Saturday, August 25, 2018

Tom Hall at Corey Daniels Gallery

Maine artist Tom Hall makes stark, apparently simple yet quite complex, mostly black and white paintings that deliver a visceral jolt of recognition - these aren’t paintings descriptive of Maine, they’re evocations of what Maine is and what it feels like to confront its landscape as a reflection of our troubled relationship to the natural world. 



Hall lives in a tiny house and studio on Sebago Lake, Maine. It’s 1,000 square feet, with every nook prioritized for an artist’s life and work. “I call it,” he told interviewer Angela Adams, “to paraphrase Le Corbusier…the great Swiss-French architect…a ‘Machine for making Art.’ I live alone so I can maximize my energy, and can focus on making the work. I see it much like a monk serving a greater good.”

Tom Hall's house on Sebago Lake.


Tom Hall in his studio

That "greater good," I'd argue, is to invoke our strained relationship with the earth. Hall's palette is that of what Ruskin called "the two Eternities" of "the Vacancy and the Rock" pitted against transitory manifestations, the colored gradations of clouds, sunsets, and storms. A good number depict a dark "last stand" of trees stranded at the edge of an inky void, a field empty but for the bleak stubble of clearcutting.

Hall’s newest paintings, a series of landscapes taking Mount Katahdin and Monhegan Island as motifs, are on exhibit this month at Corey Daniels Gallery on Route 1 in Wells, Maine. In an accompanying gallery text, Hall calls Monhegan and Katahdin “rugged landscapes, hard scrabble and taciturn… yet full of beauty and wonder. Much like native Mainers themselves, Henry David Thoreau once said that ‘only the daring and insolent perchance go there.’ Thoreau of course was referring to Mount Katahdin, but it just as well could have been Monhegan he was talking about.”



Monhegan

Monhegan (detail of above)

Monhegan - Detail

With that painting of Monhegan (above), Hall is heir to perhaps the greatest Maine artist of the 20th century, Marsden Hartley. Note the similarity in composition and the treatment of the foreground rocks. Both artists are getting to the raw reality in the most primitive, un-sophisticated way. 

Marsden Hartley, After the Storm, Vinalhaven, 1938-1939
It is the landscape of his childhood, one of “dirt roads, dusty and dangerous, with overloaded log trucks rumbling by,” he recalls. “My grandfather was always saying, ‘Look, there’s Katahdin!’ And out the jeep window… northeast across the great central plains of Maine … hiding behind Big and Little Spencer… was Katahdin… a vague and mysterious blue beyond.”

One of Hall's Katahdin paintings

These are large paintings; you interact with them in a personal, physical manner.


Instead of impeccably engineered user-friendly serenity (footnote: see Simon Schama on John Virtue) Hall’s paintings give us the rain-slick rocks and burnt-match blacks of backlit pines and dwellings, humped mountains, and tide-lashed islands at dusk and on on gray-sky days. They are also very beautiful. They have an talismanic, object-like quality, extensively layered, scraped and worked-over as they are. 


Detail from above

Detail from above

That quality is described perfectly by Art historian Daniel Kany, writing for the Portland Press Herald, who called Hall, “one of Maine’s best artists. [His] is the stuff of greatness.” Here is Kany:

"We tend to think that painting is always just a representation, a fiction. But that is not a universal concept.

In Eastern Christianity, icons are sacred objects. Formline art of Northwest Native Americans is the vehicle of genuine numinous power.

We could talk about Tanka paintings, Zen calligraphy and so on, but the point is that paintings have long and widely been seen as conduits for forces not limited to the visible world. They aren’t simply snapshots of something else.

Traditionally, this has been associated with religion or spirituality. But postwar American painting such as Abstract Expressionism has been more like a practice in which your consciousness and your body encounter a thing which is a catalyst for pleasing self-awareness…. This is how Hall’s best paintings achieve the power of mandalas or paintings by Rothko, Malevich, Ad Reinhardt or Barnet Newman."




There's a stripped-down, essential quality to the work, and though the shapes are simple, the surfaces are masterfully handled. As others have noted, none of these paintings would be out of place in an exhibition of abstract expressionism. Hall's paintings are executed in mixed media, which includes water-based paints and varnishes, charcoal, paper collage, duct tape, and other materials on canvas or linen. His practice is to sketch in pastel on site and work up the large paintings later, in the studio. Apparently the Monhegan sketches lay in storage for a number of years, until Hall “felt up to the challenge” of making the larger work. In contrast, the Katahdin sketches he did last fall at Katahdin Lake. 


























detail from above




(detail)








Go see the show in person if you can! Photographs don't convey the authenticity or the raw power of this work.






