Girl Mechanic = Girl Artist

When I was a little girl I liked to make things like a house for our mother cat and kittens from a cardboard box. I cut out doors and windows from the sides of the box with a kitchen knife (I was sure my mother would never know why the blades on the sharp cooking knives became so dull). Taping two of the flaps together at the top created a slanting roof. The roof was open on either end- but no matter. Better to see the kitties, my dear! Then I painted the house with some leftover wall paint.

We didn't have Lincoln logs or building blocks (they weren't considered appropriate gifts for girls in the Baby Boomer generation) so I played with the Lincoln logs of relatives and friends- and loved them. Somehow there never seemeds to be enough green roof slats to finish the cabin. I could never figure that out.

My mother (who is otherwise pretty liberated as a woman) thought a more appropriate gift for me was a small weaving set with a loom just big enough to weave potholders. I would interweave the multicolored bands and my mother finished the edges- I can't remember if I was too impatient or just too young to figure out how to sew the edges. The set was fun for a limited time, didn't allow for creating your own projects- so it became boring.

In my brief time as a Brownie Scout, my troop appeared on a local children's television program. The producers gave away three gifts by raffle and I won one. It was a kit in which you could create small figurines by pouring molten wax into molds. When the wax cooled, you removed the figure and painted it with colors provided in the kit. The idea seemed cool at first- I felt like a mad scientist creating her own army of robotic humans who would obey my every command. But then I burned my fingers with the wax and was too impatient to let the wax cool enough before I removed the figures- are you starting to see a pattern in my artistic practice?

My first abstract sculpture was the wire frame of a discarded lamp shade covered with faded blue and white striped material that was once part of a pair of pajama bottoms. I thought it was cool but didn't know what to do with it. My mother looked at it and was totally mystefied. To this day she doesn't like abstract art. I didn't know then that many artists reuse discarded objects in their art. I still recycle discarded objects or modify new ones as models for my abstract images- boxes, styrofoam packing, material scraps, perfume and shoes boxes, florist accessories, etc.

At about age 10 I graduated to charcoal, pencil and paint on paper and canvas and gradually forgot about Lincoln logs and pet houses- until a couple of months ago when I happened across a book called, "The Girl Mechanic:  Classic Crafts, Games and Toys to Build." The book was created by the editors of Popular Mechanics magazine. When I saw the book I really wanted one- wow, cool! This kind of book is usually just for boys. Then I thought to myself, "This is silly. I don't have children and all my relatives who are children live too far away to create this crafts with it."

Then I saw the book at half-price on Amazon.com and knew I had to have it. Even though I know that I'm too busy as an artist to stop and make woven bracelets or doll house furniture or a swing set, I love this book! In the introduction the editors say the projects in the book provide girls opportunities to exercise the artist within- like creating abstract pattern drawings with a homemade "wondergraph" or weaving on a loom. "The Girl Mechanic is often The Girl Artist"

Mais oui, Mesdames et Monsieurs!  I've discovered my artistic roots! This causes me wonder why I've haven't done any sculpture as an adult- not yet, that is.
So if the girl artist within you is begging to come out and play or your know a girl who loves to create, I highly recommend this book

You have to be a bad painter before you can be a good one.

In the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, there is a wall reserved for drawings and paintings van Gogh did in the first few years of being an artist. Most of these early works date from 1881-1882. He worked constantly and therefore improved his technique quickly. He had to work in a hurry to do so much art in those final 10 years of his life. It didn't hurt that he could turn to such artists as Toulouse-Lautrec, Gauguin and Degas for inspiration, advice and encouragement.

 The drawing on the top right is Van Gogh's charcoal, "Man with a Saw" from 1881. At first glance it might seem like a good drawing for a beginner. If you examine the head, hands, and feet, there are problems in proportion and rendering. The skull is way too small for the face, a common mistake by beginnings. The right hand is farther away from the viewer than the left hand- yet the right hand is larger- a mistake in perspective. The right hand is the same length as the entire head -when correctly drawn it should be only as long as the face. The shoes are barely indicated and the shape is not anatomically correct.The right foot is behind the left, yet it is longer than the left foot.

This drawing amazing when you consider what a wonderful draughtsman and painter Van Gogh was those last three years of his life when it seemed he produced one masterpiece after another. I sighed when I looked at the drawing the first time at the museum in 1998 and thought that he started out as a Sunday painter and became a great master. The only formal art training he had was one or two classes in Paris. It gave me hope that it was within my reach to be a great artist.

