Like Ballet

I doubt that I pay closer attention to the nature of painting than elite painters do.

But that being said I think it's fair to say that I spend more time thinking about "painting" than the average painter. At least of those here in Portland. It is terribly bourgeois to say that somebody's art "sucks" but at the risk of sounding bourgeois I've seen a lot of bad art. On top of that I heard a great deal of explanations of why I shouldn't say such things that are even worse than the art they are attempting to defend.

I wonder how much critical theory people really understand when they talk about the "politics of the subject object relationship"?

This is by no means going to be a post that rants on and on about how art has lost its way. I think there are plenty of those. However, in the last few days I found that my usually unfocused energy is becoming easier and easier to focus. Not, unlike a magnifying glass bending light into a small pinprick capable of starting fires. With this increased focus, and new viewpoint of reallydigging into the nature of painting I recently noticed something.

Now my penchant for endless digression aside, I think it's wise to explain something first. I have a masters degree in critical theory from Royal Holloway. And while one of the most useful things I ever learned from uni was how to speak volumes about absolutely noting, it was how to analyze writing.Not just what people are saying (any numbnuts can do that) but to follow the path a writer takes to get where they're going.

And Lord! What a world that opened up for me! I went back and read some of my own papers, and it was like seeing myself in a vintage black and white movie with a old-fashined player piano in the background.

When I read my papers from high school: "plink-plink-plink" goes the player piano as I explain about the structure of the United States Legislature, and the little imaginary movie me I go wandering this way and that way apparently looking for his keys or something as he attempts to explain why incumbents has an edge over challengers in mid term elections.

When I read my papers from my undergrad years the player piano has been exchanged for a synthesizer and it becomes a cheesy B movie. Full of drama and plot twists that make little sense to have included. one minute I'm talking about particle physics and the next how to make soufflé without burning the egg whites. One minute I'm searching for a pirate treasure map and the next I'm fighting ninjas on the Empire State building. (That paper by the way, was about the similarity between Henry VIII of England and Louis XIV of France.) you can imagine how that paper went.

When I began to work at the post graduate level a professor took me aside and gave me some good advice.

"Frank", he said "your work needs to be more precise. Stop dicking around and answer the question" (my paraphrase)

The papers I wrote in my final year at Uni have the precision and the focus of Ballet. Every arc or argument is carefully controlled and supported. Huge choreographed numbers of logic and wind around each other in perfect time. In short, the writing becomes about "how it is said", as much as "what it says." That is what I call "intention".

How does this apply to painting? After enough experience reading writing you can read paintings as well. The movie queues up and I can see painters doing these things I used to do in writing.

There are the painting of aimless wandering

The paintings that begin with a solid idea and somehow become lost.

The drama-laden

Paintings that disparate elements of unrelated ideas and attempt to tie those ideas together by tenuous theory bridges.

in short, too many artist are making wild unsupported wandering statements. The work has no intention, or at best, poor intention. The execution of how the visual language of a painting is phrased is as important as what the painting says. compare the work above with that of one of my favorite painters Graydon Parrish:

While you may not care for flowers, you have to admit, that painting is Ballet. The same goes for Jeremy Lipking:

Ballet.

This is what I mean by intention. So you don't like flowers? Fine, but you cannot argue with the how precise and fluid the execution of the movement is. I've watched videos of these men paint and it is like watching Baryshnikov dance. I'll ponder this more. You can be sure that over next few days I'll have Ballet on the brain.

-F

Giotto didn't use three general tones....

One of the aspects that I'm finding the most difficult about being a full-time painter is lining up a succession of really good ideas without repeating myself. Hardest thing ever.

When I first began to paint i had limited time and, to some extent, limited ability. In a sense that simplified the process for me immensely. I didn't have enough skill (or perhaps I did, but I certainly didn't trust it) to paint from life, so I was limited to working from 4" x 5" photographs as I felt my way through the maze that is watercolour. I produced one painting every 3 months (on average) and that at the time, was enough to keep me feeling as though I was accomplishing something.

