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.

The Schmich Suncreen Speech (made famous by Vonnegut)

Decided to see if I could find a link to that Vonnegut speech I was going on and on about yesterday. As it turns out, he didn't write it. It was a newspaper column by a woman named Mary Schmich. The original piece of writing appeared June 1, 1997 in the Chicago Tribune. Mary wrote:

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 1997:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Oh worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 P.M. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself, either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders. Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

She said it was an imaginary speech, what she would say if ever invited to give a commencement address. Here's a link to an article about the hoax, which says that anyone who didn't know about this must have been living in a bomb shelter (The Kurt Vonnegut Sunscreen Speech - Urban Legends). Now I can tell you that I was not living in a bomb shelter and I was not the only one to be duped. The copy of the Vonnegut speech was included in a newsletter sent to my step-dad from his horseshoe group. The postage on the newsletter revealed it was sent out August 23, 1997. Ms. Schmich, the rightful author, revealed she was the actual author in her column on August 3, 1997. She wrote:

I am Kurt Vonnegut.

Oh, Kurt Vonnegut may appear to be a brilliant, revered male novelist. I may appear to be a mediocre and virtually unknown female newspaper columnist. We may appear to have nothing in common but unruly hair.

But out in the lawless swamp of cyberspace, Mr. Vonnegut and I are one. Out there, where any snake can masquerade as king, both of us are the author of a graduation speech that began with the immortal words, "Wear sunscreen."

I was alerted to my bond with Mr. Vonnegut Friday morning by several callers and e-mail correspondents who reported that the sunscreen speech was rocketing through the cyberswamp, from L.A. to New York to Scotland, in a vast e-mail chain letter.

Friends had e-mailed it to friends, who e-mailed it to more friends, all of whom were told it was the commencement address given to the graduating class at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The speaker was allegedly Kurt Vonnegut.

Imagine Mr. Vonnegut's surprise. He was not, and never has been, MIT's commencement speaker. Imagine my surprise. I recall composing that little speech one Friday afternoon while high on coffee and M&M's. It appeared in this space on June 1. It included such deep thoughts as "Sing," "Floss," and "Don't mess too much with your hair." It was not art.

But out in the cyberswamp, truth is whatever you say it is, and my simple thoughts on floss and sunscreen were being passed around as Kurt Vonnegut's eternal wisdom.

Poor man. He didn't deserve to have his reputation sullied in this way. So I called a Los Angles book reviewer, with whom I'd never spoken, hoping he could help me find Mr. Vonnegut.

"You mean that thing about sunscreen?" he said when I explained the situation. "I got that. It was brilliant. He didn't write that?"

He didn't know how to find Mr. Vonnegut. I tried MIT.

"You wrote that?" said Lisa Damtoft in the news office. She said MIT had received many calls and e-mails on this year's "sunscreen" commencement speech. But not everyone was sure: Who had been the speaker?

The speaker on June 6 was Kofi Annan, secretary general of the United Nations, who did not, as Mr. Vonnegut and I did in our speech, urge his graduates to "dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room." He didn't mention sunscreen.

As I continued my quest for Mr. Vonnegut -- his publisher had taken the afternoon off, his agent didn't answer -- reports of his "sunscreen" speech kept pouring in.

Fortunately, not everyone who read the speech believed it was Mr. Vonnegut's. "The voice wasn't quite his," sniffed one doubting contributor to a Vonnegut chat group on the Internet. "It was slightly off -- a little too jokey, a little too cute a little too 'Seinfeld.' "

I did, however, finally track down Mr. Vonnegut. He picked up his own phone. He'd heard about the sunscreen speech from his lawyer, from friends, from a women's magazine that wanted to reprint it until he denied he wrote it.

"It was very witty, but it wasn't my wittiness," he generously said.

Reams could be written on the lessons in this episode. Space confines me to two.

One: I should put Kurt Vonnegut's name on my column. It would be like sticking a Calvin Klein label on a pair of K-Mart jeans. Two: Cyberspace, in Mr. Vonnegut's word, is "spooky."

On August 6, 1997, the NYTimes squashed the internet mix-up (A Column That Was Only Written, Never Delivered - New York Times). And this morning, when I realized I made a mistake, I laughed, and thought this mix-up is what made this woman famous. Like she said, she put an expensive label on a cheap product and look what happened. Cyberspace, the world's best rumor monger.

Hoarding Gold

Grandpa's specs, letter, Grandma's diploma, and sculpture of Grandma

Remember in the old days, when people wrote handwritten letters?

Over winter break, I started sorting though boxes again in an attempt to further dehoard my space and I found gold, a 4-page handwritten letter from my grandmother. There were postcards from people who were on another continent, a slew of letters from friends (again, before e-mail), photos I took as a child (mostly of animals), a mix of childhood items with my name on them, but the letter was the treasure, the gold.  There is no date on the letter, but from its content, I suspect I am in my sophomore year of college. It is 1993 or 1994 and I am confused about what to do with my life. My grandmother passed in 2004. Finding this letter was like hearing her talk to me again and hearing her say, "I love you," as the written word pulled me back twenty years in time.

In the same little box of memories I found a copy of Kurt Vonnegut's commencement address to MIT from 1997. He offers lots of excellent advice to new graduates, but one quote resonates:

"Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't."

After reading both documents, I thought, I should have listened more to my elders. They knew best. However, I was young and ignorant, as if often the case with youth. I had to be bull-headed and make mistakes on my own. But the truth is, that is how we learn, by making these mistakes. And what I learned is ... wait, Kurt Vonnegut has advice for that too:

"Enjoy the power and beauty of youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine."