I will get you there

"It'll Get You There"

All the trips that you take, they will get you there
All the little white pills you take, they will get you there
All the compliments that you take, they will get you there
All the hearts that you break, they will get you there

It’ll get you there
It’ll get you there
It’ll get you there
It’ll get you there

All the hostages that you take, they will get you there
All the hands that you shake, they will get you there
All the conman that you fake, it’ll will get you there
All the hearts that you break, they will get you there

It’ll get you there [x8]
I will get you there

All the pennies that you save, they will get you there
All the hearts that you break, they will get you there

It’ll get you there [x8]
I will get you there 

I have not been painting. It has been a few months ... but I have an excellent excuse for not making art or blogging.  I am teaching art in Massachusetts, in an area referred to as the North Shore. For the first time in over twenty years, I am fine with the fact that I am not creating art and there is one very good reason.  I found something that I love just as much as making art, teaching students to love art. So in honor of this transition, I give you the lyrics to one of my favorite songs by Rilo Kiley, a band who I sang along to on my numerous car trips to and from Massachusetts.

Lush (2013)

Lush (2011) Oil on canvas, 10 x 8 inches

Butterfly (2013)

Butterfly (June 2013) Oil on canvas, 10 x 8 inches

I love books

I'm tired of the Internet, tired of TV, tired of being bombarded with advertisements. I discovered that the only way to relax after a long hard day at work is to READ. I just started a new book, The Visual Language of Drawing: Lessons on the Art of Seeing, and I cannot stop myself from sharing this wonderful passage:

Everybody draws in one way or another. Football coaches sketch out plays on locker-room blackboards. Engineers draw. So also do architects, archaeologists, cartographers, geographers, geologists, mathematicians, and urban graffiti "wall writers." By downplaying, even dismissing the importance of drawing, many K-12 institutions are gambling with the future. Drawing teaches us how to reason visually in the same way that other artistic pursuits like music reinforce mathematics and poetry improves language skills. Drawing is seeing made active by graphic means. By allowing us to measure, move, and animate space, it lets us look beyond horizons and within what we behold. Imaging technology can record the visible, but only drawing allows us to write pictures of things that encode our unique, personal memories of how we experienced them. Drawing lets us eat the whole world through our eyes and to indelibly burn the vision onto our mind as a durable memory. Drawing lets us own what we see, all by using nothing more than the tip of a pencil.

Moral of the story? Put down the electronics. Grab a book and a pencil and enjoy the simple life.

Work cited: McElhinney, J. L. (2012). The Visual Language of Drawing: Lessons on the Art of Seeing. New York, NY: Sterling Publishing. p. 11.

Bangladesh (2013)

Bangladesh (May 2013) oil on canvas, 18 x 14 inches

April's Essay

FINDING MY ARTISTIC VOICE

When I began painting, my work was figurative. I painted people mostly. I did not really understand or appreciate abstract art. As a young art student at Syracuse University, I was taught to draw and paint through direct observation, otherwise known as looking at real things and depicting space from a classical Renaissance approach. I made a few abstract pieces as experiments, but all my “serious” work was figurative. A few of my classmates toyed with abstraction, but the majority aspired to paint like Paul Cézanne or our revered professor, Jerome Witkin.

Sailng the Acheron (2008) oil, rope on canvas, 36 x 27 in

About two years ago, my work turned entirely abstract. I was nearing the end of my studies at Tyler School of Art, and I was excited to have time to paint again. For three years, I barely painted while I pursued my degree.

But something had to change. I put down the paintbrush and picked up the palette knife. I had never made a whole painting with just a palette knife. I decided to try. I made a small 20 x 16 inch painting, completely abstract, over top one of my older paintings. I called it Phillyscape. I painted like this, with just a palette knife, covering up my older paintings, for almost two years. Because I found it nearly impossible to do fine detail with a palette knife, my work became entirely nonobjective.

I first began experimenting with using a palette knife instead of a brush in the summer of 2008 in the painting, Sailing the Acheron. My full-time grad studies were about to begin, and I knew I would have to bid adieu to painting. That same summer, I inherited a few palette knife paintings made by a friend of my grandmother’s. I hung the paintings, by a woman named Jan Meekins, next to mine. The surfaces of these paintings were so lustrous. I loved how their textural surfaces would catch the light and flicker as I walked by. My grandfather told me that Jan made all her paintings in one day, using only a palette knife. That was her gig. It had to be quick. Her paintings inspired me to try the palette knife for the first time. Only a few strokes of the palette knife made it into Sailing the Acheron. They are barely visible, but they're there.