Sunday, July 29, 2018

Helen Frankenthaler in Provincetown


"My pictures are full of abstract climates and not nature per se, but a feeling."
-Helen Frankethaler, 1962



Helen Frankenthaler (1928 - 2011) was a giant among the mid-twentieth century "second generation" New York abstract expressionists. Her contribution was original and exerted a major influence on postwar American art. 

Frankenthaler at PAAM.
There's a knockout show of her work titled "Abstract Climates, Helen Frankenthaler in Provincetown" at the Provincetown Art Association and Museum (affectionately known as PAAM) until September 2018. The PAAM selection provides a revealing lens through which to appreciate Frankenthaler's work. Nearly all of the PAAM paintings reflect Frankenthaler's reactions to the landscape of the Cape, where she made these paintings during about a decade of summers during the 1960s.


Frankenthaler originated the "soak stain" technique.

Helen Frankenthaler, Blue Atmosphere II, 1963, 72" x 69.5"
Like Pollock, she worked on large unprimed and unstretched canvases spread out on the studio floor, pouring and manipulating the paint.

Frankenthaler in her studio in the woods, 1968

Blue Atmosphere, detail 1

Unlike Pollock, she stained raw canvas through with translucent veils of paint, creating large, colorful shapes while also allowing the paint to do its own thing.

Blue Atmosphere, detail 2

Cool Summer, 1959, 69 x 120 inches
Paintings like these can be like poems in how they transcribe experience into beautiful new wholistic forms that nonetheless avoid simplistic lyricism. They obey different laws than those of traditional western art.

Sea Picture with Black, 1959, 82x57 inches
The sea is raw, so that's how she transcribed it - not with exaggerated or distorted representation, chaos or incomprehensible geometry, but directly through the paint's colors, its capacity to drip and splash like water or billow in translucent plumes like foam - and yet again into something new and strange that it takes new eyes to see.

Sea Picture with Black, detail
Her paintings affirm that "non-representational" does not have to mean devoid of content. Standing before the huge and gorgeous painting, "The Bay," I saw all the colors of the Cape - there was the silvery sheen on the marsh grass I was trying to match that very morning; there was the warm gray-brown of the sand in shadow I'd been seeing in the dunes. But this painting used these "facts" as mere starting points for a new ordering of beauty.


Helen Frankenthaler, The Bay, 1963, 80x62 inches. Resembles a continent, or an aerial photo, no?

This little landscape was the most representational of the bunch- but its similarities to "The Bay" above, while not immediately apparent, are intriguing.

Provincetown Window, 1963-64, 82 x 81 inches
By focusing on place, the curators foreground the content in Frankenthaler's work (always helpful when putting abstract paintings before the public), and this helps to clarify one of the primary differences between Frankenthaler and her peers - Frankenthaler used her art to embody and express sensations and experiences above ideas. This isn't what makes her work great - it's just a characteristic of it that distinguishes it from other abstract expressionists of the period. What makes it great is the impact it has when you're standing in front of it. I'm not going to try to parse that impact, but part of it for me went something like: "my god, I didn't know that amazing, wildly successful art could look like this."

Beach, 1950, oil, sand, plaster of paris and coffee grounds, 34x32 inches. Love this! It's like the earliest human artistic expressions, basic as cave painting. But she hadn't yet found her true voice. This is steeped in the surrealism of artists like Miro, Picasso, and early Pollock. 

I was still buzzed from the excitement of seeing the work of a great artist creating at the peak of her powers, when an artist named Dan Weldon said something amazing in a talk that he gave about his work. Dan, like myself, was teaching on the faculty of Castle Hill Center for the Arts in Truro this summer. He distinguished between "conceptual artists" and "experimental artists." By this I think he meant, on the one had, artists for whom the creative process is primarily a thoughtful, well-conceived, rational process and, on the other hand, artists for whom the goal is to channel unconscious energy, to experiment with (I think of it as "partnering with") the medium as a means of getting past conscious control. What's key in Dan's formulation is that it's not about technique (for both approaches, experimental and conceptual, finely honed skills are needed, just not the same or the conventional ones), rather it's about overall approach, about one's fundamental orientation to the creation of art.

Frankenthaler was married during her Provincetown years to abstract expressionist Robert Motherwell, who had his own studio in Ptown. Last time I was down there, I saw a show of Motherwell's "sea pictures" (in the parlance of the times) in which he also poured, stained, and flung the paint in his monumental canvases, effectively channeling the fluid rhythms and vigorous gestures of the powerful Atlantic Ocean. Motherwell, by the way, spoke of black and white as "protagonists" in his work. "Black," he said, "is technically not a color, [it represents] non-being if you like. Then what is more natural than a passionate interest in juxtaposing black and white, being and non-being, life and death."
Robert Motherwell, Beside the Sea, 1966


Seeing the catalog of that show on sale in the museum jogged my memory and got me thinking about the similarities and differences in these two artists' work. Both were "experimental painters," in the sense that they allowed the material to lead, staying out of the way of the paint and, from a psychological viewpoint, avoiding the rational mind and embracing the unconscious (Motherwell used the surrealist term "automatism.")