The other factor to consider was that at the time, I knew even less about photography than I did painting. As such I was force to paint a wide array of subject matter. I knew what I liked, but I had to get my reference materials by trolling through other peoples photographs. This not only caused me to paint a wide array of subjects, but also in a variety of styles, as something from the original reference material always remained.

That is to say, I never painted the same thing twice.

Every single time I would look for something different. Different angles, lighting materials settings times of day, color palettes, techniques and so one and so forth. But gradually as my skill improved and I began turning my attention to oil painting the length of time between painting shrunk. My need for reference material doubled. Then tripled. Till finally I was out of photographs.

My time with M:R gave me a new outlet for subject matter, insofar as I learned to paint from observation. Now I can work from either photographs or observation (which I prefer now). However, I feel that (to a certain extent) my extensive work with the M:R setup (two pieces of fruit and a metal/glass object) has handicapped my ability to think outside of this traditional "teaching" set-up.

A traditional "student" set-up. Now with bread!

Also, as I've mentioned before, I hate the "three general tones, three tones in each area, lightest lights darkest darks" way of painting. While very effective to familiarize students with paint and teach them their basics it seems to me an awful way to paint. In my personal opinion, it smacks of impressionism. Don't get me wrong, some impressionism I like, but as I refine my work, I'm finding that I agree more and more with Gerome, in that impressionism is a sloppy, haphazard way to paint. So, I've deliberated added some other theories and techniques to my work, which I think has benefited me as a painter, but its still not helping me compose.

I'm still finding it hard work to shrug off M:R's compositional ball & chain but I do feel as though I'm making progress in this area:

Artichoke on a Brocade tablecloth. Without bread!

It's still a struggle. mostly because when I find something that works I am inclined to repeat myself which is something I definitely don't want to do. However this is perhaps my old habits of needing to do something different every time gnawing at me. Think for a moment of every artist you've seen in a gallery, in general, don't they all seem to be be painting variations on a theme?

And so, I'm looking for the next painting. I finished one yesterday, which I will post in a few days along with my thoughts on some color harmonies, palettes and Michael Hardings paint line.

watch this space.

-F

The next big thing.

I'm terrible at math.

That's not at all an understatement. Frankly to put a number on it, I scored a 720 on my verbal SAT's (back when they were out of 800) and 500 on my math. So, to be plain, I can tell you very clearly and in great detail how I suck at polynomial equations.

But I am very good at take a mental accounting of things. Accounting doesn't necessarily have to do with math, it's just that the image of an accountant stirs up images of grey haired men who bend over a huge stack of papers all day long, adding an subtracting lives down to little 1's and 0's. But over the last few days I've managed to take a mental accounting of what I've been doing with myself now that I'm painting full time; mostly of things that help and hinder my production. For example, painting miniatures: good. Playing Warhawk till my hands are shaking and my eyes are ready to fall out of my head: not as good. Thus, I'm making a concentrated effort to be more faithful to the thing which I have put so much on the line to do.

This is mostly because I sold a painting this weekend.

The thrill of selling a painting is almost numbed by the need to sell more paintings. Kasey is of the opinion that I should enjoy it, but that is incredibly difficult, as stopping to smell the roses involves stopping. And stopping is bad for inertia, which is bad for painting, which is good for Warhawk, which is bad for my sanity, which is almost as bad for anybody of the receiving end of my war tank.

Part of this accounting is looking back at the things I used to do that were good and helpful to me. Blogging was one of those things, back when I wrote a blog once a week on myspace (back when that was the place to be). But I stopped that; mostly because of the trouble it began to create for me at work. I couldn't be putting down what I actually thought of things if work was to be reading about it; irritation about being ferried hither and thither by the needs of running 10 art studios in Los Angeles, the funny things kids do when your attempting to teach them to draw, videos taken of me by my students and even the benign observations about the quirks of working for people you admire and respect were all no-no's that could easily land me in worlds of trouble. And so, the necessity to monitor what I said gave way to the inability to say anything at all.

