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.
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| 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.
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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