The difference is that where Frankenthaler is subjective and personal, Motherwell is iconic - as the quote above reveals, he conceives of his content on the plane of the archetypal and symbolic rather than the relational and personal. Realizing the two artists' kinship and differences allowed me to really enter into Frankenthaler's work. "Experimenting" allowed Frankenthaler to paint the experience of nature without representing it; she channeled the colors and feelings associated with the breezy tip of the Cape directly into her art. 

She simply walked out of the room of traditional Western art. Her approach was to avoid all the conventional "rules" (including representation), to create stunning, literally experimental paintings unlike anything ever seen before. She was less interested in representation than in what art can be, and perhaps communicating on a deeper level with her audience - provided that audience is willing to release expectations of what a painting is "supposed" to look like and accept her personal language of color, shape, and technique.

These ideas and Frankenthaler's example of fearlessness and absolute trust in the materials and the unconscious inspired me to try a much more painterly approach to large abstract paintings than I'd done before. Here's what I came up with:

Christopher Volpe, Cape Light, 2018

I hope to make more paintings in this vein. It's heavily influenced by my sometime mentor Eric Aho, but the moves in the paint and the feeling in it are genuinely mine. And I tried to follow Frankenthaler's example of wholly trusting the materials as well as my intuitive feeling-seeing memory, and trying to paint THAT alone, letting go of nearly all representational forms and getting the sensation into the paint. Whatever else it is, DAMN, was it fun!

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Some Thoughts on Painting

“The essential thing is to spring forth, to express the bolt of lightning one senses upon contact with a thing. The function of the artist is not to translate an observation but to express the shock of the object on his nature, the shock, with the original reaction.” 
- Henri Matisse

I'm teaching a week-long workshop at Castle Hill Center for the Arts in Truro, on the Cape this week. Called "Beyond Plein-Air," it combines plein air with studio painting and thus occasions a thoughtful appraisal of the relationship between these two, which also demands a reconsideration of the relationship of myself to painting in general. Thus, this class works for me as much as it does for my students as a reset button, a renewal of artistic vows, a chance for sophisticated play and fresh insight in the spirit of openness and excitement about art and life. 

Here's what I'm handing out on day one:

Don’t paint the thing - paint what made you want to paint it in the first place - that split-second miracle of insight into the mysteries of being-in-the-world. The false distinction between abstract or representational dissolves when you realize painting is about what the artist puts into it.


Matisse, The Open Window, 1905

Joyous living becomes possible when we escape the rational intellect’s habitual fight or flight mechanisms and stop judging and defining everything as either a promise or a threat. You let the floor drop and embrace failure and success as both parts of the same path. Same in the paint. All disasters are opportunities for information, to which we can have a creative response. Making art demands an embrace of uncertainty, both in the medium and, if you are making a life in art, in living itself. Enlightenment is NO FEAR, because “failure” and “success” (can we even honestly define these things?) no longer apply. In art and in life, playfulness, perception, thought, and creative surrender to uncertainty rule for as long as we can manage to embrace them. 

“Something you want to say definitely about the subject; this is the first condition of a painting. The process of painting spring from this interest… completion does not depend on material representation. The work is done when that special thing has been said.” - Robert Henri, The Art Spirit
Robert Henri, The Laughing Boy

Everything in the painting, in relation to everything else, expresses a central mood, idea, or intuition - a thought-feeling - a VISION. I’m interested in SEEING, but not as much as I’m interested in giving reality to a VISION. When a painting is too much like a picture, it closes down possibilities for poetry. Open the work to being about larger experiences through a sort of associative thinking that melds perception and observation with feeling and intuition, questions about identity, subjectivity, the attempt to grapple with the truly real. Only then engage editorial intervention.  

When looking, you ask, What are the primary relationships here, and you shape everything around that. Forms and shapes: where are the lights, where are the darks, what shapes are they, what are the colors and the edges doing?

Paul Resika, Sisters, 2001
Consciously stop yourself from making paintings based on a template of what good paintings are or are supposed to look like. Be true to yourself. Paul Resika taught me to ask of any painting not how good it is, how skillful or daring, or contemporary, or whatever, but "Is there anything in it?" 

Is there anything in it? It's a simple question concealing a powerful truth. Honest, soulful painting is always valued for itself and what the artist puts "in it." This is our task. It's why we go outside and paint from life - to puncture the cliche. Because when your eyes are open, everything is always new. Bring your love of every painting you've loved and bring your eyes honestly with you when you walk out of the door in the morning, when you arrive in a new space to paint, and everything is going to be amazing. I tell myself and my students this because it's so hard to live it every day and we need to hear it again and again.

Open your mind and heart to nature and risk everything.