Not being bound by a employers code of conduct (or thought) anymore I'm rebooting Diary of a Genius. My plan is to work on it once, maybe twice per week. Including an honest accounting of my progress and work. I know that thre are people out there who follow this type of thing, because I'm one of them. I am constantly looking for thoughts on linen, board, paint brands, working techniques, experimentation, medium making and all of the knowledge and process that goes into painting.

And once again, like before, there will be no modesty to be found on this blog. Modesty is for quitters.

-F

fine...Fine... FINE!

Roughly 11 years ago a friend gave me a book that started me on my path to becoming a painter.

At the time I was crazy in love with her (in the way that only a 19 year old can be) and although the rational side of my felt that the book itself was hokey self-help nonsense, the lovesick teenager in me convinced that other part me that I had to do it; and do it I did.

I spend the next six months in England investigating and testing my creative abilities. I took one day a week where all I focused on was my "creative recovery". I didn't have any television, video games, no job, no car, no girlfriend (the girl who gave me the book had long since disappeared), and very few responsibilities. In short, nothing stood in between me the time necessary to process this material.

Those six months were instrumental in my artistic development. More so than any other time in my artistic history. I quite literally picked up a book and decided that I wanted to be a painter. At the time I quite literally had no artistic training and only an average level of innate artistic ability. (by that I meant I could doodle) But somehow, I felt that art was a correct path for me and come hell or high water, I was going to be a part of it.

For next five years I approached art like a warrior monk. Religious in my certainty fearless in my approach. I did my devotionals every morning in the form of journal keeping and I battled paint every day. I gave sermons lectures and encouragement to the arts. I secured a studio space for the school, I founded an art club, I ate slept breathed and drank art for 3 years. in short, I was an nigh-unstable tour de-force in creative inspiration.

Then all the bullshit of real life hit me. I left college and got a real job. Suddenly all there were demands on my time. Places I had to be things I had to do. It was the fate of a warrior monk during the industrial revolution.

Looking back on the last 6-7 years or so it's amazing how many emergencies I handled that were touted as "crises" when they really weren't. Things that had to be handled "right then" or disaster would break loose. Perhaps it was my training as a warrior monk that allowed me to handle these so called "emergencies" without freaking the fuck out. (Most of the time I wanted to tell people to just calm the hell down.)

But somewhere along the line I lost my monken focus and my warriors attitude. It's time I get a a little of that back. And so, Clar Innis!

Let the battle begin.

-F

I hear there's an job opening between Charybdis and Scylla...

It's amazing how much damage a slight detour can take.

In my opinion very little is unrepairable. However, from my cautious upbringing, I am still very wary of the fact that often the effects of an ill thought-out or worse yet, an ill-timed decision can take months to repair.

The former is annoying because you look back and think, "Why the hell did I do that?" and second is often far more annoying because the right thing at the wrong time is rarely the right thing. A screwed up sequence can often cause as much damage as doing the completely wrong thing. I should know, I'm terrible at baking....

I've spent the last few months repairing what is essentially a mistake that cost me two and a half years worth of effort. Two and a half years. That's a long time. It's hard even confronting the difficulty that I've faced simply because I made a error in judgment. I've been very wary to talk to anyone about it simply for fear of reprisal, but the truth of the matter remains:

I should have left my job much sooner than I did.

That's hard to admit, mostly because I feel grateful to them for what I learned there. But all in all, it was made very clear to me over those last two years that M:R was not the place for me, and (for lack of better phraseology) it did not want me there.

But I did what I always do, and what I've always done it stick it out till the bitter end. M:R is shrinking and in my firm opinion it will continue to do so until they get some shit together within their operating procedures. I cannot abide incompetence. Nor can I abide consistently poor management decisions, lack of responsibility, blame-storming and lack of follow through. It frustrates me to see something that really does work so well, handicapped by ineptitude.

I personally pulled 5 studios out of the toilet for them, drove all over god's green earth (or brown as the season dictated) and generally cleaned up other people's messes. For a while, I felt like I was doing a good thing. I come to change my opinion on that matter. Bailing more than anyone else on a sinking ship does very little good if people are drilling holes in the boat.