For two years, the palette knife became my primary painting tool. Since Phillyscape (2011), I have created thirteen "new" paintings in this manner. Without a brush, I relinquished my ability to draw with paint; I was literally forced to develop a new mark-making language. When I applied the paint, I felt like I was spackling a wall or decorating a cake. The paint was thick like icing. I scraped the paint on, building up the surface in a series of layers. Textural and dimensional qualities emerged in my paintings, qualities that are difficult to see when you view one of these paintings on a computer screen. However, if you see the art in person, you will notice that the actual paint on the canvas is not pretty. The colors might be appealing, but the actual gobs of paint could easily be described as gritty, sloppy, crusty, creviced, pock-mocked, essentially the opposite of smooth, pristine, and pretty.

I was searching for a new way to approach my work, and ultimately, painting this way reinvigorated my studio practice. My paintings were always colorful, but now the surfaces were becoming deeply textured and almost sculptural, like Jan's paintings.

I tell viewers, “You can do a 180 degree walk around any one of these paintings and it will look interesting from every angle. You don’t have to stand dead in front of it to enjoy.”

Currently, seven paintings hang on my studio wall, in process, some dangerously close to being finished. One of them might be finished. It still needs a few days to sit while I decide. I work on several paintings simultaneously out of necessity. The switch to a palette knife means that the paint lays down thick and I must wait, for three days or more, until the paint is dry enough to add a new layer. If I do not wait, and the paint is still wet, I end up destroying the previous layer. Since I have no patience to wait, I solved this problem by working on multiple paintings at a time.

Inside the studio (April 14, 2013)

However, I have veered from complete abstraction on two occasions. Some paintings that I have chosen to paint over were previously figurative, and I decided to retain some of these figurative elements. For example, in Awakening (2012), a realistic hand emerges from the abstract composition, a hand from the original painting, Corrie's Peace (2004).

Corrie's Peace (2002) changed into Awakening (2012), oil on canvas, 30 x 24 inches

In one painting that I am currently working on (one that I have been referring to as The Mermaid), I decided to keep the face of the original painting. But as the months rolled by, I completely obliterated what was underneath - Afghani Girl (2002). The face is still in the same spot. It's now just a very different face.

Afghani Girl (2002) turned into The Mermaid (still in process, photo taken April 28, 2013) oil on canvas, 35 x 24 inches

This painting, a portrait essentially, has been vexing me to no end. Ultimately, I found I needed a brush to paint the small details of the face. Using a brush allowed me to paint "realistic eyes" and a "realistic mouth" on the woman’s face. The rest of the painting was essentially a color field of palette knife strokes. After I added brushwork, I felt I had created an imbalance. I kept trying to make the painting "work," but to no avail. The technique I used on the face did not mesh with rest of the painting. I came to a halt. I did not know what to do, so I stopped working on it. I hung it out of the way, high on the wall, while I worked on my other six paintings.

A few days ago, after a two-month hiatus from The Mermaid, I took her down for another try. I had an idea - bring more brushwork into the rest of the piece to create a balance between the palette knife marks and the brush marks. So far, this idea seems promising. Time will tell.

This juxtaposition of realism and abstraction in one piece is intriguing, but the idea is hardly new. It is a concept I have been exploring, here and there, since I began painting in the early 90s. If you have been following contemporary illustration and painting, the concept of blending realism with abstraction seems very much alive. The question for me, as a painter, is "What will I do with this concept?"

April 28th, 2013
K. Cicalese

C'est la vie (That's life)

I am fully aware that I have neglected to post an essay for the months of March and April.  To be honest, this blog is my last priority.  I wish this was not the case, but when life gets busy, I do not "blog."  When I have free time, I paint. And when I have no time for painting, I draw.  The previous two posts show drawings I made while subbing during the PSSAs.  I was not allowed to read a book, but fortunately I was granted permission to draw.

Hallway Drawing: Part II

Portrait of Sadiyah in 4th Grade (April 16, 2013) pencil on paper, 7 x 5 inches

Hallway Drawing: Part I

Cartoon Self Portrait  (April 11, 2013) pencil on paper, 7 x 5 inches

Spring colors

Iris (2013)

Iris (2013) oil on canvas, 24 x 18 inches

I do believe I finished a painting! I have been working on the same five paintings for about four months now.  Mind you, I usually only paint once or twice a week, when time allows. This one suddenly said to me, "I'm done." I will wait a few days to decide, but I think I agree.

February's Essay

DESTRUCTION AND RESURRECTION


To be an oil painter, the first thing you will need is space. This space can be in a house. It can be in an attic, your bedroom, or anywhere you can leave some art supplies lying around, ready for use. The space may be small, but it is necessary. This is your “studio.” The size of your “studio” will determine the size of the art you can make, but don’t let this deter you. I made that mistake my first year out of college.