In 2007, I visited Amsterdam again and noticed this small van Gogh painting of cabbages, carrots, and potatoes. The rendering of the cabbage and the perspective lines of the table are off. The oil paint is muddy in color and dull. He obviously had no concept yet of color mixing or theory. Looking at it made me happy because I know it inspires all the young artists and Van Gogh admirers who see it.

Most museums show only the very best of an artist's work, so it's difficult to see how the artist struggled and experimented to go from bad to ordinary to extraordinary. It's easy to call the artist a genius and assume that a divine power touched him or her and made it easy. Michelangelo, Degas, Monet, and many other artists wrote in their journals that their achievements came from constant work and a good bit of frustration. Michelangelo said that,"If they could see how hard I work, they wouldn't call me a genius."

The last time I was at the Van Gogh Museum, I also noticed that people filed by each wonderful painting with a hushed reverence, as if they were paying their respects at a funeral viewing. Somehow all that love and emotion Van Gogh poured into those paintings found a resonance in the hearts and minds of the viewers. I'm not sentimental about the masters. In fact, I can be irreverent, especially if I feel a museum is trying to pass off ordinary work as extraordinary. But in passing by the Van Gogh's I felt able to see 19th century France through the artist's eyes and his spiritual perception of the world. I'll always remember that feeling of oneness

Combat Boots as Portrait

Recently I spoke to six classes of high school students at Zion Benton High School in Zion, IL about what it's like to be an artist. Among the drawings I showed them was this drawing of combat boots that appeared in the George Clooney movie, "The Men Who Stare at Goats."

The movie wasn't very good but it was as big thrill to see my work displayed prominently on the wall between George Clooney and an actor who was portraying an Army general. You would think this image would be a real boost to my career and make me famous- it would, except for one thing- they wouldn't give me screen credit because giving screen credit to all the artists who contributed to the movie would have made the credits go on too long. So, for the moment, I am famous only to people who know me.

Long before the drawing appeared the movie, there were people responding strongly to it.  I did the drawing originally because I loved the shape and the mirror shiny toes of the black combat boots. The first time I showed the work in public, a woman burst into tears before it and told me the boots reminded her of Vietnam.  Her reaction puzzled me. Then I got to thinking about how shoes, unlike clothing, permanently take on the shape of our feet and wear out in ways that depend on how much we weigh and whether we walk on the inner or outer sides of the soles. They show whether we drag our feet or pick them up, whether we shuffle and slide or make great strides. With time they become portraits of them people who wore them.

 Combat boots are among the items mostly commonly left at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in D.C. by the loved ones of the men whose names are carved in the black granite of that monument. I've wondered how the people who loved those families can bear to part with that proof that those men once lived, laughed and loved. 

I am grateful to these people for showing me that the drawing had much more significance that I could have imagined when I drew it. When I uploaded it on my Flickr page, the stats showed me that it got a 1,000 hits within a few months- really amazing when you consider the millions of images on the Internet

 

Elizabeth Sparhawk Jones- "The Shoe Shop"

One of my favorite paintings at the Chicago Art Institute is by a woman artist I'd never heard of until three years ago. Elizabeth Sparhawk-Jones (1885-1968) studied at Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (where Thomas Eakins taught). She was considered a prodigy, with brushwork that rivaled the best American artists of her time. She won a number of awards, was selling her works at very high prices, then disappeared into a mental institution for 20 years beginning in 1933. The artwork she did after emerging from the institution in 1933 was quite different in style (and doesn't appeal to me).

Barbara Lehman-Smith, a journalist who is working on a book about the artist, suggests that Sparhawk-Jones, may have had a mental breakdown from the stress of becoming the sole caretaker of her widowed, domineering mother.

There are several examples of women artists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries who had mental breakdowns from the stress of breaking away from traditional roles and trying to establish themselves in a profession dominated by men since ancient times. Camille Claudel and Alice Neel are names that come to mind.

