The Future of Farming

This is a watercolor I completed today. I titled it "The Future of Farming" and I'm thinking about doing a series related to this topic.

Last fall, I was invited to visit Blue Spruce Farm in Bridport, Vermont where there are over 2000 head of dairy cows. The other thing this farm produces besides milk is "cow power" for Central Vermont Public Service.

It was a crisp late October fall day when we got the tour around the facility which was anything but your typical "red barn hillside farm" in Vermont. A tractor trailer 'rig' is more likely to be seen here than a simple tractor. The tires are used for silage: a far cry from the silos of my youth. So a pile of tires often appears on the farm landscape these days, waiting to put to good use for tamping down fodder.

I was struck by the young boy, wandering around, looking at pebbles, dwarfed by this vast landscape. The Adirondacks of New York State hung in the distance under steely, cold clouds. Farming has become big business and this farm is doing its best to stay alive under tremendous economic pressure. Thanks to the CVPS Cow Power program, through collecting manure and turning it into electricity to sell back to the power company, five families, all related can make a go of this giant farm.

Small hill farms could hardly be expected to make an investment in the infrastructure it takes to produce bovine powered electricity, but those few who do benefit greatly from the added income. And the customers who buy Cow Power get the good feeling that their renewable energy is coming from a clean source that allows Vermont farms to continue and flourish.

I wonder if harvesting energy is as satisfying to the farms as harvesting food? Our world has become so dependent on energy, we seem to value it above food. To me, this is worth observing. I love juxtaposing the bright intensity of the colors against a reasonably somber story. What is the "future of farming?"

Discovering African Art in Geneva, Switzerland

The year I graduated from high school, the Musee Barbier-Mueller started in the old town in Geneva, Switzerland. In between winter and spring classes, I had the great good fortune to discover these elegant galleries filled with esoteric African art.

The collection was started by Josef Mueller in 1907 and contains over 7,000 items from tribal as well as 'classical antiquity.' It seems Monsieur Mueller was quite the collector. And his heirs appear to be continuing the legacy by publishing extensive catalogs of artwork for all to see.

The current exhibition was on "Les Gans du Burkina Faso" which reminded me a tad of a Dr. Seuss book. Burkina Faso is a little kingdom of about 6,000 people who came from Ghana in the 15th Century. From the video I saw, artists in that same area are still working with the same bestial images they did in the 1400's while the Renaissance was just beginning in Italy.

Jewelry from these people were on display—great bronze amulets and bracelets of snakes and human forms. There were rams who looked like daschunds and snakes that were braided with three heads. There were "Amulettes relevant to the personal protection" of the wearer, if my french serves me. I spent a long time drawing and basking in the relative silence of the place. Whispered french was all I heard over the playing of a video that showed a twentieth century Gan artist working on a sculpture.

I don't know much about African art and I find myself more drawn to cultural differences. I was always a big fan of dead, white European male painters because that was my education. I find myself stretching into realms that make little or no sense to me. And at the same time I find myself inspired to see artists creating across time, cultures and space around the Earth.

The most poignant piece was a tiny little sculpture of a two headed fused body with four legs adjacent to one another and only two arms. It seems the others had fused at the shoulders and the head had a pair of faces flatly staring into space. Yet these two were joined, not provocatively, but intimately, as if married for a very long time. These little iron people were frozen in time together, not looking at one another, but looking outward in the same direction. It was simply titled, "Double Figurine" and this lacked all the sweetness of the pose, all the nuance of a couple that had simply grown together over time. How gracious of the artist to capture something so pure and universal that a 21st century viewer could be as captivated by something six hundred years older.

And with that, a lovely African couple walked in with exquisite clothes: she in a white pashmina and he in a traditionally elegant suit seen on most men in Geneva. They quibbled about the price of entrance and then agreed to give in. I watched them walk around together, holding hands, their elegant brown faces peering into cases of artifacts from the continent of their ancestors. There they were: looking outward in the same direction.

Ocean City, New Jersey

Seen at the Jersey Shore, this sign caught my eye for so many reasons. From a design perspective, I responded to the clarity of the blue and red lettering on the clean white background. Mondrian's colors with none of the finesse. Yet the script had a classic approachability to it. The slight back-hand of the artist evokes a casual joy you expect from a seaside resort.

And then you see the bacon. Or is it? For a moment, it appeared to be a reclining nude, with her arm tucked coyly under her head, draped in a red shawl. Of further examination, simply the fat and lean of the bacon, wrinkled and sizzled into a strip that is meant to be alluring, appealing and maybe even appetizing. The image begged me to read the words again: "Chocolate Covered"? Is that what it said? I see the bacon which appears to not have its covering on. Simply bacon before the fact.

The artist in me tried to imagine what Chocolate Covered Bacon looked like and I imagined the sign artist was daunted by representing that on a sign. In this case, do the words need a picture? As an illustrator, I respect words. I was taught that if the writer said it, perhaps I did not need to visually describe everything, but rather I could simply allude to the facts, enhance the words with a picture. Illustrations are meant to enhance rather than duplicate. So here was a perfect case for my brain to conjure. What did Chocolate Covered Bacon look like anyway? And especially was it worth the calories and the arterial sclerosis to try it?

Fortunately, the shop was closed. All I have is this little picture and a vivid picture in my mind. Some day I will return to Ocean City to try it, however, I have a few other places to visit first. Let me know if this sign works for you.

A Painted Valentine

I painted this little 8" x 6" painting for my partner for Valentine's Day this year. This maple tree at his farm has a quality of strength that reminds me of him. The view beyond with the warm light in the eastern sky at sunset gives me pause to remember the times he offers a hug or a bit of warmth during some brutally cold encounter with life. We are in love and it is easy to paint for someone I love.