Girl with Staff (1997) pencil collage, 7 x 5 inches

When I first moved to Philly, I lived in a small apartment with my older brother. I was not able to oil paint. The turpentine would have been too toxic a smell for my 8 x 10 room. Instead of reverting to making pencil drawings and changing my approach, I barely made any art. I did manage to make two small 5 x 7 inch collages, one of which is pictured. I wondered if I was really an artist, or just someone who chose to study art in college.

Fortunately, within the year, I found and moved into a huge railroad apartment in Chinatown. This means there were no interior walls dividing the place into rooms. It was just one big open space. It was in terrible shape, but I was young so these things did not bother me much. The kitchen consisted of a sink, oven, and a fridge. I built my own counter out of wood, cinder block, and ceramic tile. Afterwards, I decided that grouting was brutal and never again attempted such a feat. The oven would set off the fire alarm and bugs crawled out of the sink’s drain. I could go on. It was not the nicest place. However, it was the best studio I ever had.

There were high ceilings, tons of windows, and it was perfect for painting. The prior tenant had been a painter too and it was my luck that he left his wooden easel behind. I had a futon and a dresser and an apartment you could ride a bike in. Thus began my life as a painter.

I bought a few prestretched canvases and prepared to paint. I remember feeling unsure how to begin. Since most of my painting experiences including working from direct observation, I set up the easel by a northern window. I looked out the window and started painting the buildings across the street. I don’t know how long I tried to paint this scene, perhaps a few days or so. Then I stopped. I hated what I was painting. The buildings were gray and ugly and I did not want to make a gray painting. I thought of setting up a still life, but the scenery inside my apartment was not much better. I needed color and lots of it. On a whim, I decided to try painting from my head. I thought, “Why not? No one is watching me. If it sucks, I can just trash it.”

I stared at the white of the canvas. I had no image in mind. I pre-mixed a wide array of harmonic colors on my palette, colors that I wanted to see. Then I painted, coating the canvas in automatic strokes. Dab dab here. Dab dab there. When the paint dried, I added another layer of paint. I repeated this process over and over. Each new layer of paint dictated the next. As the painting developed, the abstract marks converged, overlapped, and transformed into real things. Paint strokes became rivers, houses, plants and people, anything really, transforming the paintings into imaginary landscapes.

I titled my first abstract painting The Basket (1997). I would be embarrassed to show it today, but I loved it then. To me it represented a moment when I took a creative risk, when I abandoned everything I thought I knew about painting, and tried something completely unknown and strange.

Years later, I decided it was not a good painting, so I painted over it. It became Oil Tanker (2005). As a reader, you may wonder, “Why would you paint over a painting? Why don’t you just make or buy a new canvas?” I would nod in understanding, then say, “I could do that, but it is a bit more complicated.”

The urge to paint over my own work usually stems from an aesthetic impulse. Whenever a painting stops looking good to me, I feel an urge to hide it or get rid of it. If a painting sits around my house for long enough, I often decide that it is “no good.” I don’t know if I get sick of looking at my own work or I just start seeing more and more problems.

On the other hand, if you asked me to tell you about my favorite painting, the answer would constantly change. I always like best the one I am currently painting. I am most excited about a work of art when I am in the process of making it or I just finished. This strong attachment usually lasts for a few months to a year, and then, the feeling fades. The rush of making the piece wears off and when I look at it, years later, I see the work with a different perspective and a more critical eye. This is when I decide to try again, to paint over it, and to see if I can’t make it good and interesting again.

There is risk in this process. I have destroyed a few paintings that I used to really love in the search for something new. But it is a risk I take because I want to make my paintings better.

However, sometimes I paint over my old work for a completely different reason. Sometimes, I just run out of storage space. After three years in Chinatown, I left that apartment for a row house in Fairmount that I have shared with a list of rotating roommates. I think a “studio” has been set up on every floor of this house, depending on who was living here at the time and what floor I called my own.

For a while now, I have been using the original living room as my studio. The ceilings are high, which is nice, but one thing seriously lacking is storage space for my work.

Over the years, I have painted on a constant basis and created an abundance of art. If I had my old studio, I would probably have it stacked against a wall, but the new house presented a quandary. My “studio” space area was a lot smaller. Initially, I stored extra work in the basement. However, after a decade, I realized the humidity and dampness of the basement was a threat to my artwork. I hung what I liked on my walls and began the process of dismantling, rolling up, and storing away others. I knew there was little chance I would restretch any of these paintings. It made me sad to dismantle and I did this to most of my larger pieces.

