h o r i z o n l i n e

Monday Muse - Jim Denevan

I sit glued to CNN today, watching yet another Hurricane toy with the Gulf Coast. And while I don't intend to find a point of inspiration in other people's agony, there it is nonetheless, continually animated on "live doppler radar."

Robert Smithson's Spiral Jetty hits me in the face every time I see the weather report.  But also there's more meditative notions... I watch nature trying to reclaim and reshape the land, then conjure daydreams of potters shaping clay, balling it up, pulling it off the wheel, and tossing it back into the mudpile in frustration.

So, on this Monday I have Environmental Art on my mind and CNN blaring in the background.

Think it's hard trying to sell your art?  Imagine trying to sell an art piece that elusively lasts just days or hours! Also referred to as Land Art, this work exists to inevitably be washed away, melted, or changed by the sun. Seated near the fringe of the art world, Environmental Artists have more than a few gurus to hoist high - Andy Goldsworthy, Robert Smithson, James Turrell, and more-often-then-not Christo & Jean-Claude.  Imagine, if you will, these artists are the 'Lone Rangers' of the fine art market.

And then we have Jim Denevan, who not only makes a name for himself in art but also in food. I'll get to the food... first let's talk about his art.

As a surfer Jim acknowledges the dominance of water, of erosion, and the subtle power of small movements. Using driftwood found along the beach as his drawing tool and the sand underfoot as his canvas, he illustrates classic natural shapes - spirals, circles, the meeting of two planes, the balance of a line and a circle. His work is experienced, photographed, and then the tide carries it back out to sea.  And on another day, he starts all over again... another wood drawing implement, a blank sand canvas, a fresh idea marked in enormous scale, the tide returns.

How can you not find this effort remarkable?  How can you not look at our world of 'art blogs' and eBay paintings and sometimes just step back and ache for work like this?

If nothing else, you simply must say that Jim is authentic.  His work is alive and fresh, and free of all the numbing art world mania.  He takes a small thing that he knows and cares about, adds a little nugget of imagination and - BOOM - pushes it to a scale we can't help but be thrilled by.  I am heartsick with wanting to run across his beach drawings, leaving my wet footprint graffiti.

Jim's work doesn't live in silent obscurity either.  He's managed to carve out his niche well enough to include high profile opportunities at PS1/MOMA and the upcoming Vancouver Biennale.  He's also been immortalized on film, most notably in my mind on CBS Sunday Morning where I first saw him raking the sand years ago.

Now, I also promised Jim Denevan's food.  Like the dinner party of my dreams, Jim sets up enormous tables outside and invites local farmers and chefs to curate dinner.  Yes, I said "curate".



Every dinner is unique.  Once experienced, it's gone.  Guests disperse.  Plates are cleaned.  Tables are dismantled.  What's left mirrors his drawings, an experience that reminds you how special and highly regarded EVERY meal should be.  And, really, why can't it? 

Jim's tables now seat dinner guests all over North America and reservations can be made through the organization he founded to orchestrate things - Outstanding in the Field.  He also has a book, which I can't review because I don't own... but by the NYTimes' account is worth the space on your shelf.

Jim's formula for great art or great food isn't magic in a bottle - it's finding what you care about, digging inside yourself, and giving to others. I can't reach for much that offers more inspiration than that thought alone.

So, sit back with me and watch the weather report.  Then, think about the timelessness of the tides, of heirloom tomatoes, and the art you SHOULD be making (in your studio or elsewhere).  And somewhere amongst all that, please take time to learn about the fruit of Jim Denevan's labor.

(All images here are Copyright Jim Denevan.  Links include references to Jim's personal website, the CBS Sunday Morning show featuring him from YouTube, and several blogs/websites that review and show additional photographs of his work.)

Monday Muse: Mark Rothko (1903-1970)

This weekend I picked a play fight with my fiancee, Steve, over the color "yellow."  Steve asserts that yellow is "irritating," but I see it as synonymous with "cheer" and "sunshine."

In fact, my superficial heart only truly loves a home when it's painted yellow, not so coincidentally the color of the two homes I was raised in.  Also, I still use yellow ocrhe in any artwork I produce that involves painted aspects.  Clearly Steve has lost his faith in the positive, transformative power of yellow!