So, I elected to abandon ship. Truthfully I think it's the smartest decision I made in that two years (besides marring my wife). I know more about painting than just about anyone there, save maybe Larry. My father always told that the only way to get better at something was to do it with people better than you are. I hated being the big fish in the small pond. That has always made me uncomfortable. I think in some respects I attempted to make myself smaller so as to be less visible. Usually the first thing thrown off a sinking ship is whatever is heaviest. I'm not a moron, I saw what was happening. but as I said I did the noble thing, and stuck it out until the situation became untenable.

It's going to take sometime to re-focus all my energy; being on a sinking ship has a habit of dispersing your attention. But now it's time to get down to brass tacks. To polish the core of what's important to me: Painting.

Oddly enough this upcoming year will be the year of the rabbit. (Fitting that I am a rabbit owner.) I remember on my birthday last year I received a portent of things to come. an overwhelming feeling of positive change. And while I loved the people I taught, the fact remains that I avoided a shipwreck.

So now, I am changing this blog to reflect my work. It's time I stop pretending that I'm small and that I fit in and that I am not more than just a good employee.

It's time to own up and be a painter.

-F

On top of the world Ma! Wait a minute.. is that ANOTHER mountain?!

Stupid blinking cursor.

Mocking me because I have no idea how to start.

Were this Rome I would have something appropriate, like a trumpet blast, to get everybody's attention. But this is not Rome and trumpets do not work very well in cyberspace unless you are an annoying coder who knows how to imbed things like that into web pages.

I would say that I digress, but in truth I haven't really started. So I suppose there's nothing really to digress from just yet. Just that annoying ::blink:: ::blink:: ::blink:: from the cursor.

I am Fail.

I suppose it's because there is just no other way to say it except plainly. Which annoys me to no end. I am not plain. I am very clever and very good looking. So way is it so damn difficult to come up with some witty anecdote or turn of phrase right now? ::sigh::

Fine.

I did it.

Sure, that might not mean allot to you, but those three simple words mark the end of a plan that took me nearly 10 years to carry out. Nearly ten years ago I started on the path to becoming a painter by picking a book a dear friend gave me and deciding that art was what I wanted to do with my life. I vowed that in 5 years I would be living solely off my art. And in a matter of speaking, in 5 years I was. At end of November in 2005 I began working at Mission:Renaissance, teaching art; full time. However, as much as it pains me to say it. M:R was not enough for me. I wanted to live off my own painting, to work at it full time; something I only dreamed about doing 10 years ago.

I have had lots of these types of moments in my life. Long-laid plans that culminate in everything I had wanted being handed to me on a platter made of silver. But never like this. Never has it been such a long journey to see the results of what was believed at the time to be a far-fetched dream.

Were the last ten years a movie about climbing a mountain this would be the moment the final credits role.

::He stands triumphantly on the peak, hair blowing gently in the frigid wind. He takes of his coat and throws in to the sky fists raised in triumph as he bellows his victory to the clouds.::

::Fade to credits::

However, when those credits don't role, he looks around and realizes that that mountain open up to an even bigger one and the way back is snowed in. Understandably he has a moment of what can only be described as a "huh..." moment. Before he picks up his jacket and gets to climbing again.

I am, for the moment, a little off-kilter from the shock of actually getting what I've wanted for so long. But only for a moment.

I have a new mountain to climb.

-F

Jesus Christ, 40 days and the desert.

I have often written about trials, deserts and the oppressive crushing weight that comes with waiting for a trial to be complete. Those blogs are not here mind you. This is a relatively new blog. You can easily find my backdated posts here if your interested. They are a good read providing that you have nothing else to read or can't read. If so, they yes, they are amazingness personified. Much like an enigma wrapped in a riddle with a carmel filling covered with chocolate ganache.

Ahem.

