that I see a lot of irony in art today, and how destructive it is when thrown in the face of something as fragile and defenseless as an authentic work. Irony is easy but cheap, like fast food. If everyone just makes ironic work, eventually there will be nothing to be ironic about except the last ironic thing, and what would Kant have to say about that? Probably that there's nothing good around to look at anymore. 

Concluding:

Anyhow, I like that I have a sense of wonder, and I think lots of people like myself do tend to get fed up with irony. I've got a lot more to say about this topic, but I feel that this post has gone on for a while, and this is an art blog after all!! I didn't proofread this or anything so I apologize for possible typos, but if anyone is interested in talking more either comment or email me (cdanselmi@gmail.com) Enjoy these sketches I did at the MET. Maybe they will be more meaningful now that you know their context, 'cause that shit's important!

Actaeon's Death

Here's a process that's fairly new. I was read the story of Diana and Actaeon from Bullfinch's Mythology, and during the process, created several drawings of what the story felt like in my imagination. I then chose one of these drawings, the one where Actaeon is being torn apart by his dogs, and made a drawing from that. I made a series of derivative drawings in ink, proof white, and/or gouache on paper, and as the process unfolded, so did the story in my mind. Here's a few drawings in various media showing my imaginative process beginning the moment when Actaeon is caught by his dogs and ending with his passing into the afterlife. The act of drawing took my imagination further than what Bullfinch had to say.

 "Actaeon Caught" Ink and Proof White on Paper, 6"x8"

 "Actaeon's Struggle" Gouache on Paper, 6"x8"

 "Actaeon Overcome" Gouache on Paper, 6"x8"

 "Actaeon's Death" Gouache on Paper, 6"x8"

"Actaeon Passing the Veil" Ink, Gouache, and Proof White on Paper, 6"x8"