While thinking of my Monday Muse this morning (a series I began back in 2004 with my first blog) and watching Steve eat breakfast, it hit me.  He was sitting next to a framed print we purchased too long ago for me to recall.  Laugh with me, will you, as I insert a photo of this print?  Clearly yellow hasn't always hit a sore spot with him!  :)

 

I'm not wealthy enough to own a Mark Rothko, but this print suffices nicely.  And it is a great daily reminder of why I love Rothko so much - his ability to marry two opposite sensations and with only COLOR!  He termed this duality on the wall as "timeless and tragic."  I couldn't agree more and in some ways, I supposed this goes back to my opposing views with Steve on color.  Where he sees "tragic", I might see "timeless."

There are many texts on Rothko which, with gorgeous color plates, will relay the visual history of his life.  However, he also authored his own book, something I find all too rare - artists able to articulate their thoughts to the point of organized chapters. Mark Rothko's autobiography is estimated as penned between 1940-41. I say "estimated" because it was housed in a warehouse for thirty years before it's discovery and lengthy editing process, finally being published another 34 years after the painter's death.  Thankfully, his children, Christopher Rothko and Dr. Kate Rothko Prizel took on this daunting task, resulting in a Yale University Press printing.

While the text is challenging to read in areas, it has redeeming qualities such as his description of 'subject matter in abstract art'.  In his words, "To think that any art can exist without subject matter would be to substantiate a hocus pocus spiritualism that is inadmissible to our experience... It may be that abstract art does not employ subject matter that is as obvious as either the anecdote or familiar objects, yet it must appeal to our experience in some way."  Perhaps this is why I don't see Rothko as a formulaic color field painter.  Rather, like a psychiatrist he succeeds in asking us questions, not in handing over answers.

Mark Rothko's work itself is iconic, even if he hadn't attracted fame.  By imposing size on the viewer on such a grand scale, he already serves to silence the room.  Like the rap of a judge's gavel, we fall on the mercy of what stands before us.  Again, in his own words: "Silence is so accurate." When I look at a Rothko (in person, in a museum format) I wonder if I could make something so grand or if my fragile ego just won't allow such assertiveness.  It takes more than a seed of confidence to allow someone to put such an exclamation point on the wall.

Like all too many tormented, creative people, Rothko is one among a list of those who prematurely ended his own life. It is a wonder he was as prolific as he was, when one considers the cards he had stacked against him - as an immigrant and as one who set out to become an artist in the midst of the Great Depression.  Perhaps some of this is the relatable sadness we see beneath otherwise positive colors like pink, blue, and green.  And, like many great artists, Rothko didn't see his work quite the way we see it.  If so, perhaps he would have clung to the overriding hope and joy I perceive.  I encourage you to take a fresh look at his work and let me know what YOU SEE.

Monday Muse - Fraser Smith

When I was growing up, I remember my step-mother investing in quilting hoops, batting, special fabric scissors, chalk and blue markers, and every size and sort of ruler you can imagine. Oh, and did I forget to mention the fabric? Yard after yard of tan, taupe, and chocolate-hued calicos, her palette of choice. These are the tools of a quilter; the implements today's quilter needs.

Fraser Smith subscribes to a different quilting theory. His tools are those of the woodworker.

When I look at a Fraser Smith “quilt”, I see generations of craft traditions, from the symmetry in Amish quilts to the symbolism in the rare, remaining slave quilts carried through the Underground Railroad. When I look again, I see thousands of years of painting innovation, from Brunelleschi-inspired perspective to timelessly popular trompe l’oeil.

Perhaps I’m biased, but the depth and richness that wood grain and a rainbow of stains can offer is far more miraculous than oils. When you look closely at an oil painting, you see brush strokes and the hand of the artist. When you look closely at one of Smith’s pieces, you see reflected light and color. It isn’t forced or applied as a gimmick to remind you that you're looking at "art". After all, where are you standing? Often, a gallery. Instead the artist’s hand is naturally implied.

I feel fortunate to have seen Fraser Smith’s quilts in person several times over the years. First, at a SOFA show. Then, several more times at other, smaller gallery exhibits. I’m blown away each and every time.

And I defy you to spend time with Smith’s work and not also walk away shaking your head.

Fortunately, your next big chance to feel the exciting Fraser Smith experience is when his newest piece is unveiled (or, is the term “hung out on the line” more appropriate here?) at SOFA New York this June.

Monday Muse - Christina Bothwell

I am so happy to be living in an internet age, filled with T1 lines and WiFi zones. All this technology is a curator’s dream. What better way to reach dozens or even hundreds of artists then email? What easier method of narrowing a selection of pieces down then to view an online artist web catalogue?