I was eager to paint this image as soon as I saw it because he loves this farm and has lived there for nearly thirty-three years. Soon, he may move and I wanted him to have something that would remind him of the property. And something I had painted specifically for him. Valentine's Day is full of ephemeral gifts like chocolate or flowers—but February is good solid studio time. Why not make a Valentine like we used to make in school?

I find myself far more motivated to paint for someone I love. Perhaps it is the memory of being a child and having my most recent work admired by my own family. I am a painter who likes to have an agenda and I wish I didn't. It really is so much easier to paint because you love to do it, not because you want to paint an image for someone.

It seems for some, the audience matters. I find myself encouraged by deadlines as well, so the fast approach of February 14 after Christmas gives me something to work towards. Otherwise I will revise ad nauseam. And the more I paint, I find my muse is usually someone who loves and appreciates my work. With time, I hope to cultivate myself as that audience. I think it would make me paint more often and with much more enjoyment.

Painting the Figure

"If Painting is painting, it is drawing. You do not stop drawing when you begin to paint, for painting is drawing. A study from the nude should be a study to comprehend the human body."—Robert Henri, The Art Spirit

This winter, ten students gathered weekly for a class on painting from the model. Eight weeks were divided into three weeks of portraiture and five weeks of working from the nude model.

In the first weeks, I found myself relishing setting up the lights, and interacting with our models, most of whom had never done such a thing before. We worked in twenty minute increments and I guided the students from pencil to watercolor. Some even worked in oil. Working from a model involves vital interaction for the artist to feel the tension, balance and even emotional content that the sitter possesses. To achieve that in such a short span with only a brush or pencil to describe these layers of the human condition seems daunting for anyone.

Most found that working against the clock was the biggest challenge. And some found that the results were not satisfactory. For me, the results are less important than the experience of drawing and painting from life. For me, responding to a model, on a surface with my brush is the ultimate privilege of experiencing a moment in time. Whether the model sits breathlessly still or moves slightly, I am engaged fully in the similarities between me, the model and the painting I am creating. Three in one, this trinity we call making art.

The Potter and the Painter

Miranda Thomas came to mind when I was asked to put together a commemorative piece for a minister in New Jersey. The church, St. George's By the River in Rumson, New Jersey has a striking stained glass window at its apse of the goddess Sophia. An unlikely reference, it seems, for an Episcopal Church, I found out from Miranda that the Sophists were keen on referencing the intelligence of humanity. Sophia is sometimes considered "the Mother of God." Her image became the thing I wanted to share on the piece.

First, I thought of a quilt, but the quilters I knew had no interest in something so complicated. That is when Miranda came to mind. I hoped she would be willing to paint the image on some piece of pottery. When I went to visit her in her studio in Bridgewater, Vermont she said, "Oh, why don't you do it? I don't usually do people." I tried to convince her that it was a window she was painting, not a person, but she encouraged me to try. "Glazing is just like watercolor."

Maybe to her, but to me it was like painting with very small brushes in sugar. I felt completely paralyzed by the 16" white platter and nearly gave up. I tried a small sample plate first and began to trust the results. The part that was similar to watercolor was that I could dilute the glaze enough to have it sit on top in a variety of values. I waited until the last minute to complete it, only due to fear and uncertainty. Or perhaps because I work well under pressure? But it was a success. I want to share it with you here.

Collaborating with another artist in a field apart from my own builds confidence and allows me to become inspired by new media. How have you collaborated in your work recently?

Painting a Portrait

Today, I painted in three big chunks of time. The family that I'm doing a portrait for is coming by tomorrow to see it. They loved it the last time and had just a few minor changes. As I started making those small adjustments yesterday, I started seeing all the things wrong with it. By this afternoon, I had completely painted out both faces and started again.

By 5:30, I felt suicidal. Not that I wanted to kill myself entirely, just the grandiose part of me that ever thought I could be a portrait painter. I wanted to take her out back and throttle her for her stupid notion that she could actually paint! From a month ago when I had a painting that the family rather liked, I had taken the thing apart to the point that the girl had eyes the size of one of those pound puppies usually painted on velvet. Her brother looked like Liberace on Valium. Who did I think I was anyway saying yes to this commission a year ago?

Thank God I have a dog. He began to bark having not been out for nearly 8 hours because I had become the self-absorbed, obsessed painter I can be. And now I was a suicidal, obsessed painter. With every change I made, the painting continued to fall apart. So doing the only thing I could think of worth doing, I got my biggest brush and lots of tinted white and painted over her face...again.

Why is it that painting is often fifty percent scraping away or painting over? Why is it that at least half a tube of paint dries on the palette or ends up in the turp bucket? No wonder Vermeer only has 16 extant paintings hanging around for a lifetime of work. Painting is often about repainting—especially when trying to get a likeness.

So this is what the session after dinner resulted in. It was like the self-assured portrait painter was murdered during supper at the White Cottage. A veggie burger and fried mushrooms nourished the humble self. I walked in the studio at 9 PM and by 11 had something I feel comfortable showing these people tomorrow. It is not perfect, but it has a bit of the Dutch Masters like Franz Hals who I fell in love with at the Rijksmuseum in 1977. And it has enough David Hockney colors and Edvard Munch psychology to satisfy me. I got out of the way, cleaned my brushes and went to work doing my honest best.

Oddly, after what felt like a complete break down six hours ago where I was sure I would never paint again, tonight I'm wondering who I might know who would like to sit for my next portrait? Van Gogh might have lived a longer life had he just gone to the White Cottage and ordered a veggie burger.