The smaller paintings took a different route. Seeing that I always had a need for new canvases, I decided to just paint over them. I thought, “These are actually quite bad. I should destroy them. I certainly don’t want any examples of my ‘bad’ paintings lying around.”

I have painted over at least 30 paintings. I have dismantled 14 and counting. This is why this essay is titled, “Destruction and Resurrection.”

By painting over my old work, I essentially “destroy” it in order to “resurrect” it. I know my language is getting symbolic, but you must understand, if a painting is unstretched, rolled up, and hidden in a closet, it has basically been doomed to non-existence. No one will probably ever see it again, except in a small, digital photograph. On the other hand, if a painting is painted over, there is a very good chance it will escape its closet status and hang on a wall, to be loved and appreciated. The painting has metaphorically been reborn and given a second chance at life.

In almost every instance that I painted over one of my old paintings, parts of the original composition are still visible. The older painting actually acts as an underpainting and a starting point for the new painting. Instead of staring at a blank canvas and searching for a composition, I dissect the composition about to be covered up or “destroyed,” and think of ways to change it and improve it.

In 2011, I painted over The Basket, my first abstract oil painting, for a third time. It is now called Cold Fire and it hangs nicely above my television. I made it over a year ago and I still love it, so maybe it is here to stay.

Here is a photomontage, showing the evolution of this painting though the years.
Did it improve? You be the judge.

Pictured from left to right: The Basket (1997), Oil Tanker (2005), Cold Fire (2011), Oil on canvas, 24 x 20 inches

February 24th, 2013
K. Cicalese

Tweaking the Face

Sometimes I make teeny, tiny changes. Can you spot them?
Note to viewer: Color is a little off. Different days, different light.

Close up photos taken on February 16th  and February 17th, 2013

Anticipation is making me quake

I am so close to finishing this painting I can feel it.
My heart is beating fast and and my fingers are trembling.
I even have a title already, The Mermaid.

close up photo of the face (Jan 2013)

January's Essay

I AM STILL A PAINTER


About five years ago, I made a choice, a choice to be a teacher.

It was the spring of 2007. I had been painting and exhibiting in Philly for about a decade. Even though I had sold paintings, I worried about the future. During those ten years, I learned how difficult it would be for me to earn any kind of living from my artwork. I finally understood why my Dad never wanted me to study art. He wanted me to be financially stable. Despite his wise advice, which I totally dismissed as a young adult, I chose to be a painter. How did I make this choice? I declared “Painting” as my major in college. It seemed rather simple back then, but I was far from being any kind of artist. I was a student and I knew nothing. It would be years before I could comfortably introduce myself to new people as a painter.
 
Anyway, in the fall of 2007, I took a class, The History of Art Education, at Temple University with Dr. Jo-Anna Moore. I loved the class. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed being in a learning environment. My new professor came in the form of a soft-spoken grandmother, a persona that hid her startling intelligence. My new classmates were bright and inspiring as well, so I applied to Temple to pursue a Masters in Art Education.
 
For three years, I told myself that I was no longer an artist. I was making a new choice, a choice to earn a decent living from something else that I love, sharing my passion for art with students. I was on a new path. I wrapped up my studio and converted it into an office. I made artwork during the summer and in the studio classes I took at Tyler, but for the most part, my focus was elsewhere.
 
However, once the bulk of my class work was complete, I set up my studio again. I still had a master’s paper to write, but time was again on my side.
 
Before I graduated, I had an exit portfolio review. I showed pieces made during my time in graduate school. Even though I barely had time to make art, the room was full. Years prior, I thought I had to give up being an artist to be a teacher. As I looked around, I realized just how important artmaking is to me. Even when I had no time, I found time. One of my professors asked where I saw my work going. I held up my newest painting, one that I had just made in my recently converted studio/office space. I said, “This is a painting I made with only a palette knife, no brush. This is a new approach for me and I think I love it.” The painting I was referring to is Phillyscape. I added, “I want to make more like this one.”
 
And that is exactly what I have done. I made a dozen more in this new style and without realizing it, I was back to being a painter.
 
Yesterday, I revised my list of artworks. It is a list that includes 16 years of making art (1997-2013) after completing my BFA. The last entry is numbered 140. Looking over the list, I made a realization. My work did not get really good, according to my standards, until the year 2008. This means I spent about 11 years making mostly crap. It wasn’t crap to me when I made it, but now that I am older, I see much of my early work as practice. I was trying to be good, but I wasn’t good.
 
To truly understand what I am talking about, I will leave you with the best quote about being an artist, thanks to Ira Glass. Every working artist out there can sympathize.

January 27th, 2013
K. Cicalese

Feeling Monochromatic

Today's palette.

Two of my favorite things

Cats and drawing. Timeless loves.