This is how I met Christina Bothwell.

Through a series of strange circumstances I found myself parked one night on Bothwell’s web site. Something kept me browsing from page to page, until I absorbed every piece posted online. At the time, it was hard to put my finger on what exactly intrigued me, but I emailed her before heading off to bed.

And then something special happened.
She emailed me back. Immediately.

Ahh, the wonders of instant email communication!

The next day I emailed the exhibition prospectus to her and the following week a priority mail package was at my door.

I still had other artists to collect slides from and an exhaustive museum curatorial review process to bite my nails through, but Bothwell’s work was a phenomenal start and it pushed me forward. Eventually I heard from the overseas curators and her work was accepted for the exhibit. She was thrilled. I was thrilled.

Then, it came time to ship the piece to the museum in Asia. And, again, something surprising occurred.

Each of the other artists packaged and mailed insured boxes of their work to me for a final redirected shipment to the overseas freight warehouse in New York. Christina Bothwell carefully packaged her piece and then, like sending a child off to Kindergarten for the first time, drove from Pennsylvania to New York to personally deliver the piece to the warehouse and inspect the safety of their shipping container. This was a first for me and it spoke volumes about her connection to each piece. I will never forget that.

During the time the exhibit was installed and open to the public I learned more about Bothwell’s career, her husband the children’s book illustrator, and her goals with her next series of pieces. We shared a rare appreciation for Philadelphia’s Mutter Museum, where many of her pieces bore inspiration. We talked about visiting the American Visionary Museum when she was next in Baltimore. Then, life happened. Her piece was returned safely to her studio after the exhibit and we simply lost touch.

Just over a year later, her work had a prominent appearance in AmericanStyle magazine (Issue 36, April 2004), which is produced by the company I work. In fact, it was shear coincidence, but the publicized piece was the very same work which appeared in that overseas exhibit!

A handful of weeks passed and soon her work was seen more and more prominently. She received rave reviews (such as in American Craft magazine, Oct/Nov 2003) of her newest work which, as one would expect from her perseverance, pushed harder and dug deeper into what we consider to be "precious" and how we view the thin line between birth and death.

Christina Bothwell creates haunting sculpture that incorporates clay, cast glass, wire, and even occasional taxidermy. Her otherworldly imagery comes from the special relationship that twins have and the strange creatures that only dreams and fairy tales can conjure, just to name a few examples and whet your appetite. What touches me about the work is how chance plays such a strong role during the process of conception and birth. It is rare to have twins. It is rarer to find love. Combining these themes, consider too that the raku and pate de verre processes she uses depend upon chance. Some would call it 'calculated luck'.

There is more, much more, which can be said about Bothwell's work. But, really, when you see the images and you think of her gently wrapping a sculpture and driving to New York… doesn’t that just give you insight into her motivation as an artist? Doesn’t that just make you want to sit back, like me, and watch her go, go, go across the art scene?

Continued best wishes, Christina! Your craft is seamless and your art is unstoppable.

Monday Muse - Olga de Amaral

When I was a little girl I remember going fishing with my dad, and sometimes my brother. I think it was the ritualistic part of fishing that made it fun then, and now makes it fascinating... Heading out early in the morning. Tackle box, bucket and net in hand. Casting the line out into silvery water. Then, sitting back and waiting patiently for a bite. Hauling the fish in, feeling the weight and power of the struggling animal. It was equal parts entertainment and fright, then and now.

I am reminded of this when I look at Olga de Amaral’s work. A rainbow effect of light across a wall, like waves of water or fringe made of fish scales. Each piece is made of canvas or silk, or sometimes weightier materials, then covered in gold or silver leaf. The result is stunning. Her pieces contain light, water, and fire. They are alive because they hold the same power that sears money or a piece of jewelry with a sense of value.

To me, Olga de Amaral’s work is about more than raw monetary or celebrity power though. It’s also tightly woven with memory. A piece that might seem to remind some of sequined gowns, instead sings to me about the same strong and simple power I found when my father took me fishing. Think about it: often our memories don’t carry color or take up a three dimensional space. Instead memory is more frequently filled with ideas, feelings, and a sense of light or space or time. Like her pieces, memory is perceivable but intangible. They avoid literal translation.

Because Olga de Amaral’s work is formulaic, I think some would assume it to be more craft than art. I wonder what your opinion is. If you create objects of beauty based on a system, is this considered art, craft, design, or just decoration?