The point here being that I'm no stranger to waiting around for everyone and everything else to get their act together and get on with the show. It seems that most of my life has involved, in some way or another, me telling people what was going on, and them telling me , "No no no, that couldn't possibly be so." I also can't tell you how many times I've just shrugged and closed the door to the Ark as the last of the animals shuffled in two by two and storm clouds darkened overhead.

After the first few floods I remained resilient in the face of such skepticism. However, I've found that my patience is waining as of late. You can only try to convince the populace that something is going on and watch call you a "ri-tard" so many times before you start to lose your sense of humor about it. I can only imagine poor Noah just landing that big ass boat in a tree with everyone around on the ground looking up in disbelief. That old man beard long from spending month on the ocean climbing down the ladder thinking, "Ok, now maybe people will take me seriously when I say there's going to be a flood. But hell, theres nobody left to destroy, now maybe God can take a break and have a margarita." Only to hear Great White's "Once bitten, twice shy" guitar hook ring tone from his cell phone and seeing: "777-777-7777" on caller ID. Crap. I can image that conversation would go something like this:

Noah: Hello.

God: You know I don't drink Margaritas anymore.

Noah: I'm sure. Besides, it was a metaphor.

God: Ya. I know.

Noah: Well, you have something to tell me I assume.

God: Yup.

Noah: Let me guess. You've finished your ultimate plan for me and now I can finally relax?

God: Not exactly.

Noah: Another flood.

God: Yup. More or less. You'll need to let people know.

Noah: These new ones gonna listen to me this time?

God: Probably not.

Noah: Great.

God: See you in six months.

Noah: Bye.

Noah: "ALRIGHT EVERYBODY. BACK ON THE BOAT. CHANGE OF PLANS."

Noah: :sigh: Again...

And so it goes. Over and freaking over and freaking over again. Granted I'm not exactly predicting world drowning floods here but when I say "storm clouds are on the way". I certainly expect people to take me seriously. I mean I did show up in a freaking tree after a huge storm didn't I? (metaphorically at least).

As I mentioned before, It's always been this way for me. It never really registered until I hit 30. Not too long after that birthday, I was driving somewhere, (probably to pick up canvas or brushes or something,) and it occurred to me that I about the age Jesus was when he supposedly began his ministry. While you heathens out there that weren't raised with a healthy dose of moral obligation mixed with crushing fear might not get the gravity of such a comparison, those of us raised with such ingrained awe of the big "J" (even those who no longer really fall neatly into conventional categories), that parallel is something special.

I had always envisioned Christ as this semi-old man turning over tables in the temple, eyes all burny from the "wrath of the one true God" and what-not. Reading about these miracles and sermons, Jesus gathering the people to him, defying the Roman Empire he seemed so far removed from me. Granted he was the son the of God; and yet the largest religion on the planet with followers clocking in at 2.1 billion people, (And that's that's Billion. With a "B". Out of the 6,864,100,000 people mulling about on this blue dot. That's nearly 1/3 of the earth's population) follow a guy that got the ball rolling when he was 30. That is to say, when he was as old as I was.

What a terrifying revelation that is. While I am not the son of God sent here to save the souls of mankind from everlasting damnation, I have enough of an impetus behind me that I don't feel uncomfortable drawing the parallel. I feel as thought everything is pushing into the next stage much as the big JHC probably felt.

With that in mind, I'll draw another sacrilegious parallel. Jesus wandered in the desert for 40 days immediately after visiting his cousin John the Baptist. I'm a big fan of deserts. they center us and you come out the other side a changed person. They test your metal and show you what your made of. Most prophets and visionaries spend some amount of time in a cave somewhere deciding if this whole "holy-man" thing is such a good idea. I imagine for every holy man that stays, hundreds wander back into the cities and lead perfectly happy lives in perfectly happy anonymity.

And here I am. 30 years old being tested by the desert as much as any ascetic. And yes, it is taking me a bit longer than the standard 40 days to find my way through. In the meantime, I am waiting, and while I might be here in this desert bearing the temptation to believe the doubt of those around me who wonder why I'm building this stupid fucking boat, believe me when I say this;

There are storm clouds on the horizon, and y'all are about to get wet.

-F