The painting at right from 1911, called "The Shoe Shop." is dazzling. The brushwork is free it makes it look like the women are moving. The juxtaposition of black hats and skirts with the sheer ruffles of the starches white blouses form a great design. The subject matter reminds of Edgar Degas' pastels of women in hat shops. The black and white outfits of the shop girls were an early form of business attire for women. the area to the right of the woman with the black hat is so freely painted it looks like a blur. I get the feeling that the composition won't hold together, but it does. It's dizzingly. I'm going to have to look at it a few more times to figure out how it works

Learning from a Master- John Singer Sargent

For the past few weeks I've been working hard to finish a painting commission. There are two figures in my painting, A woman and her daughter. The woman wears a trench coat. I was having a devil of a time with the coat drapery and spending a lot of time fussing with it- not satisfied no matter how much effort I put into it- this is never a good thing to do with a painting. My client, who has been so dear and patient, is wondering what's taking me so long to finish (it's been six months).

Some of my favorite master artists learned their craft by studying and making copies in art museums of even older masters. So I decided to go to the Art Institute of Chicago yesterday expressly to look at the brushwork of John Singer Sargent. The Sargent painting on the right, "The Fountain" from 1907, made me smile because it solved my problem.

The paint used to render the woman's smock is fairly thick- which is impossible to tell if you are looking at a photograph of the work like the one on the right (which is why it's always worth the time and money to make the pilgrimage to the museum). The folds of the smock near the pedestal on which she sets look like a mixture of sap green, raw sienna, and white. He puts the stroke on boldly and leaves it there- not trying to blend it perfectly like I've been doing. The white strokes are blended with some green and raw sienna and are put on right the first time (or if they weren't, Sargent scraped the paint off and redid it). I remember Sargent often told his students never to be afraid to put a good amount of paint on the canvas. The sight of his brushwork makes me want to be bold and confident. I can't wait to try this out.

Those of you who aren't painters should know that John Singer Sargent, a 19th-century American portrait painter, is universally admired for his energetic and bold, yet accurate brushwork. Other artists are humbled by his ability and declare themselves not fit to clean his brushes- even as we all keep trying to be as good as he was.

By the way, yesterday there were three artists making making painted copies of French Post-Impressionist paintings at the Chicago Art Institute yesterday. I don't know how the artists maintain their concentration and nerve with all the museum visitors passing and gawking (some from a respectful distance) at their work. So the tradition of making copies of the masters lives on.

Easter Bunny heads pastel drawing

In a costume shop I spotted a row of papier-mache Easter bunny costume heads on a shelf behind the cash register. Separated from the rest of the costume, the heads looks decapitated, with the final manic grins frozen on their faces forever. I asked the shop owners for permission to photograph the heads. They said yes, but looked at me mystified. They couldn't figure out what I found so fascinating and concluded that I must be a little off, but harmless.

I imagined the bunnies in line on the scaffold for their turn at the guillotine in a lapin version of Dicken's, "A Tale of Two Cities." I saw bunnies waving to a group of weeping children below. Their only crime had been stealing eggs to feed the poor. The Revolutionary Rooster tribunal had deemed unborn chick abduction a heinous crime, and only capital punishment would satisfy the outraged sensibilities of the egg layers.

Looking at the bunny heads also reminded me of a story I'd overheard while having my hair done. This particular salon had a shelf near the ceiling full of mannequin heads with styled wigs. One day a five year old girl came in for her first grown up hair cut with a stylist. The girl was excited and proud. The stylist placed a few thick phone books on the chair, the girl climbed up and the stylist fastened a long black smock around her neck. Suddenly the girl cried and screamed and squirmed. When her amazed mother and the stylist asked her what was wrong, she said she didn't want her hair cut, because afterward her head would be cut off and put on the shelf!
Heads without bodies really fire up the imagination!

I wasn't sure what to do with the photos of these bunny heads but knew they would find their way into my artwork. I got a chance to show them in an exhibit called, "Art and Food." Some of the people asked why I had submitted the pastel of the bunny heads- they have nothing to do with food. This just shows you how removed we had become from the source of the food we eat.

"Gone" is oil on canvas, 30 x 40." I painted it as a companion piece to Bill Embraced. The colors in this work are much warmer than in the painting of Bill with his brace, so I think this work deserves its own space.
The inspiration for the work came when I noticed the beautiful quality of light that comes mid-morning through our family room. I was entranced by the golden shadow play that made me recall the best of Rembrandt's work. Light and shadow are visual language for emotion.
The empty chair evokes memories of those who have occupied it and serves as a stand in a human figure.
I'm happy with the work, but would like to experiment with solutions other than the bottom of a picture frame, to the composition of the upper third of the canvas.